Breakable (2 page)

Since kindergarten, I’d attended a small private school just outside DC. We wore uniforms: girls in white blouses with pearl buttons, pleated plaid skirts and cardigans, boys in starched white oxfords, pressed slacks and blazers. Our favourite teachers turned a blind eye to unauthorized scarves and coloured shoelaces and ignored ditched cardigans and jackets. The stricter instructors took up contraband items and rolled their eyes when we argued that hemp bracelets and glitter-coated headbands were expressions of individual freedom.

Victor Evans got suspended last spring when he refused to take off a Bottega Veneta dog collar, claiming that wearing it was his right under the First Amendment and wasn’t technically against the rules. Administration cracked down after that.

We all looked the same on the surface, but during the two weeks I was out of school I had altered completely
beneath the skin – where changes count. I’d been tested and I had failed. I had made a promise that I didn’t keep. It didn’t matter if I was still outwardly identical. I was no longer one of them.

I was allowed to make up the work I’d missed, as though I’d been out with a severe case of flu, but the special considerations didn’t stop there. Teachers who’d challenged me before patted my shoulder and told me to take my time on new classwork. They granted unearned passing grades on crappily written essays, extra time on incomplete lab assignments, automatic do-over offers on bombed exams.

Then there were my peers – some who’d known me since we were five. All of them mumbled condolences, but they had no idea what to say after. No one asked for help on algebra homework or invited me over to play video games. The other guys didn’t shove my books off my desk when I wasn’t looking or hassle me when my favourite football team got their asses handed to them by the Redskins. Sex jokes cut off mid-sentence when I walked up.

Everyone watched me – in class, in the hallway, during assemblies, at lunch. They gossiped behind their hands, shook their heads, stared like I couldn’t see them doing it. As though I was a wax figure of my former self – lifelike, but creepy.

No one looked me in the eye. Like maybe having a dead mother was contagious.

One overly warm day, I rolled up my sleeves in Mr Ferguson’s US history class without thinking. I heard the telltale whispering, moving person to person, too late.

‘His
wrists
?’ Susie Gamin hissed before someone shushed her.

Tugging the sleeves back down and re-buttoning the cuffs made no difference. The words, unleashed, were an avalanche of tumbling boulders. Unstoppable.

The following day, I wore a watch with a thick band on my left wrist, even though it chafed my still-raw skin. I stacked silicone wristbands on my right, banned unconditionally by the principal the previous spring. These became part of my daily uniform.

No one made me take them off. No one mentioned them. But everybody stared, eager to catch a glimpse of what was underneath.

Things I stopped doing:

1. Hockey
   . I started playing when I was six, shortly after attending my first Capitals game with Dad. Mom wasn’t thrilled, but she tolerated it – maybe because it was a bonding point for Dad and me. Maybe because I loved playing so much.
   

   Though right-handed in every other situation, something happened when I laced my skates and took my left-wing position. Powering a puck to the goal, I was ambidextrous. Between breaths, I shifted positions to dig a puck from the corner or freaked out opponents by switching hands in the middle of a play, sinking goals before they could catch up. My select team didn’t win every time, but we’d made the finals last
   year. I began eighth grade certain this would be the year we’d take home the championship trophy. Like that was the most significant thing that could ever happen to me.
   

2. Participating in class
   . I didn’t raise my hand. I wasn’t ever called on. Pretty simple termination.
   
3. Sleeping
   . I still slept, sort of. But I woke up a lot. I had nightmares, but not obvious ones. Most often, I fell. Out of the sky. Off a building, a bridge, a cliff. Arms windmilling and legs kicking futilely. Sometimes, I dreamed about bears and sharks and carnivorous dinosaurs. Sometimes, I dreamed about drowning. One thing was constant: I was always alone.
   

On hot days, I missed having the beach right outside my door. Even if the air had been saturated with humidity and the sand had been grassy and irregular, the gulf had always been there, cool waves lapping against the shore like a come-hither murmur.

For the past three years, I’d lived four hours inland. If I had the desire to submerge myself in a body of water, I had two choices: the Hellers’ pool or the lake. There was little solitude to be found at either.

The lake was perpetually crowded with tourists and townies alike, and Carlie’s friends still hung out at the house almost daily, lounging in the pool’s deckchairs as
they had all summer. The absolute last thing I needed was a gaggle of very underage girls trying to net my attention just because I was the only non-dad male in the vicinity. Cole had been the object of their interest all summer, much to his sister’s disgust. But he left two weeks ago to follow in his mom’s footsteps at Duke, and Caleb was only eleven – as young to all of them as they were to me.

