My Beating Teenage Heart (9 page)

“Thank you,” Mrs. Cody says. “I feel better knowing you’ve looked at it.”

Dr. Siddiqui nods. “Always best to get things looked at. I don’t have any samples at the moment but …” He grabs a pen and his prescription pad. “I’m going to write out the cream he should use. The pain should begin to subside in a couple of days.” He tears out the page from his prescription pad and hands it to Breckon along with a sheet of instructions that explain how to change his dressing. “I’m so sorry about Skylar,” the doctor adds quietly.

Breckon’s shoulders sag as he takes the papers. I notice his cracked bottom lip again as his lips part. “Thank you,” his mother repeats before he can get the words out.

“She was a wonderful girl,” the doctor says.

Back in the waiting room Breckon hands over the instructions and prescription for his mother to study. She unfolds the instructions and scans through to the bottom of the page. “We can pick the cream up in the pharmacy downstairs,” she says as she gives him the sheet back.

“Good idea,” Breckon says without missing a beat. He folds the page into his back pocket and then checks his watch. “I think I can make second period if we’re quick.”

Mrs. Cody hesitates, her face changing as she says, “You probably can.”

With the cream and a fresh supply of bandages in our possession the three of us climb back into the car. I grow anxious when I see Breckon’s high school loom in the distance and I don’t know why. He
wants
to go back to school, so who am I to be anxious for him?

“Thanks, Mom,” Breckon says when his mother pulls up to the curb in front of the school. “I’ll catch a ride back with Ty or Jules.”

Mrs. Cody reaches out to tousle his hair in what I imagine is much the same way she would’ve done when he was just a young boy. “Okay, hon.”

Breckon’s eyes break away first. He slips out of the car and I’m swept onto the sidewalk along with him. Breckon doesn’t take any notice of the letters over the school’s front doors but I do. They read: Stephen Lewis Secondary School. Because we live in different parts of town there’s almost no chance we’d attend the same high school, but it does look vaguely familiar—like someplace I would’ve cruised by in a previous life.

Memories of my own high school, like so many other bits of my life, still elude me but I’m about to become very familiar with Breckon’s. I drift along behind his shoulder as he stalks through the hall and then into the main office. The secretary’s eyes give everything away—she knows exactly who he is and what happened to Skylar. Sympathy for Breckon oozes from her pores even before he explains about his hand and the doctor’s appointment. “It’s day three on the schedule today,” she says kindly. “If you’re not sure what class y c wh201ou have I can pull it up for you.”

Breckon’s attempt at a smile doesn’t quite reach his lips. “That’s okay—I know where I’m going.”

He nips into the nearest stairwell, his late pass in his hand and a red binder under his arm, and jogs upstairs like he doesn’t want to be any later than he already is. At least twenty-five sets of eyes whip towards Breckon as he edges into a classroom and folds his body behind an empty desk near the window. The teacher’s words slow as he registers Breckon’s presence and then immediately speed up again. Several, but not all, of the students aim their attention back towards their teacher while he continues to drone on about fiscal policy. An Asian girl in the back row fiddles discreetly with her cell phone, and a white boy, with long blond hair that makes him look like he should be surfing the crest of a California wave rather than sitting in a Strathedine classroom, scrawls graffiti lettering in the margins of his textbook. Three or four students are still glancing covertly at Breckon but only one doesn’t bother to hide the fact because Jules, as his girlfriend, is allowed to stare. Thick black eyeliner and a spike-tip nose stud make her look more severe than she did the last time I saw her, but she smiles at him and mouths the word “hey” or maybe “hi.” I can’t tell which.

Breckon mouths the same back and then fixes his eyes on his teacher. From the sound of things this is either a business or economics class and I wish I could sleep through it or fast-forward to next period but I don’t want to hang out in the darkness by myself so I stick with the class and listen to the teacher say, “All right, now back into your groups.” People begin scraping their chairs across the floor, pulling themselves into groups for some project the teacher probably mentioned while my attention was wandering. “Breckon,” the teacher adds, “why don’t you just sit in with Jules, Dwayne, Catherine and Renuka.”

