The Art of Breaking Things, page 3
She beeps her car twice as she pulls away. I wave and dig in my pocket for keys to Lucy, my 1988 Jeep Cherokee. When I had finally saved up enough to buy her, Ben and I had a naming ceremony, figuring that any car that was older than we were deserved a name. Ben had thought “Lucy” was a bit uninspired, but as soon as I saw her, I knew she was a Lucy. On the short drive to get Emma, I think about Dan and Mom sitting at the dining room table and what that may have meant.
3
BEFORE: I am ten. Summer before fifth grade
“SEE THIS?” DAN says, holding the small, orange blossom with care between two fingers. “It’s called jewelweed. Come here, watch.”
I edge closer as he lifts the leaves of the plant to reveal seeds smaller than a pea. He presses a seed between his thumb and forefinger and lets go. The seed pops and spirals into itself. I smile, delighted.
“Can I try?” I ask, moving closer.
“Be careful, they’ll blow at the slightest touch.” He guides my hand toward the seed. “Okay, you do it.”
I squeeze and let go. I squeal at the funny feeling of the seed exploding.
“Jewelweed can cure poison ivy,” Dan says. “And it often grows nearby.”
“Seriously?”
Dan smiles at me. “Seriously.” He breaks off a stem of jewelweed. “The liquid inside the stem staves off the effects of the rash.”
“‘Staves off’?”
“Prevents. Or at least reduces.”
Dan knows something about everything. “How do you know all this stuff?” I ask.
“Which stuff? Words or nature?”
“Um, nature.”
“I was an Eagle Scout. And don’t say um.” His tone is impatient, like when he had to remind me of something that he’d already said. “You’ve seen all of my patches. Nature was one of them. We had to learn about plants and collect their seeds. I learned that if you brush against poison ivy, you could spread some of this on you.” He squeezes the stem of the jewelweed until a whitish liquid bubbles out. With his forefinger, he rubs it on my inner arm.
His calloused finger tickles that tender area. After a moment, the whitish liquid becomes clear and sticky on my skin. I rub it off.
“But you would need to know that you rubbed against poison ivy in order to know that you needed the jewelweed,” I say.
“True.”
There is still no sign of Mom and Emma on the trail behind us. “Geez, where are they?”
Dan turns to look back down the path. “Emma may have needed to stop.”
“Emma’s so slow. Maybe we should hike back to find them.”
“Be patient,” he says. “Your sister is still little.”
That’s true. In September, I will be in fifth grade and Emma won’t even be starting kindergarten yet. She is cute and all, but right now I want to keep hiking.
“Do you want to go wading for crayfish? Or looking for sassafras?”
I weigh my options. I love how when you pull sassafras from the ground, the plant smells like root beer, but I am very good at catching crayfish. “Wading,” I say.
“I’ll hold your clothes.”
“Huh?” The creek is only about five inches deep and I have excellent balance. Mom has said so. There’s no way I would fall.
Dan sighs. “Don’t say huh. You have your bathing suit on, yes?”
I nod.
“Take off your shorts and T-shirt in case you get wet.”
I know that I won’t get wet, but I also know not to argue with Dan. Everything has been so good today. Mom’s been happy and I don’t want to mess it up.
I wriggle out of my jean shorts and tank top and hand them to Dan.
With care, I step from stone to stone, peering down into the rippling water to spot the crayfish that hide among the rocks. “There’s one,” I whisper, knowing from experience that a shout will scare it away. I squat and watch the spot where the crayfish hid. With slow, careful movements, I reach into the water with cupped hands.
“Skylar,” Dan says in a low voice.
I turn, and Dan snaps a photo on his phone.
“Perfect,” he says, still looking at me. “You’re a nymph out there in the creek.”
A nymph sounds like something mysterious and beautiful from one of Dan’s huge novels. But I’m just a skinny kid in an old bathing suit. The crayfish scuttles away.