They failed to perceive the correlation.

Growing progressively paler over the past few years made my ink stand out even more. I’d begun with the complex patterns that wrapped my wrists, and they’d become sleeves, primarily composed of my own designs. Combined with the pierced lip and the longish dark hair, I more closely resembled a guy who thrives on depressive music and darkness than the beach-dwelling adolescent I was when I first
got
the tattoos and piercings.

In high school I’d sported multiple piercings – an ear stud, a barbell through an eyebrow and a nipple ring – in addition to the lip ring. Dad hated them, and my small-town high-school principal alleged they were all signs of deviance and an antisocial disposition. I didn’t bother arguing.

Once I left home, I’d pulled them all out but the one through the edge of my lip – the most conspicuous one.

I figured Heller would ask me,
Why leave
that
one?
But he never did. Maybe he’d known the answer without me vocalizing it – that I was categorically messed up and far from concerned with
fitting in
. To ordinary people, my lip piercing indicated the opposite of approachability. It was a
self-erected barrier, and it served as a warning that pain wouldn’t deter me – that I welcomed it, even.

Class had been in session for two weeks. Against my better judgement – what was left of it – I studied Jackie Wallace. Her brown hair fell in soft waves several inches past her shoulder, unless she twisted it into a knot with a hair tie or a clip or glossed it back into a ponytail that made her look Carlie’s age. She had large blue eyes – an unclouded wildflower blue. Brows that furrowed deeply when she was annoyed or concentrating, and arched in repose – which made me wonder what they did when she was surprised. Average height. Slim, but still curvy.

Her fingernails were short and unpolished. I never saw her chew them, so I decided she must keep them filed down intentionally, the better to conduct those symphonies in her head and allow her hands to simulate the instrumental movements. I wanted to put on earphones and plug into her and know what she was hearing when her fingers performed. I even grew curious about which instrument she played – as though I’d know the difference between a cello and a viola by ear.

There’s this fallacy that if you’re artistic, you’re arty and creative in your approach to everything. True for some – like my mother – but not for all. When I was younger, people were confused that I didn’t play an instrument or paint or write poetry. But I’ve only ever been artistic in one way.
Drawing
. That’s it. Even my tattoos are the result of paper and pencil sketches transferred from my notebook to the tattoo artist’s ink, injected under my skin.

After absorbing a mind-numbing chapter about sensor calibration for measurements lab, I returned my textbook to my backpack and pulled out my sketchpad. Fifteen minutes of Heller’s class remained. My eyes strayed to Jackie Wallace, sitting several rows down, chin in hand. Without conscious intention, my hand began sketching her. The sweeping rudimentary lines were there before I knew what I was doing. I couldn’t capture her moving fingers within the confines of a sheet of paper, so I caught her paying attention to the lecture – or seeming to.

‘Those of you who aren’t planning to major in economics might ask yourself, “Why should I waste my time studying economics?’’ ’ Heller said. I sighed, knowing what came next. I knew his whole routine inside out. ‘Because when you’re filing for unemployment,
at least you’ll know why
.’

A few predictable groans rose from his captive audience. I admit that I held back an eye roll, stemming from the fact that I was now four semesters familiar with this particular spiel. But Jackie smiled, the corner tip of her mouth just visible from my spot in the back, along with the upward arch of her cheek.

So. She liked corny jokes.

And her boyfriend was one of the groaners.

My first tutoring session of the semester was this afternoon. Two weeks into any given semester, most students are still full of early-semester optimism, even if they’re already falling behind. It was possible I’d only have a handful of students show today – or none.

My very first semester as Heller’s tutor, only one person showed up on the first day – the roommate of someone I’d hooked up with two weeks before. I could barely recall the girl I’d spent a couple of hours with, but I recognized the roommate instantly, because there’d been an enormous bulletin board full of exhibitionistic selfies over her bed. They’d been … distracting. Like being watched by half-naked spectators. I’d found myself wondering – during the most awkward moment possible – what she did during Parents’ Weekend. Tacked posters of the periodic elements and Albert Einstein over them?

So during my first tutoring session ever, I drew charts on a whiteboard while explaining the difference between a downward shift in demand and a decrease in demand to
one
student. One student who was oblivious to the fact that I’d seen her topless selfie gallery. I couldn’t look her in the eye, or anywhere else, really, the whole hour, which was pretty damned awkward since she was the only other person in the room.

