Best Kind of Broken

  The moment Charity’s name leaves my lips, a charge goes into the air, and at first I’m afraid of it. Like maybe I just unleashed an emotional hell that will take me another year to shove back inside my soul.

  But then I take a breath and my chest rises freely, because saying Charity’s name feels good. No. It feels safe.

  Safe with Pixie.

  She leans forward on the rock so our faces are directly in front of each other, and she looks right at me, silent. It’s not sexual. It’s not playful. It’s Pixie asking for my full attention, and now she has it.

  “It’s not your fault either,” she says.

  I look down at her scar.

  She follows my eyes and takes my face into her hands, tipping my chin up so I’m gazing at her soft face. “And what happened to me wasn’t your fault.”

  I pull my head away and look at the dirt.

  “It wasn’t your fault—”

  “Stop, Pix,” I say quietly.

  She’s quiet for a few minutes; then she slides down the rock until she’s right in front of me, knees in the dirt, apron on the ground.

  “I forgive you.” Her steeled eyes wait for mine to meet them and hold me there under the stars. “You have nothing to be forgiven for,” she says, “but I still forgive you. Will you forgive me?”

  I stare at her in horror. “For what?”

  “For getting wasted with Charity at that party. For encouraging her to leave. For letting her drive drunk.”

  She’s insane. None of that was her fault. None of that was—

  “I forgive you,” she repeats. “Will you please forgive me?”

  The look in her eyes tells me we’re not talking about blame. We’re talking about heartbreak and loss and all the things we don’t know how to deal with.

  “I forgive you,” I say, meaning it even though there is nothing that needs to be forgiven, and I’m looking at little Pixie, six years old and stealing my Transformers. Six years old and wiggling her way into my heart. She’s still there, wrapped inside me like she’s mine. And maybe she is.

  Suddenly it’s gone. The guilt, the heaviness. The fear of letting myself be happy, love fully. It’s all gone. Because Pixie just forgave me. And maybe I just forgave myself.

  The air around us is free. It’s like a million tiny weights are floating up off my chest and into the sky, and I didn’t know I could feel so much relief.

  She moves to sit beside me, and my body tenses as hers slides down my side until she’s leaning against the log. Reaching over, she takes the cigarette from my hand and brings it to her mouth. Tiny red embers glow in the darkness as she sucks smoke into her lungs and tips her head back, resting it against the log as she stares at the sky.

  I shift down a bit, the side of my body rubbing against hers until our shoulders are level, and rest my head back as well, looking at the sky as Pixie slowly exhales beside me. A cloud of gray smoke feathers into the air above us, blocking the night sky until dissolving into the black and unveiling the heavens.

  We gaze at the sky for a long, quiet minute, and the only sounds I hear are the crickets and Pixie’s steady breaths.

  I feel like a kid again. Stars above me, Pixie beside me. There’s solace in the silence that floats between us, and I wonder if she feels it too. I could stay here all night, where the sky is bigger than anything in my life and lavender scents the air. I could stay here forever.

  I hear the smile in Pixie’s voice. “Remember when Charity and I tried to jump off the porch roof and you got all mad?”

  I scoff. “What were you, like six?”

  “Yeah. We were being fairies, remember? We had our costumes on from Halloween and we were going to fly.” She says this in exaggerated wonderment and I laugh. I actually laugh.

  Charity was a pain in the ass to keep alive. It wasn’t just the porch thing. The girl climbed ridiculously tall trees and went cliff jumping and stuff. But the fairy thing, that was the beginning of it all. Charity and Pix were dressed up with my mom’s makeup on and they were carrying these stupid wands. Ugh. They were so adorably annoying.

  “I didn’t let you fly,” I say.

  “No. You told on us.”

  I smile. “I sure as hell did.”

  And then we’re silent for a moment, but the air isn’t so smoky and I’m not so heavy.

  “That was the first time you ever called me Pixie,” she says quietly.

  I inhale, thinking about little Sarah dressed up like a fairy in my backyard, all pink and sassy. “Yes, it was.”

