Chapter #1 - Broken

Chapter #1 - Broken

A Chapter by Dan E. Arndt
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Introduction of the story and the main protagonist

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Broken

 

     Another school year begins today. They say time heals all wounds. Both family and friends try to console me; yet, each day I feel more broken. Just one day is all I want. I want one day to wake-up from this nightmare. I want one day to see her radiating smile, to hear her calming voice, and to feel her loving embrace.

     My chest tightens as I fixate on her picture perched on the old wooden crate I use as a nightstand. Coldness envelopes my body, so I draw in my arms and legs hoping to alleviate it. Her hazel eyes have the slightest hint of blue that resembles the blouse she’s wearing in the picture. I’ll cherish the memory of that day forever.

     The city bus will arrive soon, so I dry my cheeks with the underside of my t-shirt and rush over to my makeshift dresser constructed from cardboard boxes. Rummaging through them, I find my grey uniform skirt and white polo shirt. Thankfully, neither of them wrinkled from being in their new home. I really miss having a dresser and closets. Heck, I miss everything about our old home in the Country Club Estates. With my uniform in hand, I sift through Mount Steve Madden on the south wall for my black flats and head toward the bathroom down the hall.

     The dark, old wooden floors to our little 600 square foot hellhole, apartment 3B, creak. Sometimes I worry that I will fall straight through to Mr. Kerchansky’s apartment below. I can definitely see it now--plunging through the floor and landing on Mr. Kerchansky’s sofa while he sits at his kitchen table reading the morning paper and drinking his coffee. Dad and Elliot would laugh their butts off. Mr. Kerchansky probably would continue his routine as if nothing happened. You can say that some unique people live in this apartment building. Uncle Gary sure picked a winner for us to live in, but at least he doesn’t make us pay rent. My measly tips from Jenny’s Dinor, along with Dad’s disability checks, barely pay for utilities and food.

     I tiptoe past the tiny living room so that my movements don’t wake Dad sleeping on the couch. He’s extremely stubborn. Both Elliot and I beg him to let one of us sleep in the living room so that he could have a room with a bed. He refuses every time. His body resembles a master contortionist on the old, ratty couch that we snatched on a trash night in June, and it makes my heart shatter. Maybe if he slept on a decent mattress his health would improve.

     With every step toward the bathroom, the floor gets louder. Today’s the day. Any moment now my left leg will pierce through the old floor. I take the next step, shaking. Son of a…, I screech to myself when something sharp jabs into my heel. Keeping my left foot in the air, I hop on my right foot the last three steps to the bathroom door. I use my butt to push it open wide enough to squeeze through.

     A foul stench invades my nostrils the moment I press through the small opening. The smell is so bad that I dry heave right in the middle of the tiny space. Looking to my right, I spot the culprit. I try to flush, but nothing happens. We don’t need this right now--another broken piece to our broken apartment that affects our broken lives. With frantic speed, I jam pieces of toilet paper in my nostrils attempting to block out the vileness. It’s a good thing that I took my shower last night before the toilet broke. I close the lid and rush through my morning routine.

     Like everything else in this crappy apartment, nothing works right. The only window in my bedroom doesn’t open. Last week our kitchen faucet only trickled drops of water. Half of the lights in the apartment don’t work, so we use candles at night. Dad keeps telling us that he’ll fix things, but nothing gets fixed.

     It’s not his fault. He’s too weak to do the repairs on his own. Elliot is always out with friends or at football practice, so he can’t help. I’m busy with work. And Uncle Gary is the laziest man on this planet. It took him three days to fix the kitchen faucet. According to what I read on the internet at the library, all he had to do was change one pipe in the back.

     Uncle Gary calls our apartment building the never-ending money pit with character. Where he actually puts money into the building, I’ll never know. Nevertheless, he is right about the character. This building reminds me of a horror villain in the movies. It’s cold, calculating, and leaves you screaming for mercy.

     After escaping from the bathroom, I go check on my little brother. Well, maybe not so little. I reach his room and watch as he tries to tie his necktie in the broken mirror. “Need help?”

     “Go away,” he says while fidgeting with the black satin.

     Our rooms are almost identical. The only difference is that he has a working window. Elliot is also a slob because he refuses to pick up anything. Instead of using the cardboard boxes stacked along the north wall, he has his clothes strewn all over the floor. I carefully enter. It’s interesting how hooded sweatshirts, jeans, and socks can mask the sound of an old, wooden floor. I stand next to him, “Here, Shellie Eli, let me help.”

     He pushes my arm away. “Dang it, Midget, I hate it when you call me that. And, I already said I can do this myself. I don’t need my older sister to dress me.”

     Elliot definitely got his height from Dad’s side of the family. He’s three years younger than I am and he’s already a foot taller. Some days I wish I were taller so he wouldn’t have an excuse to call me a ‘midget’ or ‘vertically challenged.’ I hate being short. “You know I can help you. Don’t you want to look your best for the first day of your eighth grade year at St. James?”

