Kami Garcia - Unbreakable

I still remembered the day my mom bought him for me. I came home from school crying because we’d made Father’s Day gifts in class, and I was the only kid without a father. Mine had walked away when I was five and never looked back. My mom had wiped my tears and said, “I bet you’re also the only kid in your class getting a kitten today.”

Elvis had turned one of my worst days into one of my best.

I opened the door, and he darted inside. “You’re lucky I let you in.”

The house smelled like tomatoes and garlic, and my mom’s voice drifted into the hallway. “I’ve got plans this weekend. Next weekend, too. I’m sorry, but I have to run. I think my daughter just came home. Kennedy?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

“Were you at Elle’s? I was about to call you.”

I stepped into the doorway as she hung up the phone. “Not exactly.”

She threw me a quick glance, and the wooden spoon slipped out of her hand and hit the floor, sending a spray of red sauce across the white tile. “What happened?”

“I’m fine. Elvis ran off, and it took forever to catch him.”

Mom rushed over and examined the angry claw marks. “Elvis did this? He’s never scratched anyone before.”

“I guess he freaked out when I grabbed him.”

Her gaze dropped to my mud-caked feet. “Where were you?”

I prepared for the standard lecture Mom issued whenever I went out at night: always carry your cell phone, don’t walk alone, stay in well-lit areas, and her personal favorite—scream first and ask questions later. Tonight, I had violated them all.

“The old Jesuit cemetery?” My answer sounded more like a question—as in, exactly how upset was she going to be?

Mom stiffened and she drew in a sharp breath. “I’d never go into a graveyard at night,” she responded automatically, as though it was something she’d said a thousand times before. Except it wasn’t.

“Suddenly you’re superstitious?”

She shook her head and looked away. “Of course not. You don’t have to be superstitious to know that secluded places are dangerous at night.”

I waited for the lecture.

Instead, she handed me a wet towel. “Wipe off your feet and throw that away. I don’t want dirt from a cemetery in my washing machine.”

Mom rummaged through the junk drawer until she found a giant Band-Aid that looked like a leftover from my Big Wheel days.

“Who were you talking to on the phone?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

“Just someone from work.”

“Did that someone ask you out?”

She frowned, concentrating on my arm. “I’m not interested in dating. One broken heart is enough for me.” She bit her lip. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant.” My mom had cried herself to sleep for what felt like months after my dad left. I still heard her sometimes.

After she bandaged my arm, I sat on the counter while she finished the marinara sauce. Watching her cook was comforting. It made the cemetery feel even farther away.

She dipped her finger in the pot and tasted the sauce before taking the pan off the stove.

“Mom, you forgot the red pepper flakes.”

“Right.” She shook her head and forced a laugh.

My mom could’ve held her own with Julia Child, and marinara was her signature dish. She was more likely to forget her own name than the secret ingredient. I almost called her on it, but I felt guilty. Maybe she was imagining me in one of those unsolved crime shows.

I hopped down from the counter. “I’m going upstairs to draw.”

She stared out the kitchen window, preoccupied. “Mmm… that’s a good idea. It will probably make you feel better.”

Actually, it wouldn’t make me feel anything.

That was the point.

As long as my hand kept moving over the page, my problems disappeared, and I was somewhere or someone else for a little while. My drawings were fueled by a world only I could see—a boy carrying his nightmares in a sack as bits and pieces spilled out behind him, or a mouthless man banging away at the keys of a broken typewriter in the dark.

Like the piece I was working on now.

I stood in front of my easel and studied the girl perched on a rooftop, with one foot hanging tentatively over the edge. She stared at the ground below, her face twisted in fear. Delicate blue-black swallow wings stretched out from her dress. The fabric was torn where the wings had ripped through it, growing from her back like the branches of a tree.

I read somewhere that if a swallow builds a nest on your roof, it will bring you good luck. But if it abandons the nest, you’ll have nothing but misfortune. Like so many things, the bird could be a blessing or a curse, a fact the girl bearing its wings knew too well.

I fell asleep thinking about her. Wondering what it would be like to have wings if you were too scared to fly.

I woke up the next morning exhausted. My dreams had been plagued with sleepwalking girls floating in graveyards. Elvis was curled up on the pillow next to me. I scratched his ears, and he jumped to the floor.

I didn’t drag myself out of bed until Elle showed up in the afternoon. She never bothered to call before she came over. The idea that someone might not want to see her would never occur to Elle, a quality I’d envied from the moment we met in seventh grade.

Now she was sprawled on my bed in a sea of candy wrappers, flipping through a magazine while I stood in front of my easel.

“A bunch of people are going to the movies tonight,” Elle said. “What are you wearing?”

“I told you I’m staying home.”

“Because of that pathetic excuse for a guy who’s going to be the starting receiver at community college when we graduate?” Elle asked, in the dangerous tone she reserved for people who made the mistake of hurting someone she cared about.

My stomach dropped. Even after a few weeks, the wound was still fresh.

“Because I didn’t get any sleep.” I left out the part about the girl in the graveyard. If I started thinking about her, I’d have another night of bad dreams ahead of me.

“You can sleep when you’re dead.” Elle tossed the magazine on the floor. “And you can’t hide in your room every weekend. You’re not the one who should be embarrassed.”

I dropped a piece of charcoal in the tackle box on the floor and wiped my hands on my overalls. “I think getting dumped because you won’t let your boyfriend use you as a cheat sheet rates pretty high on the humiliation scale.”

I should’ve been suspicious when one of the cutest guys in school asked me to help him bring up his history grade so he wouldn’t get kicked off the football team. Especially when it was Chris, the quiet guy who had moved from one foster home to another—and someone I’d had a crush on for years. Still, with the highest GPA in History and all my other classes, I was the logical choice.

I just didn’t realize that Chris knew why.

The first few years of elementary school, my eidetic memory was a novelty. Back then, I referred to it as photographic, and kids thought it was cool that I could memorize pages of text in only a few seconds. Until we got older, and they realized I didn’t have to study to earn higher grades than them. By the time I hit junior high, I had learned how to hide my “unfair advantage,” as the other students and their parents called it when they complained to my teachers.

These days, only a handful of my friends knew. At least, that’s what I’d thought.

Chris was smarter than everyone assumed. He put in the time when it came to History—and me. Three weeks. That’s how long it took before he kissed me. Two more weeks before he called me his girlfriend.