Free My Beating Teenage Heart by C. K. Kelly Martin Page A

bottom layers are tangled and heavy, rooted to her bones, the top one lies lightly on her form, like a loose strip of gauze apt to blow away in the face of even moderate opposition.
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    I’m not sure whether this is something I could’ve seen with my regular old eyes if I’d looked closely enough or whether it’s a new talent, like the ability to pick up on the sound of sorrow in Breckon’s breath. All I know is that in Mrs. Cody’s eyes, I spy a moment where she could give up and back down, simply cease caring and let Breckon have his way—and somehow I sense that Breckon catches sight of the moment too. His entire being pauses, waiting for the outcome of that moment. For several seconds there is only blinking and breathing between them.
    Then Mrs. Cody decides to hold fast to that delicate outer layer. Her previously blank expression morphs into irritation. “We,” she repeats. “That looks pretty serious, Breckon. I want to hear what Dr. Siddiqui has to say.”
    “Suit yourself.” Breckon shrugs, the challenge gone from his voice. “But I was thinking of going back to school this morning.”
    “I didn’t know that.” Mrs. Cody leans back against the kitchen counter. “Are you sure you want to go in today?”
    Breckon shrugs again, and as much as I understand that he doesn’t want to talk I feel frustrated on his mother’s behalf. How can she help him if she doesn’t know how he feels? How can anyone? “I don’t know …,” Breckon says, letting his words hang. “I thought it might be good to try to get back to things.”
    Mrs. Cody stares down at Breckon’s bandaged hand, nodding slowly. “I can drop you off at school after you see the doctor. The plumber’s not coming until this afternoon.”
    For the second time since my dramatic arrival here I’m able to leave the confines of the Cody property. I sit in the backseat of Mrs. Cody’s car, an invisible third passenger, and stare out the window for however long the laws governing my current existence allow. Inevitably my eyes drift continually back to Breckon, whether I want them to or not, but in between times I’m able to survey Strathedine as we travel along Highway 11 and turn onto Richmond Road. The journey allows me to pinpoint precisely where the Codys live, which is an area those of us in the Cherrywood part of town usually refer to as New Strathedine.
    The Cherrywood subdivision my own family lives in has more tall trees, big lawns with mature gardens and historical homes. My house is only forty years old but starting three blocks away, plaques from the local historical society become plentiful—hanging on several of the doorways, detailing the date the house was built and the occupation of the owner: shipbuilder, saddler, apothecary, millwright, mariner, bricklayer. Twenty-five years before my parents moved there, Cherrywood was its own separate town, but even the newer residents tend to differentiate between Cherrywood (an old port town) and New Strathedine.
    Why can I remember so many unimportant details about this place while I still don’t know everything about myself? Yet the pointless facts just keep on coming.
    The mall, Strathedine Town Center, is literally situated in the middle of town and halfway between our two addresses. The names of the stores that populate it run through my mind as if on a ti cas t startingcker tape: American Eagle Outfitters. The Body Shop. Guess. H&M. Lucky Brand Jeans. Mexx. Nine West. Old Navy. Pink. Sephora. Sony Style. Etc., etc. For the most part they’re the same chain stores you’d see anywhere. Not information that could possibly do me any good, but as we approach the Strathedine mall, a more productive idea somersaults into my mind. I find myself trying to sway Mrs. Cody with the power of thought, at first subtly. When subtle doesn’t work, I swoop in front of her to stare her in the face from above the steering wheel and think my address with such passion that no one would be able