The Summer of Broken Things

  I feel like she’s seen me naked. I feel like she’s seen my mom naked. Which . . . is something even I haven’t ever done.

  “Avery! Did you read my mom’s e-mail?” I demand.

  She waits too long before saying, “N-no.”

  I shove her against the wall.

  “I’m never speaking to you again,” I hiss in her ear.

  She jerks her chin up, almost hitting me.

  “I’ll tell Daddy to send you home. I’ll tell him he has to!”

  I look her in the eye. Our eyelashes are practically touching. And—is this power?—she’s scared, and I’m not.

  “I don’t care,” I say. “I don’t care at all.”

  Avery, Confused

  We both stomp up the stairs, and it’s hard to say who’s madder, Kayla or me. But I can run faster. I burst into the apartment ahead of her, and there’s a key and a little pile of Euro coins on top of the bookcase by the door, so I know Dad’s home.

  “Dad! Dad!” I shout.

  Kayla steps up behind me, but then she stops. Silently, she points at the couch.

  Dad’s sitting right there, but he’s got his head in his hands, his fingers twisted in his dark hair. The scariest thing is, he doesn’t move.

  “Dad!” I yell again. I go over and shake him and finally he looks up.

  His eyes focus slowly on my face.

  “Oh, sorry, I must have dozed off,” he says distantly. “I didn’t hear you come in. Are you done with class already?”

  We’re home late, and he’s early. And nobody could sleep through the noise I was making.

  “Dad, are you okay?” I ask cautiously.

  Dad slumps back against the couch.

  “There should be a law,” he says. “That only one part of your life can fall apart at a time.”

  I’d go along with that.

  “Did something happen at work?” I ask.

  Dad’s spine practically curves in on itself. All he’d have to do to roll into a fetal position is pull his knees up to his chest. He waves a hand vaguely.

  “This always happens when we acquire a company that doesn’t want us telling them what to do,” he says. “Even if they’re on the verge of going out of business. Even if they would have all lost their jobs if we hadn’t intervened. I’m still the bad guy. They still hate me. And, of course, your mom already . . .” He kind of shakes himself. “Sorry. Work’s no different from usual. It just feels worse because . . .”

  “Because of the divorce,” I say. The word sticks in my throat. “Has Mom . . . ?”

  Dad shakes his head so slowly it hurts to watch.

  “I can’t talk about your mom right now,” he says. “If you can’t say something nice about somebody, don’t say anything at all. Did I ever tell you how your grandmother had that cross-stitched on a pillow when I was a kid? And I always thought it was funny, because neither of my parents said much anyway, good or bad. They were strong, silent types. Stoic. When he lost the farm, the only thing my dad said was, ‘Well, that’s that.’ ”

  Dad’s not even looking at me now. He’s just staring at the wall.

  “Well, that’s that,” he repeats.

  He’s scaring me. All my grandparents died before I was born: Dad’s parents from a heart attack and cancer; Mom’s from diseases I can never remember, because of course she’d almost never talk about death. That’s even worse than talking about divorce.

  I guess Dad’s not so great about talking about problems either. Usually, the only thing he says about his parents is how hard they worked.

  “Okay, but, Dad—” I begin. I want to say, Stop it! Go back to being yourself! You need to help me!

  Kayla creeps up behind me.

  “Why don’t you let us fix you dinner?” she says gently, as if Dad’s an invalid. “Eat, and you’ll feel better.”

  Dad shrugs, as if he’s barely heard her.

  I turn around to stare at Kayla because, wasn’t she furious with me a few minutes ago? Weren’t we yelling at each other? But she’s looking past me, squinting anxiously at Dad.

  She’s worried about him too.

  “I can make the salad,” I hear myself say. “Because you know I can’t cook. If I try anything more complicated than that, I’d probably poison us all. Or I could run out to that—what’s it called?—the Museo del Jamon? The place with the Spanish ham you like so much?”

  “Why don’t you do that,” Kayla says. “I’ll take care of everything else.”

