Fractured ( Fractured #1) Page 2

  “Stop being so sheltered,” Bryan said. “You can’t hide behind books. You need to get out more, Mandy. Maybe you’d actually meet a guy if you left the house.”

  “Bryan’s right,” my father agreed.

  Wait. Was this coming from the man who wouldn’t even let a guy breathe in the same vicinity as me? A man who said I had to stay home to make sure the house was running smoothly?

  I smiled. Well, I could just go to the supermarket. I looked over my burger at my brother. “Just because you don’t like to better your mind with good books, doesn’t mean you should make fun of me.” I tried to deflect his sarcasm.

  “It’s not my fault that I prefer to have a social life,” Bryan said. “Besides, I’m just as smart as you. I finished with a 92 average this year.”

  “I have friends,” I said. I thought about my last real friend, Meredith. She moved away three years previously, at the start of high school. She was my friend when everyone else avoided me. I sat up straighter in my chair and one-upped him. “My average was 98.”

  “We all can’t be hermit geniuses,” he said, before he squished the remainder of his burger into his mouth.

  During the rest of dinner, Mom receded into her catatonic state of alcoholic oblivion, and I managed to keep track of the conversation about engines and brakes that went on between my dad and Bryan, while I made sure that Dillon didn’t flip out because the potato salad on his plate was a millimeter away from touching his bun. And, I kept flipping my mental picture book to the gorgeous example of a human I’d seen earlier.

  Hmm, I wonder what groceries we need. I might have to the supermarket again, soon.

  That night, I dreamt about the deli-god.

  Chapter Three

  Water crashed on the rocks and sprayed my toes. White silk ruffled around my legs as it danced in the wind. Long, gossamer, strawberry curls rolled over the windy currents around my head in a rhythmic tempo. A set of muscular arms came from behind me and wrapped around my waist. He eased me toward him so that his strong chest was against my back, and his breath caressed my cheek. Being enveloped in his embrace made me feel safe, wanted. I could have stayed there for eternity. A few moments passed, and then his hands found my hips and he turned me to face him. The space between us was just narrow enough for a slip of paper. Crystal blue eyes pulled on my soul. His hands found my face and lifted it toward his. His eyes closed, he reached out with his lips. I imitated the action, eager for the gentle softness of his kiss. Emotional electricity coursed through my body…

  “Manny! Manny!” Dillon burst into my bedroom. Even though he’s autistic, he was still a ten-year-old male, which meant he needed everything immediately.

  Startled, I flung the blanket off my head. It took me a moment to realize I was in my room, and not on the cliff, overlooking the water with the hot deli-god wrapped around me. Disappointed it was all a dream, and crushed it was over, I said, “What’s the matter, Dillon?”

  He was motionless in the doorway with a teaspoon in his hand. “Bekfast. Bekfast.”

  Looking at the clock, which said seven A.M., I knew Dad and Bryan had left for work already. I guessed Mom was nursing another one of her hangovers. “Okay, Dill. Let me wash up and put clothes on, and I’ll make you breakfast, okay?”

  “Manny, bekfast.”

  “Yes, Dillon.” I threw back the covers and placed one foot on the floor. “Go wait at the table; I’ll be right there.”

  He turned and marched out of my room. His heavy footsteps told me he was headed down the stairs and toward the kitchen. So much for sleeping past nine during summer break. When I heard the chair scrape back on the tile floor, I grabbed my clothes and walked to the bathroom. As quickly as I could, I brushed my teeth and hair, pulled on the clothes, and put on the basics of make-up, mascara, blush, and lip-gloss. I knew I only had a few minutes before Dillon would go into ‘melt-down’ mode, so I hurried to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. I pulled out two eggs and a pan from the cabinet. Dillon sat at the table, teaspoon in hand, staring off into whatever world he preferred to be in. I wish I could have gone there, too. Although he could spew out facts about almost anything, better than a thirty-year collegiate professor could, socially he was more like a six-year old.

