Unbroken: 13 Stories Starring Disabled Teens Read online

  What if we break up and I realize that the grass isn’t greener?

  Best,

  Questioning Commitment

  - - - Original Message - - -

  From: MADAME AMOUR

  Sent: Tuesday, January 11 8:22 PM

  Subject: RE Questioning Commitment

  Dear Questioning Commitment,

  My Nana says, “There’s nothing wrong with looking, but touching will get everybody in trouble.”

  Always listen to Nana. That’s my motto.

  It’s natural to be curious and to wonder about what others are like.

  I do think you owe it to your girlfriend to be honest. It might be time for a break. It’s unfair for your girlfriend to go along with you as you figure this out. She will be in limbo.

  My dad did that to my mom before they divorced. Don’t do that. Don’t be like him. It leaves behind scars that are slow to heal. Also, if you ever want to be friends with her in the future, be honest.

  Break up with her. Get the answers to those questions. You’ll be a terrible boyfriend if you don’t.

  Sincerely,

  Madame Amour

  * * *

  My dad sits across the table, peeking at me from above a dinner menu. His glasses keep sliding down his freckly brown nose, and he nervously pushes them up. He needs to get them adjusted. I would tell him this if we were still on friendly speaking terms. Right now, I use the fewest words possible around him.

  “Finding something you can eat?” he asks timidly.

  I let his question linger there in the air, building up tension and angst, and his discomfort. After they filed for divorce last year, Mom said I had to actively work on forgiving him. I had to let all of it go because it was just more anxiety to carry around, and my stomach didn’t need more of that. She said the custody agreement specified that I would split my time evenly between them. But this is the first time I’ve spent more than ten minutes with Dad since the summer.

  “Some,” I mumble, scanning the dishes. I make a mental list of questions to ask the waiter, and all the substitutions I’ll need. I learned the hard way to be prepared when the waiter asks if you need help choosing an entrée. Nana’s advice always replays in my head, Don’t wait until the last minute, and don’t be shy about asking for what you want.

  “We can always go somewhere else.”

  “No, it’s fine.”

  “Seriously, it’s okay. I can get the waiter and grab our coats.” He starts to raise his hand.

  “I’ve found something, okay? I’ll be fine,” I snap without looking up from the menu. The words blur, and tears coat my eyes.

  I take a deep breath. Sometimes I’m so angry with him that I can’t keep it all inside. He broke up our family. He said he had to chase love and a new opportunity. He said marriage is complicated, and these sorts of things happen. He had to marry his mistress.

  He deflates a little like a balloon with a pinprick in it.

  The waiter returns and takes our order. I choose the baked chicken without the cream sauce and a side of steamed veggies. My go-to stomach-proof meal. I might even get to have dessert.

  The waiter takes our menus. Now I can’t hide anymore. My dad gawks at me, trying to read my expressions. I make sure to furrow my brow and purse my lips. I want him to feel confused about how I feel about him.

  “How’s school?” he asks.

  “The usual.”

  “Your mom said your love column is going well.”

  “Yep.”

  “I think you should turn it into a book someday,” he says with a smile.

  “Thanks for the advice. I’ve never thought of that. Just only a thousand times,” I say. “And Mom signed me up for a publishing program this summer in New York City.”

  “Okay,” he says, and clears his throat. “You know Kim is from Brooklyn, so she could tell you where to—”

  “I don’t want to talk about her.” I don’t ever want to talk about your new mistress wife.

  A tiny cramp starts to pulse in my stomach. I press my hand to it. Not now.

  The meal comes. We eat in silence. I hear the sound of his chews, each one growing louder and louder. I imagine him sitting with Kim and laughing and feeding each other like newlyweds. My stomach starts to churn.

  “Are you spending the night tonight?” he asks.

  “Is she gone?”

  “Nora, she lives there. She can’t just leave when you come over. I need you to try to get to know her. She was already hurt that you didn’t come to the wedding.”

  “I don’t have to do anything.”