  Her eyes meet mine, and it’s like we’re agreeing on a truce. Nothing’s fixed; nothing’s solved; she hasn’t forgiven me. We might yell at each other again tomorrow. Or later tonight.

  But maybe we are capable of hiding all that from Dad.

  Maybe we need to.

  Kayla, Tempted

  I hold the iPad with both hands, my fingers curving around the hard edges. I hear Mr. Armisted’s voice in my head: Did you read your mother’s e-mail? I hear Avery’s: What your mom did—I’m not mad at her. Have you read her e-mail yet, explaining everything?

  I go to Gmail and click that I want to write an e-mail. I type in:

  Hi, Mom,

  We played soccer after school today. I was the backup goalie, which meant I didn’t have to run. I stopped a goal, but it was just by mistake.

  Then Avery and I made dinner together for Mr. Armisted. We fixed

  I move the cursor back and erase everything about Avery and me making dinner, all the way back to “mistake.” I don’t want Mom reading that and thinking Avery and I were all buddy-buddy, just a couple of girls working happily together, like . . .

  Like sisters, I think.

  Before I can type in, You want to know the truth? You want to know how Avery really treats me? You want to know what’s really going on? Well, let me tell you. . . . I quickly add after “mistake”:

  That’s all for today.

  Love,

  Kayla

  I hit send.

  I lean back against my bed’s pillow. What would I even say if I told Mom the whole truth?

  Avery and I did make dinner together. I made macaroni and cheese—the truly homemade kind like Grandma’s, not the kind that comes in a box with orange powder. I used the last of the Manchego cheese, so it didn’t really taste the way Grandma’s does. (Grandma uses Velveeta, and I don’t think they have that here.) Avery came back from shopping with both Spanish ham and cans of Campbell’s tomato soup and Oreos. She said she got a little lost coming back to the apartment, and she found a store that sells American food to homesick Americans. She said those were two of her father’s favorite foods, so she thought that might cheer him up.

  It probably would have been a good idea, except that then he started talking about Avery’s mom making fun of him for liking canned soup and Oreos.

  So that’s where Avery gets it.

  The funny thing is, I almost felt like I belonged, sitting there with Avery and Mr. Armisted at the little apartment table. Because I was the one who made that meal happen. Avery would have never thought to offer, Hey, Dad? How about if I cook you dinner? if she were here alone. She would probably still be staring at him, wondering what to do.

  Because I’m used to serving people, taking care of them, and not even thinking about what I want, I think, flushing. I’m like Mom, so eager to help the Armisteds that she was like, Oh sure, use my body for nine months! No problem! I don’t have anything better to do!

  I grip the iPad tighter, feeling the anger and shame surge through me again. How could Mom have done that? How could she have let people like the Armisteds take advantage of her?

  And how could I have let a bunch of Spanish soccer players grab me and hug me and not think about what that looked like to Avery? Or to Dragomir or Andrei or the kids from London?

  But nothing actually happened except that they hugged me, I remind myself. I didn’t do anything wrong. The Spaniards didn’t do anything wrong.

  It’s weird how that one moment could look so differen
t to me and to Avery.

  I can see that one moment in the living room when I offered to fix dinner in different ways too.

  It could seem like I was being all meek and mousy again: Yeah, yeah, I’m really upset, and Avery and I are in the middle of a fight—but never mind! If Mr. Armisted’s upset, of course that’s more important.

  Only, I didn’t feel meek and mousy. I felt . . . powerful. Just as powerful as I’d felt yelling at Avery. She didn’t know what to do to fix anything, but I did. I was stronger than her.

  I kind of do want to tell Mom that. But I don’t start a second message to her. I don’t go and ask Mr. Armisted for his phone so I can call her.

  Did you read your mother’s e-mail?

  That’s what stopping me. I can’t really talk to my mother until I’ve read her e-mail explaining why she gave birth to Avery, why she wanted to be a surrogate mother (or a “gestational carrier”), why she kept that secret from me the past fourteen years. Why she wouldn’t even tell me the truth when she sent me off to Spain with the Armisteds.

