The Summer of Broken Things

I am not crawling under the stall door to get to her. I’m not.

  “Do you have a Kleenex?” Avery cries. “My nose is running and my face is covered with snot, and stupid Spain doesn’t even have toilet paper in its bathrooms. . . .”

  She wants me to be like the little girl handing out Kleenex in the nursing home again. But I left my purse back in the cafeteria. (I guess I was worried that I wouldn’t find her if I didn’t hurry.) I sigh and stand up. At least there’s a roll of towels in the dispenser by the sink. I unfurl some of the stiff brown paper, tear it off, and hand it under Avery’s stall door.

  “Here,” I say. “But if you complain that it’s hard and scratchy and you can only use, I don’t know, those special Kleenex for sensitive skin, so help me, I’m walking out of here right now.”

  I hear Avery blow her nose. She makes a noise that’s halfway between a hiccup and a final sob.

  And then she opens the stall door a crack. Her nose is still snotty and her cheeks are red where she must have wiped her tears away with the scratchy towel.

  She probably does have sensitive skin.

  “Why is everything going wrong?” she asks. Tears tremble in her eyelashes. “From the minute we got to the airport in Columbus . . . and then I lost my passport. . . . if I hadn’t lost my passport, my parents wouldn’t be getting divorced! It’s all my fault!”

  I squint at her, trying to figure out this logic.

  “I don’t think that’s why your parents are getting divorced,” I say. I think of what Mr. Armisted told me on the balcony, how his wife made fun of him for being a poor, dumb farm boy. How could anyone live with that?

  I can’t summon up a single memory of seeing Mrs. Armisted in person. I only know her from the Christmas card pictures. I don’t think she was ever around when Mom and I went to visit; Avery was always just with Mr. Armisted or, a long time ago, the nanny.

  Mrs. Armisted wasn’t even at the airport a week and a half ago saying good-bye.

  Was that maybe because I was there? I wonder. How did she feel about my mom giving birth to Avery? Did she ever even say thank you?

  Hot shame hits me in the gut, followed by a wave of anger, and I almost miss what Avery says next.

  “If I hadn’t lost my passport, I never would have known . . . anything,” she says. “Everything would still be normal. I bet my parents are going to make up and decide to stay together, after all. They have to. But even if that happens, I’m still . . . still . . .”

  “You’re still Avery Armisted?” I fill in. I’m not sure if I’m trying to be sarcastic or helpful. I just don’t want to hear her say anything about my mother.

  “No, you’ve got it backward,” she wails. “It’s like I’m not me anymore. There’s, like, this gigantic hole inside me where everything about me is missing.”

  I almost say, That’s how I feel. But Avery doesn’t want to hear about my mother the misguided saint or my friends at Autumn Years or Grandma and Grandpa. She doesn’t want to hear about what she took away from me.

  “You still look the same,” I say instead, because with the tears and the runny nose, Avery is throwing me into some flashback from when we were best friends, back when we were little. “You still look like when you were four or five, and you could just raise an eyebrow and say, ‘But I want to play dolls,’ and I’d do it. I bet you could do that with all your friends.”

  Avery sniffs, the way you do when you’re trying to keep snot from running down your face. I’m almost happy to see her do something so gross.

  “If I still look like I’m five, no wonder Mr. Amazing thinks of me as his little sister,” she grumbles.

  She was thinking of that Hugh guy as “Mr. Amazing”? Seriously?

  I guess she is only fourteen. I guess there is a big difference between fourteen and sixteen.

  “Avery, this Spanish class is for high school and college students,” I remind her. “Fourteen is the youngest anyone could be in the class. So yeah, everyone else is going to be older than you. I just meant . . . You’re still pretty. You’re still rich. You still get people to watch you. You’ve always been that way, as long as I’ve known you.”

  “But who would I be if I lost all that, too?” she asks. “If I can lose my parents being my parents, and my parents being married, I could lose anything. What if I’m never really me, ever again?”

  I could say, That’s what I want to know. I could say one of the things the Autumn Years people say when a tragedy happens: Well, you know, we’re all in God’s hands. So that’s a comfort. That’s all we need to know. But I don’t think Avery wants to hear that right now.

