Tears of the Broken (14 page)

“
What happened to you, Ara-Rose?” She stared at me, her brown
eyes liquid with confusion.

“
What do you mean? I—I’m fine.”

She
touched her hand to her cheek and suddenly, the searing burn of my
scars trickled across my jaw-line. I lowered my face and covered
the silvery dots with my hands. “I—I did it to myself. I didn’t
know it would go so wrong, Mum.” I stepped toward her as she backed
away. “I’m sorry. I know you’re disappointed in me, but
I—”

“
No.” She shook her head. “You’re not my daughter. My daughter
was beautiful. You—” She looked away, “You’re something
else.”

“
No.
Mum.” I launched toward her again, reaching. “Mum, it’s me—it’s
Amara. Please? Ah!” I closed my eyes and covered my ears when a
pin-like shriek split the silence of the day. What is that noise?
It’s awful! “Mum!” I cried, forcing my eyes to open. She’s gone.
Where did she go? “Mum?”

“
Ara!” A deep voice snapped my mind back like an elastic band
on a wrist; my eyes flung open.

“
Dad?”

“
Ara, your phone’s been ringing every few
minutes for the last twenty. Will you
please
answer it?”

I
rolled over and wiped the groggy haze from my eyes while the
pin-like screech turned into the annoying ring-tone of… “The
phone?”

“
Yes,” Dad said and closed my door, leaving me in
darkness.

“
Hello?” I spoke breathlessly into the receiver.

“
Hey
baby, did I wake you?”

“
Mike?”

“
Yeah, how you doin’?” he asked, then took a quick breath.
“Oh, yeah, the time thing. Sorry, Ara. I’ll go.”

“
No,
wait.”

“
Yeah?” he said softly.

I
sat down on my desk chair. “I…I was dreaming about her,
Mike.”

He
went silent. “Your mum?”

“
Yeah,” I whispered. “I keep thinking she’s gonna come pick me
up and I’ll go back home again, and—” my voice broke.

“
Aw,
Ara, please don’t cry, it—you’ll break my heart, baby. I can’t be
there to make you feel better.”

“
I
still need you, Mike. I’m sorry I didn’t take your calls.” I wiped
the mess of warm, salty tears from my cheeks. “I just—it’s been so
hard without you and I was afraid if I heard your voice it’d make
it all real.”

“
Hey, it’s okay. You know me, Ara. I’m here for you—always.
Okay?”

I
sniffled. “Mm-hm.”

“
Have you talked to your dad, yet—about what you told me? Have
you told anyone?”

My
head rocked from side to side.

“
Ara, I can’t hear you when you shake your head.” He
chuckled.

My
sudden burst of laughter forced static down the phone line. “You
always know how to make me laugh.”

“
Look, you need to talk to someone.” His voice took on the
serious note he seemed to have adopted over the past two months.
“It’s not healthy for you to keep all of this inside, baby girl.
You said you made friends today? Why don’t you have a girlie night
and do one of those big deep-and-meaningful things?”

I
shook my head. “No, I don’t know them well enough, Mike. I’m just
not ready to share that part of my life with anyone.”

“
Well, what about that David dude. I bet he’d
listen?”

“
He
might? But, I don’t want him to like me because he feels sorry for
me. Or hate me because of—” I left off the end.

“
Ara, grow up. Who gives a flying monkey what your friendships
are based on? Sometimes the strongest ones are formed out of
tragedy.”

“
Oh,
shut up, Dalai Lama,” I joked, “When did you become the
all-knowing.”

“
Well, without you around here talking my ear off all the
time, a guy gets a moment to think—and watch Speed.” He
laughed.

“
You…” I paused. “You don’t really mean that, do
you?”

He
went quiet for a second. “Of course not, Ara. I wouldn’t be talking
to you if I did. Look, just stop being a big baby, and talk to
someone. I don’t care who—your dad, Vicki, Sam even?”

“
I’ve got you to talk to.”