     In one quick motion, he strips the tie from his neck and flings it at my head. “Fine. Whatever. I wish I didn’t have to bother with this crap. I hate St. James. Life would be so much better if I could just skip this year and start high school at St. Josephs.”

     “And give up your last year of middle school?” I ask as my hands go to work on his tie. “You’d miss the best year of grade school. Eighth grade was awesome. You get to run the school. Not to mention, eighth graders get extra field trips and fun events,” I lie. The truth is that eighth grade at St. James Catholic School, for me anyways, was horrendous. “I can’t believe that you’d give that up.” I finish a perfect Half-Windsor knot. “Trust me, Beaner, high school isn’t as great as you think.” I admire my handiwork before taking a seat on his mattress on the floor.

     “You don’t understand, Brandy. We both know that Dad’s getting worse. He sleeps all the time.”

     “So what does that have to do with you skipping eighth grade to go directly into high school?”

     “Because the sooner I get into high school to play ball, the sooner I get into college and then drafted by the Raiders or some other NFL team. I’m the only one who has a shot at saving our family from this mess.”

     “Thanks a lot, Jerk!” I toss a pillow at his head. His comment hurts. He’s right, but it still hurts. Even if I would’ve continued playing softball, it’s not like I could make a living being a professional pitcher. Elliot’s face whitens as his eyes bulge looking at something on his mattress to my right. I turn to where the pillow once rested and gasp.

     “Seriously?” I pick up the Coors bottle.

     “Come off it, Sis. It’s not like you don’t do it.”

     “But--”

     “But nothing, Midget. You started in eighth grade, too. I remember the night you stumbled through my window drunk to avoid Mom and Dad. After you crashed into the chair and woke them up, I lied to cover for you! On top of all that, I spent the next day scrubbing my bathroom because you puked over everything.” He snatches the bottle out of my hand.

     My eyes burn. I rush out of his room right before the tears cascade down my warm cheeks. Our old house had a million places for me to hide. In this dump, I have nowhere. My chest caves. I can’t breathe.

 

_______________________

 

     Stepping off the number two city bus about five blocks from the school, a warm breeze--the kind that makes blistering hot days hotter--brushes my hair against my neck flinging beads of sweat to the ground beside me. Thankfully, no one from my school rides the city bus, so at least I’m safe for now. This walk sucks, but it’s gonna suck even more when winter arrives in a few short months. I get closer to the church and spot Steph over by the oak tree near the peace garden. She’s standing there alone getting in her last nicotine fix. She holds out her cigarette when I make it over from across the street. “Thanks,” I grasp it from her and take a few quick hits before giving it back. “So did you get it?”

     “Yep,” she says, rifling through her backpack. She pulls out the blue sweater and tosses it to me.

     “Thanks.” I take off the old uniform sweater and put on the new one. “I promise to get you money next week.”

     She hands me the cigarette, “Don’t worry about it.” I finish it off and toss the butt to the curb. The two of us walk toward the entrance of the school. “I know why you asked me to get the new uniform sweater for you, but how did your dad come up with the funds to pay your tuition, Brandy?”

     “He told me a few weeks ago that Mrs. Hagerty found a donor to pay.”

     “That’s awesome, but why do you look like it’s the worst news in the world?”

     “I begged to transfer to the public school. I’ve been dreading all summer how everyone will treat me because I’m no longer a part of the social elite.”

     Steph grasps my arm and stops me in the middle of the sidewalk. “Forget them. Just be you.”

     “Yeah, right. Nobody wants this version of me. They want the old version that had money and could go to the mall and drop a couple hundred on new clothes at any time.”

     Steph stares at me.

     “What?”

     She grins. “You’re the actress here, so use it.”

     I just shake my head. “It’s not gonna work. The bankruptcy, house foreclosure, everything--it was all in the newspaper. I guarantee someone already knows everything. I’m surprised we don’t have a ton of girls already over here recording my every move for some YouTube video… When Poverty Strikes.” We resume walking.

     “Just try it. And don’t forget to be happy that you’re here,” she says before walking ahead of me into the school.

     Happy? Really? St. Aelred High is not Disney World. If it were, I’d have an easier time convincing others. Besides, I don’t even know what happiness is anymore. It’s been so long since I’ve truly felt happy. Steph’s idea is dumb. There’s no hope. How can I convince everyone when everything around me is broken with no way to fix it? I stare off to the side avenue next to the school just as the first warning bell rings causing the flock of sparrows perched on the eaves of the building to fly away.



© 2018 Dan E. Arndt


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Added on April 30, 2018
Last Updated on May 1, 2018


Author

Dan E. Arndt
Dan E. Arndt

Erie, PA



About
I am an English teacher/Reading Specialist who is also close to receiving certification as a principal. I never thought that I would ever write my own novel. I wrote my first novel in November of 2012.. more..

Writing