  “You know I’m not the type of girl who runs away and cries in the bathroom,” she says. “You know that. How am I ever going to show my face in Spanish class again? How am I ever going to look that Hugh guy in the eye?”

  What if you just never had anything to cry about before? I want to ask her. Don’t you know everybody gets that eventually? I think about rich, powerful Mr. Armisted, crying on the balcony back at the apartment. I think about the men in John Deere caps or Harley-Davidson jackets crying at the nursing home. I think about Mom taking me to see Dad at the VA every weekend.

  I think that maybe one of my problems back in Crawfordsville was that I got so good at not crying.

  I feel about a million years older than Avery.

  “Spanish class is over for the day, anyway,” I say. “How would you feel about working up to looking Hugh in the eye again . . . while you’re playing soccer?”

  Avery, on the Field

  I should have cleats on. I should have shin guards. I can hear my middle school soccer coach in my head saying, You play without proper equipment, you’re just asking to get injured!

  But it feels amazing to run on green grass, a soccer ball zooming ahead of me.

  Finding out that everyone plays soccer after class is the first pleasant surprise I’ve gotten in Spain.

  “How could you have waited until now to tell me?” I griped to Kayla in the school bathroom.

  “You haven’t exactly been easy to talk to,” she muttered.

  “Whatever. I forgive you,” I said.

  She looked outraged, and I switched to, “Kidding! I mean, I’m sorry. Thank you. Let’s go play!”

  I dried my tears and scrubbed my face at the bathroom sink. It’s amazing—it was possible to stop crying. And now, running a few warm-up plays, I can almost forgive Kayla for everything mean she said to me today. Forgiving my parents, well . . .

  At least soccer’s a better distraction than Spanish class.

  “Tú eres rapido. Er—rapida?” Dragomir calls to me, complimenting my speed.

  Then he steals the ball.

  “Hey!” I cry out. “That’s not fair!”

  “Solo en español!” the British girl, Susan, yells at me from the goal, where she’s batting away other kids’ shots.

  When we choose teams, I really hope she’s on the other side. I’ll show her.

  We’re in a park that’s far from the tourist areas; it’s built over a highway. It has a wacky twisted pedestrian bridge that just kind of stops in the middle—I don’t get that. But it also has a real soccer field with real regulation-size goals. I didn’t think I’d get to play on a real field again until I was back in the US. Or, really, to play at all.

  It’s the Bulgarians, the Brits, and me warming up. Kayla insists she can’t do anything but stand on the sideline watching.

  “No puedo jugar,” she says, again and again. “I can’t play.”

  Embarrassing.

  Some more guys show up—from the easy way they talk, I’m guessing they’re actual Spanish kids. They kind of look like juvenile delinquents, but I don’t care. Everyone starts lining up, shaking hands, and I figure out the teams: It’s foreigners against Spaniards. There’s some discussion, and Dragomir goes and stands with the Spaniards, evening up the teams.

  We foreigners get to kick off first. I hear shouts back and forth as we hustle the ball d
own the field, and though it’s all in Spanish, and my mind doesn’t work fast enough in Spanish, I enter this Zen phase where I don’t hear the actual words, but I think I know what my teammates mean: “Good pass!” “Watch out behind you!” “I’m open!”

  I get my foot on the ball, and I’m flying down the field. Dragomir’s the right defender, and I zip past him. Then suddenly, I’ve lost the ball and it’s speeding in the opposite direction, toward the other goal. Dragomir grins at me.

  I didn’t even see his feet move.

  “How’d you do that?” I demand. “Cómo, uh, cómo . . .”

  “Secreto de Bulgaria!” He pounds his chest like any American guy I’ve ever known, showing off.

  “Wait till next time!” I warn him. “Um, el tiempo próximo . . .”

  I look around, hoping Mr. Amazing didn’t see me lose the ball. But he’s playing defense for our team, and he’s already sending the ball up the other side.

  We score three in a row. The third time, I even get an assist.

