Cracked (23 page)

The easiest thing right now is spending time with Patty. Sometimes, when we’re on the phone, Patty whispers that she can’t stop thinking about me. I always whisper back that
I
can’t stop thinking about
her
. Last night I told her I loved her for the first time. She said she loved me too. It was perfect.

Nikole and I have kept in touch online. She started dating
one of Greg’s best friends almost as soon as she got out of the ward. His name is Balls. For real. Well, it’s his nickname, anyway. She swears in true Lacey style that he is “the one” and that they’re sure Greg set them up from heaven. I will always love what she did for me—how she believed in me, acknowledged my existence, and treated me with dignity. Always.

And Bull Mastrick has stayed away from me since school started. It’s like we understand each other. We don’t talk or anything, but there’s this acceptance between us. We both know the other’s pain. Sometimes in the dark, just before I fall asleep, I’ll think I hear Bull rustling his covers, and then I come to. I always lie there and think about how we were both in such awful situations, each losing bits of our self along the way. Ending up in the ward was the best thing that ever happened to me because I was able to gather up those bits of
me
.

I’m nearly whole right now. I’m all right.

I’VE BEEN OFF THE CRUTCHES FOR ALMOST A MONTH.
Had my cast off for two. It’s crazy how you can hardly tell when you look at my leg. I feel pretty strong again.

Frank is a really good guy. He treats me like his own son. He said he actually treats me better than his own son. When I first got to his house, we stayed up late almost every single night talking about stuff. He was cool with everything. I told him the whole story. The real story.

Two days later, when we were eating breakfast, he said, “I wanted you to have that poem so you’d know—”

I waited a few seconds. “So I’d know what?”

He cleared his throat. “So you’d know it doesn’t have to be like that. That when you grow up, you don’t have to be like them—your grandfather and your mother. You can be better than them.”

About
them
. . . my mom never dropped anything off when she signed the papers for me to stay with Frank. She told Dr. Eyebrows she couldn’t find anything
to
drop off. I remember laughing and saying, “Typical.” Frank told me not to worry, and he took me to get a whole mess of clothes. Like I said, he’s a really good guy.

After I was all healed up, I was supposed to go home, but my pop died. He choked on his own puke at the kitchen table. My mom found him when she got home from Salvy.

The last time I talked to him was the day with the gun. I didn’t get to say good-bye, but I’m not too broken up about it. He never even called me while I was in the nuthouse, not once during the whole five days. I know what he did for me, though. I know he told the police I tried to kill myself so I wouldn’t go to juvie. I know that.

Frank took me to the funeral parlor to see Pop, and it was just me, my mother, and Frank. That’s it. My mom had the smarts to
not
have a service, so the three of us just stood over his open coffin and said whatever we wanted to in our heads. I’m sure what I said in my head was way different
from what my shitfaced mother mumble-jumbled in hers.

But Mom’s in AA now. Frank told her, right there with my dead grandfather in front of us, that the only way he’d let me go back to her was if she went to AA. So now she goes every day. She says it’s the only way she won’t drink. To tell you the truth, she’s not too bad when she’s not wasted. To be honest, I couldn’t believe she wanted me back. We still go at it sometimes—it’s usually over folding the clean laundry or not having enough milk or some shit like that. But at least I have one parent that kind of gives a crap about me. I gave up that whole beach-reunion-with-my-father pipe dream.

Living in the apartment isn’t that bad either. My mom cleared out Pop’s room and gave it to me. I have my own room. Frank bought me my own bed and dresser because he said I deserved something to call my own. It’s pretty cool to have my own stuff. Pop’s bedroom always smelled like beer and urine, but now it smells like me.

I visit Frank every day after school, and we have dinner together. I do my homework over there sometimes too. My mom has been working the late shift; she says it helps her not drink.

I’m not as pissed off at the world anymore, but I still get mad when I think about the hell my pop put me through. At night sometimes I wake up sweating and junk because I expect
him to come barreling in here and find me in his room. And beat the shit out of me.

That happens a lot.

But one good thing: I don’t bother with anyone at school. Not even Victor. We sort of keep to ourselves. We both know a lot about each other, how messed up we were. Like, emotionally and stuff. And being in the ward made me realize that everyone has shit to deal with. I don’t want to be the asshole anymore. I really don’t.

Kell . . . well, Kell and me keep in touch online. We e-mail a lot. She’s the one who told me about Andrew—how he found his stepdad’s old hunting rifle in the back of the garage and blew his head off, right there with the lawn mower and boxed-up Christmas decorations. That story bummed me out for a long time.

Kell started a new book. It’s based on her, and she sends me every chapter. I’d be bold-faced lying if I said I haven’t cried while reading every chapter. She’s sent me fourteen chapters so far, so that’s fourteen crybaby sessions.

She wants to be a real writer—like, make money for what she writes. I tell her all the time that her brain churns out words more smoothly than freaking Willy Wonka churns out chocolate. She’s that good at it. And one day I know I’ll be able to buy one of her books in the bookstore.

