Shattered by Sarah N. Harvey Page B

sounds every sixty seconds. Mom hates the sound of the foghorn. So mournful, she says. But to me it’s like the light from the lighthouse. Reassuring. My best friend, Natalie, hates the light and the foghorn. She always stays in the guest bedroom if we have a sleepover, even though I have a king-size bed. If it’s foggy, she uses earplugs.
    After I wrote to Augie, I lay in bed and counted the seconds in between the flashes of light. One-two-three-four-five. It never changes. It was a clear night, so there was no foghorn. Soon the light lulled me to sleep.
    When I woke up the next morning, I was happy. For about twenty seconds. Maybe less. However long it took my brain to provide me with a vivid playback of Tyler and Kayla in the hot tub. Someday I’d have to ask Mom or Dad what goes on in your brain right after you wake up. Not today though. Showing interest in their work is dangerous at the best of times. Once they get started, they can’t shut up. It’s best not to encourage them. My parents, Dr. Richard Moser and Dr. Yvette Kleinman, are psychologists. Research psychologists, not therapists. They don’t listen to people’s problems. They study their brains. I won’t bore you with the technical details. Basically they study how memories are formed in the brain. They don’t care too much about the memories themselves.
    For example, most of my friends have great memories of going to Disneyland. My parents don’t believe in those kinds of vacations. It’s all camping or culture for the Kleinman-Moser clan. Vacation as education. Augie loved the Grand Canyon, the Galapagos Islands, Machu Picchu, the Louvre. But I wanted the Pirates of the Caribbean, Toad’s Wild Ride, Indiana Jones. Still do.
    â€œYou can go on your own dime,” Mom said when I whined about it. “I’m not paying for all that fake Disney claptrap. Where are you going to want to go next? Las Vegas? Climb the fake Eiffel Tower? Go on a gondola ride down a manmade canal in an artificial Venice?” She was smiling, but I knew better than to argue with her. I have the memories my parents want me to have. Up until now.
    I dragged myself out of bed and opened my laptop. There was a new message from Augie in my inbox.
    Dear March,
You’re not crazy.
It’s not your fault.
    Nobody’s life is perfect. Perfect is boring.
    This really is something you have to work out on your own. It’s about time. I always said you were a smart girl. Gotta go, March. Give my love to Richard and Yvette. Keep me posted.
    August
    â€œThanks a lot, Augie,” I muttered as I shut the laptop and got back into bed. I was exhausted and sad. I wanted to sleep forever. Figuring out my life would have to wait.

Chapter Three
    Mom and Dad were sitting at the kitchen table when I went downstairs a few hours later to get something to eat. Last winter Mom painted the kitchen a yellow that is actually called Good Morning Sunshine. Even if it’s raining, the room feels flooded with sunlight. The oak table is one they got when they were first married and totally broke. They stripped off about five layers of paint and sanded it until it was as soft as silk. Augie and I argue about who’s going to get the table after Mom and Dad die. Mom let us use it for anything when we were growing up: eating, arm wrestling, playing Uno, doing science projects, studying, painting, building Lego cities. She says that all the marks we’ve made on the table over the years add character to it. She’s never tried to sand any of them away.
    â€œAugie sends his love,” I said.
    â€œAugie?” My dad looked around the room as if expecting Augie to pop up.
    It’s a joke in our house that Dad studies memory for a living but doesn’t seem to have one himself. Augie and I are named for the months we were born in so my dad would be less likely to forget our birthdays. He still forgets.
    â€œYou know. Your son. The one