Fractured Love, Page 3

  “It is. It does.” Her whole demeanor brightens, like a flower blooming. “Are you reading it for class?”

  “I got the assignment yesterday. Wait—” I slap my forehead. “I didn’t go to school here yesterday.”

  She tilts her head, the way that dogs do when they’re curious. “I think I like you, James.”

  “Is that your way of saying you like Feynman?”

  “That’s my way of saying I like you.”

  She smiles again, and walks away, and I’m left with my racing pulse.

  Evie

  My last class of the day is marching band. I’m playing my clarinet and moving through our halftime formations on the practice field, but I’m not really there at all. My mind is in the school’s front entryway.

  Who is this guy, and why does he make me feel…strange?

  Normally I’d never be so forward with a stranger, but he brings out a new side of me.

  Something drags down in my lower belly, the tugging of some cord, as I remember standing near him. Up close, I felt it even more: that quiet energy I noticed when I first saw him—a blend of aloofness and something else…a kind of holding back. This feeling that he’s got up walls—but I can feel something behind them.

  I don’t know anything about him.

  But I want to.

  I don’t know why I have this feeling, like this boy is the most important person I’ve ever met, but I’m taking it home with me. I’m going to curl up with it tonight, and wake up with it tomorrow, and keep thinking on it.

  I’m still replaying our encounter when I remember—I’ll get to meet the new kid when I get home.

  He’ll be my eleventh foster sibling. We’ve had three babies, four toddlers, and four other kids over the years—all under the age of ten.

  The babies usually aren’t with us for long. Most parents clean up their act fast when there’s a squishy baby on the line. The toddlers are usually temporary, too, most often because of a hiccup in their adoption process. The older kids are available for adoption while we have them. In two of our four older kid cases, the kids’ parents had passed, and no one was immediately around to take them, so we had them briefly while their extended families regrouped. In one other one, the girl was a cute, curly haired four-year-old who, by chance, got adopted out of our house.

  And in the last case, the boy had…troubles. He was only ten, but the poor guy had a lot of baggage. He threw a butter knife at Em when she was crying, rolled my father’s bowling ball down the stairs because he wanted a toy I had, and called our housekeeper a bitch. Those things were okay—my parents didn’t want to give up on him—but then one day, he walked up to the waterfall in the woods behind our house, swallowed a bunch of water, and told my mother, who was hot on his heels, that he wanted to drown himself. We wanted to keep him with us and help him, but my parents work too much to offer a good home to a kid with additional needs. It wouldn’t be fair to anyone. So he got shifted into a high-needs home.

  Our spare bedroom was vacant for a long time after that—close to a year. And then Mom and Dad got the call about Landon.

  I think about him as we gather at the edge of the practice field behind the school, listen to the drum major give her criticisms, then trudge into the band classroom in the back right quadrant of the school.

  I listen to Makayla, who plays flute, complain about her sore feet as we pack our instruments away. She tells me Pax might get suspended for the fight with James, and my heart seems to stop.

  “Oh, really? Do you think the new guy is in trouble too?”

  She shakes her head. “Pax told me in history that it’s only him they’re mad at. They believed the new boy’s story.”

  “Why’d Pax do that anyway? Who starts a fight like that with a new kid?”

  Makayla shrugs. “He says he really thought that was his shirt.”

  Poor Pax. He really isn’t the brightest crayon in the box. He has good qualities, like pizzazz and loyalty, but he’s not so good at keeping his cool.

  “That’s sad,” I say, as I hoist my heavy backpack up onto my shoulders.

  “It is,” Makayla agrees. “So…call me later?” She’s walking through the band classroom, toward the hallway, and ultimately toward cheer practice in the basketball gymnasium.

  “For sure,” I say, as I make for the classroom’s back door. I usually go through the hallway, too, but I’m not in the mood to deal with all the hustle and bustle as everyone pours out of school. I’d rather walk around the building, even in the heat, so I can have more time with my thoughts.