  Carefully cracking the eggs and disposing of the shells, I scrambled them in the small bowl that Dillon insisted on using for eggs. If it wasn’t done exactly the way he liked, he would flap his hands and start to scream. Then forget about breakfast; I’d be spending the next hour and a half calming him down before I’d have to wash down the walls and start all over. Dillon bounced up and down in his chair.

  “Did you comb your hair, Dill?” I asked as the fork whipped the yellow goo in the bowl. He didn’t answer. “You’ll have to do that after breakfast, okay? You can’t get on the school bus until you do that.” Unlike Bryan and me, Dillon didn’t get off during the summer. He needed the consistency and structure of a twelve-month school program. He got a two-week break at the end of August, and one in December for the holidays. Again, no answer. That was fine as long as he did it. I’d have to check before he left the house.

  I picked up the note that Bryan left on the kitchen table. “Happy Birthday, big sis!” it said. He must have gotten the sticky note I left on his bedroom door, which said, “Happy Birthday to the best triplet in the world.” With the note in my hand, I thought about it; it wasn’t such a big deal to be seventeen. And I knew, other than Bryan, it would go unnoticed. Dad had already given Bryan his gift two months ago; a refurbished Mustang. I got art supplies last week. Oh yeah, that’s fair… NOT!

  The two gluten-free slices of bread popped out of the toaster, and I placed them on Dillon’s Thomas-the-Tank-Engine plate, the one we used for breakfast. Then I shimmied the well-done scrambled eggs across the top of one slice, careful that none of the egg touched the other piece of toast. If it even grazed the other slice of bread, Dillon wouldn’t eat any of it, and I’d have to start all over.

  “Here you go, sir,” I said, placing the plate down in front of him. Dillon looked down at his breakfast. “Now eat all of it so you have enough energy to last until lunch.”

  Dillon approached his breakfast as if he were a heart surgeon. With very precise movements, he maneuvered the teaspoon so that the edge cut into exactly one-eighth of the egg sitting on the toast. Then, with the support of the spoon, he cradled the dissected piece and lifted it to his mouth. He pressed the egg to his lips before inserting it. I knew he’d chew fifteen times before swallowing. This is what he did with all of his food.

  Once I was sure Dillon would be all right with his breakfast, I said, “I’m going to get my art stuff, okay?” He didn’t answer, and that meant he was okay with it.

  Back in my room, I brushed my hair for a second time, trying to get the curls down to a minimum. Realizing it was a lost cause, I tied back my mane with a purple ribbon to match my tee shirt. I grabbed my bag of colored pencils, charcoal sticks, and the new sketchpad from my closet, and walked back down to the kitchen.

  Dillon had just finished his breakfast. “Okay, put the dishes in the sink,” I instructed, and he did. “Hair,” I reminded, and he walked into the downstairs bathroom. The squeak of the vanity drawer told me that he was getting the extra brush we kept in there just for him. He walked back into the kitchen holding the brush in one hand like a microphone. I tried my best to get his curls under control, but all of us Stewarts suffered from incredibly wavy hair. At least mine was long and I could put it back into a ponytail. Bryan kept his very short, but Dillon, well, Dillon didn’t like to get haircuts. Slasher movies were more timid than Dillon was when getting a haircut. So I resorted to trimming it while he slept. Whether it was a decent job or not depended on how often he moved while I cut.

  When I was done, I took a moment and looked at him. “Very handsome, Dill.” When I gave him back the brush, he disappeared, and I heard the squeak of the drawer before he came back to the kitchen.

  A horn signaled t
hat Dillon’s bus was out front. He opened and closed his hands several times. I handed him his lunchbox. “Have a great day, Dillon,” I shouted, but he was already out the door, down the walkway, and stepping up onto the bus. The matron gave me a wave, and I closed the door as the bus pulled away.

  Just then, Mom shuffled into the kitchen. Her pink terrycloth bathrobe hung off one shoulder, and her hair looked like a rat’s nest. Her movements were slow as she reached into the cabinet for a coffee mug.

