The Summer of Broken Things

  Angrily, I throw the covers off. I rush through the bathroom, yanking my comb through my tangled hair so roughly it makes my eyes water.

  I tell myself it’s only because of the snagged hair that I have tears in my eyes.

  I go out to the kitchen, and Mr. Armisted and Avery are both sitting at the table eating breakfast. At least, they have rolls and yogurt and fruit on the plates in front of them. Neither of them actually lift food to their mouths.

  “Good morning! Buenos dias!” Mr. Armisted says. He seems to be trying to smile, but the corners of his mouth tremble. He and Avery both look pale and washed-out, as if the weekend bleached away everything vivid about them.

  Avery doesn’t say anything, and neither do I.

  Mr. Armisted’s phone buzzes beside him, and he glances at the screen.

  “It’s official—there are now a hundred fires I have to put out before noon today, when everyone starts waking up back in America,” he says. “Better be off.”

  He kisses Avery’s forehead and awkwardly pats my hair. Then he’s out the door.

  I expect Avery to groan and roll her eyes and race back to her room and slam the door, but she doesn’t. She keeps picking at the roll on her plate. She drops the crumbs one by one.

  “Is the Metro crowded with rush-hour traffic?” she asks. “I’m not riding it if it’s crowded. That’s when you have to worry about pickpockets.”

  “It’s not that crowded,” I say, as if I’ve been riding subways all my life. When, really, all I have to compare it to is Crawfordsville’s empty streets, where it’s a big deal if five cars pass by in an hour. I open the refrigerator and pour myself a glass of orange juice. “Remember, your dad said people go to work late here. Our classes start early, by Spain standards.”

  I think I’m quoting her father exactly, which is a little embarrassing.

  “You know, fruit juice isn’t really that good for you,” Avery blurts as I take my first sip. “You’d think it would be, but it’s mostly empty calories. It’s almost as bad as drinking soda. It’s kind of the same thing with white bread. I wasn’t criticizing you last night, just pointing out—”

  “Avery,” I say, “shut up.”

  Her eyes widen.

  “I’m just trying to help!”

  “No,” I say. I tilt my glass back and drink the rest of the juice. “You aren’t. You’re trying to make me feel fat and stupid. And I’m not going to let you do that to me. Not anymore. I don’t care what you think about me.”

  The juice feels like it’s already curdling in my stomach, but Avery doesn’t have to know that. I grab an apple and a granola bar. I’ll eat them later. I’m not eating in front of Avery right now.

  Her jaw drops and she stares at me as I dart out of the kitchen.

  That’s it, I think. I just made sure that she won’t go to Spanish class.

  But when I head for the door twenty minutes later, she’s waiting beside it. I don’t say anything. She trails after me out the door and down the stairs like a whipped puppy.

  I’m not going to feel sorry for her, I tell myself. I’m not.

  We’re out on the street, headed toward the Sol Metro station, when she says, “The other kids are nice, right? In the class, I mean.”

  “As far as I can tell,” I say. “I mostly don’t have any idea what anyone’s saying.”

  She takes this in. When I look back again, she’s biting her lip.

  Oh, for crying out loud, I think, one of Grandma’s favorite expressions. I fight against letting this make me homesick.

  “I’ve really just hung out with the Bulgarian kids, and they’re nice,” I say. “And funny.”

  “Those are the guys who were fighting over you, right?” she says, starting in on a teasing grin.

  How is she so good at knowing the exact right thing to say to make me feel miserable?

  I turn to face her.

  “I never told you that,” I say. “You were eavesdropping when you heard that, and it’s not right to eavesdrop, so I’m not even going to talk about this with you.”

  For some reason, Avery’s face turns a bright, painful red, as if I’ve really embarrassed her.

  Avery, in Class

  I will not think about my parents getting divorced.

  I will not think about how I was born.

  I will not think about how my dad’s falling apart.

  I will not think about how my mom won’t even text me.

  I will not think about how I read Kayla’s e-mail.

