Breaking Beautiful Read online

  Breaking Beautiful

  JENNIFER SHAW WOLF

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Acknowledgments

  Imprint

  For David, for showing me the power of true love

  For Jason, who taught me that the strength of your

  spirit cannot be bound by the limitations of your body

  Chapter

  1

  The clock says 6:45, even though it’s really 6:25. If everything were normal, the alarm would ring in five minutes. I’d hit the snooze button, wrap Grandma’s quilt around me, and go back to sleep until Mom came in and forced me to get up. I used to stay in bed until the last possible minute and then dash around getting ready for school—looking for my shoes or a clean T-shirt, and finally running out the door to the sound of my boyfriend, Trip, laying on the horn of his black 1967 Chevy pickup.

  Nothing is normal, and no one makes me go to school.

  Mom comes in and stands at the door to see if I’m awake.

  I’m always awake.

  “You think you can handle school today, Allie?” Mom’s quiet, so if I am asleep I can stay asleep. I shake my head without rolling over. She hovers for a minute or two, so I can see her concern before she leaves to get ready for her orderly world.

  Andrew is next, twin telepathy guiding him to my door. He knows or at least senses more than anyone how much I’m hurting. I know he does, because until now it’s been me on the other side, watching him hurt. You can’t share a womb with someone for nearly seven months without creating an unbreakable bond.

  His wheelchair hums and bumps against the wall. Our house is small, one level, and old. Perfect for Andrew. The hallways and doors are wide enough for him to maneuver his chair.

  A tap at my door, barely audible. A thump against the wall. He grasps and then loses his grip on my door handle. When we moved in, Dad changed all of the doorknobs to long handles so Andrew can open the doors, but it’s still hard for him. I should get up and help him, but my body feels like lead.

  The latch clicks, and his chair pushes against the door. He moves forward until the door opens enough for him to see my bed. I roll over so I can see him, but he stays in the doorway. That’s new, the invisible wall between us, a barrier at the threshold of my room that he never crosses anymore. He breathes hard and speaks in his halting voice that almost no one outside our family can understand. “Okay, today, Al? School?” Andrew is smart—brilliant—but most people think he’s mentally retarded because of his body and the way he talks.

  Andrew has cerebral palsy, brought on by a lack of oxygen when we were born—eight and a half weeks early. I came out screaming like a full-term baby. He was cold and blue. His body is twisted and barely in control, but his mind is sharp. His injuries from our birth are easy to see. Mine are less obvious.

  I shake my head and avoid Andrew’s eyes, but I’m drawn there. His eyes are soft, brown, and deep. The pain I see there, pain for me, makes me look away.

  “You … should.” He licks his lips and his bad hand shakes. He forces a smile. “I could …” He’s trying so hard to talk, so hard to convince me to get out of bed. For his sake, I wish I could get up.

  I burrow deeper into the quilt, worn flannel patches my only protection from everything I’m not willing to face. “I just”—don’t look him in the eye—“I can’t.” The waver in my voice matches his. “Not yet.”

  He lingers. I close my eyes so I don’t have to see his face.

  “Andrew, breakfast.” Mom’s voice floats from the kitchen. Andrew’s chair whirs down the hall. The red numbers slide by on my clock. Morning sounds float muffled through the walls and into my room. Dishes clink, the sink turns on and off. Dad tromps across the kitchen floor. Mom helps Andrew with breakfast. His bus pulls up out front.

  Our house is so small you can hear everything that everyone does or says. Not a good place for keeping secrets. Even the outside walls are thin. The parade of life going by sounds so close it could be marching through my bedroom. Grade-school kids laugh. Another bus hisses to a stop. A motorcycle roars by; Trip’s friend Randall, probably with Angie Simmons glued to his back. If I sat up and opened the blinds, I could watch the whole thing from my bed like some reality TV show—a reality I’ve never belonged to.

  How can they keep going like everything is normal?

  The days have started to run together, but I think it’s the fifth day of school, the second week of what would be my senior year. Over a month since the accident and three weeks since I came home from the hospital. There’s an untouched pile of schoolbooks and papers in the corner by my desk. Blake brings my homework by every day—at 3:08—part of my new routine.

  I slide out of bed because Andrew didn’t close the door all the way. The outside air coming in around the edge makes me feel exposed. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror over my dresser when I stand up. Wounded, scarred. Ugly. I can’t even look at myself. I’m glad Trip can’t see me like this.