“We’re here!” Emma crashes through the weeds, a four-year-old monster frightening every living thing within a quarter-mile radius. “Look what we found!” She clutches a fistful of wildflowers. “Ooh, can I go in too?” She takes a step toward the water.
“You might slip and fall, Emma,” Dan says, grabbing the hand that wasn’t holding the flowers.
“Did you catch anything?” Mom asks.
“I spotted a crayfish, but he got away.” I stood up.
“I want to find a crayfish too.” Emma’s lower lip pushes out.
“It’s okay, Em,” I say, leaping from rock to rock toward the sandy bank. “I’ll show you this cool jewelweed that Dan just found.”
“Where are your clothes?” Mom asks when I land on the shore.
“Dan thought I might get wet.”
Mom wrinkles her brow and then shrugs. “Better to be safe than sorry, I guess.”
Dan hands me my things.
“My goodness, I need to get you some new clothes,” Mom says as she watches me wriggle back into my shorts. “Those are getting a bit too snug.”
Dan glances at me and then at Mom. He walks Emma to the main path. “Ready for our next adventure?” he asks.
“Yes!” Emma says, and they march down the path.
“Don’t forget to show Mom the picture,” I say, taking my spot behind Dan and Emma. “Dan said I’m a nymph,” I add proudly.
4
And What Happens After That
“HOW WAS THE sleepover?” I ask as Emma climbs into Lucy.
“You’re late,” she snaps at me. “I was the last one picked up.”
I wish she’d talk a little quieter, but I deserve this. Even though I never would’ve done all those shots if it weren’t for seeing Dan at the house.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I pull away from the house, paying close attention to the traffic. I’m so hungover that I don’t totally trust my driving right now. We pull out of Julia’s neighborhood, a sparkly new development called Penn’s Manor, full of McMansions on treeless plots of land that used to be open fields. “But besides me being late, did you have fun?”
“Julia’s mom had to be somewhere and I tried to call you, but you didn’t pick up.” Emma is not going to let me off easy today.
“I’m sorry. I overslept.”
A flash of the night before slides into my mind. Ben saying he’s tired. Keith passed out on the recliner. Something about strip poker.
“Julia’s mom said that she’d only planned for kids to stay through breakfast. Not lunch,” she says.
“Julia’s mom sounds like a bitch.”
Ashton and I sitting on the couch. My stomach churns.
“You’re not supposed to talk like that.”
“Sorry, but she sounds like she has a stick up her butt. I don’t see the big deal.”
I dig into the muck to try to remember Ashton leaving. I can’t find any memory of what happened. The blanket. Who put the blanket on me? If it was Ben, did I hook up with him? I can’t even let my mind go there. Not to mention: missing bra.
“You shouldn’t talk about people when you don’t even know them,” Emma’s saying. “Julia’s family is so nice.”
I imagine that by nice Emma means normal. “You’re right, I shouldn’t. But if Julia’s mom was so frustrated, she could’ve just taken you home.”
“That’s not how sleepovers work,” my sister says to me. “God,” she says to the window.
“Did you try to call Mom?” I ask.
Emma shakes her head. I let that sit for a minute before I think of the possible reasons why Emma would rather be embarrassed at her friend’s house than call our mother.
“Because you were afraid of getting me in trouble?” I ask.
She nods, and now it’s not just my head cracking in half. It’s my heart too.
“Other families are there for one another.” I can hear the tears clouding her whisper. “Other families are normal. Ours isn’t. Ours sucks.”
“Oh, Em.” She’s playing with the zipper on her jacket. I did this. I made her wish that she lived in a different family. “Em, I am here for you. This was just a dumb morning where I messed up. Doesn’t mean our family totally sucks.”
Emma looks down at her lap.
“Think about the fun stuff we do. Painting our rooms?”
She nods, and I hope she’s remembering how much fun we had creating the blocks and stripes of color in her room after I’d moved to the basement.
