Page 22 of Broken Things

Gregor was the best tour guide Ava, Ashleigh, and Audrey could have asked for. He was extraordinarily proud of Lovelorn and knew its history dating back to the time of the Original Twin Fairies, who had so fought over the world they’d torn it in two and created earth and sky.

“What do those flowers mean?” Audrey pointed to a cottage, in front of which was growing a single white lily. It was the fourth time she had seen such a flower.

“The lily is a mark of respect,” he said. “It means that family has produced a Savior—a child, you know, for the Shadow.”

—FromThe Way into Lovelornby Georgia C. Wells

Brynn

Now

“Whoa.” That’s the first, and only, thing I can say when Mia opens her front door.

Two pink spots appear in her cheeks. “I told you it was messy,” she says, righting a brass candlestick that has coasted, surfer-style, over a wave of loose papers on the foyer table and landed on its side.

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me it was”—seeing Mia’s face, I stop myself at the last second from sayingcrazy—“thismessy,” I finish.

When we were younger, IlikedMia’s house. Loved it, even. The bookshelves had actual books on them, as well as funny wooden statues of chickens wearing clothing and playing guitars. Napkins—real cloth napkins—poked out of drawers. There were little collections of rose quartz just sitting around glowing on windowsills. Half the stuff Mia’s family owned I didn’t even haveanamefor—it all sounded like stuff that could have come from an old sci-fi movie.Decanter! Abacus! Trivet! Molecular transporter!And Mia’s mom was always shopping for new things. But this is collecting on crack. This looks like every single item they used to have had seven babies.

“Think of the house as a work in progress,” Abby says as we head to the stairs, squeezing down a ribbon of empty space lined on either side by accumulated junk. “By next week, this place is going to look like a Zen temple.”

Somehow I doubt it. Even the stairs are piled with crap, although in some places I see evidence that Mia has, in fact, been cleaning, in the form of discolored portions of carpet.

“Andit’s temporary.” Mia is still stiff-backed, obviously offended. She won’t look at me. “Just for the night, right?”

“Right,” I say quickly. That’s what I told her: that tomorrow, if my mom isn’t out of the hospital, my sister will come for me. That I’ll be out of her hair.

The biggest problem with lies? Theybreed. Mia’s room, in contrast to the rest of the house, could double as an airport waiting lounge. The carpet is beige and smells like stain remover. Her desk is spotless except for an iPad and a mason jar she’s using to hold pens. Her bedspread is pale pink. Her headboard is blocky. There isn’t a single shoe, coin, or stray sock on the floor.

But certain things—certain tiny things—haven’t changed, like the lace curtains that cut the sunshine into patterns and the parade of scented candles on the bookshelf above Mia’s bed. The mug onher bedside table, which saysReading Is Sexy, where she keeps her glasses. A lamp in the shape of a ballet dancer.

“What is it now?” When Mia speaks, I realize I’ve been standing there in the doorway, unmoving, for at least five seconds.

“Nothing.” Feeling choked up, I dump my duffel bag on the floor and bend over, pretending to examine the few photos neatly framed and mounted on her wall. Almost every picture is of Mia and Abby, most of them in the same room—which, from the explosive zebra wallpaper, hot-pink curtains, and steampunk posters, I assume is Abby’s. Abby and Mia dressed up in feather boas and top hats. Abby and Mia lying together on a bed. Abby and Mia dressed in identical T-shirts. I feel a stab of jealousy—I haven’t been that close to anyone in a long time. I haven’t even been that close to mygirlfriends.

In the last picture, taken in front of Mount Independence, a woman with wispy brown hair is sandwiched between them.

“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing.

“Oh.” Mia looks embarrassed. “That’s Ms. Pinner, our tutor.” She sits down on the bed. Everything Mia does, every move Mia makes, looks graceful and deliberate. This is not a girl who flops, slouches, slinks, or sprawls. This is a girl who sits, minces, prances, and pivots. I swear, I’ve never even heard her burp. “Mom tried busing me to St. Mary’s, thinking it would help to get away. It didn’t. Everyone called me a witch and put old tuna sandwiches in my locker and stuff. I begged her to homeschool me and finally she said yes. Abby and I take classes together,when she’s not on the road.”

Mia never had to go back to Twin Lakes Collective. Just like Owen, she split. She never had to sit in the same classrooms we’d sat in with Summer, or eat alone in the cafeteria, at the table we’d once sat at together. There was only one good thing about being a supposed killer: people pretty much stayed out of my way. Of course, that meant I had no friends, either. I wonder what Mia would say if she knew I’m not even sure what grade I’m in.

“What’s your excuse?” I say, turning to Abby.

She wrestles out a packet of Twizzlers from her bag. “Too famous,” she says casually. She tears open the package with her teeth. “The cons really mess with a regular school schedule. Plus I’m always booking photo shoots and stuff.”

I stare at her. “I thought models were thin,” I say.

“Oh, no. We come in all different sizes, shapes, and colors.” She raises her eyebrows. Her hair is dyed in stripes of platinum blond and purple, but her eyebrows are dark brown and perfectly shaped, like little crescent moons. “Just like murderers, I guess.”

I tense up. “I’m not a murderer.”

“If you say so.” Abby shrugs.

I look to Mia for help, but she is on her hands and knees, rooting for something underneath the bed.

Luckily, at that moment, Mia emerges, holding a thick, dust-covered photo album. I recognize it immediately. It’s her Nerd Notebook. Mia has been saving every single aced quiz, glowing progress report, successful art project, or A-plus essay since shewas in kindergarten. Everything goes in her Nerd Notebook.

---