On their feet, Jules lounges against Breckon’s right side for a brief moment before they begin making their way over to the other side of the room to join the rest of their group. “Is it broken?” she whispers, looking down at his left hand. “What happened?”

For the first of many times that day I listen to Breckon lie about his kitchen tap. He sounds so convincing each time that I’m sure nobody doubts him. His friends are happy to see him back at school, but most react to his reappearance with varying degrees of awkwardness. A guy everyone calls Big Red pulls Breckon from one of those macho handshakes into a hug that lasts six seconds too long. Another boy named Cameron tries to act like nothing’s happened but his voice is unnaturally high-pitched and he literally won’t shut up until Ty tells him to chill. Having gotten this over with yesterday night, Ty does the best job of getting things right.

I see the way he watches Breckon over lunch, simultaneously trying to include him in conversations and give him space. It’s a tough balancing act but Ty does fairly well. I can understand why he’s Breckon’s best friend.

Generally the girls’ reactions seem more irritating than the boys’ but maybe it just appears that way to me now that I’m sitting with a bunch of guys, forced to see things from their point of view. When the girls glance over at Breckon cer or it’s with dewy eyes, like they want to throw their arms around him and cry with him until he feels better. Especially a girl named Nadine who holds tight to his sleeve as she talks to him.

If it was me that might seem easier—dissolving into tears with the girls, embracing a state of collapse rather than pretending I feel better than I do, but maybe Breckon doesn’t want to cry for that long. Maybe a person could cry for years if they let themselves and would that really help? In some ways, from my new viewpoint, the crying feels like a trap, like maybe you better not start in case you’re never able to stop. I’ve seen the way Breckon can cry if he lets himself and I’d rather see him like this, even if he still feels that very same broken way inside.

Maybe that means I’m not strong enough.
Do you hear that?
I ask the universe.
I’m not strong enough for this. He needs better than me
.

The universe, like every single atom within it, ignores me. I’m no better than dust really. Even an ant serves more of a function than I do. But before I can truly immerse myself in self-pity, that same teacher from Breckon’s economics class this morning stops him in the hall after lunch.

“Mr. Cirelli?” Breckon says, the knuckles of his good hand knocking against his binder.

“I won’t slow you down too much,” the teacher—Mr. Cirelli—tells him. “I wanted to catch you on your way out of class earlier but I missed the opportunity.” Mr. Cirelli looks past Breckon at the hallway crawling with jostling students. “If there’s any extra help you need …” He folds his arms in front of his white button-down shirt and stares Breckon directly in the eye. “If there’s anything I can do at all …” Mr. Cirelli straightens his spine, appearing to grow in direct relation to his offer. “Well, that’s exactly what we’re here for.”

Breckon doesn’t react to the statement, possibly because he’s been hearing variations of it all day. His two front teeth dig into his bottom lip and remain there. Once it’s clear Mr. Cirelli has said all he intended to, Breckon clears his throat. “Thanks, Mr. Cirelli.” He cocks his head towards the crowd. “I better get going. I forgot my math book in my locker.”

Breckon makes his escape down the hallway but doesn’t detour to his locker. His math textbook’s hiding directly under the binder squeezed against his side but it doesn’t occur to Mr. Cirelli that Breckon would lie just to get away from him. He doesn’t suspect, just like no one suspects about Breckon’s seared hand, and his secrets—no matter what I hear or see—are safe with me.

eight
                            breckon

I try to
do math homework but my brain won’t work the way it used to. I can’t do my econ, English or humanities homework either but I though frntent math might be different—there’s no bullshit in math; it is what it is. Normally I find the classes with a high bullshit rate easier because half the work is repeating what you’ve already read or heard and the other half is confidence and style. I don’t have the energy for bullshit right now but I don’t have the concentration for math either. That leaves me exactly nowhere, but what does it matter? I don’t care about any of those things anyway. I’m only trying to fill up hours with something other than remembering Skylar’s gone.

