Every Shattered Thing (Come Alive) (9 page)

“Okay fine,” I sputter. “I haven’t studied much. I just can’t focus.” I motion my hand around the food, “Between this deliciousness beckoning me and your face and my exhaustion, it’s hard to focus.”

“My face? What’s wrong with my face?”

“Your face.” I start to blush, “It's a distraction. I want to keep looking.”

He reaches over the table and grabs my book, careful not to rake the pages through the messy leftovers on the plate. Opening it to where I started about thirty minutes ago, he starts quizzing me. When I get an answer wrong, he asks me again and explains away my confusion.

“I had no idea you were so good at physics. Do you want to be an engineer or something?”

He laughs. “No. Not at all. It just comes naturally to me for some reason.” He shrugs his shoulders and looks at me, “I actually want to go to film school. Learn how to make movies.”

I stare at him a full minute before responding. I can’t believe I didn’t know this about him. I wouldn’t have pegged him as someone who enjoyed film. I guess I still had a lot to learn.

“What makes you interested in film?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Stories. Stories absolutely fascinate me. I love hearing people’s stories and how they overcome obstacles and despite everything, still cling to hope.” He leans forward, his eyes lit with excitement. “I don’t know, Stephanie. It’s just...there are so many opportunities out there to do good in the industry. You already have producers and directors who take advantage of their craft - aiming to scare people as much as possible or see just how much skin they can get away with showing before the ratings shoot sky high. I’m not into that. I believe stories can change the world - and I want to be on the positive side of that change.”

“Look out, Angelina.”

He starts laughing. “I guess. I just think stories are incredibly important. An individual’s story has the power to move others for change.” He meets my gaze and holds it for while before continuing. “Even yours —especially yours.”

I look at him in mock horror, “You're going to create a film about my life?”

He shakes his head. “No. But I see that journal you carry with you everywhere. I know you write.” He leans back and rests his arm against the top of the bench.

I look at him and rub my finger across the plate between us, wiping the last bit of cinnamon and butter off the porcelain and into my mouth. I begin to notice intricacies. The old couple laughing over a cup of coffee. The cook in the back yelling for some help. The girl sitting by herself and checking her watch every few seconds. Immediately, scenes and conversations fill my head. I have to blink in order to calm the inner monologue to a dull roar.

“Yeah. I guess you can say I write.”

“Have you ever thought about sharing your words?”

My head shoots up and I stare at him as though he has just offered the most ridiculous piece of advice.
Share my writing? With you? No. Never.
“No." I answer, giving him my best
please-don’t-talk-anymore-about-this
look.

“I’d love to read what you’ve written some time.”

I look at him briefly before bringing my attention to the napkin in my hands. Apparently I need to work on my silent cues. I’ve been shredding the paper into pieces. Throwing the mangled remains on the plate, I look at him and shake my head.

“I’ve never shared my writing with anyone, Kevin.”

“Try me. Take something from that book—anything—it could be a poem or a sentence or a

paragraph about how Mrs. Peabody has a secret and disturbing crush on Shakespeare’s corpse. I don’t care. But try me—will you?”

I grab the book and flip through the pages, skipping certain passages I would never read to anyone. My journal is more than story ideas - it’s a place to untangle knots and splatter thoughts. Mostly about my life. Sometimes I tackle my past. Every so often I’ll write words picturing my future. I’m about to give up when my eyes rest on a poem I wrote two months ago, right after Kevin and I started dating. I smile.

I guess I could read him this one.

He shifts in the booth, catching my sudden openness. “Did you find something?”

I look at him and then lower my gaze. “Yeah. I did. But, I don’t know if I will be able to look at you while I read this, so don’t make fun of me or anything.”

He throws his hand in the air and whispers, “Scout's honor,” just like he had earlier that morning when I was begging for him to be quiet outside my house. Before my dad showed and everything shifted so quickly.

I focus on the words before me on the page. Taking a deep breath, I begin to read, quietly.