  “Bryan made a fresh pot this morning,” I said, but I knew she wasn’t interested in coffee. She opened another cabinet, reached all the way in the back, and pulled out a dark green bottle. I was immediately frustrated at myself for missing one. Then she sat at the table, unscrewed the cap, and poured a generous amount of amber liquid into the mug.

  I knew this was not an argument I could win. Instead of saying anything, I grabbed my art supplies, peeked in the mirror near the door, and headed out for the Hanleys.

  Mr. and Mrs. Hanley lived in the oldest house in Wood Oaks. It had been in Mr. Hanley’s family since the 1790s. Of course, there had been additions made to the two-story farmhouse, but not during the Hanleys’ time. The picturesque scenery that surrounded the house was a nice subject for sketching. The rich blossoming flowerbeds under the deep green shutters on the whitewashed shingles of the house made it look very romantic. Even the evergreens that framed the house on either side of the door gave it balance. The Hanleys were in their early 70s and liked when I came to visit. Their daughters had moved away after they each got married. Since Mr. and Mrs. Hanley hardly saw their grandkids and I had no friends, we kind of adopted each other. They told me to think of their property as my own, so I frequently came to draw the surrounding nature. They didn’t even mind when I wore down the grass and weeds off the main road to make my own dirt path that led to the creek.

  Usually, I was the only one on the road heading toward their house, but I noticed that there was someone else on the street.

  Chapter Four

  I walked toward the Hanleys’ house. As I got closer to the stranger, my pulse quickened. The hot deli-god had just gotten out of a beautiful black BMW. Behind him, in the not too far distance, I saw the edge of the parking lot for the supermarket. He had a set of car keys in one hand and his employee badge in the other. He looked up and seemed surprised to see me.

  “Hello, again.” His voice was musical. It filled my head and I could hear nothing else.

  “H-hi.” I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

  “Potato salad, right?” His dimple appeared when he smiled.

  “Um.” Nice going idiot. Couldn’t I say anything better?

  “Where’re you going?” he asked, eyeing the art supplies in my arms.

  “To a neighbor’s house. They have a creek behind their house. I go there to draw.” Tell me I didn’t sound like a complete idiot.

  “Are you any good?” His smile widened.

  Immediately, I felt self-conscious. My cheeks burned. I shrugged and looked down at the pavement.

  “I mean, can you draw people?”

  I looked up to see his wonderful smile. A rush of heat raced through me, and my insides felt like wet noodles.

  “Maybe you could draw me one day.” He waited, but I just stared. He raised his eyebrows and nodded once toward me.

  “Um, okay.” Why do I have to be such a dork?

  “Well, I have to go to work. Maybe I’ll see you around during the summer.” As soon as he said it, I wanted to follow him wherever he was going: to work, home, to my dream cliff, even off the cliff. It didn’t matter. I just wanted to be with him. His perfect smile appeared again, complete with the dimple.

  I managed to get out one word: “Okay.” It sounded overeager and stupid. With a wave, he left his car parked on the street and walked toward the supermarket. Unable to feel my limbs, I stood there for what felt like years. It was as if he had stolen a small piece of my heart and taken it with him. I wanted to go with him to see what he’d do with it.

  When he was half a block away from me, I remembered that I had to breathe. Inhaling the warm summer air, I mentally berated myself for being a total moron. I promised myself that the next time I ran into him, if I ran into him, I’d do better. I waited until I couldn’t see him anymore, and then I resumed my walk to the creek. Again, my thoughts were consumed with the hot deli-god. Idiot, you don’t even know his name.

  Finding my usual place on the rocks near the creek, I sat down and took out my favorite drawing pencil, but instead of sketching what was in front of me, I drew what was in my mind. His eyes were more beautiful in person, but I wasn’t off by much.

  Several hours later, I walked home and thought about what we needed at the supermarket.

  Chapter Five

  Opening the door, I saw my mom slumped on the couch. Her chocolate-brown hair was fanned out over the back, and the television blared some TV chef extolling the virtues of poached salmon. The glass on the coffee table was empty, but how many times over, I didn’t know. A box of Cheez was tipped over onto the floor.