It’s not like she was everything before but she’s everything now. I don’t need another two years like this to know that what people say about time healing all wounds is a lie. Skylar’s gone. Nothing can ever be as important as that.

Skylar’s even the reason my parents are together. They broke up almost eight years ago—my dad moved into a motel near the mall and both of them told me it was for the best, that we’d all be happier. Before my father left they used to yell at each other so loudly that you’d think they’d bring the walls crashing down on us. They hadn’t always been like that—something must’ve happened between them, but in all the shouting I overheard I never found out what it was. The night my dad went to the motel they woke me up in the middle of the night with their screaming and I lay facedown under the covers with my hands clamped over my ears until he stormed out. It was a rough time but I was so young then that if you’d asked me, I would’ve said I preferred the idea of them together, but yelling, rather than apart.

Skylar changed them for good. She was their second-chance baby. They’d wanted another kid for so long that when they found out my mom was pregnant my dad moved back in and the shouting stopped overnight—at least, that’s how it seems looking back. I know they went to therapy together and that my dad was back at the house with us months before Skylar was born. Since then I’ve barely heard my parents argue, and when they do they don’t let loose like they used to, they just argue the way anyone does.

Skylar never knew them other than the way they are now. Their separation isn’t a secret—all of our extended family knows—but since Skylar never saw our parents the old way I bet it didn’t seem real to her. They were just her parents, together, in love. You wouldn’t think two people could change so much, and I know it wasn’t really just having Skylar that did it, but I guess it was Skylar that made them realize there was something about them worth saving.

When my mom talks to people about when I was a baby she likes to say that I hardly ever cried, even when people I didn’t really know would hold me. Skylar didn’t cry much either, not with us, but she’d get weirded out by other people.

I remember secretly thinking that it was pretty cool that Skylar would let me hold her without crying like she did when she was in other people’s arms. She couldn’t say my name for a long time and for some reason none of us could figure out she’d call me Todi instead. Even when she was, like, two and a half, we were Mom, Dad and Todi. Sometime last year I asked her if she remembered that and she shook her head and said, “Are you making it up?”

“I’m serious,” I told her. “That wa kx20x201s your weird little name for me for a long time.”

“Todi?” Skylar asked, wrinkling her nose. “How come?”

“I don’t know—that’s what I’m asking you.”

Skylar didn’t know—she couldn’t remember—but she thought it was so funny that she called me Todi for about a week afterwards. The first couple of times she couldn’t say it without giggling but by the end of the week she was just pronouncing it in a singsong voice and then finally, she went back to Breckon.

I really shouldn’t have started thinking about all of that. I need something more than sleeping pills, something that would make me numb.

Todi
.

Shit.

My hand doesn’t hurt much at the moment. Not enough. I’ve been swallowing over-the-counter pain pills to make it stop and then wishing I hadn’t. I can’t do something crazy like my hand again but I know I have to do
something
. Something that a doctor wouldn’t need to look at. Something I can hide.

The first thing my brain lands on is the grooming kit in the bottom drawer of my bedside table. At Christmas my parents mostly buy us what we want but my mom usually includes something useful that you’d never think of asking for too. This past Christmas she gave me a deluxe grooming kit in a leather case. That kit had everything in it—a razor, nail clippers, toothbrush, nail file, comb, tweezers, scissors, a shoehorn/lint brush and a corkscrew/pocketknife combo. The razor’s actually in the bathroom, on the top shelf of the cabinet, but all the other things are still inside the case. My hand reaches for the bedside table, yanks open the bottom drawer and cradles the kit.

I take a jagged breath as I slide the zipper open and study the contents. What’s sharper—the knife or the scissors? I’ve never used either of them so I know they’re equally clean. I take out the scissors and press their point against my thumb. They’re pretty flimsy scissors but I just want to make a surface cut so they should be able to do the job. I pull up my shirt, separate the blades of the scissors and hold one of the points against my skin—on my left side, a couple of inches above the waist. I drag the scissors quickly against my skin, not hard enough to do anything other than leave a white line. More pressure. I need to do it like I mean it. Slower, harder. Like I’m digging for blood.