“Dance routines? Makeovers?”
Emma nods and wipes her tears away.
“Movie nights with takeout from Hunan? With chopsticks and tea in tiny Chinese teacups?”
She nods again and I see a smile ghosting the corners of her mouth.
“I was late today and I’m so sorry. But we don’t really suck, right?”
“We don’t.”
“Now tell me, did you have fun?”
“Yes,” Emma says grudgingly while staring out the window.
“Well, what did you do?” I poke Emma. I can always get her to smile. Always. “Come on.” I poke her again. “Did you raise the dead?”
“Stop,” she whines halfheartedly and then smiles. “We baked the world’s ugliest cupcakes. They had popcorn in them and sprinkles, which was pretty gross, but also fun.”
We drive past strip malls of take-out restaurants, banks, and pharmacies, where storefronts with FOR LEASE signs in the windows sit empty and dark. Our town-house community is wedged just off Pennswood Pike, the main road. “At least we have a pool,” Mom often says when something goes wrong. Not that she ever has time to use it. I’m sure she’d prefer a little single home with its own driveway to a town house where things break down—even if it has a pool—but when she left Dad, Mom couldn’t afford a regular house. And Dad was no help, all the way in Santa Fe with barely any money.
Our building is at the far end of the community, bordering a wooded area blocking us from the Pike. I wonder if Dan will be at the house. I haven’t texted Mom because I’m not sure I want to know.
“We watched Grease and sang all the songs. Julia says I’ll get a part in the musical, no doubt.”
“Of course you will. Tryouts this week, right?”
“Yeah. Oh, and we texted these boys, Thomas and Liam . . .”
I glance at my little sister, eleven going on fifteen, in her multicolored leggings and oversize shirt. A few tiny braids start at her temple, disappearing into the rest of her long hair piled on her head and secured with an elastic. I had long hair like that when I was eleven too. But I’d cut it off and I’ve kept it short ever since.
“Are you even listening to me?” Emma says as I pull into the parking spot in front of our house.
“Yeah!” I try to push a smile into my tone. “Texting Thomas and his friends to meet you somewhere only you’re not there.”
The windows of our town house reflect the sun back into my eyes as we get out of the car, hiding what’s inside.
“Emma?”
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for not calling Mom.”
* * *
—
When we walk in, Mom is curled up on our worn, red couch reading a magazine. She’s alone. My shoulders drop in relief. Her long hair is pulled back, and she’s wearing a sweatshirt and jeans. At this moment, I’d call her Whirligig at Rest. Mom is always moving, and even when sitting, she’s usually on her email or going through bills or folding clothes. Seeing her sitting and reading is like witnessing the sun stop its movement across the sky.
“There are my girls!” she says with a big smile. I can’t help but smile back. Mom’s smile does that to people.
“Hi, Mom.” Emma flops on the couch and starts thumbing her phone. Their heads nearly touch, the same dark brown hair as mine, though Mom’s color comes from a bottle now.
Mom hugs her. “How was your sleepover, honey?”
Emma eyes me and then looks at Mom. “It was great. Julia was super happy and we all had a lot of fun.”
Emma smoothly censors what she’s sharing. She’s not telling Mom how I let her down by being late and she’s not saying how much she loves Julia’s family, because she knows it will hurt Mom’s feelings. I make a mental note to create something for Emma. Mom squeezes Emma like she’s still a little kid, not an almost twelve-year-old girl. I get that, though. I like to think of Emma as little too, even though I can see that she’s not.
“Did you have fun with Luisa?” Mom asks me.
“Yeah, I did,” I say, suddenly all too aware of my lack of a bra and hungover eyes. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Okay, but I wanted to share something with you girls.”
My Spidey-senses start tingling.
Mom takes a deep breath and smiles at both of us. “Whew! This is harder than I expected,” she says. She takes another breath. “You know that Dan and I parted ways a while back, but we reconnected, and we have been seeing each other.” She pauses to let that settle in.
