ALL OUR BROKEN PIECES
Author: L.D. Crichton
Release Date: May 7, 2019
Publisher: Disney-Hyperion
Formats: Hardcover, eBook
Pages: 416
Description:
"You can’t keep two people who are meant to be together apart for long...”
Lennon
Davis doesn’t believe in much, but she does believe in the security of
the number five. If she flicks the bedroom light switch five times,
maybe her new L.A. school won’t suck. But that doesn’t feel right, so
she flicks the switch again. And again. Ten more flicks of the switch
and maybe her new step family will accept her. Twenty-five more flicks
and maybe she won’t cause any more of her loved ones to die. Fifty times
more and then she can finally go to sleep.
Kyler
Benton witnesses this pattern of lights from the safety of his
treehouse in the yard next door. It is only there, hidden from the
unwanted stares of his peers, that Kyler can fill his notebooks with
lyrics that reveal the true scars of the boy behind the oversized
hoodies and caustic humor. But Kyler finds that descriptions of blonde
hair, sad eyes, and tapping fingers are beginning to fill the pages of
his notebooks. Lennon, the lonely girl next door his father has warned
him about, infiltrates his mind. Even though he has enough to deal with
without Lennon’s rumored tragic past in his life, Kyler can’t help but
want to know the truth about his new muse.
I’ve never felt safe in cars, but now that fear is paralyzing. I almost didn’t make the twenty-minute drive to the airport in Portland without a massive panic attack. Panic attacks lead to the part of myself I can’t control, and my dad will do everything in his power to make sure that doesn’t happen.
Watching me must be like having a front-row view to a ticking time bomb.
Tick. Tock. Boom.
His shoulders draw inward—burdened by the weight of having to deal with me. “I’m trying here. I have to get you from the airport to home, that means you must suffer for the next forty- eight minutes in this car, but you’re free and clear after that.” He looks at his watch. “It’s three o’clock now, traffic might be light.”
“I’d rather walk.”
“Not an option. Sorry, Bug.”
Bug. Ridiculous. Perhaps once upon a time it was cute, but now I could think of a million other nicknames I’d rather have, yet there’s no escaping the one gifted by my father. Lennon Rae Davis, after none other than the most famous Lennon of all, who also was a Beatle. Clever. Thanks for the stellar nickname, John.
In fact, it seems kind of ominous now. Lennon died tragically. The statistic probability of dying in a car is staggering, tragic, almost. I’ve never been a fan of driving—or passenger-ing, to be more accurate—but since my sixteenth birthday, all I can see is a coffin with four wheels and a blinker. Like right now.
Circulating around a nauseating mental carousel is an image of my dad, the man standing next to me, the same man pleading with me to be reasonable as he lies on the pavement bloody and dying, because it’s a fact:
People. Die. In. Cars.
His arms fanned above him, his body on display in a crumpled heap of steel and glass . . .
His limbs pretzeled and folded grotesquely . . . twisted, shredded metal.
His lungs ragged with each pull, desperate to cling to breath. Even if it’s his last.
And then. It is.
A cold, lifeless stare shadows his face. Just like that, he simply ceases to exist.
My father will die if he gets in that car because people die in cars.
My heart rate quickens, pumping blood quicker, faster, until it careens straight through my veins in a race to the finish where my heart will surely seize or burst. The hammer of each pulse shatters my rib cage, as if my heart is screaming to escape. I struggle to catch the air, to hold on to it for more than a millisecond, and pull it deep and slow into my lungs. But my heart, the beast, hammers harder, determined to rip through my chest wall. That’ll be it. It’ll be over.
I reach two fingers into the pocket of my jeans, gathering the small sphere between my fingertips—the little magic pill that will help me survive this trip, or at the least, this hour.
Ativan. Breakfast of champions. My hands shake as I pop it underneath my tongue, close my eyes, and wait for it to dissolve.
My father reaches into the pocket of his worn jeans to retrieve the sheet of paper that’s been his bible for the last week. It’s a list, provided to him by the hospital when they released me, of my medications, what they do, when I should take them, and potential side effects. He doesn’t need the list—I’m a far more valuable resource than his sheet of paper—but I think he feels empowered by it, as if facts on paper wrap around him like a security blanket. “Lennon, didn’t you take a pill already, honey?”
I keep my eyes closed and hold my pointer finger up. One minute. Give me one more minute.
He speaks in hushed tones to the cabdriver as the two of them wrestle with my trunk and two suitcases. I’d tried convincing my dad to let me bring my mom’s greatest treasure—her record collection. He said there were too many. He’s right. There are hundreds of them, but now they aren’t within my reach, and I’m scared they won’t make the trip from Maine to Los Angeles unscathed. It’s entered my mind no less than fifteen times so far.
