L.D. Crichton - All Our Broken Pieces

Copyright 2019 by L. D. Crichton

Designed by Torborg Davern

Cover design by Elizabeth Casal

Cover art 2019 by Elizabeth Casal

All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

ISBN 978-1-368-04428-8

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For all of the Auspicious Misfits.
Could be a band name. Think about it.;)

LEAVE IT UP TO ME, OLD MAN, BURY ALL YOUR SINS, CLOSE
YOUR EYES AND ILL DISGUISE THE SHAME THATS ON MY SKIN.
Fire to Dust, Life-Defining Moments EP, Scarred

GOALS. EVERYONES GOT TO HAVE them, at least thats what my dad says. For the last two years, its been my missionno, my goalto make our front lawn resemble a football field for no other reason than to piss my father off. Dont get me wrongguys like him dont mind having lawns that resemble football fields. Therein lies the problem. Hed love it. Hed admire it. Hed bask in its undeniable glory with unshakable pride. More than that, hed rage. The sort of red-faced-vein-throbbing-style pissed because accepting the perfect lawn means I mastered something he never could. Ive come close before, alternating the height of the grass in patches, but I still havent perfected it. That is my goal.

Heres my theory: He likes to make me work. Thinks itll teach me to be a real man. Maybe thats true, and hey, if the art of lawn maintenance is his vision for my future, then who am I to argue? The truth is, it isnt like that at all. He wants me to be a yuppie attorney, just like him. Guy doesnt want a kid; he wants a clone. Better luck next time, old man. Id rather die.

I survey my work, nodding, pleased with the shifting pattern and alternating shades of light and dark green. Today is the closest Ive ever come to achieving greatness. I give myself a mental high five. I should call the guys, have a good old-fashioned game of rugby in the backyard. Dad coming home to a bunch of riffraff, as it he calls it, might make his head explode. Not the worst idea Ive ever had.

I let myself in the back door and go straight to the kitchen. The scent of garlic floats through the house, courtesy of whatever simmers on the stove, but Mom and Macy are nowhere in sight, so I ignore the growling in my stomach and grab a Coke, sliding it into the pocket of my hoodie before U-turning back outside, sidestepping the pool, and crossing my immaculate lawn until I reach the ladder to the tree house.

Yeah, a tree house. Go ahead. Laugh. Let me find the fucks I give.

Hint:

None.

That is correct. I do not give a single solitary fuck about how absurd it is. Im seventeen. Six foot one and growing, and I still prefer to remain hidden in the trees. Its rad and if anyone knocks it, Ill knock their teeth clean out of their face, no joke.

Two wooden rungs are affixed to the tree stump near the bottom, and theyre the only steps I use to enter the door. Its not a big effort for a guy my size, because during its construction, my father wanted to make sure he would fit, too, and hes not what I would call a slight man. I was six. Wed gone for a family dinner at the home of a client of my fathers, who like all his A-list clients shall remain unnamed. The guy had built a tree house for his kid. A standard, run-of-the-mill kind. A few pieces of wood, a floor, and a roof.

My dad got one glimpse of it and decided that I needed one, too. But mine had to be higher, bigger, and better, so he hired contractors to build me the Taj Ma-freakin-hal of tree houses. He promised me the world that summer and I got this. My kid sister, Macy, got a motorized pink jeep. The only reason I got the better end of the deal is because Macy outgrew her SUV in a year.

Dad and I planned to spend time up here, doing all kinds of father-and-son things. Hes been twice, both times before the accident.

For this reason alone, I should hate it. I should loathe the thing with the burning fire of a thousand suns, but I dont. I cant. Its my only escape. I write music up here because it reminds me of a time when life wasnt so messed up.

I pull my hoodie up and over my head, discarding it on the wooden floorboards, grateful for the relief from the oppressive heat. Its the first day of spring and sweltering already. In a week itll be hot enough to cook eggs on the sidewalk and for me, a serial overdresser, that sucks. Cracking the can of soda, I shove my earbuds in and scroll through my playlist until I find it. Nirvana. R.I.P., Kurt, you were a musical genius. I lie back and stretch my legs on the small mattress tucked against the wall. A slight breeze blows in, and I watch the steel-gray curtains, sewn by my mother, catch on the wind.

I turn down the music, not because Kurts vocals should ever be silenced, but because it seems like a nice day to catch a catnap before dinner. My eyes close, and seconds before the pull of sleep takes hold, a car with a destitute muffler rumbles not so far in the distance.

I sit up and inch closer to the small window, getting a faceful of curtain as the winds direction shifts. A cab ambles up the drive at the house next door and parks, its muffler chugging with relief as the sputtering stops. An interesting phenomenon in a place like Bel Air. Its the kind of neighborhood infested with sports cars like mine, Range Rovers, Hummers. Status symbols on wheels. Yellow checkered taxicabs screaming for a little maintenance stick out like sore thumbs. Josh, our next-door neighbor, and proud owner of both a Corvette and Porsches version of an SUV, steps out of the cab, reaches into his coat pocket, and whips out a pile of cash.

The driver exits the vehicle, too, and moves to the rear of the car, removing large bags of luggage and a trunk. By the looks of the trunk, theyre transporting a body. I sit up straighter.

Ever see a TV show or movie and wonder how they find such good music? Well, theres a guy for that. Josh. Hes a music supervisor. Thats a legit job, and since we live in LA, he doesnt have to travel much, and when he does, Im certain its not with purple polka-dotted luggage.

The back door of the cab swings open and a female silhouette emerges. I squint and lean forward as if either of those things will give me a better view of the newcomer, but all I can make out are legs and long blond waves. She shuts the door to the cab and turns away from my line of sight.

Josh and the cabbie stand side by side, Josh holding the polka-dotted luggage pull in one hand, the body-hiding trunk sitting on the ground at their feet.

I return my attention to her. Turn. Around. I want to see your face.

Macys voice pierces through my thoughts like a needle popping a balloon. Kyler! Dinner!

I dont respond.

Kyler! she shouts again. Mom wants you to come in for supper!

The shrill pitch of my sister hollering is surely enough to cause someone to turn to see the commotion. But no. Newcomer doesnt move.