  She pauses. “I like being Pixie.”

  I don’t say anything, but I smile.

  45

  Pixie

  Inhale.

  I pull the sharp heat and bitter taste of the cigarette through my lips, feeling my insides burn and my eyes blur as the smoke expands in my lungs. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to cry. I just want to sit here, beside my hero, and remember.

  Exhale.

  The smoke floats into the quiet summer sky, swirling above us and fogging up the stars.

  I bring the cigarette back to my mouth, but Levi gently pulls it from my fingers before it reaches my lips. Keeping his eyes on the sky, he deftly smothers the burning tip into the dirt as the smoke above us thins out until it clears completely.

  Inhale.

  The stars are more beautiful without the smoke obscuring their brilliance.

  Exhale.

  Much more beautiful, actually. Real.

  We stay like that, shoulder to shoulder, eyes fixed above, for countless minutes.

  Inhale.

  Lavender. Summer air. Spearmint.

  Exhale.

  There aren’t any monsters out here.

  46

  Levi

  This morning, I feel like I’m whole again, like my lungs have expanded and made my chest a paradise for oxygen, as I finish showering and cross the hall to my room.

  “Thirty-seven minutes!” Pixie shouts from next door. There’s a lightness in her tone I haven’t heard in a long time, and it makes me wish she would keep speaking, even if only to scold me.

  “You need a new hobby!” I yell back.

  “Jerk.”

  I smile at the wall. “Nag.”

  And the day begins.

  I get dressed and retrieve my To Do list from Ellen. Scanning the items she’s scrawled out, I glare at her. “Another chandelier?”

  She smiles. “The one in the west wing hallway.”

  “You haven’t used that chandelier in ten years.”

  “Right. Because it’s broken.”

  “That hallway is already well lit. You don’t need it.”

  “Yeah, but it’s pretty. So fix it.”

  I shake my head and smile. “Fine.”

  She grins. “Have fun.”

  Fun is the exact opposite of what I have for the next two hours as I fix Ellen’s precious hanging piece of hell, but my mood doesn’t sour. I conquer all the items on my list earlier than usual and head back to the front desk to let Ellen know I’m calling it a day.

  She cocks her head at me. “You seem chipper.”

  “Chipper?”

  “Yeah. Happy. Upbeat.” She looks at me suspiciously and then smiles.

  “What?”

  She just keeps smiling. “Nothing.”

  I stare at her, but she says nothing more and now it’s awkward.

  “So…” I say. “Anything else you need me to do before I wrap up for the day?”

  “No. Oh wait—yes. Can you give this to Pixie?” She hands me a white envelope. “It came in the mail today, but I forgot to give it to her. And while you’re there, can you check the garbage disposal? Mable said it was gurgling.”

  “Gurgling. Sure.” I take the letter and head to the kitchen.

  When I enter, Pixie looks up from a mess of baking ingredients and smiles. I smile back. A piece of myself that I didn’t know was starving suddenly warms in satisfaction.

  “Hey, handsome.” Mable smiles a
t me. “Haven’t seen you all day.”

  “That’s because Ellen has an unhealthy obsession with chandeliers.”

  Pixie scoffs. “She has an unhealthy obsession with everything old and impractical.”

  “Tell me about it. Ellen wanted me to give this to you,” I say, handing over the letter.

  “Thanks.” Pixie takes the envelope and nods at two plates—one red, one blue—of chocolate squares on the counter. “Want a brownie?”

  “Sure.”

  She pushes the red plate toward me and I grab a brownie and head to the sink. As I reach for the garbage disposal switch, I take a giant bite and—

  “Holy mother of hell!” I gag and spit the disgusting treat into the sink. “What the—” I start coughing and stare at the vile brown piece of crap in my hand.

  Mable keeps her eyes down with a smile.

  Pixie crosses her arms and raises an amused eyebrow at me. “That’s what you get,” she says, looking much too satisfied by my continuing gags and coughs.

