Put Me Back Together(9)

I was pulling my door closed while rifling through my bag to find my keys when I heard my name and reluctantly turned around. My neighbor, Mariella, stood at her own front door carrying a Thomas the Train backpack, a yellow toy truck, a purse, and some kind of animal costume. She was also eating an apple and texting on her phone.

“Hey, girl!” she said in that enthusiastic way she had, as though you were the most interesting person she’d ever known. “I’m so late, you have no idea. And did you see the snow coming down? I’m never going to get him to school on time. Ethan, come on!”


From inside her apartment I heard a little voice cry out, “I found one boot but I can’t find the other one!”

“The Wizard of Oz,” Mariella said, shaking the costume at me with a gag-me expression on her face. “Since when do they have them doing plays before they know how to read? It’s like they want to punish me! Ethan, I swear to God!” She gave out an exaggerated sigh. “So how’s it going? I haven’t seen you in weeks.” She looked at me expectantly as she took another bite of her apple.

I bit my lip and tried to give her my most genuine smile. “I’ve been good,” I said. “Just busy with school, you know.” Without actually looking, I thought longingly of the stairs that would lead me outside and away from this conversation.

Mariella was one of the nicest people I’d ever met. She was only three years older than me and had a five-year-old son, whom she was raising on her own because his father was a “douchecanoe.” Ever since I’d moved in, she’d been on a mission to make me her best friend—inviting me over for dinner and movie nights, offering to quiz me for tests, complimenting my outfits. She’d even forced homemade lasagna on me during finals week last year when she knew I’d been subsisting entirely on microwave meals and Kraft Dinner. Considering how much she had going on—she worked two jobs and was caring for another human being—I should have been grateful and flattered by her attention. Instead I was always trying to avoid her. I couldn’t help but feel uneasy around her, and as I stood in the hallway trying to think of an excuse to run away, the reason for my uneasiness walked out of her apartment.

“Mummy, there’s a knot in the lace,” Ethan said, hopping on one foot so he could hold the other up to his mother.

“Katie,” Mariella said as she dumped everything in her arms onto the floor and bent down to deal with Ethan’s bootlace, “when you have kids, don’t ever get them lace-up boots. Go Velcro all the way. I don’t know what I was thinking!”

Ethan grinned up at me with his adorable two-teeth-missing smile. He was a beautiful boy, half-Jamaican—that was Mariella—half-Caucasian—that was the douchecanoe—with skin just a little darker than mine and astounding blue eyes with lashes so thick you could brush them.

Looking into those eyes only reminded me that I had no intention of ever having kids. But I didn’t say this to Mariella.

“Well, I’d better get to class,” I said as I tried to edge past Mariella’s enormous pile of stuff.

“Not so fast!” she said, pointing an accusing finger my way. “You’re not going anywhere until you explain the beautiful man I saw leaving your apartment the other night. Don’t even try to deny it.”

I gaped at her. How did she always know everything?

“I saw him coming down the stairs,” she continued, giving me a knowing look. “I want all the details. That man was far too delectable for you to leave out any details.”

“How do you know he was coming from my place?” I protested. “It could have been—”

“We’re on the top floor, ours are the only two apartments up here, and he was coming down our staircase,” Ethan piped up.

I looked from Ethan to Mariella, who shrugged.

“Who else do I have to talk to?” she said.

“Nothing happened. I barely know him,” I said as I began to back away. “I really have to go.”

“Don’t you dare think this conversation is over. I know where you live!” Mariella cried as I finally made it to the stairs and began to bound down them like a jackrabbit on speed.

Once I reached the street I let out a long breath and slowed my pace. I couldn’t be friends with Mariella, no matter how much she wanted to be, not when just looking at her son broke my heart.

There was only so much a person could stand.



As I approached the third floor art studio, the smell of oil paint greeted me like an old friend. The studio, which also served as a classroom for my daily art course, was only about a quarter full of students working intently on their projects. Still, it was pretty loud, as usual, as people fought over what music to play and commented on each other’s work. I walked inside and made straight for the back corner, speaking to no one, which was surprisingly acceptable. I loved that about the art studio. With so many artistic types crammed into one space, no one batted an eye if you concentrated on your painting silently for six hours straight; they just assumed you were lost in your artistic genius. It really should have been printed on the art school brochures: “Want to be ignored? Art school is the place for you!” This room was the only one on campus I felt completely comfortable in, even when it was filled with people. It was a lovely thing to ignore and be ignored.

I approached my easel, smiling contentedly, until my gaze fell on the guy standing at the back of the room by the windows. Suddenly, all the comforting feelings that had been percolating inside me vanished and I swore under my breath.