You came with the rush of spring

confident and sure

and offering me hope

a belief

- or -

a prayer?

perhaps things aren’t what they seem

perhaps one can truly find peace -

find a home

find someone who believes in you

I close my eyes and offer my hand

(even though the nightmares may come)

I close my eyes and offer my heart

(even though the scars may never heal)

and hope that through my winter

you’ll keep reminding me of spring.

I look up. Kevin is staring at me.
Oh great. I shouldn’t have read the poem,
I think,
now I’ve
freaked him out and he’s going to think I’m some crazy lunatic.
My heart sinks and I reach for the napkin on the table so my fingers can find something to latch on to. He takes my hand as it clasps around the piece of cloth.

“Stephanie.”

His voice is quiet. Tender. I chance a look and catch my breath. He wasn’t freaked out.

He drops his head for a split second and when he looks back at me there are tears forming.

“Stephanie,” he repeated, “that was beautiful.”

I start to shake my head and offer excuses, but he squeezes my hand.

“No. I mean it. Do you only write poetry?”

I try and find my voice but it’s gone, lost somewhere in the land of
Holy Shit He Likes My
Writing.
When I start talking again my words are soft. Almost as if I’m afraid they’ll break the magic of this moment if I speak too loud.

“I write stories too. I have the beginning of about three novels written, I’m just waiting to find time to really focus on my writing so I can dive completely...I uh, don’t have a lot of time right now to focus on it.” I look away for a brief moment before finding his gaze.

He moves to get up. I look at him as he walks over to my side of the booth and motions for me to scoot over. I scoot, and he sits close to me.

He looks at me and touches his chin before placing his arm around my shoulder.

“Has anyone ever told you to like...
write
?”

I fight the urge to laugh. I look at him, wondering where he’s going with all of this, and simply respond, “Um. Mrs. Peabody likes my essays. She wrote ‘brilliant’ on the last one I turned in for her. But, no one has ever said anything about me really focusing on writing.”

He leans closer. “Keep writing.” He says it quietly and purposefully.

“What?”

“Keep writing. Seriously. I don’t know what you have in that head of yours,” he gently taps my forehead. “But the world needs those words. They need to be reminded of hope.”

I rub my neck and strain to leave his line of sight. This attention, his belief in me, it’s making me feel awkward. I’m not sure how to respond. I glance down and toy with the zipper on my jacket.

“Look at me.”

I hesitate to meet his gaze and he grazes his finger on my chin, slowly lifting my line of sight until we see our reflection in the other’s eyes. The distance between us closes as he kisses me, slow and sure and long enough for the butterflies to make homes in between my ribs. He leans back and kisses me gently on the corner of my mouth and again on my cheek.

“You need to know this. You need to know you can write. You need to know that you being successful and doing things is possible.”

“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice threatening to crack under the weight of his words. I pull my hair back away from my face and turn towards him, shifting in my seat.

“So, back to you wanting to do film. Have you thought about what schools you want to go to?”

A smile spreads across his face. “Well, if I could get into the school, USC has an incredible program. They are pretty expensive, though and...”

“And far away,” I finish for him.

He laughs. “Yeah, and far away. I’m not sure my parents would go for that, but it’s a dream.” He shrugs his shoulders and looks at me, “I’ve already sent in my application, the one I told you about last month for a school in California? It was for USC. I’m crossing my fingers for some type of scholarship.”

“Do you have a back-up plan?”

“Yeah. I do, actually. I was doing some research online and found this film school in a slum in Nairobi, Kenya. They work with students who live in Kibera and tell stories about life in the slum. It’s the largest in the world. I’d love to go and visit and work with them for a couple weeks - maybe even for the summer. I’ve always wanted to see Africa.”

I wrinkle my brow, “But you wouldn’t be actually...attending the school, would you?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I’m sure I’d learn a lot from them. The guy who started it graduated from USC and moved back to Nairobi to start this program. It’s pretty cool. As far as locally, if I don’t get into USC I’ve looked into a few state schools. And, there’s always the junior college if I get desperate. What about you? Have you thought about where you want to go?”

