Every Broken Thing: Far From Ruined Book 1

Chapter 1

It wasn't the first time I envisioned shooting myself through the face with a shotgun but being inside my high school building tended to bring those temptations to the surface quite easily. Today was no exception. Don't get me wrong, I loved running the sound booth for the school theater productions, but I couldn't stand Shakespeare. Unfortunately, the drama teacher didn't agree, and like every all-American high school, Romeo and Juliet was non-negotiable.

Resigned to my fate, I sat in the booth above the auditorium and watched Romeo and Juliet confess their premature and ill-fated love for one another in true Shakespearean form as I did my best not to gouge my eyes out with a plastic spork from the cafeteria. Even after spending half a semester last year studying Shakespeare in my Honors English class, I still didn't understand what the hell the two actors on stage said, but my grumblings over the choice for the fall play fell on deaf ears.

Granted, I wasn't a thespian—thank God. I merely worked the sound booth and managed the stage production, but that didn't mean I wanted to listen to poorly spoken Shakespeare for two months. But according to Ms. Acker, the theater teacher, "this wasn't a democracy," and my whiny advice went unheeded.

Ms. Acker changed the blocking slightly before waving at me to make sure I noticed the update. I gave her a thumbs-up as I wrote it down in my notes and adjusted the lighting accordingly.

Freshman year, the vast soundboard intimidated me, but after doing it for three years, it became second nature. It calmed me, sitting by myself in the back where prying eyes and insulting whispers couldn't reach me as I worked the stage like a puppet master. Of course, the peace never lasted.

"Thanks, Silas," Ms. Acker called from the stage as she and the two actors, Harris and Caroline, made their way to the side exit. "We're done in here for the day, so you can head home."

As I waved another thumbs-up, I shut down most of the stage lights and powered down the board, leaving the auditorium lights on in case they changed their minds. Gathering my things, I stuffed my notepad into my backpack between my economics study guide and sociology binder. I swung my bag over my shoulder and patted my jeans to ensure my phone and car keys lay in the pockets. With everything accounted for, I plunged the booth into darkness and loped down the stairs.

The hallways of the school were practically deserted, save for a custodian or two still cleaning the carpets and mopping the cafeteria floor. I waved to a few of them as I sauntered past.

One of my many bad habits was hitting Snooze on my alarm in the mornings. The result: being late to school more often than not, forcing me to park my secondhand Ford Ranger in the lot by the gym. It was the farthest lot from the auditorium, inconvenient, but I had no one to blame but myself. It forced me to exercise at least. Plus, it gave me the chance to ogle the athletic teams.

My sneakers squeaked against the floor as the carpet turned to linoleum underfoot, and voices echoed down the bare corridor, originating from the pool room where the swim team practiced. I caught a glimpse of the basketball team running suicides in the gymnasium opposite the pool, and as I ran my eyes over their glistening, sweat-soaked flesh, I thanked my lucky stars I wasn't athletic. Sure, I appreciated the delectable sight of shiny, muscled skin, but I would never submit myself to such physical torture.

As I meandered through the gym hallway, my bladder requested a pit stop, and I veered off course to answer nature's call. I wasn't in a rush to get home. There was nothing waiting for me there except an empty house.

My mom left us when I was still in middle school, divorcing my dad and taking off without a goodbye. Shortly after her departure, my dad took a quality-control management position in the water-treatment plant, which required him to travel and inspect different plants around the state. He worked away from home during the week and, when he was home, we hardly talked. My older brother attended UCLA, and a home visit from him was rare.