My Beating Teenage Heart (24 page)

On Wednesday Breckon has economics last period and he and Jules arrive at the classroom door at the exact same moment. They were so good together that I can’t believe he broke it off, and what’s just as surprising is how civil they’ve been able to remain in the aftermath. If I was in Jules’s place I know I wouldn’t be handling things as well as she is. Since it happened they haven’t been speaking much but they always at least acknowledge each other, and on Monday Jules said she hoped he’d had a good weekend.

Today is different. Today Breckon says, “Hey, Jules. How’s it going?”

Jules’s black eyeliner can make her almost look mean but when she smiles you immediately know better. But not today. Today she refuses to look him in the eye and retorts, “Fuck you, Breckon” as she slips into class.

Breckon’s eyes flick repeatedly over to her as Mr. Cirelli shows a PowerPoint presentation on business and the environmental revolution. When the end-of-period bell sounds, Breckon’s up in a shot and out the door where he lies in wait.

Jules’s face swells with bitterness as she exits the class, Breckon locked in step with her. “So now it’s my turn to say I don’t want #x2ify">Jto have anything to do with you,” she says.

“I never said that.”

“No, no, you said”—she cups her chin and strikes a mock-contemplative pose—“that you didn’t have the
energy
for anything extra.” Her long black hair whips through the air as she shakes her head. “And I believed you. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? You playing me like that when I really thought we had something?”

“Jules,” Breckon pleads. “We did, you know we did. I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Jules stops in the middle of the hallway and burrows her hands into her hoodie pockets. “And the bullshit doesn’t stop! You’re unbelievable.” She glares at him with such contempt that it takes Breckon’s breath away. “Lauren Harvey told Renee that she saw you having sex with some girl against a car in her neighborhood on Friday night. Is that specific enough for you?”

Breckon hangs his head. His frame literally seems to shrink under the weight of his navy T-shirt and gray cords.

“I thought so,” Jules concludes, swinging away from him.

“No, Jules, wait!” He latches on to her arm as they whisk along the corridor.

“Let the fuck go,” she warns in a voice that sounds like a hundred bee stings.

Breckon releases her but keeps pace. “That’s not what happened. There was a girl, okay? But we didn’t have sex. I was so trashed that I didn’t know what I was doing. I don’t even know her name.”

Jules laughs in a way that says this isn’t remotely funny. “So, if you were that trashed maybe you did fuck her. Or would that have required too much
energy
?”

“Jules, c’mon. Please stop.” He reaches for her hand and roots himself to the spot. “I know how it sounds.”

Jules, who has stopped too, dangles her hand from her arm like it’s an inanimate object.

“Did you or did you not have your hands up her skirt?” she asks. “Do you remember that much?”

“I remember,” Breckon says. “But can I explain what happened? Ty, Rory and I were at this party Anya was having. You remember me telling you about Anya?” He waits somberly for confirmation that doesn’t come and then continues anyway. “I didn’t want to be there—I just needed to get away from the dinner at my grandparents’ house. And I drank too much, way too much. I think I even blacked out at one p—”

Jules wrenches her fingers from his. “I’ve heard enough. You’re free to do whatever you want. I just wish you’d had the guts to own up to what that was so I wouldn’t have been sulking around like a loser, trying to give you space while worrying myself to death about you.”

Breckon’s eyes drain of emotion. He lets Jules walk away without chasing her. This is what he wanted after all, space.

You should go after her
, I tell him.
Apologize. Try to make things right
.

“I’m done,” Breckon says aloud to no one but me. “I’m done.”

His resigned tone gives me a bad feeling that echoes how I felt when I tried to change Shenice’s mind about Bailey and couldn’t.

Ty catches up with Breckon at his locker a couple of minutes later and nudges him with his elbow. “Man, I have some bad news. Somehow Renee found out about you hooking up with Kylie at Anya’s place.”

“Kylie?” Breckon repeats. His eyes are gray-blue marbles. Shiny but lifeless.

Ty smiles. “You didn’t know her name?” Breckon shakes his head. “Yeah, man, that was Kylie. The blonde with the super straight hair. She told Anya that you were cute but so wasted that she felt like she was molesting you. Anyway, Cameron said that Jules was really torn up about it when she heard.”

