Broken Read Online Free

my nostrils. Glue and leather and cloth all mixed together in a ménage à trois of decadence.
    Another breath and I’m drunk with possibilities. Words and stories and people and places so far from here that Planet Earth is a mere dust mote dancing in my rearview mirror.
    Hugging myself, containing my glee, I pivot, taking in books stacked two stories high, couches and chairs strategically positioned to catch the light from tall windows lining both sides of the corner, like the bridge of a battle cruiser, broad, high, supremely confident, and comforting. In here, I dare to imagine that I might just survive high school after all.
    “Can I help you?” the student manning the desk asks.
    “I’m supposed to meet Mr. Thorne here?”
    “Upstairs, first room on the left.”
    “Thanks.” I follow her finger to where she points to two flights of lovely wooden steps, Frank Lloyd Wright-inspired. Not too steep—but that meant there were more of them. “Can I leave my bag down here for you to watch?”
    She pushes her glasses up with an ink-smeared thumb. “No. I’m not allowed. But there’s a handicap elevator behind the stacks.”
    “Thanks, I’m fine.” I haul my bag to the base of the steps, eager to meet my peers who also have “special needs.” I’ve never mentored anyone before. I hope I’m good at it, can help them.
    Tugging my bag up the first step, there’s a loud thump as the wheels hit the riser. So much for doing things the easy way. Collapsing the handle, I grab on tight and haul it up. I barely clear each step, but my gasping is quieter than the thumping.
    C’mon, I try to psych myself up. This is what you’ve been training for, sneaking into the kitchen and lifting those water jugs when Mom wasn’t looking.
    Mom doesn’t approve of physical therapy—in the hospital she always refused PT, worried they’d push me too far and give me one of my dreaded Set Backs. But I knew the more I lay around, the weaker I’d feel and I’d never make it through a school day, so I started doing stuff on my own. Push-ups, sit-ups, hauling gallon jugs, going up and down the steps even though I’m not supposed to.
    It paid off, because before I know it, I’m standing in the doorway of a small conference room, winded but alive.
    Three kids sitting at the table look up when I arrive. A black girl with the figure of a fashion model and clothes to match. The girl beside her is kind of plump, with long, dark hair caught in a simple braid curled up in the hood of her gray sweatshirt like a cat napping. And Jordan Summers.
    I’m surprised to see him. Guess it must’ve shown, either that or I was more out of breath than I thought, because next thing I know, Jordan is guiding me into a chair, while the plump girl is taking Phil from me, and the black girl jumps up and skitters back and forth, watching but not really doing anything to help.
    “Hey, are you okay?” Jordan asks. My heart is tap-dancing his name again.
    “I’m fine.” I manage a smile. At least I hope it’s a smile. Maybe not, because he looks panicked.
    “I’ll grab you some water.” He rushes out of the room.
    The second girl hauls my backpack over to me. “What’s in this?” she asks as she takes the chair beside me. “You on the bowling team?”
    Up close, I see that, if you look past the layers of gray clothing, she’s actually beautiful. Exotic-looking. Hers is a true tropical golden complexion, unlike my sun-neglected sallow one. High cheekbones, gorgeous deep-brown eyes.
    She catches my stare and turns her face away, dropping Phil between our chairs, hunching her shoulders like a turtle pulling into its shell. “Sorry, shouldn’t be touching your stuff.”
    “No,” I protest. “It’s fine. Thank you.” Didn’t I just say that? A blush singes my face. Hoards of doctors and nurses I can deal with. But I am totally unprepared for small-group dynamics or, even worse, small talk. I try again. “Hi. I’m Scarlet. Scarlet