Kell’s in an outpatient treatment program; she goes twice a week. The court wouldn’t put her back with her stepdad because he was doing horrible things to her, so she’s with some foster family. She says they’re nice enough and they all keep their hands to themselves, but she can’t wait to turn eighteen so she can be on her own.

And yeah, I still love her. She loves me too.

I’m seeing her next Saturday. Frank’s going to pick her up and bring her back to his house so we can hang out. How cool is he? He even helped me plan out some stuff to make her feel really special when she gets there, like flowers and a poem.

And I go by William now. Even in school.

Deep, deep appreciation goes to my very first readers of
Cracked
—family, friends, and BETAs alike: Nikole Becker, Mary Anne Becker-Sheedy, Meghan Becker Passarelli, Christina MacRae, Margie Pearse, Annemarie Paterni, Patty Scoboria Clark, Weronika Janczuk, Susan Mills, and Christina Lee. Thank you for sharing your outrageously encouraging thoughts and helpful opinions.

Thank you to my faithful (yet small) horde of blog readers and Twitter followers. Just so you know, my heart leaps every time I see a new comment or response from any of you fine people. Keep ’em coming. It makes me happy.

To my fellow 2012 debut authors over at The Apocalypsies, thank you for all of your support, sharing of knowledge, excitement, and friendship. Visit
http://apocalypsies.blogspot.com
to meet everyone—they’re quite a group!

Thank you to the wonderful Goehler family for allowing me to put Greg’s real and tragic story into this book. I will never forget.

To fellow writer and friend, Christina Lee, thank you for suggesting we jump in a cab, 10:30 at night, in NYC, with no coats, at the January SCBWI Winter Conference, so I could stand in front of the Simon & Schuster building for a photo. One of my most treasured moments.

Thank you to my dear friend, Margie Pearse. Your continued belief that this would actually happen one day helped to fuel my persistence.

To my very large and very awesome family (the “other” Waltons and foreigners included), thank you for cheering me on with kind words, cards, e-mails, and phone calls. In short, my entire family rules. COUSINS! COUSINS!

Thank you to Gail and Frank Scarpa, my in-laws, for allowing me to hole up in your pool house during that long-ago Easter vacation, cranking out my first novel (not
Cracked
—it’s a sci-fi). And thank you for believing this would happen one day.

To Meghan, Nikole, and Christina, my three younger sisters, you three are the most amazing, beautiful, supportive, hysterical, awesome, and steadfast best friends I will ever have. I love you, McGeedles, Niki-hoy, and Quitty.

Special thanks to my sister Nikole,
the
Nikole from the book. She really
did
lose her spectacular boyfriend, Greg, through that hideous tragedy. She’s one heck of a woman and sister. For all the right reasons.

Thank you, Robert Charles Becker, my father, who passed away in 1997 at the age of fifty-one. I know you have silently spurred me on—pulling
heavenly
strings. I miss you, Dad.

Thank you to my incredible mother, Mary Anne Becker-Sheedy, whose beauty radiates both inside and out. Without you building me up since birth and
showing
me how to be a good human being, I would’ve never had the inner drive to write, especially this book. You’ve believed in me for . . . forever, and I love you. So much.

Thank you to my two spectacular sons, Christian and Jack. You know how much I love you both—I tell you every day. I’m certain there will never be two human beings that make me prouder to be alive. I thank God every night that
I
was chosen to be your mother. You are each a gift in your own way and have made this journey towards publication explode with genuine hope and excitement. Thank you both, my angels.

Thank you to the love of my life, Todd Walton. Who knew back in WCU’s Sanderson Hall, room 714, circa 1987, that I had met my soul mate? Apparently my soul knew. Your smile (and steadfast belief in me) has the power to melt my silent fears and doubts, washing them down the drain where they belong. I am the luckiest woman alive to share this lifetime with you. I will love you so, for always.

Thank you to my lovely and brilliant agent, Sarah LaPolla. Your initial e-mail, after pulling me from your slush pile, has been dipped in gold and sprinkled with diamonds. Your insight, ideas, and guidance are equally as dazzling. Infinity-thank-yous for believing in my writing and ultimately believing in me. Synergy.

Thank you to my editor, the dedicated genius, Annette Pollert, for all of your hard work. You pushed my writing in directions I didn’t even know existed. Thank you for loving Bull and Victor as much as I do. Wahoodles.

Thank you to the entire Simon Pulse team: Bethany Buck, Mara Anastas, Jennifer Klonsky, Dayna Evans, Russell Gordon, Lucille Rettino, Carolyn Swerdloff, Dawn Ryan, Paul Crichton, Mary Marotta, Christina Pecorale, Jim Conlin, Victor Iannone, Theresa Brumm, Mary Faria, and Alison Velea for all of your hard work and dedication. I am humbled.

Thank you to Coldplay, Radiohead, and Civil Twilight for creating their brilliant music that pumped through my headphones as I wrote this book. You rule on every level.

And finally thank YOU, reader, holder of my book. I sincerely hope you like(d) it, and I appreciate you choosing
this
book from the many.

PS, my sister Christina MacRae is the brilliant graphic designer of
kmwalton.com
. The woman is a freaking genius.