Breckon shoves his books into his locker and rubs his eyes. “I just had class with Jules. She hates my fucking guts. At first I didn’t know what she was even talking about.”

Ty’s deflated smile collapses into a full-blown frown. “It’s not like you cheated on her. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You were completely up front with her, man. And from what I heard, you and Kylie didn’t take things very far anyway.”

Breckon slams his locker shut. “Lauren Harvey told Renee I fucked Kylie against your car.”

“Did you?”

“No, but I think it could’ve happened that way too,” he admits. “I think I’m …” His glossy eyes threaten to spill over. He hunches like he’s about to break at the waist and crumple into two separate halves. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Ty looks away, scanning the hallway like he’s devising a plan of action. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” He claps Breckon on the back. “Walk with me. Let’s get out of here.”

Breckon follows Ty’s lead, trudging out of the school and into the parking lot with his eyes swimming. “Keys,” Ty prompts as they near Breckon’s car. “I’ll drive.”

Breckon fishes them out of his pocket and hands them over. “Where?”

“Wherever you want to go,” Ty says resolutely as he unlocks the doors and they both climb in. “Think of me as your limo driver.”

“I don’t know.” Breckon stares at the car mat under his feet.

“Okay, so I’ll make an executive decision. How about Central America? Costa Rica’s, like, number one on the Happy Planet Index. You know, they’re the greenest country on the planet.” Ty keeps up his commentary on Costa Rica while I listen to the sound of Breckon’s breathing and sink lower.

What good am I if I let him bring me down? None. Fight, Ashlyn
, I command myself.
Take your cue from Ty and do something constructive
. I let Ty do the talking while I concentrate on trying to generate positive energy. I don’t quite know how and have even less clue how to measure whether I’m successful or not, but I think happy, tranquil thoughts. That bloodred sunrise on Saturday morning. Orange ice cream. The lyrics to “All You Need Is Love.” Callum and I playing cards on the beach. My father swinging me up into the air in his strong arms when I was small, making me giggle and feel like I could fly. The way he cheered when Barack Obama was elected president of the United States, a light in his eyes that I’ll never forget. Mom’s nightly soft kisses on my forehead. Puppies. Rainbows. Peace on earth. I try to believe in the possibility, for Breckon.

According to Ty there’s a park in Costa Rica, Corcovado National Park, which
National Geographic
called “the most biologically intense place on Earth.” Ty explains that he watched a documentary about it the other night and that’s how he knows so much about Costa Rica.

After twenty-plus minutes of travelogue Ty admits that when in doubt, his default is to head south and that if Breckon doesn’t want to end up at the U.S. border he should suggest another destination. I listen for Breckon’s pained breathing. The sound stings but doesn’t sear. He’s better than he was, for whatever reason.

Ahead, on the right side of the road, there’s a baseball diamond where twelve-year-olds in uniforms and ball caps are just beginning an after-school game. An ice-cream truck’s stopped as close to the field as it can get and the players’ younger siblings are clambering for cones and Popsicles. “Here’s as good as anywhere,” Breckon says. They pull into the parking lot and take their place amongst parents, teachers and the players’ fellow students on the bleachers.

I don’t remember going to many of my brother’s baseball games, probably wouldn’t recognize his team jersey if I stumbled over it, but I’d know my brother. My last memory of Garrett is only a year old and I scan the faces of each of the players as carefully as I can considering the distance we are away from them and my inability to uncouple myself from Breckon.

Garrett’s not here.

I’ve never stopped looking for my family, praying that they’d come into Zavi’s or wander by Breckon at the mall. Just because it hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it won’t. I have to believe that if I keep my eyes open I’ll see my family again someday. As much as I miss them, I need to know that they’re okay without me. Breckon thinks his grandmother’s silly for believing she can sense his sister, but I believe my family will be able to sense me if I can get close to them.

In the meantime I have to content myself with listening to Breckon ask Ty if he wants ice cream. He strolls over to thels wi truck and buys a chocolate-dip cone for Ty and an orange Creamsicle for himself.
Orange
. In my opinion orange is the freshest flavor in the world. Fresher and lighter than mint. Cold. Juicy. And when it’s in cream form,
creamy
. My mind revels in the memory of orange ice cream while Breckon tears into his Creamsicle with his teeth.

