Tears of the Broken by A.M Hudson

so my dad bought me these “Plane
Mirrors” to reflect the afternoon sun into my room. He even let me
climb out my window—after I threw a tantrum about independence—and
position them carefully so they’d catch the light of the retiring
sun. Now I can still lie on my bed, like I used to every evening,
and watch the prancing spectrums on my walls as the light reaches
through my crystals.
    It’s
just a little piece of magic from a childhood passed.
    But,
one thing that doesn’t pass with childhood is homework.
    I
slumped backward on my bed in the middle of the room and kicked off
my Skechers; one hit my dressing table across the room and the
other landed by my door, then, I dug my toes into the squishy
carpet and let out a long sigh. It’s over. The torturous first day
is over.
    “ See?” I called across to the girl in the mirror. “It wasn’t
that bad.”
    “ Mu-um!” Sam yelled obnoxiously from outside my door.
“Ara-Rose is talking to herself again.”
    “ Shut up, Sam!” I sat up and ditched my pillow at the back of
my door. Er! He’s so irritating. If I wanna talk to myself, I
should damn well be allowed to. It doesn’t mean I’m crazy…waiting
for myself to talk back does, but let’s not go there.
    As
his boisterous giggle faded down the hall, I huffed out the
frustration of the pest and looked across at my dresser, sitting
against the angled wall of my wardrobe. The girl isn’t there right
now—the only thing looking back at me is the reflection of the oak
tree out the back and the swaying, white rope swing that hangs from
it.
    That’s where I should be—out there, on the swing where I
spent every day this summer since I came here, just rocking back
and forth, watching the kids across the road during football
practice—wishing my life were as easy as theirs. But it’s not, and
we mustn’t feel sorry for ourselves. At least, that’s what they
keep telling me, anyway. Doesn’t mean I don’t.
    But,
at least today is finally over. All I wanted, all day, was to get
home so I could process this David thing; process how he said he
likes me. But I have to be careful not to read too far into that.
His version of like might be entirely different to mine.
    And
what’s his deal, anyway? How is he possibly so unreal and so damn
smart, too? I didn’t realise he was intelligent until Society and
Environment class, when he corrected the teacher on the
Emancipation Proclamation. It wasn’t even on topic, but it took one
simple comment from a kid up the back, and our discussion on North
America turned into a full-blown slavery debate. David, rather
heatedly, put everyone in their place.
    He
makes me want to pick up a book and read it. I can’t even begin to
be in his league if I’m a dumb spud, and let’s face it…aside from
English and Music studies…I’m a dumb spud.
    With
a loud sigh, I picked up my bag and dropped it onto the desk under
the window, then pulled out my cold, wooden chair and sat
down—trying hard to ignore the waving leaves of the oak tree,
summoning me to their company.
    Focus on homework, Ara, focus. David will like you if he
thinks you’re smart.
    Wait! What am I saying? I slapped the back of my own wrist.
My God, I’ve gone mad with lust. I’ve actually gone stark-raving
mad. Since when do you base your worth on intelligence, Ara-Rose?
This boy has warped your sense of self-respect.
    And
what would Mike say if he heard you talk this way? I tell you what
he’d say. He’d say you’re a damn fool. He’d slap you and tell you
that you’re a smart, funny girl, and any guy who doesn’t like you
for who you are isn’t worth the dirt he walks on.
    God,
I so badly wanna call Mike. Dad even installed a phone in here for
me so I could talk to my friends back home, but I haven’t used it
yet.
    I
sighed heavily and lifted my head off my hands. It won’t be easy to
talk to my best friend again. So much has happened these past
months and I’ve not spoken to him more than twice