  My team lines up for the next kickoff, but the Spaniards start shouting angrily. I’m not sure any of us foreigners understand until the biggest guy starts pointing at the chests of his teammates and counting off: “Uno, dos, tres . . .”

  Oh, yeah. We still have one more player than they do.

  Andrei touches a finger to his temple and holds it up in the air as if he’s just gotten a brilliant idea. He points at Kayla standing on the sideline.

  Kayla backs away.

  “No, no puedo . . . I can’t run.”

  “Ella no puede correr,” Susan, the most annoying girl ever, translates.

  “Ella puede ser tu segunda portera,” Andrei says, pointing toward the goal. “Una portera que no corre.”

  Does he mean Kayla could just stand in the goal behind the Spaniards’ regular goalie, without ever having to run? He thinks that’s going to make them happy?

  Surprisingly, the Spaniards shrug and wave Kayla toward the goal.

  Kayla’s still saying no. Andrei runs over and gets down on one knee.

  “¿Por favor?” he says. “¿Para mi?”

  He puts his hands together under his chin like he’s praying to her. Then he pantomimes that all she has to do is stand there, and maybe raise her hand once or twice to swat away a ball.

  Kayla actually laughs and goes trotting off toward the goal.

  We get back to playing, and it’s glorious again. This is what countries should do instead of having wars: play soccer. I guess that’s the idea behind the Olympics and the World Cup.

  Even though Kayla insisted she can’t run—and I saw her trying at the DC airport, so I know she wasn’t lying about that—the rest of my team acts like having her in the goal is an extra obstacle. They’re more cautious, waiting for the right shot.

  Then Andrei kicks the ball to me, and I’m not cautious. I wish I had cleats to dig into the turf, but I still get my toe under the ball; I send it sailing toward the goal. The Spanish goalie leaps a second too late. He’s too far out, and the ball flies above his fingertips.

  Then the ball arcs down—and slams into Kayla’s face before dribbling off to the side, out of bounds.

  The Spanish kids roar and surge toward the goal. They slap Kayla on the back so hard she pitches forward. Then they pile on top of her. Is this some kind of Spanish goalie initiation rite? Is the whole team going to end up on top of Kayla?

  I catch a glimpse of Kayla’s face: There’s a red circle on her cheek where the ball hit, and her eyes are wide with shock and maybe even panic. But Spanish guys keep slamming against her.

  “Hey, hey—careful! You’re hurting her!” I cry. I remember how I had to scare off a guy at a party who was being too friendly with Shannon. I remember how I did that with just a look. But even screaming isn’t working now.

  Oh wait, en español. . . .

  “¡Cuidado!” I try again. “¡Mi amiga es . . . frágil!”

  Still nothing.

  I wade into the crowd, pulling back on shoulders, shoving Spanish boys away from Kayla. I dig my fingernails into one arm after another.

  “Leave her alone!” I scream. “¡Basta!”

  Now the Spanish guys move out of my way. They laugh and mutter about how crazy I am. One points and calls me something like El Fuego, which I think means “fire.”

  I get down to Kayla, and she’s got grass stains on her shorts. Her hair’s sticking up all over the place.

  And she’s glaring at me.

  “You’re just mad because I stopped your goal,” she says.

  Kayla, Confused

  For the rest of the game, I stand in the goal doing nothing. Once or twice I move out of the way of the Spanish goalie.

  I think my team loses, but I’m not really paying attention. I’m not sure I’m really on the team anymore. I was for about five minutes, and then I wasn’t.

  Because of Avery.

  The game breaks up, and everyone from the Spanish class heads toward the Metro stop. I guess the Spanish guys live nearby. People call out, “Adios,” but I’m not really part of that until Dragomir grabs my arm.

  “¿Hasta mañana?” he asks.

  “Mañana,” I echo. I’m not sure if I’m just agreeing to see him in Spanish class tomorrow, or if I’ve committed to standing around on a soccer field again, feeling awkward and stupid.

  Nobody else lives near the Sol station—if I understood right, Avery and I are the only ones who aren’t in dorms near some university. We’re both silent riding the Metro, but once we get off and start walking home, into our deserted alley, Avery says suddenly, “It wasn’t about the goal.”