  I thought it would be easier to avoid thinking about any of those things if I went to Spanish class. But it’s like just walking down the street is an obstacle course, with pitfalls everywhere. There’s a little girl holding her mother’s hand, and I think, Oh, Mom used to hold my hand like that. Was she thinking even way back then, This isn’t really my daughter?

  There’s a young couple kissing in a doorway—maybe just because one of them’s leaving for work?—and it’s way more passionate than you’d ever see in public in the United States. It’s almost embarrassing to watch, but you can’t not watch. And I think, Can you kiss someone like that and still fall out of love? Are those people married? Will they ever get divorced? Would they get divorced if their daughter found out a secret she wasn’t supposed to know and ruined everything?

  More than once, Kayla has to take my arm and pull me forward, to get me to move at all.

  Maybe I’m getting sick, for real this time. With something worse than cramps. If that’s true, I shouldn’t be going to Spanish class. I should be tucked into bed, with someone feeling my forehead for a fever, someone bringing me chicken noodle soup.

  But who’s going to do that? Dad’s at work. Mom’s on the other side of the ocean. Angelica stopped being my nanny years ago.

  And Kayla . . .

  How could I have ever thought she was mousy? If she had a bowl of chicken noodle soup right now, she’d throw it in my face. After she made sure it was boiling hot. What changed?

  I know what changed. She found out her mother gave birth to me.

  But shouldn’t that make her nicer to me? As if we’re connected?

  Like finding out we’re connected made me nicer to her?

  I tell myself it’s not a fair comparison. Kayla only found out one little detail about something her mom did fourteen years ago. What her mother did, being a surrogate mother, that really doesn’t have anything to do with Kayla.

  I found out my parents have been lying to me my entire life, and now they’re getting divorced because I found out. That has everything do to with me.

  Kayla should be nice to me. It really is like I’m sick. Or injured.

  “This is the school,” Kayla says, jerking my arm back because I’m about to walk past the door. “La escuela. Remember, the teacher will yell at you if you don’t speak Spanish.”

  “Does she correct pronunciation too?” I ask. “ ‘School’ is ‘la es-squay—’ ”

  Kayla lets go of my arm so suddenly I almost fall over.

  “You know what?” she says. “I don’t care what happens to you. I’m done trying to help. Find the classroom by yourself.”

  Kayla whips open the door and darts up the stairs much faster than I would have thought possible.

  I stand there blinking back tears. I want to go back to the apartment and crawl back into bed, but I don’t remember how to get back to the subway. And I can’t even look it up, because I never got Dad to unlock my iPhone to use in Spain. I just have the stupid burner phone. Could I call Dad and tell him I got sick, and get him to come in a cab to pick me up? And then . . .

  “Disculpe,” someone says, brushing past me.

  It’s a guy who’s maybe just a little older than me. He’s flanked by two other guys and a girl who’s reaching for the door handle. Guy #1 flashes me an apologetic smile. He’s got straight white teeth and an even tan, and just the way he walks makes me think his family is really rich. He probably owns his own polo pony. Maybe he’s even relat
ed to royalty.

  “Va . . . I mean, ¿Vas a la clase de español?” I ask. Which I hope means, Are you going to the Spanish class?

  “Sí,” Guy #1 says.

  I totally drop my plans to call Dad.

  “Okay, gracias,” I say. “Bien.”

  So there, Kayla, I think. I don’t need your help. And I wouldn’t want to be seen hanging out with you right now, anyway. You’d ruin my image for sure!

  I follow Mr. Amazing and his friends through the school door. I want to explain, I missed last week because I was sick, and then I got lost, and this mean girl I was hanging out with abandoned me. So you’re my hero! But maybe these are the Bulgarian kids, and it sounds like they actually like Kayla. And anyway, it would take me ten minutes to figure out how to say any of that in Spanish. So I just trail after Mr. Amazing and the Amazing-ettes as they head for the stairs.

  We go up so many flights I lose count. Mr. Amazing doesn’t look back at me again, but I rehearse things I could say if he does. Maybe ¿Cómo se llama? Do I want to know his name, or do I want to keep thinking of him as Mr. Amazing?

