Beautiful Broken Girls Read online

“Yes?”

  “There’s only so much you can do. You can give advice to a friend who’s making a fool of herself, but you likely won’t be able to change her ways, at least not right away.”

  “But I’ve got to!”

  “Oh?”

  “You see, I’ve been inspired to help her by the life of Saint Gemma Galgani.”

  Mr. Falso coughed. “A saint?”

  “You know, the story of Saint Gemma and the prostitute.”

  “Why don’t you remind me?”

  “When Saint Gemma was ill, as she was a lot during her excruciatingly painful life, a prostitute offered to take care of her for extra money. Saint Gemma’s aunt tried to turn the prostitute away, but Gemma wouldn’t allow it. She knew it was her soul mission to convert sinners to God.”

  “I see.”

  “Chastity is the custodian of authentic love. Isn’t that right, Mr. Falso?”

  “That’s a very mature thing, to look to the saints’ lives. Hard to live up to, though.”

  “But anything worth doing is. Wouldn’t you say, Mr. Falso? Some people might say your chosen path is tough. Listening to young people’s problems every day. You could have probably been anything you wanted after college. A businessman. A doctor. A lawyer. But you chose to work for the church. I believe many of us are called to higher purposes. But not everyone listens. Don’t you think, Mr. Falso?”

  “Call me Nick.”

  “Nick.” She said it softly, and it sounded sweet.

  “You know, Francesca, you’re an unusual girl. Mature. It’s admirable that you want to help put your friend on a better path. I’m glad to speak with her, too, if you wish.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she rushed. “Connie will be fine.” Francesca slapped her cheek in horror.

  His eyebrows shot up again. “Whoa. No need for names.”

  “I mean, I can be the one to stop Connie—to stop my friend—from looking to boys for … fulfillment.” Too much. Too much, Francesca. Scale back.

  Mr. Falso looked behind himself and into the garage. “Perhaps we could step inside and say a prayer for Concetta.” He stifled a yawn and rubbed his arms. “And maybe I’ll have some more coffee. Have you had breakfast yet?” For the first time, she noticed his hair was adorably ruffled, as though he’d gotten out of bed and gone immediately to work in his garage. Industrious.

  Francesca felt herself smile. “That would be lovely.”

  Suddenly Francesca felt the wet warmth in her palms. Not yet, she told herself. She tried pressing her middle fingers upon the holes, but the gloves were stiff with age, and her fingers wouldn’t bend to reach. She forced her hands into claws, but it was futile.

  Mr. Falso glanced at her fists. “Oh, hang on. You’re upset.”

  Francesca stared at her hands like they were unfamiliar, letting them fall to her sides.

  “Of course you are. This is your cousin we’re talking about.”

  “Mio sangue,” Francesca whispered.

  “Your blood. Come inside.” Mr. Falso vanished into the back of the garage as the garage door rattled down behind her. She blinked to adjust her eyes as a hand snaked around her arm. “This way,” he said gently, leading her up a set of rickety stairs into his kitchen. “Gloves in September, huh? You must run cold. Take them for you?”

  Francesca blinked. The kitchen was painted neutral beige. The appliances were stainless steel and entirely unused. Above a generic granite countertop were cheap blond cabinets with brushed steel hardware. To her, it looked modern and sparkling, though she knew it was what Connie’s dad would call a contractor’s special. A scratched George Foreman Grill in the center of the counter appeared to be the only thing used in the whole kitchen. She imagined how much Mr. Falso would appreciate her cooking homemade gravy at the stove.

  “Of course you can leave them on, if you’re cold,” he said.

  “Oh! Yes, I’m cold. I mean I’m warm. Here, Mr. Falso.” She turned her back to him before gently tugging off each glove. The bandages were intact and stuck where she bled. She turned and handed the gloves to him, leaving her hand dangling in the air. This would be a perfect time for him to ask her about the bandages. It would be a relief to stop talking about Connie; already, guilt about throwing her beloved cousin under the bus crept in at the edges, tainting their special time together.

  He took the gloves and pretended to snatch her nose between two fingers. “Oh, come on now! How many times am I gonna say it? Nick to you!”