I snort. “Um. College isn’t really a priority right now, Kevin. In fact, it seems more and more impossible every day.” My voice drops and I sniff. “But, if I could choose? If I could go anywhere? It would be some place with Creative Writing degree.” I shrug. “None of this will matter if I don’t pass this damn test, though.” I motion to the open book sitting across the table.

He smiles, recognizing the pitch in my voice changing with the shift in topics, we could very easily start talking about my current situation and I didn’t want to go there. Stretching his arms behind his head, he leans over and gives me a soft kiss on the cheek.

“Speaking of the test, it’s 7:45. You wanna start heading over to the school? I don’t want to make you late.”

I glance at the clock on my phone and feel short of breath when I realize just how soon the test will be placed in front of me.

“Stop stressing."

Kevin is standing next to the table, holding out his hand. I throw him a look filled with chagrin and slide out of the booth.

“I’m sorry. I know I can be crazy when I get stressed about something. I’m just...really nervous about the test.”

He squeezes my shoulder as we walk past the hostess stand, the girls twirling their hair and giggling.

“You’re going to be fine. I quizzed you. You know this stuff. Don’t second guess yourself.”

I lean into his embrace and wrap my arm around his waist, taking comfort in his confidence.

Chapter Eight

Kevin and I get to school just as the first bell rings and students everywhere gulp down the last ounce of their energy drink before settling into the routine of lectures, experiments, tests and mindless busy work. Once the first bell rings it’s absolutely chaos in the hallways. Kids hollering at each other, couples sneaking kisses in unlit corners, boys posting up against the wall attempting to discreetly pawn off whatever “deal” they have on the latest Rx available in the school’s black market. It’s always pretty impossible for anyone to walk the halls unscathed, I’m always fondled at least once or twice—however accidental it may be, it still irritates the shit out of me. I’m
exhausted
. I’m pretty sure if any perv tries to touch me I may backhand him.

We make our way to my physics class and I almost bump into a teacher looking at my hands.

“You would think I didn’t even use a fork.” I mutter, wiping off residual stickiness from the cinnamon rolls.

“You didn’t. There was much using of the fingers to lick the plate at the end. Remember?”

“I don’t, actually. Pre-coffee brain.”

“You had a cup at Cloud Nine.”

“Fine. Pre-daily-required-caffeine-intake brain. I need at least three cups to function. You know this.”

He nods. “We can always sneak in to the teacher’s lounge,” Kevin says, “I know where they keep their coffee pot.”

I make a face. “I’m
not
drinking that coffee —I may need energy, but I have higher standards when it comes to coffee goodness. Why do you think I only finished one cup at breakfast?” I let go of his hand to pull my arms above my head and stretch, almost knocking out a small sophomore who could pass for a ten year old. I look his way and mumble a half-hearted “sorry” as he passes before turning to Kevin.

I’m just about to speak when Marisol, a cheerleader, walks up to Kevin and places her hands on the zipper of his jacket.

“I see you’re still settling with the leftovers, Kev. Don’t forget my offer. Call me when you come to your senses.” And with that, she saunters off in the other direction.

“Um. What was that?”

Kevin closes his eyes for a split second before looking at me. Clearing his throat, he leans closer and whispers. “Come on, Steph. You
know
what that was. Some of the football players pay cheerleaders for certain...favors? It’s happened as long as I’ve been here.” He looks sideways at me —measuring my reaction—and continues, “I don’t have the best reputation and so they think I’m an easy target.”

I stare at him for a little while before finding words. “They
prostitute themselves?!”

“...yes. How do you not know this?”

“I-I-I don’t know. I guess I just don’t ever pay attention to the rumors? It’s not like I have friends, Kevin.”

I breathe in sharp and quick, my hand finding the wall for balance. This is happening in my own school. It’s only a matter of time before my dad hears through the grapevine about the lucrative opportunity happening within these walls.

Nothing is safe. Nothing is not touched.