  He sighs deeply.

  “Did you get a place with a second bathroom? I need my own bathroom.”

  “Yes. And Kim decorated it.”

  “How exciting!” I say, and push a piece of broccoli around on my plate.

  “In order for us to resume our relationship, you’re going to have to give her a chance.”

  “So … you’re not interested in being my dad anymore ’cause I’m not nice to your mistress?” I drop the fork on the table so it clangs really loudly.

  “That’s not what I’m saying.” He crosses his arms against his chest. “You’re putting words in my mouth, and I don’t appreciate your attitude.”

  “I don’t appreciate you cheating on my mom, but no one asked me how I felt about it.”

  He clears his throat. This means he’s really mad. “Look—”

  “How about I just spare both of us this torture and get out of here?” I pop up from my chair. He’s too polite and shy to make a scene. I hear him whisper my name hard.

  I race out of the restaurant without my coat. A flurry of snowflakes float down from a deep dark sky. I let them fall on my cheeks and join the tears.

  - - - Original Message - - -

  Sent: Wednesday, January 12 11:13 AM

  To: MADAME AMOUR

  Subject: Bad Breakup

  Dear Madame Amour,

  I’m struggling. My boyfriend and I just broke up, and I want him back so badly that I’m willing to do just about anything. After football practice, I find myself driving over to his house, and sitting outside until he’s back from lacrosse. It’s only been a week. He seems to be completely over it. I saw him with another guy already. I mean, they could’ve been just talking, but he was doing the smiley laugh thing he does when he’s excited.

  I don’t know what to do. We broke up after having a stupid argument. It felt so silly in the moment. I was jealous and just couldn’t hold it all in. Why do we get jealous? Why can’t I, like, be okay with him being friends with other guys?

  What’s wrong with me?

  Is there any way you think I can get him back? Any tips?

  Sincerely,

  Brokenhearted

  - - - Original Message - - -

  From: MADAME AMOUR

  Sent: Thursday, January 14 9:07 PM

  Subject: RE Bad Breakup

  Dear Brokenhearted,

  Sorry to hear about your breakup. They do suck. You’re not alone in this feeling. But I’m about to drop some bad news … you showing up unannounced at his house most definitely won’t get him back.

  Step away and take a break. You never know if you’ll get back together at some point in the future. But if you keep doing what you’re doing, it could erase that potential outcome.

  Jealousy is part of all of us.

  But you have to control it.

  Sincerely,

  Madame Amour

  * * *

  All the lights are out when I get home, but the TV glows in the dark. I ease through the front door in case Mom is asleep.

  “I’m here,” she says. Her voice holds a slur.

  “What are you doing still up?” I survey the scene in the living room. Empty tissue boxes. Two bottles of wine. Popcorn.

  “Watched a movie, and fell asleep.” She yawns. “And too much wine. How was dinner with your father?” She doesn’t call him my dad anymore. I guess it’s too sweet of a name. He�
��s lost that title now.

  “Fine.”

  “I thought you were spending the night at his house.” Her eyes are all droopy and glossy.

  “Yeah, nope. Not when that woman is over there.”

  She sighs deeply. “He’s your father. You should spend time with him.”

  “He should’ve thought about that before—”

  She waves her hand in the air. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Her eyes volley open and closed. “I want you to still love him.”

  “I can’t.” I start to sweat, and a sharp pain radiates through my gut. Hot, piercing, ever present.

  “You can. For the first fifteen years of your life he was perfect. A great dad to you, and none of that has changed.”

  “But a shitty husband to you.”

  “That may be true, but that’s between him and me.”

  “He shouldn’t have broken up our family.” Tears threaten to fill my eyes. I take a deep breath and push them away. With tears comes cramping.

  “I agree with you, kiddo. But we’ve got to move forward. Don’t let this scar you.”

  “How can it not?”

  “I’ll be okay without your father.” She resumes her position on the couch and stares glassy-eyed at the television. “I’ll find love again one of these days. Plus, I have you. I got the best of him.” She drifts off, and tiny snores fill the room.