  “Nick,” Francesca said, another soft cluck. She could see too much of his chest through his shirt; not really, not see-through-like, but the rise of his pecs and where his biceps strained the sleeve, and she was embarrassed. She dropped her eyes. He grabbed a plaid button-down shirt from a hanger in the back closet with a cold clink, and slipped it over his shoulders, smiling mildly. She rubbed at the sharp goose bumps that ran up her slender forearms and watched as his eyes grazed her jaw, which tipped up slightly, knowing it was her best feature, and then his eyes pulled away and searched the counter for something, though it was bare.

  “Francesca?” he said, still looking away.

  “Yes?”

  “Does your father know you’re here?”

  Francesca winced. Her father was Bismuth royalty, and tough: not a guy you messed with. Mr. Lattanzi next door, that weaselly, whistle-blowing CPA, had learned as much. Until now, Francesca had only benefited from her father’s chilling effect, keeping away the creeps. Now, it was backfiring on her.

  She had no choice but to lie. “Yes.”

  His shoulders loosened, and he turned to face her. “Good. Can I make you some eggs?”

  Eating in front of Mr. Falso seemed vulgar, though she couldn’t place why. But saying no felt rude. “Water for now, please.”

  He opened a cabinet stacked with canisters of vanilla protein powder and bottles of ready-to-drink Muscle Milk, also vanilla. It took him two tries to find the cabinet with the glasses. He rinsed the glass of dust, dragged a stool out for Francesca, and sat opposite, leaning forward. Francesca smelled the bike chain grease on his jeans, and that he’d popped a mint when she wasn’t looking.

  Francesca sipped her water with closed eyes, trying to remember her lines as she’d rehearsed them.

  I have something of the utmost importance to show you.

  Because I respect your opinion, I wish for you to examine …

  There are few people in this world I trust and admire more than you. Because of that …

  But the words sounded silly and formal. She set her glass on the table with a dull thud and flexed her fists.

  Mr. Falso tempered his smile. “Now, is this the only thing you came to talk to me about?” he said gently.

  Francesca’s words came in a torrent. “I’m so scared I don’t understand why this new thing is happening to me Daddy says it means I’m special but that I shouldn’t tell anyone because hardly anyone believes in this stuff anymore so one half of the world will think I’m a crazy attention-seeker—”

  “Hold on!”

  Francesca stood then, wild-eyed, the stool scraping behind. “And the other half of the world will stick me up on a pedestal and never leave me alone and treat me like I’m some kind of sideshow act—”

  Mr. Falso grabbed Francesca’s arms, his stained fingertips meeting around them. “You’re so thin,” he whispered.

  She kept babbling.

  “But I’m not freaky. I’m special. I know this. I’ve known it for a long time. I’m scared. I’m so scared.” Her eyes cut up and to the side toward an unseen voice.

  He released his grip on her arms, afraid she might bruise, floated his hands to her shoulders, and eased her to the stool.

  Her back jumped.

  “There now,” he said, taking her hands into his own. “Breathe. Go slow, and start at the beginning.”

  Joan was sixteen when she led France out of English rule and was martyred. Agatha, fifteen, rejected the advances of a lower-born and had her brea
sts sliced off. Maria Goretti got stabbed to death for the same. Lucy lost her eyes. How dare she be so afraid when her sisters had gone before her and showed bravery in the face of true danger? This was nothing. Have courage, Francesca! She said this to herself, but maybe it was someone else who said it. She couldn’t be sure.

  “Francesca?”

  Francesca shuddered and gazed up through her lashes. “This isn’t about Connie.”

  “I got that. Then what is it about?”

  She held Mr. Falso’s eyes as she spread open her palms slowly, white flowers blooming with blood. He looked down and gasped. Francesca’s wounds had bled through her bandages.

  “Did you do this to yourself?”

  Francesca shook her head and smiled gloriously. “It just came.”

  He dropped his head again and stared. Francesca studied the swirls in his hair, admired their pattern and gloss. A minute passed. It was wonderful, to be held like this. It felt right. She breathed in soap and scalp and something woodsy. He closed her fists and disappeared, and her heart skipped faster until he returned with cotton, a brown medicinal bottle, a clean rag and fresh bandages, setting them on the table and turning to wash his hands in the sink. The only sound was the tight whine of the still-new faucet and his hands as they rubbed together vigorously, like a doctor, Francesca thought. He dried them with a paper towel and sat in his chair, straight-backed, his thighs flexed aggressively.

