Tears of the Broken by A.M Hudson Page A

in that time—and
that was only because I happened to answer the house phone. It’s my
own fault, though. I refused his calls—one after the other, every
day, and it was only about a week ago that he stopped calling
altogether. Now, I want to talk to him, but I don’t know if I have the
right.
    The
muggy feel of the summer enveloped my face and arms, making it hard
to breathe, even though Vicki had the air-conditioner on ‘North
Pole’. I ripped off the white cardigan I put over my dress at
morning tea and smiled when I saw a spot of chocolate milk on the
sleeve as I hung it over my chair. It must’ve splattered on there
when David unintentionally rescued me from having to talk about my
family. I’d like to thank him for that, but I think if I just walk
up and say, “Hey, David, thanks for knocking my milk over for me,”
he’ll think I’m weird, and then he’ll just walk away from me really
slowly, without turning his back.
    The
phone kept looking at me; I stuffed my nails between my teeth and
chomped—trying to distract myself from picking it up. The truth is,
I have no right to call my best friend because I don’t want to call
him to see how he’s doing, I only want to call so he can make me
feel better about this David situation.
    But
I need someone to talk to. I mean, I’ve heard of love at first
sight before, but this is ridiculous. I’m not like this. I don’t go
head over heels like this, and I don’t ever rate myself based on a
guy’s opinion.
    Well, that’s not entirely true, since it only takes a group
of guys to laugh when I’m standing near them and I suddenly feel
the urge to check if I have something on the back of my
dress.
    But
I’d like to think I have more self-worth than I actually do. All
those great women in history that Dad’s always talking about are
who I’m supposed to model myself on. But internally, I feel small
when a guy snickers at me or calls me a dork. Granted, I feel just
as bad when a girl does, too, but, all things aside, I want David to like
me—like, my version of like—and I’m scaring myself with the thoughts I’m
having. I feel unstable. I need a friend to tell me I’m not going
crazy—or maybe that I am.
    With
a sigh, I looked at my last connection to my old life. “Go on,” the
phone teased.
    “ Oh,
fine,” I huffed, grabbed the handset and dialled a familiar number.
It only rang twice before it picked up.
    “ Hello?” The husky, yet smooth voice on the other end made my
heart jump a little.
    “ Hey, Mike.”
    “ Ara?”
    “ Yeah. It’s me.”
    “ Hey, kid. How you doin’?” His voice pitched high on the
end.
    “ Um—” I traced my fingertip over the grains of wood on my
desk, “I’m good.”
    “ How’d your first day go?” The soprano singer fled his throat
and left a blasé tone behind. He’s trying to sound unconcerned, but
he can’t hide his desperation to know how I ‘coped’ at school
behind forced disinterest.
    “ How
did you know I was starting school?”
    “ I
spoke to your dad on Saturday.”
    “ Oh.
Okay.”
    “ So…” he said leadingly, “How was it?”
    “ Um,
well, it was good, actually.”
    “ Really?” He breathed out. “That’s great. I’ve been worried
about you all night. I couldn’t sleep.”
    “ Oh
yeah, I keep forgetting about the time difference thing.” I slapped
my forehead with the palm of my hand—trying to log the info in
there permanently.
    “ So,
did you make any friends?” Mike asked gently.
    “ I
did.” I grinned, then Mike got the run down on all the happenings
of the day; Emily, Alana, how cool Ryan is—a tiny bit about
David—and a massively overdramatised recap on music class with Mr.
Grant.
    “ No
joke? What an ass.” Mike laughed. “I wish I’d been there. I
would’ve played chopsticks and deliberately done a bad job of
it.”
    “ I
know you would. I was thinking about that while I was playing.” I
chuckled. “I really missed you today.”
    Mike
went quiet. “I