“You’ve been seeing each other for how long?” I ask, dread snaking down my spine.
Mom rubs her lips together. “Five months.”
The cold shock of betrayal washes over me. “Five months? And you haven’t said anything?”
Mom worries the magazine between her fingers and then raises her eyes to mine. “I wanted to be sure that we were serious before I told you girls.”
“So it’s serious then,” I say.
“Yes,” Mom says. “He was here last night, in fact. We were talking over our next steps together.”
So that’s why he was here. Worst fears confirmed.
“But you . . .” I glance at Emma, wondering how much she remembers from those days. “You ended it. So long ago.”
Mom nods and swallows, like she’s expected my statement. “I know five years seems long to you, but it’s not that long for us.”
She’s right, it seems like a very long time to me. Long enough to shut that door for good.
“And like I said, we’ve been seeing each other.”
“When?” I scoff. “At Mac and Judy’s annual pig roasts?” I remember the first one after Dan and Mom broke up. He showed up with some skinny woman who smoked and didn’t eat anything. Mom wept for days after that. Judy came by with food for us and to rub Mom’s back and tell her that everyone was on “Team Beth.” Mac took us to school for a couple days when Mom couldn’t get out of bed.
“I have a life outside of work and my time with you girls, you know.”
I thought back to nights she asked me to watch Emma or afternoons when she said she was going out for a few hours.
“I didn’t want him back in your lives until it felt right. And now it does. In fact, he’ll be here for dinner this week. He’s anxious to see you girls again.”
“I’m happy for you!” Emma says.
“Do you even remember Dan?” I say to Emma. My tone cuts in a way that I didn’t intend.
“Of course she does,” Mom says, but the way she glances at Emma shows me that she’s not certain.
“You don’t have to speak for me, Mom,” Emma chimes in. “Yes, Skye, I remember Dan. I was in first grade when he left. I remember all that fun stuff he would do with us. Those hikes we did and the baseball game and camping.” Her tone drifts off.
Hiking, the baseball game, and camping. Three things over the four or so years that Mom and Dan were mostly together. I used to think that way about Dan. How smart he was and how fun too. He always wanted to teach us something new, and he’d do it in his wacky way. But then he fractured that perfect image and I could never see him the same way again.
“I need to take a shower,” I say again.
Mom’s eyes flick over me. “Good idea.”
I head down the steps into the basement, which is pretty much mine. At the bottom of the steps is an open area with a couch and a chair, but most of the space is taken up by my drafting table and art supplies. The washer and dryer are tucked behind folding doors along one wall. Opposite that are my bedroom and my own bathroom. Mac had built it all when I turned thirteen, and it was pretty much the best birthday gift ever.
In my room, each wall painted in different colors and patterns, I sit heavily on my bed. My fingers trail the bookshelf we’d snagged from a curb one day. We’d painted that too, me and Mom. Teal green with purple polka dots. All of this was after Dan was gone. There’s nothing of him left in my life. At least that’s what I’d assumed. I kick off my boots and head for the bathroom.
After locking the bathroom door, I do my morning stuff—brushing my teeth, taking my birth control, and washing my face. I strip down to step into the shower, and as I let the hot water rush over me, I try to wash off the guilt from not remembering what happened last night and the confusion about Dan returning. Five months she’s been seeing him. How could I not have realized it? I’ve got to get that scholarship to MICA and get out of this place.
5
Another Day in Paradise
“UGH. CONTINUOUS SKETCH for our warm-up?” I say when I slide into my stool across from Ben in art class on Monday morning.
Ben nods. “That’s right. Do not lift your drawing implement from your sketch pad—or risk death and dismemberment.”
“That’s a bit harsh. Even for Mr. M,” I say. I stare at the blank page, knowing that as soon as I press the pencil to the paper, I can’t start over.