  “For what?” God, this is the worst thing I’ve ever tasted. I gag again.

  “For switching the sugar and salt on me all those years ago and adding vinegar to the vanilla so my brownies came out tasting like sour bars of salt. I finally figured it out this morning and decided to whip up a batch and give you a taste of your own medicine.”

  I spit again and smile. “It took you this long to figure it out? Yikes, Pix. You might have to kiss that future in detective work good-bye.” I throw the remainder of the nasty brownie away and gag again. The real kind of gag where I think I might throw up.

  “And you might have to kiss what you ate for lunch good-bye,” she says. “Please don’t vomit in my kitchen.”

  This only makes me gag harder.

  “God.” She rolls her eyes and grabs a brownie from the blue plate. “These are the good ones. I swear.”

  “Get away from me, you wicked treat devil.”

  She laughs. “Wicked treat devil? Wow. You can do better than that.”

  “Evil dessert demon?”

  “Still lame.”

  “Chocolate temptress of salty death.”

  “Now you’re just reaching. Here”—she grabs something—“spare your mouth any future embarrassment.” She shoves another salty-sour brownie against my mouth and I start hacking all over again.

  She smiles as she tears open the envelope. She scans the thick piece of paper inside and her face goes slack.

  I quit gagging and wipe my mouth. “What’s wrong?”

  A bewildered expression crosses her face. “I was accepted into NYU. I can transfer there this fall. I’d have to leave in two weeks.”

  “Wow,” I say.

  Wow.

  “That’s wonderful, dear,” Mable says, then frowns at the dumbfounded expression on Pixie’s face. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m just… I don’t know.” Pixie smiles and wrinkles her brow and bites her lip. In that order. “I’m surprised, that’s all.” She smiles again.

  I smile at her, but for some reason my gut feels hollow.

  47

  Pixie

  I’m stunned. Shocked. Dazed. Terrified, even. But not because I was accepted to NYU. I’m surprised because I’m no longer excited to go.

  I’ve been trying to transfer schools for the past year, and now here’s my chance and I just… don’t care. I should be jumping up and down and squealing. Or at least smiling in a way that doesn’t have Mable looking at me in concern, but instead I’m just standing here, staring at the red plate of brownies.

  “Congratulations,” Levi says.

  I meet his eyes, and our strained smiles collide.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “New York.” Mable smiles. Hers isn’t strained. “What a wonderful city. I’ve only ever been there once, myself, but it was breathtaking. A great place for an artist.”

  “Yeah. NYU has a great art program.” I sweep up some sugar with my hands and clean it off the counter. “One of the best in the country.”

  “How exciting.” Mable sounds genuine, but keeps glancing at Levi every few seconds.

  “You deserve it,” he says, pressing his lips together.

  I nod. Nothing else. I just nod and sweep up more sugar.

  He clears his throat and wipes a few brownie crumbs from his face and shirt before moving to the disposal, where he promptly gets lost in work after retrieving a few tools.

  I concentrate on cleaning up flour and salt, baking powder and sugar, tossing the remainder of my baking mess into the garbage.

  Soon, the counter is spic-and-span and there are no more ingredients to sweep or put away. I wrap up the good brownies and put them in the fridge for tomorrow, wondering why my stomach keeps twisting.

  Mable hangs her apron on a hook by the door. “All right, dear. I’m headed home. Are you sure you don’t need any more help?”

  “Nope. I’m good. Have a great night, Mable.”

  “You too, love.” She leaves through the dining room door as I survey the kitchen. Levi is frowning at the disposal with a wrench in his hand and some leftover brownie still on his shirt, and Mable’s blue apron is gently swinging back and forth from the hook.

  Finding a fork, I scrape the remaining prank brownies off the red plate and into the trash. They pile up, a tower of deceitful chocolate in a white sea of discarded baking ingredients.

  Like a tidal wave rushing for land, it hits me, and I instantly know why my stomach is twisting like a pretzel.