I had four students show today, all of them surprised that they were the only attendees out of such a huge class. None were Kennedy Moore or Jackie Wallace. I was relieved and disappointed – and I had no right to feel either of those things.

‘This is my third semester tutoring for Dr Heller,’ I said, facing them. Four pairs of eyes watched me raptly from their front-row seats in the tiny classroom. ‘Last year, every person who attended supplemental sessions two to three
times per week for the entire semester made an A or a B in the class.’

Eyes widened, impressed. Clearly, I was a miracle worker.

Truth? Regular session attendees were usually the overachievers – students who only missed class for emergency surgery or when someone died. They did the assigned reading and the optional chapter quizzes. They turned in extra-credit assignments. Education was a priority, and most of them might have aced the class without me.

But the statistical data gave me job security, so I used it.

Every week, I allotted at least fifteen hours in class, in sessions, making up worksheets and providing individual assistance, either on campus or through email. Those hours added up to a quarter of my tuition, paid. Being Heller’s tutor wasn’t as lucrative as Job One – parking enforcement officer for the campus PD, or Job Two – working the counter at the campus Starbucks, but it was way less stressful than either.

Well.

Until her.

Dad didn’t seem to notice I’d quit hockey. He didn’t notice my detachment from friends or the collapse of my social life. He’d only arranged for a car to pick me up from school each day because I’d paused to ask him how I was getting home before I left his car on my first day back.

His Ray-Bans hid his eyes, so I didn’t have to witness the agony that scorched through them every single time he realized that Mom was gone, so she couldn’t do a thing she’d always done. Things
someone
had to do in her place. Like pick me up from my private school, because home was a twenty-five minute drive or a Metro trip I’d never taken alone followed by a several-blocks walk.

In my mouth were the words,
I’ll just take the Metro – I’m thirteen, I can do it
, when he answered. ‘I’ll … call a car to take you home. You’re dismissed at three o’clock?’

‘Three thirty,’ I said, shouldering my backpack and stepping out, anger building. I felt myself fracturing down deep, straining to contain it.

Mornings were still cool, not yet cold enough to see your breath. Kids who’d already arrived were hanging out front, waiting for the first bell while others exited their parents’ cars. No one was rushing inside. Heads swivelled, watching me. Parents, too, none of them pulling away from the kerb. Everyone slowed – suspended, watching. I felt their eyes like dozens of tiny spotlights.

‘Landon?’

I turned back to my father’s voice, irrationally hoping he’d tell me to just get back in the car. That he’d take me back home. Take me to work with him. Anything but leave me here.

I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to do this.

‘You have your house key?’

I nodded.

‘I’ll have a car here at three thirty. I’ll be home early. Five thirty, latest.’ His jaw hardened. ‘Lock the door when you get home.’
And check the windows
.

I nodded again and shut the passenger door. He looked at me through the glass, and again, the crazy wish that he wouldn’t leave me here sprang up and grabbed me by the throat. He raised a hand and drove away.

So I’d never reminded him about hockey practice. I just stopped going.

When my coach finally called me, I told him I was quitting. He suggested that keeping previous routines in place would be good for me. Told me I could return at my pace, build back up. Said the team was ready to support me – that some of the guys had discussed having decals of
Mom’s initials added to our helmets or sewn on to the sleeves of our jerseys. I sat stonily on the other end of the line, waiting for him to realize that I wouldn’t argue, but I also wouldn’t go.

I don’t know if Dad continued to pay or if they stopped billing him, and I didn’t care.

There was this girl I’d liked, before. (Everything now was either
before
or
after
.) Before-girl’s name was Yesenia. I hadn’t seen her since the last day of seventh grade, but we’d texted a couple of times over the summer and had been friends online, trading cryptic social-media comments, which is sort of like flirting in semaphore.
Cool shot
.
Haha awesome
.
Pretty eyes
. This last was from her, one comment of a dozen on a pic Mom had taken of me on Grandpa’s beach, standing in the surf at sunset.

Hers was the only comment that mattered. It was also the boldest thing either of us had ever said to each other.

I’d grown over the summer. A good thing, because Yesenia and I had been the same height in seventh grade, and there’s this thing about girls and height – they want to wear heels and not be taller than the guy. I’d added three inches and had hopes for more. Dad was over six feet. Neither of my grandfathers was.

The only daughter of an ambassador from El Salvador, Yesenia was beautiful and dark, with short, silky black hair and huge brown eyes that watched me from across classrooms and lunch tables. She lived in a brownstone off Dupont Circle. I’d talked Mom into letting me ride the
Metro to her place alone two weeks before, but hadn’t yet built up the nerve to ask Yesenia if I could come over.