I’d been trying to distract myself by reading from my own growing collection of trivia books, filled with the most use- less information a person could hope to acquire. Unlike Mom’s records, but much like my trunk, I wouldn’t budge on the issue of my books remaining out of the truck. My life being uprooted was hard enough, but my life being uprooted without something to keep my shattered brain occupied is out of the question, and my father, it seems, was wise enough to pick and choose his battles about a small box of trivia books. Realistically, my nitpicking has been distracting me from the real situation I’m now faced with.
A situation where, unfortunately, no amount of obscure knowledge or fact-recollection will help.
When I feel like I can speak, I say, “I took an SSRI earlier. This is Ativan, so I can deal with what’s happening without a panic attack. Because my brain is telling me if I get into that car with you, you’ll die.”
My dad’s face turns ashen. He’s been trying so hard, but he still has a lot to learn.
The cabbie watches in silent fascination as my body slides across the worn leather seat. Beads of sweat collect on the base of my neck and my hand shakes as I swipe at it. Gross. I stick the tips of my fingers underneath my thighs, sitting on my hands. They twitch in protest. I press against them with the weight of my legs and force myself to focus on the discarded gum wrap- per on the floor. It’s useless. My muscles tense. All 640 of them. I hate this.
My mouth is parched and dry, and I free one hand long enough to roll down the window before hiding it again.
Pinpricks on my skin go from bad to worse until pain explodes across my chest and tears at my insides because my dad’s about to die. It hurts to breathe. I’m supposed to be stronger than the thoughts, but no one can be strong all the time. I recognize the shift in my brain, and I realize it’s coming. The nerves on my fingers spark and spread like wildfire, licking at my veins, commanding me to move them, begging
me to make it stop. By the time my dad flops in the seat beside me, I’ve already begun. A series of fast-paced, timed taps against my leg.
I like the number five. Truth is, I favor all single-digit odd numbers, but five is my sweet spot, always has been.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Watching me must be like having a front-row view to a ticking time bomb.
Tick. Tock. Boom.
His shoulders draw inward—burdened by the weight of having to deal with me. “I’m trying here. I have to get you from the airport to home, that means you must suffer for the next forty- eight minutes in this car, but you’re free and clear after that.” He looks at his watch. “It’s three o’clock now, traffic might be light.”
“I’d rather walk.”
“Not an option. Sorry, Bug.”
Bug. Ridiculous. Perhaps once upon a time it was cute, but now I could think of a million other nicknames I’d rather have, yet there’s no escaping the one gifted by my father. Lennon Rae Davis, after none other than the most famous Lennon of all, who also was a Beatle. Clever. Thanks for the stellar nickname, John.
In fact, it seems kind of ominous now. Lennon died tragically. The statistic probability of dying in a car is staggering, tragic, almost. I’ve never been a fan of driving—or passenger-ing, to be more accurate—but since my sixteenth birthday, all I can see is a coffin with four wheels and a blinker. Like right now.
Circulating around a nauseating mental carousel is an image of my dad, the man standing next to me, the same man pleading with me to be reasonable as he lies on the pavement bloody and dying, because it’s a fact:
People. Die. In. Cars.
His arms fanned above him, his body on display in a crumpled heap of steel and glass . . .
His limbs pretzeled and folded grotesquely . . . twisted, shredded metal.
His lungs ragged with each pull, desperate to cling to breath. Even if it’s his last.
And then. It is.
A cold, lifeless stare shadows his face. Just like that, he simply ceases to exist.
My father will die if he gets in that car because people die in cars.
My heart rate quickens, pumping blood quicker, faster, until it careens straight through my veins in a race to the finish where my heart will surely seize or burst. The hammer of each pulse shatters my rib cage, as if my heart is screaming to escape. I struggle to catch the air, to hold on to it for more than a millisecond, and pull it deep and slow into my lungs. But my heart, the beast, hammers harder, determined to rip through my chest wall. That’ll be it. It’ll be over.
I reach two fingers into the pocket of my jeans, gathering the small sphere between my fingertips—the little magic pill that will help me survive this trip, or at the least, this hour.
Ativan. Breakfast of champions. My hands shake as I pop it underneath my tongue, close my eyes, and wait for it to dissolve.
My father reaches into the pocket of his worn jeans to retrieve the sheet of paper that’s been his bible for the last week. It’s a list, provided to him by the hospital when they released me, of my medications, what they do, when I should take them, and potential side effects. He doesn’t need the list—I’m a far more valuable resource than his sheet of paper—but I think he feels empowered by it, as if facts on paper wrap around him like a security blanket. “Lennon, didn’t you take a pill already, honey?”