  What if there are other secrets she tells in that e-mail that I’ve never known?

  None of it’s secret now, I tell myself. Avery knows.

  I take a deep breath and click on the e-mail at the very bottom of my inbox.

  Kayla, my sweet, sweet Kayla . . .

  And that’s as far as I get before I snap the cover back over the iPad screen. I’m picturing Avery reading this, and I can’t go on. It’s like I’m ashamed of Mom calling me sweet, ashamed of Mom loving me. Ashamed of anyone thinking I’m special or beloved.

  I let the iPad slip from my hands. I get up and dash into the bathroom and throw up into the toilet. Of course it clogs when I try to flush it, and I have to use the plunger to get it to work. Then I splash water on my face again and again and again.

  When I go back to my room, the door is slightly ajar. I push my way in, and there’s something on my bed: a big bag of nacho-cheese-flavored Doritos.

  And there’s a note:

  They had this at the store for homesick Americans too.

  Avery, Going on as If Everything’s Fine

  “Thank you for the Doritos,” Kayla says the next morning as we’re headed toward school.

  Her voice is stiff and unnatural. I give her a sidelong glance.

  “I was afraid you were still mad, because you didn’t come and thank me right away,” I say. “Because I knew about you liking Doritos only because I was eavesdropping. . . .”

  “I already knew you’d eavesdropped,” Kayla says impatiently.

  She’s got her eyes trained directly ahead of her, as if all she cares about is seeing the Sol Metro sign in the distance.

  “So you are going to go back to talking to me?” I ask.

  “As long as you don’t say anything about my mother,” she says. “Ever again.” She waits another three steps before she adds, “So you’re not going to tell your father to send me home?”

  “No,” I say. “Not . . .” It’s my turn to bargain, but I can’t think what I want. Or—I want too much. Not if you promise to help me take care of my dad when he’s acting weird. Not if you come find me if I have to run crying to the restroom again. Not if you make sure I’m not alone. I settle for parroting, “I won’t say anything to my dad about sending you home.”

  Another pause. Then Kayla says, so softly I almost miss hearing her, “I was lying about not caring.”

  I tilt my head and gaze sideways at her.

  “Do you actually like Spain?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “I can’t go home right now. I can’t. And I don’t have money to go anywhere else.”

  I think about how last night, when Kayla hadn’t thanked me, I picked up my phone to text Shannon or Lauren. I was even ready to text one of them, Want to talk? If it was Lauren who answered first, I could have even told her about my parents getting divorced. She could have given me advice.

  But Lauren’s mother didn’t refuse to talk to her when Lauren’s parents were getting divorced.

  And Lauren wasn’t born from a gestational carrier.

  The only thing I texted to Lauren and Shannon was, Still grounded. No end in sight.

  Kayla, Adjusting

  Me llamo Kayla is not the same as saying, “My name is Kayla.” Not exactly. It’s almost as if Spanish leaves you room to lie. Or hide: I’ll tell you what I call myself, but who’s to say if that’s my real name or not?

  Avery giving me Doritos and me thanking her and then us walking into Spanish class together is not the same as us being friends. But that’s probably how it looks to everyone else. Dragomir invites both her and me to work on a skit with him and the other Bulgarian kids. Avery casts a glance over to the British kids—who aren’t looking her way—and says okay.

  She’s a better actress than I am, of course.

  After class, Andrei invites both of us to join in the soccer game again, and when I say I need to go straight home instead, he gets down on his knees and begs, “Necesitamos!” He forgets the pronoun. I think he just means that they need Avery, but Dragomir joins in the begging, and I give in.

  When we get to the soccer field, the girl from England, who’s named Susan, announces that I’m on her team; she wants me to stand in the goal behind her.

  She’s never said a single word to me before. But when everyone else runs far down the field, away from us, chasing the ball, she turns to me and actually speaks in English: “Some of the Spanish blokes playing today have roving hands. Be careful.”