Thank you
, I tell him, and he nods almost imperceptibly but I’m right there with him; I can’t miss it.

nineteen
                            breckon

Every time I
hit rock bottom it’s harder to come back. Weeks ago my mother said she felt as though she could find Skylar if she looked hard enough, but that the feeling was a
trick
. A lie. Feeling better, even for a while, is a lie like that. Because I know I’ll crash again soon. What’s the point in trying to climb back up if it’s only a trick anyway?

I’ve thought about it a lot and the answer doesn’t change.

It was better, for a while, at the park with Ty watching kids play ball, that voice in my head acting like a sedative. But I don’t want to go to sleep again and see Skylar in my dreams. I don’t want that shock of waking up in a world without her.

My sister’s favorite color was sky blue. Her favorite cereal was Lucky Charms (Alpha-Bits came second). Her favorite TV shows were
SpongeBob, Wolverine and the X-Men, What’s New Scooby-Doo?
and
League of Super Evil
, but she’d also stop whatever she was doing to watch any show with Jamie Oliver in it. She liked to watch him dice, season, stir and talk about cooking, but her favorite food was spaghetti and meatballs out of a can. She’d eat all the meatballs first and then tackle the spaghetti, but whenever my mom made real spaghetti and meatballs she’d only eat half of what was on her plate. Her best friend was Kevin Solomon. She was good at hitting and kicking a ball. She was tough. She learned to ride a two-wheel bike without training wheels when she was four and a half, younger than me. When she fell off a week later and scraped up half her leg, she sniffled and two fat tears streamed down her face but she didn’t bawl. Her favorite things to draw were aliens, dinosaurs and mummies. She said that when she grew up she’d be as tall as I was, maybe taller. She had my mom’s eyes and my dad’s blond hair. She liked Jules a lot, she’d miss her if she was still around but then again, if she was still around I’d still be with Jules too. She loved all animals, not just the cuddly-looking ones. She laughed a lot but she was also a good listener.

A couple of days before Christmas, when Skylar was over the flu and feeling back to normal, she wandered into the kitchen as I was toasting a bagel and asked me if there was really a Santa Claus. Some kids in her class were saying there wasn’t, just like there wasn’t an Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy. She said that she knew that the Easter Bunny and Tooth Fairy were made up but was Santa too?

I’d overheard her ask my mother the same question earlier, ls wlomon. and my mom had said all the things you’d expect a mother to say in defense of Santa, but Skylar obviously still had her doubts.

“Mom told you Santa Claus was real,” I reminded her. “Do you think she’d lie to you?”

“Maybe,” Skylar said.

“Why would she lie?”

“To be nice.” Skylar’s blue eyes pinned me to the kitchen wall. “But I want to know for real. I don’t want to believe in him if he’s just something made up for kids.”

She was so intense about it that I didn’t know whether I should keep up the pretense or not.

“You don’t think he’s real, do you?” she probed. “Or how come you’re taking so long to answer?”

“Yeah, of course I believe in him.” I tried to outthink my sister, but once somebody has those initial doubts, half the battle’s already been lost. “It’s just that when people get older they don’t think it’s cool to
admit
that they believe in Santa. That’s why some of the kids you know say they don’t—they’re trying to be cool and act like they’re older. It’s like, you don’t see adults going to work with SpongeBob briefcases. And lots of people think Santa’s for kids like that.”

The truth is that none of us—my mom, my dad and I—were ready for Skylar to stop believing, even if she was. Why do the kids who already know have to spoil it for everyone else?

I don’t know whether Skylar really believed me about Santa Claus or not, but she decided to go along with it for the holiday. I’m sure next Christmas would’ve been a different story, but now there isn’t any next Christmas.

It’s hit me a thousand times in a thousand ways.

It never stops. The loss is what I am now. Loss with just a sprinkling of Breckon.

I’ve held her hand to cross the street so many times. Carried her in my arms when she was too young to walk, too young to talk. Years later, lifted her on my shoulders because she loved being up high. Played kid stuff with her—from Mega Bloks to Connect Four and Pictionary to making Insta-Snow. Babysat her from the time I was thirteen. Looked out for her even before. At places like the supermarket or the bank when my mom or dad’s attention was needed elsewhere. “Stay with her,” my mom would instruct before drifting away to inspect apples or carrots. “Can you watch her for a minute?” Dad would ask before lining up for the teller.