  We reach the final landing, and the Amazings turn down the hall and into a classroom. I am a little relieved to see Kayla sitting at one of the desks. So I am in the right place. But I turn my head and pretend I don’t even notice her.

  “Avery?” This comes from a woman standing at the front of the classroom. She’s got her dark hair pulled back into one of those French twists, and it hurts a little to see that. I can remember Mom and Dad going to a party once, and Mom had her hair fixed that way. It was a special-occasion hairstyle for her, and she and Dad looked so happy. So beautiful. So handsome. But this woman wears her hair in a twist on an ordinary day, just to teach Spanish to teenagers, and Mom and Dad are getting divorced, and . . .

  “Avery?” the woman says again.

  “Oh—yes,” I say. “I mean, sí.” Now, why didn’t I look up and memorize my explanation for the teacher? “Uh, la semana, uh . . .”

  “¿La semana pasada?” the teacher asks.

  Yes, that would be how you say “last week” in Spanish.

  “La semana pasada, yo es, uh . . . ,” I try again.

  “Enferma. Ella está enferma,” a male voice says from somewhere out in the classroom. I want to believe it’s Mr. Amazing helping me, but the voice came from the wrong side of the room.

  The teacher corrects whoever it was—I think he forgot to use past tense. But I’m relieved that the teacher points me to a seat. Unfortunately, it’s next to Kayla, not the Amazings.

  A guy with a faceful of acne leans toward me. Don’t they have Clearasil in Europe?

  “Hola, Avery,” he says. “Me llamo Dragomir.”

  A guy who’s so skinny he could double as a scarecrow tries to shake my hand.

  “Me llamo Andrei,” he says.

  Oh, no. Are these Kayla’s Bulgarian friends?

  I shoot a glance toward the Amazings, because I want to give them one of those looks that say, You can tell these aren’t the type of people I would normally hang out with, right? I’m just being nice.

  But the Amazings are in a tight circle, talking to one another. They’re not even looking my way.

  The teacher calls up kids to prepare for some presentation—something neither Kayla nor I are part of, because we weren’t here on Friday. We’re left alone in a sea of empty desks. Maybe I’ve jumped to the wrong conclusions. I lean toward Kayla and whisper, “Where are the hot guys who were fighting over you?”

  Kayla shoots me an annoyed look and whispers back, “I didn’t say anyone was hot. I said they were nice.”

  “Can’t they be both?” I ask, almost as if I’m joking around with Shannon and Lauren.

  Two angry red spots appear on Kayla’s cheeks.

  “No, Avery, from what I’ve seen, people aren’t like that,” she snarls. “People who think they look good are usually mean. Like, you’re really pretty, and . . .”

  My face flames.

  No, no, no, no . . .

  “You’re prejudiced against good-looking people!” I snap.

  “I’ve learned,” she snaps back.

  The teacher comes and stands behind us. I don’t have to understand a single word she says to know she wants us to shut up.

  Dragomir and Andrei and a few other kids start a skit where they shout and laugh a lot, but I can’t really follow any of it. Then the Amazings do a skit that’s more dignified, but just as incomprehensible.

  I thought I knew a lot of Spanish. I got all As in my eighth-grade class.

  You’re just . . . thrown off this morning, I tell myself. Distracted. It’s not like there are going to be tests or grades here. This doesn’t even matter. You don’t care about learning Spanish.

  I let the Spanish flow past me. I’m just floating in a river of bungled verb tenses and messily trilled Rs. I’m not thinking about anything.

  Then it’s lunchtime.

  We go down to a cafeteria that could be a cafeteria practically anywhere in the world. I slide a tray along the railing and I end up with a plateful of overcooked pasta and bread and a salad that’s mostly iceberg lettuce. Spanish people eat their main meal at lunchtime—a really late lunchtime—so it’s a lot of food.

  It looks disgusting.

  Kayla’s ahead of me, and she goes to sit with Dragon-Face Dragomir and Skeletor Andrei and the other kids who were in their skit.

  I see there’s an empty seat at the opposite side of the room, at the same table with Mr. Amazing.

  I lift my head high and walk toward Mr. Amazing’s table.