  He would hate my hair.

  Trip never wanted me to cut it, not even just a trim. Before the accident it hung—long and thick and gold—to the middle of my back. I run my hand through what’s left. It still surprises me how soon I reach emptiness. They shaved a swatch a couple of inches wide and almost six inches long across the back of my head, but someone in the hospital took pity on my blond locks. They left enough length to cover the gash. For a while I had a morbid, half-bald, punk ponytail to go with the Frankenstein stitches across the back of my head and over my right eye. When I came home, Mom’s friend layered it into a sort of bob that brushes against my neck and sort of covers the bald spot. It looks horrible.

  I touch the wound that’s morphing into a scar on the back of my head. Coarse new hair pokes through where the stitches used to be. It itches. I guess that means it’s healing.

  Trip’s eyes follow me to the door. Bits of our relationship are mounted on every wall and rest on every flat surface of my room. Pictures of us together are lined up on shelves and stuck in the corner of my mirror—prom, homecoming, us just goofing off.

  Only the last one, the one from the cotillion, the last picture ever taken of Trip, is missing. I put it on the top shelf of my hutch—the shelf I need a chair to reach. I shoved it there without even looking at it. Trip’s parents gave it to Mom after the memorial service because I was stil
l in the hospital. Memorial service—I guess you can’t have a real funeral without a body.

  I reach to shut the door but hesitate when I hear Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen. I’m still not used to hearing Dad’s voice. He was deployed for almost eighteen months and then back and forth between here and Fort Lewis for the last six. Now that he’s retired from the Army, he’s been trying to get his auto shop going. His being home this late is a bad sign—no appointments and no cars to work on in the shop. He’s a really good mechanic, but business hasn’t picked up yet because everyone in town is loyal to Barney’s Auto Shop. Dad says that Barney’s is a rip-off, but they’ve been the only shop in town for like forty years.

  “The guys at the café were talking yesterday,” Dad says. A chair scrapes against the wood floor. “I guess there’s a new cop at the police station.” At least they’re talking about something other than me. Dad isn’t a coddler. Twenty years in the Army made him tough. He harps on Mom to make me get up, go to school—get on with my life.

  “Oh?” Mom sounds amused. “How long do you suppose this one will last?” Pacific Cliffs is a small town, one of those places where everyone knows everyone and no one locks their doors at night. The long arm of the law is Police Chief Jerry Milton—Mom’s date to junior prom. Chief Milton by himself has always been sufficient police for Pacific Cliffs, until now.

  Dad’s heavy footsteps cross the floor. “This guy was brought in from Seattle, some kind of special investigator or detective or something.”

  “A detective? Here?” Mom laughs, but it’s a nervous laugh.

  “My guess is Mr. Phillips has been putting pressure on Chief Milton to reopen the investigation.” Dad sounds casual, but the weight of what he’s saying presses against the scar on the back of my head. I open the door an inch more and take a half step into the hall.

  “Why would he … ?” But Mom works for Mr. Phillips. She knows that answer almost as well as I do.

  Dad sets his coffee mug down on the countertop. “My guess is he thinks Chief Milton didn’t take the accident investigation seriously. That maybe there was something he missed.”

  I grip the door handle. I want to shut the door and shut out what he’s saying. Instead I slide between the door and the frame and listen closely.

  “He wouldn’t want to talk to Allie, would he?” Mom’s trying to match his casual tone, not quite pulling it off.

  “If he’s reopening the investigation, she’s the first person he’ll talk to.”

  More questions? Things I can’t answer. Things I don’t remember. Things I don’t want to remember. I was too sick, too hurt before. Everyone felt sorry for me. But now …

  “Hasn’t she been through enough?” Mom sounds sincere. I wish I could believe that she could protect me, but I know better.

  “Honestly, Lu.” Dad sets the coffee mug down again. “I think he might be right. If I were Roger Phillips, if it were my kid who got killed, I’d want it all looked into, too.”

  “I don’t know what good a ‘special investigator’ will do.” Mom says the title with disdain. The sink turns on and Mom raises her voice. Does she know I’m listening? “Everyone knows Trip was reckless in that truck, and that there was probably alcohol involved—”

  “No way to prove that one way or another. Not with the little bit they got from the accident scene. Seems like they should have spent more time looking for—”

  “—small town, remember?” Mom sounds offended, like Dad made a personal attack on Pacific Cliffs. “We don’t have the resources—”

  “—exactly why Mr. Phillips brought in this guy. It will help everyone if—”

  I take another step forward and my foot comes down on something soft and fuzzy. My scream mingles with the cat’s yowl as she streaks away toward Andrew’s room. I stumble forward and reach for the door handle, but my hand slips and I end up on the floor.