That second week of school, I managed to catch her without her mob of friends – a rare occurrence with thirteen-year-old girls. ‘Hey, do you wanna go see a movie Saturday?’ I blurted the invitation and she blinked up at me, hopefully noticing those three inches. She was the tallest girl in our grade. Some guys had to look up to
her
. ‘With me?’ I qualified when she didn’t answer right away.

‘Um …’ She fidgeted with the books in her arms as my heart thudded out
dammit, dammit, dammit
, until she said, ‘I’m not really allowed to go out with boys yet.’

Huh. My turn to fidget in response.

‘But maybe … you could come over and watch a movie at my house?’ She was hesitant – like she thought that maybe I’d turn her down.

I felt like I’d been dunked head first in cold water, yanked back out and then kissed, but I just nodded, determined to play nonchalant. So I’d asked a girl out. No big deal. ‘Yeah, sure. I’ll text you.’

Her friends showed up at the end of the hall, summoning her and eyeing me curiously. ‘Hi, Landon,’ one of them said.

I returned the greeting with a smile and turned, hands in pockets, mouthing
yes, yes
,
YES
under my breath, as though I’d just fired a puck into the goal right past the goalie’s padded knee. Saturday was only five days away.

Twenty-four hours later, my life had shifted into
after
.

‘You. Are. An.
Asshole!
’

My lips pressed into a thin line, and I struggled to contain the retort flashing across my brain:
Wow. There’s one I’ve never heard
.

I continued filling out the parking ticket I was thankfully nearly finished recording.

I feel sorry for people whose meters run out before they get back to the car. I feel sorry for people parked in admittedly ambiguously labelled lots. I do
not
feel sorry for a student who parks directly under a
FACULTY PARKING ONLY
sign.

When she realized that her appearance and predictable insult hadn’t motivated me to quit writing or even glance up, she tried a different tactic. ‘C’mon,
pleeease
? I was only in there for like ten minutes! I swear!’

Uh-huh.

I tore the ticket off and extended it towards her. She crossed her arms and glared at me. Shrugging, I pulled out an envelope, placed the ticket inside, and stuck the envelope under her windshield wiper.

As I turned to get back into the cart I drive lot-to-lot around campus, she yelled, ‘Son of a monkey-assed
whore
!’

That, on the other hand, is new. Well played, Ms Baby Blue Mini Cooper
.

Man, I wasn’t sure they paid me enough to compensate
for this type of abuse. I sure as hell wasn’t doing it for the
prestige
. For this, I tucked my hair under a polyester-coated, navy hat that made the top of my head feel like it was on fire when I stood out in the sun too long on hot days, which described seventy per cent of the year. I replaced my lip ring, its piercing thankfully several-years healed, with a clear retainer for the duration of my shifts. I wore a uniform that was the direct opposite of anything else in my wardrobe.

Granted, these three things kept every student I’ve ever ticketed – even, in a couple of cases, people I sat right next to in class – from recognizing me while I was in the process of ruining their days.

‘Excuse me! Yoo-hoo!’

This is the sort of summons usually delivered by someone’s grandma – but no, it was my thermodynamics professor from last spring.
Hell
. I pocketed the ticket pad, praying he wasn’t Mr Brand-New Mercedes, who I’d just ticketed for parking across two spaces at the back of the lot. I wouldn’t have thought Dr Aziz capable of being such an asshat – but people were weird behind the wheel of a car. Their personalities could morph from stable, sane citizens to road-raged dipshits.

‘Yes, sir?’ I answered, bracing.

‘I need a jump!’ He panted like he’d sprinted across a football field.

‘Oh. Sure. Hop in. Where’s your car?’ I ignored the girl in the Mini Cooper, giving me the finger as she squealed by us.

Though he didn’t comment, Dr Aziz wasn’t as inured to the gesture that was all too routine for me. Brows elevated, he climbed into the passenger seat and held on with both hands after fumbling for the nonexistent seatbelt. ‘Two rows over.’ He pointed. ‘The green Taurus.’

I slowed to keep from flinging him out the cart’s open side while making a U-turn at the end of the row, reflecting that my usual, antisocial incarnation would’ve been way less likely to get flipped off in the middle of a parking lot. I was a walking target, patrolling the campus in this damned costume.

Once I got his car started, I removed the cables and dropped the hood. ‘Be sure to get that battery charged or replaced – this box provides a jump, not a charge.’ I knew my engineering professor didn’t need this advice … but I assumed I was unrecognizable.

