Brisé

BRISÉ

By

Leigh Ann Lunsford

brisè-

{Literally “broken”}

A ballet term

Copyright © 2015 by Leigh Ann Lunsford

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

[email protected]

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Edited by: Chelsea Kuhel (
www.madisonseidler.com
)

Cover art and design: Kristen Karwan (
www.kristenkarwangraphics.com)

Original artwork by Kristen Karwan and Kaitlyn Mohan

ISBN: 13-9781508669029

1508669023

Table of Contents

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Playlist

Acknowledgements

Author Bio

Dedication

To my husband and son . . . always and forever.

John, you allow me to pursue this passion and always encourage me when the doubt and fears seep in. You may not be the typical hearts and flowers romantic, but I have never doubted how loved and protected I am.

Evan, while you are at the not very fun teenage years, I know you love me. Through the eye-rolls, sarcasm, and attitude, I see my little boy. You make me want to be better; you make me wish for a better world for you to grow up in. Each day I see the subtle changes in you and realize one day . . . you won’t be my little man. Just know I love you and am always in your corner.

Prologue

Luke

My first memory of us

“Lucas Matthew Nichols,” I heard my mom call. “Get down here. It’s time to go next door; they're here.” She had been so excited for this day. Her college roommate and her family are moving in next door to us. She has talked about it nonstop for the last month, and being a seven-year-old boy, it isn’t very interesting, honestly. What makes it less thrilling is the four-year-old girl they have, that my mom informed me would be my responsibility.
“Lucas, you’re three years older, and she has been through a lot. You need to be a good friend, son.”
The look of disappointment she wore when she told me that nearly made me cry. I admit I was being a typical boy and the whole ‘girls have cooties’ thing might have come out of my mouth. All she had to do is tell me another kid is having a rough time, and I would do anything I could for them. Being dyslexic and having slipped through the cracks for almost two years, I know what it’s like to struggle.

I repeated Kindergarten. Twice. I’m finally going into first grade this year. Luckily I’m a big kid because bullies suck. I don’t know why people have to be mean; my mom says it is because they have no
home training
, but I don’t really know what that means. My dad was going to explain it but stopped when my mom gave him
the look
. You know the one that says ‘If you cuss in front of our child one more time, there will be no saving you.’ At least that’s what I think it means. He always gets it when a bad word comes out of his mouth.

Walking to her house I keep reminding myself to be nice. She can’t help that she’s a girl. I promise not to make her feel bad about taking me away from my Pokémon game. I see my mom holding some casserole dish, and my dad is carrying a cake, and just like that I am okay with meeting this family . . . cake makes everything better. We make our way next door. As soon as my mom smiles, I smile, too. I see a woman at the door with her arms out. My mom runs into her hug. The woman is tall, like
really
tall. Not quite a giant, but I’m not used to seeing women that tall. I am staring at her like she’s a freak. “Son, don’t look at her like that, it’s rude,” my father scolds me. I avert my eyes from her so I don’t keep staring and follow my dad into the house.

The giant’s name is Emily. “You’re tall,” I sputter out. I feel my cheeks getting hot. When they all laugh, I feel myself wanting to cry. I am tired of being laughed at. It used to happen all the time when I had to read out loud or I would get my papers back with a big red F on them. How many six-year-olds in Kindergarten get an F on homework? I am learning how to process the letters and words that appear backwards, but it takes me hours to do a simple assignment and hours longer in therapy. “Don’t laugh at me!” I’m angry. It’s tough to hold the tears back. Before my parents can punish me for being rude, Emily comes to my rescue.

“Lucas, I wasn’t laughing at you. I promise. I’m just full of happiness that our families are finally getting to meet and be together. Your mom and I have missed each other so much.” She wraps her arm around my shoulder and pulls me close to her, whispering, “When you’re older I’ll tell you all of the embarrassing stories I know about your mom.” I know her saving me now won’t get me out of trouble at home, but for a moment I’ll take it.

“Watch it Emily, I can return the favor with Phoebe,” my mom retorts back.

A sad look spreads across Emily’s face. “I hope so, Diane. I hope so.” I don’t know who Phoebe is, but I know I don’t like to see Emily sad. She was so happy, just laughing, and she seems really nice. Shaking her head she smiles down at me, then ushers us into the house. There are boxes stacked everywhere. Looking around, I see straight through to the kitchen. There are bottles all over the counter. It looks like the bottles my mom gets from the pharmacy when I am sick, but I’ve never seen so many.

Emily is introducing my parents to her husband, Scott. They shake hands like adults do, and he excuses himself. I watch as he walks down the hallway. A couple of minutes later, he comes back with a bundle of pink in his arms. I thought my mom said this girl was four; you don’t get carried around at four. You’re a big kid then and should walk. “Here’s Phoebe,” Emily says. Scott carries her over to the group. I look up trying to see this kid. I hope she isn’t like Katie Daniels at school; she’s mean and tells everyone she’s a princess and we are her servants. My mom says she’s just spoiled.