  “¿Puedo?” I say, pointing with my tray at the empty space in front of that empty chair. I hope “puedo” really does mean Can I? or May I? or something like that.

  Mr. Amazing says something I can’t understand but he moves his tray over to make more room for me.

  I sit down. I smile at Mr. Amazing.

  It takes me a minute to assemble the words I want to say, so everyone’s already gone back to talking when I attempt, “¿De donde son?” I want to know where they’re from.

  Mr. Amazing says, “Inglaterra,” and the guy across from him says, “Londres,” and maybe someone chimes in, “Gran Bretaña.” I put it all together.

  “You’re all from England? London, even?” I ask. “So we could all be speaking English right now? That is so great! So much easier!”

  The girl says something that includes the word “español” three times. When I look at her blankly, she tucks her chin-length blond hair behind her ears and sits up straight, as if she’s spoiling for a fight. Then she switches to one of those posh, prissy British accents, “Except we want to learn Spanish. So we shan’t be speaking English.”

  I think it’s the “shan’t” that does it. My bottom lip starts trembling and my eyes flood.

  This is not like me. I do not cry over nothing. Even if something’s really wrong, I would never cry in public.

  But I can’t hold back these tears.

  “Excuse me,” I mutter. “Disculpe. I have something in my eye. Mi ojo.”

  I abandon my tray and all but run out of the lunchroom. I make it to a bathroom—and then into one of the bathroom stalls—before wails start coming out of me. This is ugly crying at its worst. I sound like a siren, and I can’t make it stop. Tears flow out of my eyes and snot floods out of my nose. And I’ve locked the door and there isn’t any toilet paper and . . .

  The main door to the bathroom squeaks open. I hear footsteps.

  “Avery? Are you in there?”

  Somebody came for me.

  But it’s only Kayla.

  Kayla, Resigned

  “I thought . . . I thought you were done helping me,” Avery wails at me from inside the bathroom stall.

  I sink to the floor beside her metal door.

  “I thought so too,” I admit.

  “But you came looking for me. . . .”

  I lean my head back against the block wall. It’s the same color of Gr
andma’s refrigerator back home: harvest gold. I think she’s had that same refrigerator since the 1970s.

  I’m in Spain, and I’m homesick for an old refrigerator.

  And I’m crouched on a bathroom floor talking to a girl I don’t even like.

  “You . . . you still cared enough to . . . ,” Avery moans. “You saw me run out of the cafeteria, and—”

  “I wasn’t watching you,” I say quickly. This is a lie. I saw Avery go over and sit with the group of kids who seem to know so much Spanish, who always seem to have the right answers. Who—okay, let’s admit it—are all hot guys and pretty girls.

  As far as I could tell, they were the Ryan Deckers and Stephanie Purleys of our Spanish class.

  Seeing Avery sit with them, I thought, It figures. And then I turned back to the Bulgarian kids, and thanks to Avery, I saw Andrei as Beanpole Boy again, and I noticed that Dragomir had developed a really bad crop of zits over the weekend. And their clothes were all wrong. Thanks to Avery, I saw how Spanish class is divided into winners and losers, just like Crawfordsville High School always was.

  And of course I was sitting with the losers.

  Then, two minutes later, the cutest of the hot guys had his hand on my shoulder and was saying in one of those incredible British accents you hear only in movies, “Excuse me? I’m a bit concerned about your friend. . . .”

  I sigh.

  “Hugh asked me to look for you,” I tell Avery.

  “Hugh?”

  “The cute guy you were sitting next to?”

  “So he is hot and nice,” Avery marvels.

  “I guess it’s possible,” I admit grudgingly. “He said you remind him of his little sister.”

  Avery’s silent. I’m pretty sure that isn’t how she wanted him to see her.

  “Maybe you just didn’t understand his Spanish,” she says. “Do you even know the word for ‘sister’?”

  I don’t, but I’m not going to admit it.

  “He was speaking English,” I said. “He probably didn’t think I’d understand otherwise.”

  For some reason, this makes Avery start wailing again.

  “Avery? Maybe you should open the door and let me, uh . . .”