  He drew her right hand to his chest. “May I?”

  Francesca felt a liquid rush. She knew it was love. Not the kind that Connie declared for boy bands. Or the hidden kind that Mira felt for the damaged boy next door. This was real love, the kind grownups felt for one another. Francesca knew the difference now, and at the same time, a desperate pang struck her belly, and she sensed that this love she felt was a one-shot deal.

  Francesca whispered yes and tried to still herself. Mr. Falso squared his shoulders before he pinched the edge of the bandage, peeling slowly. Francesca could barely sit still.

  He froze. “Am I hurting you?”

  The effort to remain still drove her to tears. Smiling, doll-eyed, she shook her head.

  He blew pufferfish lips. “Good. Okay, here I go.” One bandage came off, then the other, fast. The exposed wounds felt wet and vulnerable, and she pulled away, but Mr. Falso held her wrists firm, his dark head tipped over the perfectly formed holes. Francesca’s stomach twisted and she closed her eyes, calming herself with his mossy scent.

  “Amazing,” Mr. Falso whispered. He turned them over, front to back. “How long ago did you say it started?”

  “Three weeks ago. Yesterday. Three weeks ago yesterday.”

  “There isn’t the slightest clotting or scabbing over. Is it always fresh like this?”

  “Some days it bleeds more than others. It depends on what’s happening.”

  “How so?”

  “It changes with how I’m feeling. I guess. At least it seems that way.”

  He looked up, a wrinkle in his brow. “Does it hurt?”

  Francesca broke into a febrile smile. “Not now.”

  Mr. Falso scowled at the pile of bandages. “You need to be careful. You’re at constant risk for infection.” Francesca nodded obediently. He set her hands on the counter and poured disinfectant from a brown bottle onto a cotton square, staining it mustard. “You need to see a doctor.”

  “My father won’t let me,” she said. “He says they’ll think I did it to myself.”

  He dabbed the cotton square on her wounds. It was heavenly, having him hold her hands in his own, treating her as though she were made of glass. She nearly sighed.

  “Your father’s instincts are right,” he said, though he didn’t sound sure.

  Francesca cleared her throat lightly. “Have you ever seen anything like it?”

  “Never,” he rasped. “It’s breathtaking.”

  Her eyes flashed and met his.

  “What I mean to say is, I know that there are people who have things like this happen. Who things like this happen to. But I’ve never met one.”

  “Until now,” she rushed to say.

  “Yes.”

  “‘Things,’ like a miracle?”

  “That’s not entirely clear.” He grimaced, took a long look, then unwrapped a plastic-backed gauze pad and covered the wound. Over that he added Steri-Strips. Francesca changed her own bandages every day, but she simply copied the way her father had dressed them that first morning the wounds had appeared. She liked the purposeful way Mr. Falso was redoing what her father had done. Rectifying something wrong: making it different. Making it right.

  A tingle at the base of her throat. She felt the rush of speeding headlong toward some critical point. It was time to make Mr. Falso understand.

  “Of all the girls in the world, why did God choose me?”

  He looked up. His eyes were warm and sad. Why was he sad?

  “All I can guess is that you’ve been—touched—by something very special.”

  Francesca looked down at the table, her entire body charged. She wondered if she should tell him about the other talents that had shown themselves over the years: the birds that followed her everywhere. The ancient languages she inexplicably knew. The way she could read other people’s hearts by pressing ear to chest.

  Instead, Francesca said, “You think so?” Because she wanted to hear it from him.

  Mr. Falso finished taping the second palm and held both hands inside his. “I do.”

  His face was inches from hers.

  “What happens now?” Her voice was a shredded whisper.

  “I guess we wait for the next miracle.”

  PART 3

  Chest

  SEPTEMBER 2016

  If Ben didn’t get inside Eddie’s house, he would lose his mind.

  Karmic payback, since he only wanted to get in to find Mira’s next note. A true bro would be more concerned with checking on his buddy who nearly lost a digit and had since dropped off the planet. For weeks, Eddie hadn’t responded to Ben’s texts. After Labor Day, the pool would close, and if Eddie kept up his self-imposed exile and blew off school, Ben might not see him at all.

