All These Broken Pieces

chapter two.

NOW.

Kennedy Mcmillen likes to think that everyone was happy, at least once in their life. She likes to think that her parents used to be happy, held together by genuine feelings as opposed to the petty, superficial notion of 'sticking it out for the family'. She likes to think that she and Cory DeLuca were happy; blissful youths seeking adrenaline rushes in stolen kisses and meaningless gifts, up until their downfall. She likes to think she and Colette Evans were happy; best friends who traded secrets like candy, who found solace in the arms of their 'sister' - someone who was never like their actual, blood-related sister.

But in every scenario Kennedy Mcmillen conjures, she realizes that happiness - like all things - is fleeting, momentary. It's why people break up and cheat and stab each other in the back, or in the case of her best friend, shoot each other. It's why sisters betray sisters and brothers murder brothers and spouses, significant others cheat on each other every day. Because those moments of stolen happiness, those snapshots of moments people want to preserve, they're never more than just moments nor are they enough to keep holding on, just for a little while.

At least, this is what Kennedy Mcmillen thinks when the school counsellor asks if she's happy. What Kennedy wants to do is shove something pointy and sharp up the counsellor's ass and ask how he would like it if his best friend turned into a mass-murderer over night. But of course, the threat of violence and any trickle of sarcasm would trigger alarm bells, and she was half-sure she would be institutionalized for fear that Colette's crazy is infectious.

So what she says is, "I'm holding up, Mr Parker."

Mr Parker interweaves his fingers together. "Are you sure, Kennedy? I want you to feel comfortable sharing things with me, you know."

"I have my own psychiatrist," she says flatly. "Having two kind of defeats the purpose."

"No, no," he says, waving a hand around. "I don't want you to think of me as a psychiatrist. Think of me like a friend."

"What, like Colette?" The words are out of her mouth before she can take them back, so she decides to just fuck it and roll with it. "Mr Parker, I really am holding up, okay? I'm not going to bomb the fucking school or kill someone - myself included - because contrary to popular belief, the desire to inflict harm is not air-borne. Just because Cole was my best friend doesn't mean that one day, I'll walk into the school and kill everyone too, kapiche? And if you think I know something, then talk to the goddamn cops because I've already told them that if there was one person who Cole didn't need to shoot in order to kill - it's me."

There are angry tears streaming down her face as she glares at the counsellor, hands balled into angry fists. "So please, if you wanna help just like, leave me alone."

She doesn't wait for Dominic Parker to reply before standing up and storming out of the room.

"Kennedy -"

She slams the door shut, making her way to the restroom before heading to class.

She stares at herself in the mirror, her hair all mussed, bags under her eyes. She looks nothing like the old Kennedy, the popular Kennedy. There's not a trace of makeup on her face, her once long hair is cropped short, her once lithe (now, pathetically skinny) body hidden underneath layers of clothes.

She reaches up and brushes the tears from her eyes, hands shaking. When she saw Khalid, she initially thought that he was okay. Then she saw his hands. She saw the tremor in them, the uncontrollable shaking - she has it too. That's what really made her ask him if he wanted to talk, because looking at the sadness, loneliness, fear and confusion in Khalid al-Fayet was like looking at a mirror.

And that's who she sees now, as she stares at herself. She sees pits of depression, of longing for a girl she should hate. She presses her hands to her cheeks. "Get a fucking grip, Kennedy."

Then she hears the scoff behind her.

"Is that what you told Colette Evans too?" a familiar voice bites. "Because clearly, it doesn't work."

Kennedy Mcmillen turns to see a petite girl with platinum blond hair and what she once liked to think of as "warm brown eyes". But as Kennedy looks at Cordelia DeLuca, the girl's eyes are anything but warm.

"DeLuca," Kennedy deadpans. "You're looking peachy."

She sniffs. "Mourning suits my skin tone."

Kennedy raises an eyebrow in response. "Good on you."

Cordelia examines Kennedy from bottom to top, from her Birkenstocks-clad feet to her Brandy Melville hoodie and short-cropped hair. "Not so good on you, however. I may be a hot mess but Kenzie, you're just a mess." She sees Kennedy's bone-thin arms. "Fuck's sake, you're like a tall, gawky, pre-pubescent."

"Sorry. Does this shade of 'my-best-friend-just-shot-herself-and-a-hundred-other-people' make my skin look too pale?" Kennedy pouts. "Well, damn. There goes my popularity ranking, the one thing I care oh-so much about."

For some reason, the insult actually manages to ingrain itself into Cordelia DeLuca's dense brain. She blanches. "Okay, you don't get to pull that shit on me. I checked up on you. Crazy bitch Colette may have shot my best friend, but I still checked up on you, bitch. You were the one who pushed me away. You isolated yourself from me, Amelia, Ronnie, Marcus, Cory?" Cordelia looks at her, shaking her head. "You could've closed that divide, Kennedy. But you just widened it. That's the truth."

Kennedy stares at her, stunned.

"Call me when you're actually ready not to hear a lie, okay, K?"

With that, petite Cordelia DeLuca walks out of the restroom with more class and dignity than Kennedy Mcmillen could ever muster.

And then she starts to cry.