  I’m almost to the door when Mr. Browne, the band instructor, calls my name. I turn around.

  “I forgot—I got a note for you during practice.” He hands me a small, folded slip of paper.

  “Thanks.”

  I walk outside and unfold it.

  Evie’s mother called. Evie should call Mom before going home. Important. The word important is underlined twice.

  I swallow. Did something happen? I hesitate a second, thinking of pulling my book bag off to get to my phone, but I decide that I can wait until I reach the car. If it is an emergency, I’d rather find out about it inside the privacy of my car.

  After a few minutes walking through warm grass, I reach the parking lot and the crowd spilling out the front doors. As I scan the throng of people rushing toward their cars, I notice a tall figure ahead of me. My stomach does a flip-flop. It’s him—James.

  With a book in his hand and his head dipped, he’s walking between cars, headed toward the rear of the lot.

  I trail him as he passes two more rows, rows I need to cross anyway to get to my Focus. He slows near my car, and my heart hammers at the thought that maybe we parked by each other.

  I’m getting closer now—close enough that I could throw a rock and hit him. He turns toward the school, and I think he’s about to unlock the white truck beside my Focus. Then he leans against my car.

  My stomach bottoms out as my throat tightens.

  What?

  He folds his arms and tips his head back, looking at the sky. He doesn’t move from where he leans against my passenger side door.

  I think frantically of stopping, opening up my bag, calling my mom, but my legs don’t seem to get the message. I keep moving until I reach the car’s hood. Our eyes meet, and for a long moment, we stand there staring at each other like a deer stares when you spot one in the forest—a long, calm, assessing look while the wheel of time slows, jerks, and then jolts forward a few notches.

  I know before we exchange words. And even so, I have to say them.

  “Why are you at my car?” My voice sounds hoarse.

  I can see his brows rumple, his eyes sharpen as he assesses me with a look that seems both skeptical and irritated. “Are you Evelyn?” he says at last.

  “I’m Evie.”

  His gaze falls to his battered sneakers for a moment before tugging back to mine. “Evie…I’m your foster brother.”

  Three

  Evie

  “But…” I shake my head. “Your name is—”

  “James Landon.” I think I must gape, because his eyes roll in response. “I know, I know. It’s a shock to all. My social worker called the school, told me my chart had a misprint: seven instead of seventeen. During a phone call, someone mentioned me being the same age as your parents’ daughter. My social worker assumed they were talking about you.”

  And my parents thought the boy would be Em’s age.

  “So…” My head feels buzzy.

  “Will you let me in? It’s hot as fuck out here.”

  I let him in, crank the car, and step back out to call my mom, my backside leaned against my door. She confirms what Landon told me.

  “I talked to his social worker all morning, and I still think he’s a fit for us. Can you go to the office and find him? Theresa—his SW—told me he still wants to come to us.”

  “He’s already in my car,” I tell her in a low tone. “I’m outside of it.”


  “Do you feel good about him?”

  Something squeezes in my chest—the knowledge that if I say “no,” he’ll just be…what? Sent off to a group home? Like a dog in the pound…

  “For sure,” I tell her quickly, turning so I’m looking into my car window. I can see his jeans-covered legs, his big hand drumming on one knee. “He seems nice.”

  It’s a lie, of course. Whatever he seems, I wouldn’t call it “nice,” but…I want him. I want to know him. My whole body feels alight with frenzied energy.

  “We’ll be home soon,” I tell my mother.

  “Okay. Thank you, honey.”

  I get into the car, my cheeks too warm, my chest too tight.

  “What’s the verdict?” he asks darkly.

  “We’re all good.”

  Except that’s not really true either. I feel rattled, as I drive out of the parking lot. Rattled by the vastness of this feeling. Unnerved by the way I want him—senselessly, and without explanation.