Scott starts to pull the blanket back, “Phoebe, this is your mom’s friend from college, Diane Nichols, and her husband, Mark.” He turns towards me, “This is their son, Lucas.” When the bundle in his arms turns towards me, I don’t know what is wrong with her. She has no hair except a small tuft on the front, but it’s yellow, almost white. Her eyes are like the sapphires my mom wears in her ears, a midnight blue, she told me. What scares me the most is: she doesn’t look like a baby in the face, but she’s tiny; smaller than the four-year-olds that were at my daycare.

She smiles at me, “Hey, Luke.” Nobody’s ever called me that. It’s always Lucas. My mom said she didn’t name me something so long that people had to shorten it; truth is she hates nicknames. Surprisingly, she isn’t saying a word, just staring at this little girl with tears in her eyes. Why is everyone looking at her like this?

“Hey, Phoebe,” I tell her. Her dad puts her down on the couch.

“I can put on a show for you while the adults go in the kitchen.” Phoebe nods her head, and I sit next to her on the couch.

“Lucas,” my mom says in her warning tone, “be nice and take care of Phoebe.”

“Yes ma’am.”

They disappear into the kitchen, and she turns to me, “You don’t have to take care of me. I’m a big girl.”

“I know,” I don’t want to upset her.

I see her yawn; she looks tired. I reach over and rub her head. My mom does this for me when I don’t feel good, and she doesn’t look like she feels good. “Thank you,” she sleepily tells me.

“Stretch out, take a nap,” I plead with her. I don’t know what’s wrong, but if something happens to her I know I’ll be in trouble. I was told to take care of her, and I am older; plus I’m a boy.

She tucks her blanket around her shoulders and puts her head in my lap so I can keep rubbing her head. I notice again that she doesn’t have any hair, but I don’t ask her about it. I bet she did something stupid like cut it with her mom’s scissors. Girls at school always do stupid stuff like that. She looks up at me. “I have cancer.” I don’t know what that is, but it sounds bad.

“Well, I am a superhero, and we’ll get rid of cancer,” I tell her with all of my seven-year-old authority.

“Okay,” she says. “I’m going to be a dancer like my mom. You can be my very own superhero, and I will be your ballerina,” she murmurs before falling asleep.

I have no clue what cancer is, or better yet what leukemia is, but I know, as of today, I will forever be Phoebe’s superhero, and no matter what, I will chase the bad guys away. I had plenty of practice in that area since I was always the one holding up class when I took too long to read a story, and the name calling started. I hated the feelings it gave me and would never allow that to happen to Phoebe.

I did a good job of that, until the day I didn’t, and lost her forever. I sucked at being her protector, but she excelled at being my Twinkle Toes.

Chapter 1

Luke

Phoebe Marie Wells . . . that girl drives me crazy on a daily basis. I am only three years older than she is, but sometimes that feels like three lifetimes. She is so sheltered from life’s experiences, yet experienced in other aspects most teenagers aren’t. She can rattle off statistics about leukemia, survival rates, chemotherapy regimens, and a lot of other medical crap I don’t understand, even though I lived through most of those treatments with her. But, give her things like social circles, filters on her thoughts, just overall charm, and you can just forget it. I blame all of us; her parents, my parents, and myself. We sheltered her and let her get away with almost anything when she was younger. I guess some would say we over compensated. I say after what she endured, giving her the moon wouldn’t be enough. Now, we’re all paying for it. She’s fifteen and a sophomore in high school. This is our last year together before I graduate and head off to college.

Right now she’s currently not speaking to me because I am taking Katie Daniels to my senior prom. She doesn’t understand why it’s not her; after all, we’ve done everything together.

“Twinkle,” I begin, knowing the use of her nickname may soften the blow. “This is a different type of relationship. Prom is special. It’s a rite of passage. I’ll make you a deal . . . on your Senior Prom if you still want me to be your date, I’ll be there.”

Her eyes narrow at me. “Luke that is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said to me. Just say what you mean. You want to get laid, and Katie will put out. You’re right, it’s supposed to be special and that is why I am the obvious choice for your date. Obviously, it’s your dick that wants a date, so have fun.” She storms off, and I call after her. “Twinkle . . .”

She whirls around so fast I don’t know how she’s still upright. “Stop with the Twinkle shit. You aren’t getting out of this one.” I watch as she stares at me one last time before I hear her soft footsteps retreat out of my room and out of my house. Damn it. I’ve never seen her this mad at me. Usually a flash of my smile and calling her by my nickname for her works. A lot of our friends call her ‘Bee,’ and she hates it, but it’s fitting; her freaking mouth and attitude can sting the shit out of you, and you’ll never see it coming. But Twinkle . . . that’s all mine. Short for Twinkle Toes, because that girl is amazing on stage. Of course, it comes naturally for her, with her mom being a dance teacher and studio owner. Even through her treatments she danced; on days she was strong enough, you could find her behind a ballet barre or dancing to hip-hop. She’s unbelievable, and it’s her passion. It radiates off of her and devours your soul as you watch her. I can’t explain it any other way but mesmerizing.