  A knot forms in my chest.

  I don’t think I ever want to be in love.

  - - - Original Message - - -

  Sent: Friday, January 15 11:13 AM

  To: MADAME AMOUR

  Subject: Weenie

  Dear Madame Amour,

  I have a crush on this boy in my geometry class. He sits beside me, and sometimes we’re paired for group work. He laughs at my bad jokes and even smiles at me. But I can’t figure out if he’s just being nice to me. Or if he likes me.

  I don’t like gender roles and my parents don’t either. Like my dad totally stays home and my mom is the one who works. But I can’t stop thinking that he needs to ask me out since I’m the girl and he’s the boy. Ugh. Just typing that out looks horrifying.

  People should ask other people out. Right?

  I don’t have the chutzpah, as my bubbe would say.

  I’ve dropped so many hints that I like him—lots of laughing and playfully touching and even asking him what he does after school and on weekends.

  Should I just ask him out? Would that be weird?

  What if he says no?

  Best,

  Weenie

  - - - Original Message - - -

  From: MADAME AMOUR

  Sent: Friday, January 15 2:26 PM

  Subject: RE Weenie

  Dear Weenie,

  I’m too scared to do a lot of things. Other people giving you advice would probably say some combination of the following:

  “Go for it!”

  “Put yourself out there.”

  “You’ll never know unless you try.”

  Heard variations of those?

  Yeah, I don’t buy it. Putting yourself out there without concrete proof can—and most likely will—get you burned. Like third-degree ones on your soul. The odds are never really in your favor. Remember The Hunger Games? You don’t want any part of that. Not in high school.

  I believe that if you’re afraid, then you aren’t ready.

  That’s not what you wanted to hear. I’m certain of it. But there it is. That’s what I’m going to tell you. The truth as I see it. No sugar to coat it.

  Do a little research as you figure things out, then maybe the gamble will pay off.

  Best,

  Madame Amour (also a bit of a weenie)

  * * *

  Indie won’t stop yakking the whole way to the movie theater. She’s sprayed herself in so much perfume, I have to crack the window to get some air. She keeps flipping down my car’s vanity mirror to check her latest shade of lipstick. “I’m not so sure about this color.”

  “You’ve changed it three times already,” I say.

  “Look.” She turns to me.

  “I’m driving, remember? Also, it’s just a movie. And one I don’t even want to see,” I say, making a left turn at the light.

  “You promised you’d be nice.”

  I sigh. My hands grip the wheel super tight. I try to remain calm. If I’m calm, then my stomach won’t cramp. “Can you get my pills from the front pocket of my backpack?”

  She reaches behind my seat. “Didn’t you already take one?”

  “What are you—the pill police reporting for duty?”

  “No, just—”

  “It’s not working, so sometimes I have to double up.”

  “Okay. I was worried. Like it’s a movie. So simple.”

  “Nothing is just that simple. You know that.”

  “Okay,” she says.

  “I’m fine. It’s okay.”

  But it’s not okay. I’ve been a mess all day preparing to go on this double date with her. I was back and forth to the bathroom, and not because of outfit changes or makeup experimentation.

  “Thanks again for doing this.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I say, and she smiles.

  I turn into the mall parking lot. The movie theater sign leaves a rainbow of colored light all over the black pavement. I find a decent parking spot near the doors. Indie is bubbling over with chatter and excitement like a bottle of fizzy water that’s been shaken up.

  I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck until it’s too snug. Just how this whole thing feels.

  “They’re in the lobby. I can see them,” Indie whispers as we approach.

  There’s no turning back now.

  Nikhil towers over Marcus. Marcus has always been the shortest person in our class. They’re a similar shade of warm chestnut brown. Nikhil fusses with his wavy black hair, then drops down to one knee to tie his shoe. Marcus shifts his weight from left to right and obsessively pushes his thick glasses up and down his thick nose like he’s always done when nervous.