  And the reason has ocean-blue eyes and chocolate brownie crumbs on his sleeve.

  48

  Levi

  “No,” I say.

  “Aw, come on, dude,” Zack whines through the phone the next morning. “I would do it for you.”

  “You would drive an hour to come babysit my pet goat?” I tuck my phone against my ear and shoulder as I grab my mail from the front desk and start flipping through it as I head upstairs.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a fucking liar.”

  “You owe me,” he says.

  “Since when?” I pass Pixie in the hall and give her a tight smile.

  She smiles back and shifts past me as we go our separate ways. She’s probably thrilled about moving to New York. She should be. She deserves it. She deserves something more than… well, anything here.

  Zack says, “Since I hooked you up with Savannah the boobtastic blonde.”

  I enter my room. “I didn’t even hook up with her.”

  “Irrelevant. Now, come get Marvin so I don’t get kicked off the team for bringing a goddamn billy goat to the first day of practice.”

  “I’m not babysitting your goat.”

  “Get your ass down here, Andrews. Or I’ll call up Sarah and tell her about the night you got wasted freshman year and blubbered all about how you wanted to kiss her pretty teeth and smell her golden hair.”

  I stop walking.

  “Golden hair,” he says. “You called it golden.”

  I drop my mail on my desk. “I hate you.”

  I can hear the smile in his voice. “The best friendships are rooted in hatred and blackmail. See you in fifty-five minutes.”

  By the time I reach the practice field, I’m royally pissed off and have decided that I’m going to sell Marvin on Craigslist before practice is over so I’ll never again have to do a goat errand. But I guess this is better than staying at the inn all day, thinking about today.

  Charity’s birthday.

  It’s definitely not as heavy as the anniversary of her death, but it’s still something. A piece of her. A reminder that she’s not here. It’s a cruel twist, her death being just a few days before her nineteenth birthday. One of many.

  I park and walk through the familiar stadium gates and tunnels to reach the field where my former teammates are doing warm-ups. I wonder if Pixie will ever go to a football game in New York.

  Coach McHugh sees me and blows the whistle to signal a five-minute break. Ever
yone disperses from their sprints and congregates around the bench as Coach marches up to me.

  “What the hell, Andrews? Why isn’t your name on my fucking roster? And why aren’t you dressed for practice?”

  I scratch the back of my neck. “Because I haven’t responded to Dean Maxwell and I’m not here to play. Where’s Arden?”

  Coach’s face turns red like he wants to scream at me, but instead he screams across the field at Zack. “Arden! Get your ass over here.”

  Zack jogs up to us with a pleasant expression. “What’s happening, Levi?”

  I glare at him. “Where the hell is your goat?”

  Coach shoots his eyes to Zack. “What goat?”

  He shrugs. “I left him at the mansion.”

  “What mansion?” Coach asks.

  I flex my jaw as I stare at Zack. “Then why the hell did you have me drive all the way out here?”

  “Because it’s time for you to get your shit together.” He looks at McHugh. “Coach, I believe Levi is here to scrimmage with us.”

  I shake my head. “No. No, sir. I’m not here to scrimmage.”

  “It’s shit-getting-together time and Levi has clocked in,” Zack says.

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “Shut up, both of you.” Coach looks me up and down. “Suit up.”

  “What? No. I’m not here to play, Coach. I’m not even enrolled in school—”

  “Too bad. You’re here and I need players. Suit up.”

  “But I—”

  “Suit your ass up!” he screams loud enough to draw the attention of every member of the team, who of course are looking at me like they’re glad to have me back.

  Zack grins. I hate him.

  But as I look around the field and smell the newly cut grass and upturned dirt, a piece of me aches to stay, to feel air rushing at me and to thrust a ball from my hands. And the idea of running and throwing and smashing into things sounds good.

  I slowly turn to Coach and relent. “Fine. One scrimmage game.”

  Coach gives me a warning look. “What’s that, now?”

  “One scrimmage game, sir.”

  “Good. Now quit gabbing and suit the fuck up!”