“
I’m
not there, Ara.”

“
You
will be soon, right? My dad said you can stay here.”

“
Yeah? Tell him thanks. Now, I’ll call you when I have a date
for the interview, and we’ll book a date for me to come over. Then,
if you haven’t told David or Emily or someone what happened, I’m
going to do it for you,” he said. “Got it?”

“
Okay, Zorro.” I laughed. “I’ll talk to someone. When do you
think they’ll do your interview?”

“
Two
weeks or so.”

“
So,
Mike, why did you call?” I asked, realising that he woke
me.

“
I
was just thinking ‘bout ya, that’s all. The Ice-cream-man came
past, playing that stupid jingle, and I remembered the time he ran
over your foot—when you chased him for your change.”

The
toes on my left foot twitched. The doctors hadn’t been able to do
much for me, since broken toes can’t be fixed. I had to take six
weeks off ballet and still couldn’t stand on my toes for a long
time afterward. “Well, I’m glad it brings you happiness to remember
me in pain.” I shook my head, smiling.

“
Aw,
I really miss ya, kid,” Mike breathed the words out. “I’ll let you
get back to sleep. I’ll call you when I get home tonight,
okay?”

“
Okay. I’ll be waiting by the phone.”

“
Night, Ara,” Mike said softly.

Another morning reflected its gleaming brightness off my
dresser mirror, and my hand shot up to cover my eyes as they
instantly flooded with protective tears. Damn it. Every time. It
does that to me every time. I rolled over in the cloud-like comfort
of my bed and snuggled down into the warmth my own body left under
me.

The
pulsing vibration from Sam’s stereo resonated through the
floorboards and the bass rattled my window on every beat. He’s such
a pest. I mean, it’s not even morning yet, why is he up? I rolled
my shoulder into the mattress and turned my head to see my alarm
clock on the bedside. Six? Six! There’s no such thing as six in the
morning. Why am I awake?

A
thud, followed by a loud rock-scream, forced me, like a badger in a
hole, to tunnel under my blankets and cover my head. I can just
picture Sam bouncing around his room, playing his air guitar. He
has no shame. None at all. I’ve even caught him performing an
imaginary concert to the washing monster on his floor, but he just
winked at me and kept thrashing about like he had a bee in his
ear.

When
the window rattled again after what I assume was another ‘stage
dive’ from Sam, I folded my covers back and blew a puff of air
upward to move my fringe out of my face. Going back to sleep is a
delusional idea.

Right, I’ll show him. I leaped out of bed—of my own free
will—then dug around in my pillows and blankets for my iPod. It’s
time for a little battle of the bands. He hates my
alternative
music almost
as much as I hate his head-banging, screech-worthy, suicide…music?
Not that you can call it music.

Confusion twisted my lips as I stood up, planted my hands to
my hips and looked down at my bed. Where’s my iPod? It’s usually
buried under here somewhere. I turned my head and glared accusingly
at the blue bird dancing in the condensation puddle outside my
window. “You took it, didn’t you?”

He
stopped chirping and stared at me. Great, even
he
thinks I’m insane. Shaking my
head, I resumed the search and stood back in triumph when I found
it under my pillow—right where I left it. That’s so weird. It’s
never where I leave it. My incessant tossing and turning every
night usually sends it across the room or at the very least, the
bottom of my blankets. Guess I must’ve slept well.

With
eyes narrowed into vengeful slits, I scrolled through my playlists
to find the most soulful compilation of what Sam calls ‘woe is me’
songs, then slipped my iPod into its dock and held my finger on the
volume button. Sam’s thrashing instrumentals rose above my soft,
elegant tunes, so I held my finger down until the tip turned white
and the volume drowned out Sam’s music altogether.

“
There.” I dusted off my hands in
self-satisfaction.

Dad
said if I don’t stop blaring my music in the mornings he’ll
confiscate my dock, but he’s been saying that for a month now and
not once has he come in to steal it. And he won’t, either. He knows
it’s my one link to happiness. Without my music, I have nothing.
That’s why he bought me the dock in the first place.