  He could just show up on Eddie’s doorstep, of course. But rumor had it the whole Villela family was spiraling—both parents now zombies—and Ben was afraid of what he might find.

  Ben left the Closed sign on the snack bar counter and turned his back to the growing noises outside the clubhouse door. He pulled the bag from under his shirt, drew its strings apart, and dumped the notes in a clump onto the stainless steel counter. They seemed heavier every time he looked at them, as though they were contracting and hardening with age, which worried Ben vaguely. A flash of yellow caught his eye. He reached behind a steel canister of sugar and pulled out a shriveled lemon smudged with a brown thumbprint. He set the lemon down as the text arrived with a bright chirp:

  Heading out this morning to visit Eddie V.

  He seems to be having a hard time. Come with?

  Your mom says it’s ok. Nick Falso

  The fixer. Mr. Falso was his ticket in. What was it to him if Mr. Falso had a thing going on with Francesca Cillo? It wasn’t Ben’s business. Besides, Mira hadn’t actually named Mr. Falso. He’d been dying to help Ben, so let him. His mother had told Mr. Falso where he was, probably orchestrated the whole thing as a goodwill gesture.

  Ben typed:

  I’d like to come. Please pick me up from the boat club.

  Thank you.

  He paused over the phone, realizing he would probably be fired for leaving before his shift began, with the pool opening and families starting to arrive. It didn’t matter: he didn’t need the money anymore anyway, and his mother obviously didn’t care if he had a job. Ben shot off a second text to his manager citing a vague “family emergency” (did it matter it wasn’t his family?) and hit Send.

  Mr. Falso’s overlapping reply read:

  On my way!

  He lived on the other side of Powder Neck,
which gave him approximately nine minutes to get there if he was coming from home, which Ben assumed he was.

  Here!

  Kid voices cheered, “Mr. F!”

  In the frosted door window to the pool, Mr. Falso’s shadow flickered as he bent to give hugs and high fives. Ben quickly scooped the notes and stuffed them into his waistband. He tossed the empty nylon bag into the mouth of the trash can, wiped his hands down his shirt, and started toward the door, grimacing as the notes scraped him in sensitive places. The door’s bar latch squealed as it released him into the daylight.

  Ben was dazzled. The sun off the sea behind Mr. Falso framed him and the children around him. His face was tan and his teeth shone, white and even, the crests of the ocean waves behind giving the scene a commercial quality. He wore shorts and loafers, and a lavender button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves and unbuttoned to underneath his gold chain, which ended in two charms: a dog tag and a black enameled cross. He’d held the charms under Ben’s nose once, telling him they symbolized faith’s many layers. Ben had thought it looked like something Piggy’s older brother wore clubbing.

  Mr. Falso looked up. “Ben!” He stretched his arms wide, palms up, biceps peeking below his cuffs.

  Ben rubbed the back of his neck and looked down. “Nah, Mr. F. You don’t want to hug me. I’m sweaty.” The kids snickered. Ben noticed they were mostly girls, and not that little. The hard edge of a note nudged his pubic bone.

  “Don’t you have a sailing lesson?” Ben’s voice hitched as he spoke to the girls, and he hated himself for it.

  “Don’t you have to pour Goldfish?” said one, all sass and short shorts.

  “I’m here on a mission with my boy Ben,” Mr. Falso said. He pointed at Ben. “You set, big guy?”

  A girl fixed on Mr. Falso and bounced, bending her knees. “Oh-wa! Why do you have to leave so soon? You just got here!” she whined.

  Mr. Falso looked past the girls, scanning the parents filtering in, sleepy eyed behind sunglasses and under baseball hats. Most would come back hours later from dropping those same kids at the next activity, more awake, more put together, but for now, they looked weathered, and served to make Mr. Falso’s showered manliness more dazzling. He tipped his head toward the whining girl: “Come to youth group this Sunday if you need more Mr. F. time.” He cupped Ben’s shoulder and steered him toward the parking lot. From behind, Ben heard the girl call, “Buh-bye, Mr. Falso!” He kept his hand that way until they reached the exit gate, where Ben turned to face him.