Broken Monsters Read Online Free PDF

shiny bits of wisdom he was passing on to his new kids.
    “Earth to Dad?” She tried for jokey.
    He came back from very far away. “That was a terrible thing to say Layla. I’m really hurt.” That pleading note entered his voice, the one she thinks of as PD: Post Divorce. Be reasonable . “Besides, you know your mother needs you.”
    “
Bzzzzz!
And that’s the incorrect answer! Thank you for playing!” She hung up before he could say anything else. She waited for him to ring back. He didn’t. She’s not going to apologize, she thinks fiercely. Not this time.
    She doesn’t notice the white Crown Vic pulling up very slowly alongside the skate ramp, cruising for trouble like only cops and gangs and bored teenagers do. She’s lost inside her weed-fuzzed head, intent on Dorian poised on the concrete lip in that perfect moment of potential, the street light flared behind his head in the dusk. He shades his eyes against the headlights. His beanie is pulled low over his sideburns. “Hey, Lay,” he calls out to her. “I think it’s your mom.” But it’s like overhearing the Iranian women gossiping at the corner store—sounds fraught with meaning that don’t have anything to do with her.
    He tilts his board over the edge and lets gravity have its way with him. He glides down the curve and up the other side, tracing lazy parabolas through the gray slush of melted ice. If she slits her eyes, she can almost see contrails in his wake. It’s beautiful. Like art. Or music, she thinks, the zipper scrape of the wheels across the cement.
    “Lay,” he arcs around, catching the trunk of the tree. His breath fogs out in a cartoon speech bubble in the cold. “Ley” means “law” in Spanish. This is her mom’s idea of an inside joke.
    “What?” She’s annoyed with him for breaking the magic. And then the Crown Vic gives a single whoop-whoop of the siren, a flash of red and blue from the lights mounted in the grille. More subtle than the bubble they stick on top, but not by much.
    “Crap!” She drops the joint from her fingers. God, she wishes her mom wouldn’t do that. She slides down from the tree, super-aware of her body, her limbs like foreign objects that aren’t quite ready to do what they’re told. She tucks her hands under her armpits, not only to hide the smell of the weed on her fingertips, but to prevent her arms from floating off, because right now it feels like they might drift right out of her sleeves into the sky.
    “Wake up.” Dorian pokes her in the ribs, totally busting her spacing out. He’s laughing at her. But not in a shitty way.
    “Okay, okay,” she mumbles, her face going hot. She concentrates on the ridiculous choreography of putting one foot in front of the other. Who invented walking? Seriously.
    He shakes his head and guides his board over to the car. He grabs onto the side mirror to bring himself to a bumping stop and leans down to greet through the window. “Hola, Mrs. V.”
    “It’s Ms .,” her mother says. “And I prefer Detective Versado. Or ma’am. As in, ‘No, ma’am, that’s not marijuana you can smell coming off me like I’ve taken up residence inside a bong.’’’
    “Legal in several states now,” he grins.
    “So move to Colorado.”
    “Mom!” Layla winces. “Leave off. Please.” She opens the door to climb in the back.
    “Don’t you want to sit up front?”
    “Nah. This way I can pretend I’m one of your perps. You treat me like a criminal anyway.”
    “Well, if I catch you smoking that stuff…”
    “You won’t, ” Layla retorts. Catch her that is. Especially if she can lurk in the backseat and shut down the conversation. Then she can lie down in the back and watch the streamers of lights out the window, like she used to when she was a little kid when they went out for dinner and she fell asleep in the back and her dad would lift her out and carry her into the house to install her in her bed, smelling like cigarettes and sweat and the sharp