How to Repair a Mechanical Heart

Chapter Twenty-Three


I don’t want Abel to find me. Not yet. I duck down a corridor, slip into a quiet stairwell.

I don’t think people ever get un-screwed-up.

My heart pummels so hard I expect to hear an echo.

I don’t think you’re ready for a relationship.

I lean over the railing. My head swarms. I wish I was good at dismissing people. I could be like Nat: What a bitch. Screw her. Who does she think she is?

I don’t have any answers.

My phone goes off. I jump. HOME CALLING.

I sink down on the steps and pick it up, not thinking it through. All I’m thinking is yes, please, I need home.

“Thank God,” Mom says. “Brandon, we were worried!”

“You haven’t called for days,” Dad snaps. “We just get one email, four words long‌—‌”

I feel like crying. “I’m sorry.”

“You could’ve been kidnapped. Maybe someone was impersonating you. How would we know?”

“Did you really think‌—‌”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter! The point is, you made your mother lose sleep.”

“You’ve just been having fun with Becky, right, Brandon?” Mom says. “That’s all.”

I drop my head on the concrete step behind me. “Yeah,” I get out. “It’s been really great.”

“That’s so wonderful. See, Greg?”

“Did you take her out for that dinner?” Dad harrumphs.

“No, but I will.” I close my eyes. “Maybe tonight. I think tonight we will.”

“Okay. All right,” Dad says. I sense the anger funneling out of him and for now that’s enough, making him okay with me again. “I told you, I’ll pay for it.”

“Sure.”

“Wherever you two want to go.”

“I appreciate it. Thanks.” I’m a total chickenshit in real life.

“Brandon?” says Mom.

“Yep.”

“Are you all right, sweetie? You sound‌—‌far away.”

“I am far away.”

“I know this is such a‌…‌confusing time for you, but‌—‌”

You have no idea. “I’m great, Mom. Don’t worry, okay?” She sounds so sad. “I’ll be home before you know it.”

“Maybe you’ll come to the St. Matt’s Funfair on the Fourth?”

“‌…‌Sure.” No. No.

“You’re a good kid, Brandon,” Dad says.

I’m not stupid. I hear how he says it: like a command, not a compliment. But his words work on me, independent of the tone, and I want it all back again. I want to be the good kid. I want to be the kid who never made them worry, the one who was safe in his bed while Nat was off at Rocky Horror throwing toast and making out with A.J. Brody. I want to believe what they believe, to feel Mom’s smiling eyes on me while I strum “Be Not Afraid” at the Folk Mass, to ask Dad for advice when he stops by my room to say goodnight. Except now my problem is I’m afraid I’m going to break my boyfriend’s heart. And even if I got brave enough to ask, I don’t think he’d sit down on my bed and ruffle my hair. He’d just turn off the light and walk away.