Wrong.

‘Yes, yes, Mr Maxfield, I think I am quite familiar with auto charging by this point.’ He laughed, still wheezing a bit. ‘This is a fortunate meeting, I think. I was mentally reviewing former students just this morning. I’ll be contacting a handful of these, inviting them to apply for a research project that begins next semester. Our objective is the development of durable soft materials to replace those normally damaged by thermodynamic forces – such as those used in drug delivery and tissue engineering.’

I knew all about Dr Aziz’s proposed research project – it had been animatedly discussed at last month’s Tau Beta Pi meeting with the sort of enthusiasm that only a bunch of engineering honour society nerds can supply.

‘You’re a senior, I believe?’

My brows rose and I nodded, but I was too stunned to reply.

‘Hmm. We’re primarily interested in juniors, as they’ll be around longer.’ He chuckled to himself before pursing his lips, watching me. ‘Nevertheless, the founding team of a project is critical, and I believe you could be an asset, if you’re interested. The position would be reflected as a special-projects course on your transcript, and we’ve received a grant, so we’re able to provide a small stipend to those ultimately chosen.’

Holy shit
. I shook myself from my stupor. ‘I’m interested.’

‘Good, good. Email me tonight, and I’ll forward the official application. I am obliged to inform applicants that spots on the team are not guaranteed. They’ll be quite sought after, I imagine.’ He wasn’t kidding. A few of my peers would seriously consider pushing me into traffic to secure one. ‘But …’ He smiled conspiratorially. ‘I think you’d be a top candidate.’

When Heller gave the class their first exam, I had a day off from attending. Instead of sleeping in like a normal college student, I’d stupidly signed up for an extra campus PD shift. It was like I no longer had any idea how to chill out and do nothing. Between paid jobs, volunteer jobs and studying, I worked all the damned time.

The skies opened up around seven a.m., deluging the area with a surprise thunderstorm just in time to negate sunrise, so I bummed a ride with Heller instead of enduring
a soggy, miserable drive to campus on my Sportster. After helping tote a box of books from his car to his office and agreeing on a time to leave for the day, I headed to the side exit.

The sun had emerged in the few minutes I’d been inside, granting a short reprieve from the rain, though trees and building overhangs still dripped fat drops on to the students trudging through puddles and hopping over miniature streams. Given the low, grey clouds gathering visibly overhead, I knew the sunburst would last five minutes tops, and hoped I could make it to the campus police building before the next downpour.

If the rain kept up – and all forecasts said that it would – I’d be stuck inside, answering phones and filing stacks of folders in the department’s wall of file cabinets instead of issuing parking citations. Lieutenant Fairfield was
always
behind on filing. I was half convinced he never filed anything. He simply waited for rainy days and unloaded the mind-numbing task on me. Strangely, I’d rather brave irate students, staff and faculty than be stuck inside all day.

And I won’t see Jackie Wallace at all today
.

I willed my brain to shut up, sliding my sunglasses on and holding the door open for a trio of girls who ignored me, continuing their conversation as though I was a servant or a robot, installed there for the express purpose of opening the door for them.
Damn this uniform
.

Then I saw her, splashing through pools of water in aqua rain boots covered in yellow daisy outlines. I stood like a statue, still holding the door ajar, even though she
was yards away and hadn’t noticed me – or anyone around her. I knew she’d be entering this door. She had an exam in econ in about one minute. There was no Kennedy Moore in sight.

Her book bag threatened to slide down her arm, and she hitched her shoulder higher while fumbling with an uncooperative umbrella that matched her boots. Her agitated body language and the fact that she’d never been late to class before – or arrived without her boyfriend – told me she was running behind this morning. Her umbrella refused to close. ‘
Dammit
,’ she muttered, giving it a hard shake while pushing the retract button repeatedly.

It folded shut a moment before she looked up to see me holding the door.

Her hair was damp. She wore no make-up, but the tips of her lashes were spiky – she’d clearly been caught in the rain on the way from her dorm or car. The combination of her wet skin, her proximity and the breath I took looking into her beautiful eyes nearly knocked me over. She smelled like honeysuckle – an aroma I knew well. My mother had encouraged a wall of it to vine over the tiny cottage in our backyard that she’d made into an art studio. Every summer, the trumpet-shaped blooms had infused the interior with their sweet scent, especially when she’d cranked the windows open. While Mom worked on projects for fall gallery showings, I sat across the scarred tabletop from her, sketching video-game characters or bugs or the innards of an inoperative appliance Dad gave me permission to take apart.