  “Liar,” I spit out. I’m shocked at myself, but she’s the one who brought it up. I think about the way she looked at me, down on the ground.

  “No, really,” Avery says, like she’s pleading. “I’ve been playing soccer since I was five. If I miss a goal, I shake it off. I wasn’t—”

  “You were jealous,” I say. “Because someone who’s never played before could make you look bad.”

  Of course, it’s not like I was really trying to stop her ball. It was just dumb luck. Or—bad luck. My face still hurts. I’m going to have a bruise.

  “I was worried about you,” Avery says. “We don’t know any of those guys, and they were all on top of you, and—”

  “And you looked at me like I was about to have sex with an entire Spanish soccer team. Like I wanted to. Like I was a slut.”

  I didn’t know I was going to say that until the words are out of my mouth. But there it is. That is how Avery was looking at me.

  I’m glad nobody’s near me now.

  Nobody but Avery.

  “No!” Avery cries. “I was afraid they might do something to you. Something you didn’t want. Hasn’t your mom ever had the talk with you about—”

  I whirl toward her, my hands balled into fists.

  “This is about my mom, isn’t it?” I ask. “You think what she did, having you, was . . . was dirty, like she was a prostitute or something, and so I’m like that too, and—”

  “Kayla, nobody had to have sex to have me,” Avery says quietly. “Nothing about that process was dirty. Just . . . weird.” She puts up her hands like a shield. “What your mom did, to become a surrogate mother—that was a medical procedure. An implantation.”

  I don’t put my fists down. But I don’t swing them either.

  “I looked it all up online,” Avery continues. “I got the facts. Some people would say it’s not even right to call your mom a surrogate mother. They prefer the term ‘gestational carrier.’ ”

  I step back, scraping my heel on the side of the building. I don’t really like hearing the words “medical procedure” or “implantation” either, connected to my mom. Or “gestational carrier.” I think about what Avery’s dad said, out on the balcony that first night, about how Mom giving birth to Avery was the most generous gift ever. It seems like it would be a kindness to Avery to tell her what he said.

&n
bsp; But I’m still too mad.

  “Of course you were smart enough to look up everything online,” I say. “Because you have your own iPad, and you don’t have to borrow anyone else’s. Because you’re rich. And you’re this amazing soccer player, and you can tell the difference between a team hugging someone and being about to rape someone. . . . I just thought I was part of a team for once, and then you had to go and make it seem like something awful!”

  “I’m not used to playing soccer with guys,” Avery says, in a way that makes me remember she was crying on a bathroom floor just a few hours ago. “It’s always with other girls, and there are coaches and refs, and . . . you know. Adult supervision. I’m sorry. I guess I wasn’t sure what I was seeing.”

  And for a minute, there’s an opening. It feels like I could say, Yeah, it was kind of confusing for me, too. Because it’s not like you could say a bunch of sweaty soccer players were respectful, exactly, throwing their arms around me. So maybe I was wrong, thinking they were just glad I was on their team, just grateful I’d stopped the ball. Maybe things could have turned dangerous. Maybe Avery did save me.

  I would have wanted her to save me, if I’d been in danger.

  It almost feels like I could say, I don’t have experience with any of that. I read the regency romances the old ladies at the nursing home give me, and it seems like a totally different thing from what kids at school talk about, when they talk about having boyfriends and girlfriends. And that’s nothing like what we hear in health class. . . .

  Maybe it even feels like I could say, It is weird, what my mom did for your parents. I can’t make sense of that either.

  But Avery is still talking.

  “What your mom did—I’m not mad at her,” she says. “Have you read her e-mail yet, explaining everything?”

  I freeze.

  “How do you know she wrote me an e-mail?”

  “Dad told me.”

  But Avery turns her head, not meeting my gaze. She’s what Grandpa would call “shifty-eyed.”

  I’ve always looked at my e-mail on Mr. Armisted’s iPad. I put it back in the living room every single night. Anyone could glance at it, out in the living room.