  He’s quiet, and I’m so nervous, I can’t speak. As I drive the familiar route toward home and he stares out the window, interest wars with my anxiety. Like earlier today, when I talked to him near the school’s front doors, I feel an uncharacteristic sense of boldness. It’s like a shot of adrenaline making me act braver, although I feel more nervous than ever.

  “Let me tell you this,” I say, daring a glance at him. “Your room is awesome.” I force myself to smile, even though he looks like misery personified, and my heart is beating too fast. “It’s got a Star Wars poster and airplanes on the sheets. In your bathroom, there’s a Hogwarts shower curtain.”

  His eyes are skeptical, his lush mouth tense.

  “My little sister and I picked it all out for you, for seven-year-old Landon.” I laugh.

  His eyebrows arch as he crosses his arms over his chest. His lips are pressed together, the corners of his mouth curved upward in a kind of smile but kind of grimace, too.

  “Em, she wore her favorite Minnie Mouse dress to meet you at her elementary school today. You have to love her or you’ll break her heart. She’s expecting a new friend.”

  He doesn’t speak, not with his mouth, so I continue. “I think you’ll find your clothes a little bit too small, but don’t go stealing any shirts. We’ll get you more.”

  His smirk bends into a smile; his eyes crinkle. “It’s not funny,” he says, as if he’s trying to convince himself.

  “It’s sort of funny.”

  He rubs his hand across his face to hide a small smile.

  “You did steal the shirt,” I venture.

  “Why do you say that?”

  My gaze flickers to him. “Because it’s got gray seams. I couldn’t see before, but now that you’re up close… Pax wears name-brand undershirts. How did you get away with it?”

  He does the smirk-smile-grimace thing again, making a dimple bloom in his left cheek. “I’ll deny it if you ever ask again.”

  “I wouldn’t. I’m a little square, but I’m no rat.”

  “I found it in the locker room this morning…” He taps his forehead. “Wrote my initials on the tag.”

  I laugh. “That’s crazy smart.”

  “I’m crazy smart.”

  “That’s what my parents said.” I laugh. “I was wondering! What kind of elementary school kid needs help prepping for college?”

  His eyes shut, and he shakes his head. I want to grab him by the shoulders just to feel their thickness: cotton-covered muscle…

  “That’s a pretty big fuckup,” he says, stretching out his legs.

  “Age is just a number, right?”

  “Is that what the greeting cards say?”

  “You’re a skeptic, aren’t you? I can tell. I bet you like Jack Handey. You’re a reluctantly hopeful agnostic who wishes you didn’t have an optimistic streak, but you do, don’t you? I can feel it.”

  As soon as the words fall off my tongue, I want to clamp my palm over my mouth. I’ve never been so forward with anyone, nor so presumptive.

  To my shock, he laughs. “You’re right. That’s pretty fucking good; I’ve gotta give it to ya.”

  “You should be more optimistic,” I say. “Look at what you pulled off today with the shirt. I think things are going your way, Landon. James Landon?”

  He nods.

  “And what’s your last name? Jones, right?”

  “Like Indiana.” He winks.

  “Oh my gosh, I bet Em looked for you all day. Poor thing.”

  “Your parents…” He shakes his head. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they send me packing after tonight.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “You know why.” His eyes narrow.

  “Because you’re my age?”

  He nods. “Coyote in the hen house.”

  I give a laughing hoot. “I’m the hen?”

  Again, that rakish nod. His eyebrows lift, and those gray eyes study my face. “I didn’t notice much at first, but now I’m talking to you…” He shakes his head again, and runs a hand back through his hair.

  My heart pounds. “Now you’re talking to me…what?” I half-whisper.

  He shrugs. “You’re the kind of good girl bad guys always go for.”

  “Are you a bad guy?” I ask.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I think maybe you play one. Like an actor in a movie.”

  “Are you always like this?”

  “Like how?” I ask.

  He looks at me again—a searching look that unlocks things inside me.

  “Blunt and presumptive?” I try.