  I flush red.

  “You think I did something wrong yesterday,” I say. “You think—”

  “I think females get blamed for a lot of things that aren’t their fault,” she says. “I didn’t see anything yesterday, except that you were upset when you walked off the field. And I think we girls have to watch out for each other.”

  I watch Avery flying toward the opposite goal. Her feet don’t seem to touch the ground.

  “Did you tell Avery?” I ask. “Should we warn her now?”

  Susan’s eyes follow Avery’s progress. Avery gives the ball a hard kick, and the ball soars toward the opposite goal.

  “I think that one can handle herself on the soccer field,” Susan says. “Off the field—that’s a different story.”

  Avery’s jumping up and down, celebrating her goal.

  “Avery and me, we’re not really friends,” I tell Susan.

  “I’m not her friend either,” Susan says. “But I still told Hugh what I’d do to him if he goes after such a little girl.”

  Now, at the other end of the field, Avery’s teaching Dragomir how to do a high five. Or maybe he already knows, and he’s pretending not to so she’ll hang out with him longer.

  “Avery is really pretty,” I say. Then it slips out: “A lot prettier than me.”

  Susan looks me up and down.

  “I think you should wait until you’ve both grown into yourselves before you make that determination,” Susan says. “Determination” is an amazing word when it’s spoken with a British accent.

  “You mean . . . ,” I begin.

  “Are you truly going to fish for compliments for your future self?” Susan asks, rolling her eyes in a way that makes me think she sees me as a little girl too.

  “How old are you?” I blurt.

  “Diecinueve,” she says. “Basta con los ingles! Tú sabes los numeros en español!”

  It takes me forever to work it out: She’s nineteen. And she’s done talking to me in English.

  I stick with English for my next question anyway.

  “Why are you so stubborn about speaking Spanish?” I ask. “Why is it so important to you?”

  She sighs. Down the field, there’s a kickoff, but our team steals the ball right away and drives it in the opposite direction.

  “Because this is how I really talk,” Susan says, switching back to English again. She still has an accent, but it’s different now. The vowels aren’t so crisp.

  “
I don’t understand,” I say. “How is that . . .”

  “Are you Americans really that dense?” she asks, and now she sounds exactly like all the other British kids. “I’m from a part of London no one wants to live in. Anyone in England can hear the minute I open my mouth that I’m faking my accent. So I need something else, some other language. Something that doesn’t give me away.”

  Is she saying she’s poor, like me? I wonder.

  I have a million questions I want to ask, but she adds, “I’m not talking about this anymore. And I’m not speaking English the rest of the summer.”

  The rest of the time we’re in the goal together, any time I say anything in English, she only says, “¿Que? ¿Que?” as if it’s not even a language she’s heard before.

  Is everyone here carrying around secrets?

  Is everyone in the world?

  Avery, in Darkness

  Kayla and I tolerate each other. Spanish class is bearable, as long as there’s soccer afterward. But Dad keeps acting messed up.

  One night I can’t sleep, and when I go get a drink of water in the kitchen, I see him sitting on the balcony, staring at nothing. It’s so late that even the dance club across the alley has closed down. So he’s sitting in the dark, in silence.

  I open the sliding door.

  “Dad, you should go to bed,” I tell him.

  He jumps, as if he’s forgotten I exist.

  “Not worth it,” he says. “It’s almost time to get up. The way farmers tell time, anyway.”

  “You’re not a farmer,” I say.

  “But shouldn’t I be?” he asks, as if this is a serious question. “Isn’t that what I was meant for? Isn’t that how I still think? A lot of guys I grew up with, they waited out the bad economy and then borrowed money to buy land and equipment again as soon as they could. Bret Stelzer, he’s got a thousand acres now. He’s probably worth more than I am. Maybe I would have done that too, if I hadn’t met your mom.”

  Why does him saying “your mom” make me feel like it’s my fault somehow?

  She still hasn’t called or texted me.