  If we ever had children—like when pigs fly and hell freezes over and Pluto becomes a planet again—they’d be born with glasses.

  Indie almost breaks into a run once we get inside. I trail behind her like my legs are made of lead. She basically jumps into Nikhil’s arms and gives him the biggest hug I’ve ever seen. Her face lights up, and her dimples show, which is her deepest and most sincere smile.

  I find a spot on the floor to stare at.

  “Hey,” Marcus says to me.

  “Hey,” I reply back.

  “Hi, Nora,” Nikhil says.

  “Yeah,” I reply.

  We stand there, the awkwardness building like the bad music in a horror film before someone dies. I start to sweat. I take a deep breath and wait for the soft tingle I usually feel when my medicine kicks in. But I don’t feel it. Only the hot cramps kneading and churning in my stomach.

  I look for the nearest bathroom.

  “I already got the tickets,” Nikhil says, flashing the paper at us. “This theater lets you pick the seats ahead of time, so I got ones right in the middle for all of us.”

  I shoot Indie an angry glare. Her eyes grow large and fill with guilt.

  “Is something wrong?” Nikhil asks her.

  Indie answers carefully. “That’s … great. Right, Nora?”

  “Yeah, whatever.” My cheeks flush as I take one of the tickets Nikhil hands out. He shoves Marcus in the shoulder.

  “So, how’s your day been?” Marcus asks like he’s my dad.

  “Fine,” I say, putting major space between us.

  “Are you excited for this movie? I’ve heard good things.”

  “Yep.”

  “Want some snacks?”

  “Nope.” Greasy popcorn will trigger the episode I’m on the edge of.

  “My treat.” He smiles. Mom thinks he looks cute when he smiles, because he’s not doing the sulky thing his face usually does.

  “Nope, again.”
/>   His smile fades.

  We shuffle into theater number four with the rest of the crowd. It’s packed. Even if I wanted to switch seats, I couldn’t.

  Indie watches me as we file into our row. She’s staring so hard, trying to get me to look at her. I don’t. She owes me even bigger for this. I try to keep my face blank. I try to be a good friend and make sure she has a good time. I want her to have this. I want her to be happy.

  Marcus plops down to my right and Indie to my left.

  “The previews are my favorite part,” Marcus says.

  Mine, too.

  My stomach cramps up and begins to bloat. I press my hand to it, willing it to stop.

  Indie stares at me. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I snap.

  They all turn back to face a darkening screen. The previews start. The cramping crescendos as everyone laughs. Sweat beads across my forehead. I look left and then right, counting the number of people I would need to scoot past to get to the bathroom in time.

  I take a deep breath and stand. “Be right back.”

  I go right. Four chairs.

  One

  …

  Two

  …

  Three

  …

  Four.

  I try not to run. I try not to signal to anyone that something is wrong. It will all be fine as soon as I get to the bathroom.

  I burst out of the theater and slip into the empty ladies’ room. The scent of antiseptic wraps around me, bringing a familiar sense of safety.

  I don’t even have time to line the toilet with paper before my stomach betrays me. I hope no one comes in here, and that thought makes my stomach churn even harder.

  My legs shake. And the tears come. Ugh. I hate the tears. Once the faucet opens, I can’t control them even if I wanted to. My body does what it wants to do no matter what. I can’t trust it.

  The thought that has haunted me since I started high school, the thought that whispers to me whenever I have an episode, the thought that feels truer than anything else in my life blares inside me: No one will ever want to go on dates with me when I always have to use the bathroom.

  I shake my head and bury the thought deep inside. I swallow another one of my pills dry and wait for the tingle to wash over me like rain. My stomach cramps lessen, the tears dry up, and the urge to use the bathroom slowly subsides.

  I wash my hands, then my face, trying to erase signs of tears. I look at my phone and realize I’ve been in the bathroom for almost a half hour. I’ve missed the rest of the previews and the start of the movie. I don’t know if I should even go back in there. I take one more look at myself, then leave the bathroom.