I
brought my own one from home, but the power adaptors are different
here. I would’ve been able to get a converter, but I was so worked
up the day I tried to plug it in that I threw a massive tantrum and
forced the plug—with my foot—into the wall. Dad rushed in and
pulled the red-faced, tear-soaked me out of the way before I could
get myself electrocuted, then, he raced down to the store and
bought me a brand new dock.

I
feel bad about that now, and still haven’t thanked him for the new
one. But I will. I’m just not ready yet.

The
hum of the taps on the other side of my wall stopped, and I slumped
down on my bed. Dad’s finished in the shower—now it’s Vicki’s turn.
The taps came on again. I flopped onto my back, sprawling my arms
out to my sides. There are three showers in this house, yet they
can’t all be used at the same time ‘cause Dad won’t upgrade the hot
water system—says it’s better for the environment to use a smaller
one.

That
was the bright side of waking up after everyone else—well, being
dragged up by Dad at seven-thirty—I could jump in the shower
straight away. At this hour of the morning I have to wait for
everyone else. Except Sam—he showers at night.

Dad
will probably fall over backward when he comes in to wake me up,
since I’m already up. I’m usually awake, but pretend I’m sleeping
so he won’t know I’m crying. I don’t have to do that today. It’s
kind of weird because, when I opened my eyes this morning, the
reality of life didn’t hit so hard. The proverbial rock that’s
usually on my chest feels more like a wooden chopping board—not so
heavy—and for the first time since I moved here I haven’t felt the
need to cry yet.

The
pipes from Vicki’s shower stopped humming and I sat up on my
elbows. Man, she has quick showers—unless she’s washing her hair.
Clearly, today must not be a hair-wash day.

I
stripped off my clothes and left them on my floor, turned the
volume up on my dock a little more, then headed through my
walk-in-robe to the shower.

The
taps squealed with the pressure of the water for a second before
settling in to a gentle hum. As the steam gathered in the base of
the shower, I stepped back to hang a towel on the railing near the
basin and lock the door that leads onto the hallway. It really is
unfair that mine is the only bathroom in the house that’s shared
with other people…well, it’s technically not
my
bathroom, but I have door off my
wardrobe, so I should get more claim on it.

Sam
doesn’t even have a bathroom, but he could just use the one in the
spare bedroom. Last time I forgot to lock the hall door, Sam burst
in here and grabbed the hairbrush off the sink while I screamed,
covering my girl parts. He just shrugged, laughed at me and walked
back out again—leaving the door
open
. Boy did he get busted by
Vicki. It’s not like he looked at anything, but he just didn’t show
any respect for a developing teenage girl. Well, that’s what Vicki
called it anyway, never mind the fact that I’m already
developed.

One
of my favourite songs blared through the early morning calm. I sung
loudly, ignoring the verbal agreement my dad and I made about
shower lengths when my next favourite song came on. He said I
should stay in the shower for no longer than
one
song. But he doesn’t have a mass
of twisted curls to wash.

The
fourth song forced a flash of David’s face into my mind. I
shouldn’t be thinking about him at this time of the morning—and
especially not in the shower—I only met the guy yesterday. But, I
placed my hand on the glass shower screen and watched the
condensation collect under my palm then drip down in three long
lines—all the while, fantasising about David. In only a few hours
I’ll see him again, and
that
is more than enough reason to get out of the
shower today.

However, deciding what to wear when I have so many clothes
isn’t as easy. After I moved here, Vicki decided retail therapy was
the best medicine and dragged me into every clothing store she
could find. Secretly though, I think she either didn’t have any
Barbie dolls when she was little, or she desperately wants a
daughter.

I
scanned the tightly stuffed collection of clothes, brushing
straight past my blue dress. I want to wear it, but after the
comments those girls made yesterday about my yellow dress being
‘easy access’, it might just be drawing too much
attention.