  Just once, I wished she wouldn’t be blathered when I came home. I understood why she had pain, but even so, I wished…

  My sketchpad barely landed on the recliner where I flung it. The box of the charcoal opened and scattered onto the carpet. I bent down to pick up the black stalks, and tossed them all back into the box. Then I tried to recover as many of the little orange crackers with one hand as possible. Her head rolled around in slow motion. In a groggy voice she said, “Hi, Sweetie. Have a nice day?” At least, she wasn’t a mean-drunk today.

  “Yes, Mom. It was nice.” I raced to the kitchen garbage can and threw out the handful of crackers. Then I went back into the living room. “C’mon, Mom. Let’s get you upstairs before Dillon comes home.”

  “Dillon?” she asked, barely keeping her head up. It flopped back to the cushion. I sat on the couch next to her and tossed one of her arms around my shoulders. With my arm around her waist, I took a deep breath to prepare myself for her weight before hoisting her up. I used to just leave her on the couch, but it was embarrassing, especially when Bryan’s friend, Jimmy, came over. Jimmy never said a word about it. He had witnessed my mother’s evolution, too, since he had practically lived in our house since we were all six.

  Getting her up the stairs was easier now that I had a system for shifting her weight to help with the climb. I gently helped her onto the bed and lifted her feet. She was only wearing one slipper. I’d have to search for its mate later.

  “I’m thirsty,” she said in a barely coherent slur. I gave her the bottle of water I kept next to her bed. She took one sip, scrunched up her nose, and handed it back. “Yuck! I’m thirsty, Mandy. Get me a drink.”

  “Later, Mom. First, a nap.”

  “I want a drink!” Her tone changed. It was forceful and sharp. I reached over and moved the clock and picture frame containing the first picture of Bryan, Cassandra, and me when we were one hour old. I pushed back a second picture frame with Dillon’s baby picture inside it. I didn’t want Mom to throw it; she can get quite nasty if she you don’t comply with her request for a beverage. I’ve replaced the picture frames too many times to count.

  After gently helping her recline, her face relaxed, and she put her head on the pillow. Her eyes were already closed. Good, no throwing today.

  Down in the kitchen, I opened the refrigerator. The contents were promising. I found some chicken that Mom had taken out of the freezer during one of her more lucid moments, and rummaged through the cabinets to see what I could combine it with. Happily, I made a list of ingredients we didn’t have, and knew I’d have to run to the store.

  I tapped on the bedroom door. “Mom, I have to run to the supermarket for some things for dinner. Bryan is working at Burger Hut tonight, so you’ll be home alone. I’ll be back before Dillon’s bus comes. I’m taking twenty bucks from the house fund.”

  I accepted her grunt as approval.

 
; After I closed the front door and locked it, I felt a wave of happiness wash over me. Not only was it a nice day, but I was headed to the supermarket in hopes of seeing Mr. Dimple. I practiced all the things I’d say so I wouldn’t sound like a total loser again. “Are you new to the neighborhood? When did you move here? What street do you live on? How come I’ve never seen you before? Will you be going to Wood Oaks High School? What grade are you in?” Oh, and “What’s your name?”

  Halfway there, my plan was interrupted. “Mandy?” Without having to turn around, I knew who it was. Jennifer Sutton has a very distinct voice, filled with the purr of sex. I was pretty sure all the boys asked her questions just to hear her talk. Either that, or they wanted to stop and chat with her so they could ogle her body. She was a statuesque blonde, like her mother. Her perfect hair, nose, and teeth, as well as her other attributes, had been the topic of conversation of every boy in town since seventh grade. Since she had filled out where boys notice most, it was very hard to be a girl on the same planet, much less in the same town.

  My mind flashed back to when we used to sit next to each other in the first grade. We swapped lunches and giggled at the silly things the boys said to us. We were on our way to becoming best friends when her parents found out that my dad was ‘just a mechanic’ and not a day trader or a brain surgeon. She stood in the doorway with her arms crossed. “I can’t be friends with you. Your dad isn’t a professional.”