Broken Monsters Read Online Free PDF Page A

with boos, but he just raises his voice, “which means I get to go to school tomorrow and see all my boys!” Clap-clap-stamp.
    “I got a text from a boy who likes me,” Chantelle says.
    “But do you like him?” Mrs. Westcott teases.
    “Oh yeah. ” Chantelle looks smug.
    Clap-clap-stamp.
    “I spoke to a boy I like, ” Keith says. Clap-clap-stamp, a wolf whistle.
    “My little brother made the hockey team,” Cas says. “More time at practice, less time to bug me.” Clap-clap-stamp.
    “I’m happy because…” Shit, Layla has had half the circle to think of something. “I’m seeing my boyfriend later.” She flushes. Clap-clap-stamp. Saying it makes it true. Or commits her to trying, anyway.
      
    She didn’t intend to get high. But after rehearsals, hanging around watching the boys in the skate park, the weed blunted the boredom of waiting for her mother, who kept texting to say she was held up, until everyone else had bailed to go home, including Cas, and it was only her and Dorian, who kept sliding away from her, and she had to get used to it.
    He’s aiming for kid sister. She wants unsisterly things. It’s not that big an age difference. She’ll be sixteen in December. But he’s graduated already and taking a year off, crashing on the couches of some artist-musician friends down by Hubbard Farms while he decides if he wants to go to college. “In the right light, Detroit’s kinda like the new Bohemia,” he told her, passing her the joint, taking care not to brush her fingers with his. She wanted to reply that in the right light, he could be the Florizel to her Perdita, except he probably hasn’t read The Winter’s Tale, and he’d think she was even more of a dork.
    He’s not the only guy in her life who fundamentally doesn’t get it. Yesterday’s weekly scheduled phone call with her dad (like she’s in prison or something) went badly, and it’s been gnawing at her. She was telling him about her part in the play, the portable phone cradled to her ear, NyanCat a purring lump against her leg, and he was all hers for a moment, like they used to be. He even promised to fly out to see it if his schedule allowed, because the last live performance he saw was a bad remake of The Little Mermaid on ice, for God’s sake.
    “Yeah, how do you even skate on fins?” she said, blocking out the sound of her stepsibs squealing in the background.
    “They managed,” William said, and she could picture his brow crinkling in amused horror. “It was godawful, Lay, you have no idea.”
    She laughed. “Maybe that’ll be me one day. The sea witch on skates.” He was supposed to retort, Are you kidding, you’d be the lead, honey . And then she would feign outrage and maybe she’d go on to mention this guy she met. It’s a comedy routine the two of them have, with established rules. But then his new life butted in, like elderly neighbors cutting the music at a house party.
    “Hang on a sec, Layla. No! Julie! Do not throw food on the floor! C’mon, you know you’re not supposed to do that, baby.”
    “Remind me again why I have to stay in Detroit?” She meant for it to sound lighthearted, just to hook his attention back to her, but he started reeling off all the same old reasons, on autopilot. Just till you finish high school. Your mother needs you. I need to try to make this work. It’s not easy with little stepkids.
    “Yeah, the last thing you want is your teenage daughter from your previous marriage hanging around to remind you of how you screwed up the last one,” she snapped. Which led to a long silence down the phone line.
    “Hello? You still there?” She suddenly missed their DIY craft projects she threw out when they moved: the scientifically accurate mobile of glow-in-the-dark planets she and her dad hung together, the dreamcatcher he helped her weave when she was seven—inspired by the Ojibwa who hunted here, he told her—with dangling crystals that caught the light. She wondered what