  “You’re a Gryffindor, aren’t you?”

  This makes me giggle. “I have socks—and possibly a winter scarf—in my Hogwarts house colors.”

  “I figured.” He looks smug. Relaxed now.

  “And what are you?”

  “You need to ask?” Again, the eyebrow lift, the skeptic.

  “No. I really don’t. I know you’re Slytherin.”

  He nods once, taking up most of the space in my car and in my heart.

  “Every Slytherin needs a friend from Gryffindor,” I tell him.

  “If you say so.”

  “C’mon. It’s the truth. You know it.”

  “I don’t need you,” he says.

  “Yes you do. You need someone to call your bullshit.”

  “Is that right?” He smiles reluctantly. That dimple.

  “It’s right. You need a friend who understands that even though you claim to be from Slytherin, you’re not as scary as you seem.”

  “Do I seem scary?” He looks pleased.

  “That part was an exaggeration.”

  His face falls, and I giggle. He’s easy to goad.

  “You’re going to love my house.” We’re on the road that takes us up into the hills now. “There’s a waterfall behind it. And your room? It’s in the basement. Your clothes are about nine sizes too small, but the space down there is pretty sweet. A lot of privacy.”

  He nods, and I can feel his nervousness.

  “Don’t worry. I don’t think my parents will care that you’re my age instead of Em’s. They probably think it’s meant to be.”

  He screws his face up. “Really?”

  “Yes, Mr. Skeptical. They believe in things like serendipity and fate.”

  He frowns. “I don’t.”

  “Well—you will.”

  The pensive, brooding guy from school goes quiet as we walk through the house. I can tell he must be nervous, because he barely says a word as Mom, Emmaline, and I lead him through our foyer/formal dining room, into the kitchen, back into the family area, and then up the gorgeous, mahogany staircase that leads from the foyer to the second floor, where we show him the workout room and my dad’s library.

  Em’s and my bedrooms, on the third floor, aren’t part of his tour. After he sees everything else, we take him to the basement, where he laughs at his room, bespells my sister with a Harry Potter wand, and flops down on one
twin bed like he’s been living in our basement forever.

  Dinner with my dad is just as easy. Landon is a little on the quiet side, but polite and shockingly charming.

  My mom confides that very night, when everyone else is asleep, that she thinks he was meant to end up in our house.

  “I would have never signed on for a boy your age, Evie, but now that we have him, I think this could be wonderful.”

  I nod, even as my stomach flips. “I think so too.”

  “So you have homeroom together?”

  I nod, and we talk about getting him some school supplies. My mom’s off work tomorrow afternoon.

  “Maybe we’ll leave school early. Do a little shopping,” she suggests. “The four of us. How does that sound?”

  My mom is awesome. To the core. I don’t know how someone like Landon ended up in foster care when I won the lottery, but I’m forever grateful.

  We do just that, and in days, it feels like he has always been here. He sits endlessly in the family room while Emmaline reads him Holes by Louis Sachar. He helps my mom with dishes, even though she always says he doesn’t need to. In the mornings over breakfast, he reads the paper with my dad.

  With me, he’s not as warm—and not as polished. Sometimes, he gives me looks just like he did the first day that I met him, looks that seem to tell me something private, like at dinner one night while my parents and Em are getting seconds, he gives me a tired smile-smirk. When they get back to the table, he’s back “on,” talking and joking.

  I learn that his wit is dry, his politics sincere, his reading taste geeky, and his pop culture repertoire vast. One night shortly after he arrives, I go down to the kitchen after bedtime to get grape juice, and I find him at the kitchen table, hunched over another book by Richard Feynman, the affable physicist/author.

  “That’s not the same book, is it?” I ask, peering at the cover, striped by his long fingers holding it.

  He doesn’t look up. “Nope.”

  “You’re going through those things like comic books.”

  “Easy reading,” he says, still not looking up.

  “For after midnight?”