Page 1 of Tiny Fractures

Saturday, April 17th

Cat

“Are you ready to hit the road, Kitty?” my mom asks. She stands in the doorway to my bedroom, leaning against the doorframe with a somber look on her face.

“I guess so,” I sigh. I push myself off the edge of my bed, then take my backpack from the floor and sling it over my shoulder. I take a last look around the four walls of my small bedroom before I walk past my mom and meet my dad in the living room.

It’s Saturday, which is normally my favorite day of the week. I would usually spend it with my best friend, Julie, especially when the weather is as perfect as it is today—cloudless, the temperatures in the mid-seventies, the sun shining and begging us to spend the day outside. But this isn’t a normal Saturday. In fact, it’s anything but normal. Today marks the beginning of a new life, a new me, as I prepare to leave the only home I’ve ever known to move from my small North Carolina town—population just over 3,500—to a place that couldn’t be more different: New York.

“Do you have everything you need?” my dad asks my mom and me, his voice thick. He’s trying to be stoic, to act unaffected by the fact that his wife and his oldest daughter are leaving while he and my two younger siblings are staying behind, at least for now. I can tell this is as hard on him as it is on everyone else in my family, and guilt and shame once again wash through me. After all, I’m the reason my mom and I are making the ten-hour road trip to New York—where my parents are originally from—the reason why the last two months have been hell for my family, and I cannot begin to count the times I’ve wished I could go back in time and reverse every misstep that has led me to where I am today.

“Yes, I think we’re all set,” my mom tells my dad before she pulls first my little sister, Samantha, then my little brother, Benny, into her arms and then squeezes them. They’re both teary-eyed, unwilling to let go of my mom, knowing it will be weeks—if not months—before they see her again. I feel ashamed for the millionth time.

“Kitty,” my dad says, wrapping me into his arms. “Please be safe. Please,” he urges. “I don’t want—”

“I know, Dad,” I say, my voice muffled as he holds me tightly against his chest. “I will, I promise.”

I’m the oldest of three children, with a significant age gap between me and my two younger siblings. And I’m a daddy’s girl. Always have been, spending the vast majority of my free time with my dad and Julie, going camping or fishing, playing T-ball—and, later, softball—and hanging out with him whenever he tinkered with his car.

I also think I’m what people would consider a “good girl,” or maybe I’m no longer that? I don’t know. Things kind of derailed a few months ago, and I guess I’m trying to find a way back to myself, to move past the shame, the embarrassment, the guilt. God, there is so much guilt.

“Do you have all your softball gear?” My dad releases me from his hold. “Because your new team is expecting you at practice on Monday.”

“Yep, got it,” I say, even though I’m nervous about a new school and playing on a new team in a city I’ve only ever visited on a random weekend or during school breaks to spend time with my grandparents.

“Okay,” my dad says with a sigh. “Call me when you guys get there,” he tells my mom, then kisses her deeply.

I stoop to hug my little sister and brother.

The decision for my mom and me to just up and move was a spur-of-the-moment idea by my parents, who only told me about the plan a week ago. I was upset and anxious, angry and confused. I didn’t want to leave my home, my best friend, my family. I wanted to stay here. After all, I’ve never known anything different than my small bedroom with its large windows and baby blue curtains, the creaky hardwood in our kitchen, the tiny bathroom with its black-and-white checkered tile, and our beautiful front yard with the giant oak tree that provides ample shade during the summer months to just sit and read.

Ultimately, I knew it was the right decision because life here had become unbearable for me. Leaving North Carolina is supposed to give me a fresh start, and when I walk out of the house and climb into my mom’s car—silently wondering if it will actually make the five-hundred-mile journey since she bought it used when I was only two—I promise to leave the old Cat behind.

I vow not to make the same mistakes I made these last six months that have resulted in so much stress and sacrifice for my family.

Ronan

Thirty minutes after arriving at Shane’s beach house, I’m already three shots of tequila deep. It courses through my veins and steadily makes its way to my head.

It’s pretty great, you know—that feeling when your thoughts start to blur. Nothing feels quite as sharp as when you’re sober. Everything is just sort of shrug shoulders, I guess. But that was hours ago. As much as I enjoy a good buzz, I hate getting blackout drunk. Always have. I hate the idea of not being in control, especially of my own body. I like the lowered inhibition, sure, the way I’m more relaxed, but anything beyond that isn’t up my alley. Today was a shit day, though, and I was so on edge when I finally got to Shane’s after escaping my own home that the first thing I did when I arrived was throw back two shots, no chaser.

It’s eleven o’clock, and I’ve been at Shane’s for the past five hours, enjoying the mild spring night. Mid-April in New York City is hit or miss. Sometimes the weather is positively atrocious; other days, like today, it’s perfect.

“Hey, Ran,” Shane calls to me as he makes his way onto the large wraparound deck.

It’s Shane’s eighteenth birthday tomorrow, which, in typical Shane fashion, warrants an outrageous party with two hundred people—some of whom I know, most of whom I don’t—at the beach house Shane’s mom calls home.

That’s not to say that Shane needs an excuse to throw epic parties. In fact, he regularly makes use of the beach house—and his mom’s frequent absences—to get as much booze as he can conjure up and allow hundreds of people to have a great fucking time.

Not every weekend is a party, though. Most of the time it’s just Shane, me, and our close group of friends, which consists of my brother Steve; his girlfriend, Vada; Vada’s twin brother Zack—who also happens to be my brother’s best friend—Zack’s girlfriend Summer; and Shane’s girlfriend, Tori. Sometimes we’re joined by Summer’s best friend Cheyenne, and Drew, the goalie of the varsity hockey team Shane, Steve, and I play on.

“What?” I say, nodding my head in Shane’s direction. I’m lounging on the large rattan outdoor sectional sofa with one leg hitched up. My brother sits on the other end of the sofa, his girlfriend Vada’s head in his lap while she chats with Tori and Summer. Zack is busy fiddling with his camera, a near-permanent extension of his body these past few years. He’s always filming. Always.

“Did you see that petite brunette standing by the kitchen counter?” Shane asks me. He sits down next to Tori, draping his arm around her and pulling her toward him. “The one with the really nice… shirt,” he says, a big fucking grin on his face.

Tori raises her eyebrows at him. “Boobs. You mean really nice boobs,” she says, rolling her eyes.

“Whatever,” Shane chuckles. “But, yeah, did you see her?”

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