I keep my eyes closed and hold my pointer finger up. One minute. Give me one more minute.
He speaks in hushed tones to the cabdriver as the two of them wrestle with my trunk and two suitcases. I’d tried convincing my dad to let me bring my mom’s greatest treasure—her record collection. He said there were too many. He’s right. There are hundreds of them, but now they aren’t within my reach, and I’m scared they won’t make the trip from Maine to Los Angeles unscathed. It’s entered my mind no less than fifteen times so far.
I’d been trying to distract myself by reading from my own growing collection of trivia books, filled with the most use- less information a person could hope to acquire. Unlike Mom’s records, but much like my trunk, I wouldn’t budge on the issue of my books remaining out of the truck. My life being uprooted was hard enough, but my life being uprooted without something to keep my shattered brain occupied is out of the question, and my father, it seems, was wise enough to pick and choose his battles about a small box of trivia books. Realistically, my nitpicking has been distracting me from the real situation I’m now faced with.
A situation where, unfortunately, no amount of obscure knowledge or fact-recollection will help.
When I feel like I can speak, I say, “I took an SSRI earlier. This is Ativan, so I can deal with what’s happening without a panic attack. Because my brain is telling me if I get into that car with you, you’ll die.”
My dad’s face turns ashen. He’s been trying so hard, but he still has a lot to learn.
The cabbie watches in silent fascination as my body slides across the worn leather seat. Beads of sweat collect on the base of my neck and my hand shakes as I swipe at it. Gross. I stick the tips of my fingers underneath my thighs, sitting on my hands. They twitch in protest. I press against them with the weight of my legs and force myself to focus on the discarded gum wrap- per on the floor. It’s useless. My muscles tense. All 640 of them. I hate this.
My mouth is parched and dry, and I free one hand long enough to roll down the window before hiding it again.
Pinpricks on my skin go from bad to worse until pain explodes across my chest and tears at my insides because my dad’s about to die. It hurts to breathe. I’m supposed to be stronger than the thoughts, but no one can be strong all the time. I recognize the shift in my brain, and I realize it’s coming. The nerves on my fingers spark and spread like wildfire, licking at my veins, commanding me to move them, begging
me to make it stop. By the time my dad flops in the seat beside me, I’ve already begun. A series of fast-paced, timed taps against my leg.
I like the number five. Truth is, I favor all single-digit odd numbers, but five is my sweet spot, always has been.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
L.D.
Crichton is the author of THE ENCHANTMENT OF EMMA FLETCHER, which
received a starred review from School Library Journal. She’s a coffee
devotee and lip gloss enthusiast whose infatuation with music is truly
astonishing. If she’s not reading, writing, or checking her horoscope
for signs from the Universe, you can find her by the water in search of
mermaids because they're real. ALL OUR BROKEN PIECES is her first young
adult novel. Represented by John Silbersack @ The Bent Agency.
She
is one of 6 hosts for a weekly Twitter chat about writing. Search the
hashtag #Wattpad4 Monday nights at 8:00 PM EST on Twitter to join in!
(3) winners will receive a finished copy of ALL OUR BROKEN PIECES - US Only.
Tour Schedule:
Week One:
5/1/2019- Lifestyle Of Me- Review
5/2/2019- A Dream Within A Dream- Excerpt
5/3/2019- Novel Novice- Guest Post
Week Two:
5/6/2019- Betwixt the Pages- Review
5/7/2019- BookHounds YA- Review
5/8/2019- Life of a Literary Nerd- Excerpt
5/9/2019- Do You Dog-ear?- Review
5/10/2019- Novel Nerd Faction- Review
Week Three:
5/13/2019- A Bookish Escape- Review
5/14/2019- Here's to Happy Endings- Review
5/15/2019- Dani Reviews Things- Review
5/16/2019- The Pages In-Between- Review
5/17/2019- Lone Tree Reviews- Review
Week Four:
5/20/2019- Savings in Seconds- Review
5/21/2019- Book-Keeping- Review
5/22/2019- Life of a Simple Reader- Review
5/23/2019- Smada's Book Smack- Review
5/24/2019- Eli to the nth- Review
Week Five:
5/27/2019- Popthebutterfly Reads- Review
5/28/2019- Jena Brown Writes- Review
5/29/2019- Literary Meanderings- Interview
5/30/2019- Paper Reader- Review
5/31/2019- Two points of interest- Review
This book sounds emotional and so good. I will enjoy getting to know these characters.
ReplyDelete