  “Allie.” Mom’s voice wavers. “Is that you?”

  I want to crawl back to my room, but Dad’s already coming down the hall. Caught by my clumsiness. Again.

  He reaches a hand to help me up. “Are you okay?”

  I don’t answer. It’s too hard to lie to Dad.

  “Hungry?”

  “No, sir.” That’s the truth. There’s no room for food around the hole in my stomach.

  “No school today?” His voice is gentle, but I can feel his eyes boring into my forehead.

  “No, sir.” I roll a piece of lint caught in the pocket of my sweats between my fingers. Mom stays hidden in the kitchen. I can hear the dishes clink as she loads the dishwasher.

  Dad puts a hand on my shoulder. I flinch, but control it enough that I don’t think he notices. “You need to get back into life. This staying in your room all the time—”

  “Is someone else going to come talk to me?” The question slips between my cracked lips before I can stop it.

  “Were you … did you hear?” Dad’s voice is sharp. I lower my head. He’s been gone long enough that I’m not sure what the penalty is for eavesdropping.

  “The door was open.” My voice comes out hoarse from lack of use.

  He nods. “I guess it’s better if you know. Yes, somebody will probably want to talk to you.”

  “About the accident?” Stupid question.

  “About the accident.”

  “But I can’t … I don’t remember anything.” I plead with my eyes. Maybe he can protect me.

  “Are you sure, Allie? It might give the Phillipses some peace if they knew exactly what happened that night.” He squeezes my shoulder. I think he means it to be gentle, but it makes me feel trapped. “I think it would give you some peace, too.”

  “I don’t remember anything.” I pull away and back toward my bedroom. “I’m sorry. I’m going back to bed. I … I … don’t feel good.”

  He half reaches for me again, but I keep moving.

  “My head hurts.” That’s the truth, too. I close the door tight behind me while he watches from the other side.

  Instead of going back to bed I’m drawn to the closet. The doors are closed so I can’t see it, but in the back there’s a black garment bag, so long and full that it could be a body bag with an actual body stuffed inside. Sometimes I imagine that it is a body bag and if I open it up I’ll see Trip. It really holds the dress—long and bloodred, strapless, with little pearls and white lace across the front. It isn’t really a color I would have chosen, but I didn’t pick the dress out for myself.

  The scar on the back of my head throbs.

  “Do you like it? It’s to wear to cotillion.”

  Cotillion is a big deal in Pacific Cliffs. It goes along with the Beachcomber’s Festival, the biggest event in town. There’s a fair with vendors and tourists, a pageant, and then the dance. Last summer, the last summer I had planned to ever spend in Pacific Cliffs, the cotillion fell on my eighteenth birthday.

  “But it’s not a birthday present.”

  Trip was such a little boy whenever he had something to give me. His crystal-blue eyes would sparkle and his expression would vary from excitement to fear and doubt, and back to excitement. I can still see his face, the way he tilted his head. How excited he was for me to see the dress. The pain spreads from the back of my head, cuts across my right temple, and curls around the smaller scar above my eye.

  “I’m saving something special to give you on your birthday.”

  My whole head throbs.

  It hurts too much to remember.

  Chapter

  2

  Blake shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He’s standing at the door to my bedroom like he’s held back by the same invisible wall that keeps Andrew out. “I brought your homework.” He holds the paper out for me to take but doesn’t move to come inside. All of my schoolbooks are already in the corner so we’re down to assignment sheets.

  I cross the room to him and run my hand through what’s left of my hair, knowing how bad I must look.

  He won’t look me in the
eye. Funny how we’ve gotten to this point again—him at my door, coming to see me every day. Like we’ve erased two years of hurt feelings and not speaking to each other. But not entirely erased. There’s still a barrier between us, like scar tissue left behind from a wound that’s been forgiven but will never be forgotten.

  Pre-Trip, Blake was my best—make that my only—friend in Pacific Cliffs. Our grandmas were next-door neighbors and best friends. Since he lives with his grandma and I visited mine for a couple of weeks every summer, we saw each other a lot. During our summer visits he was my coconspirator in adventure, my partner in crime, and the only kid who wasn’t weirded out by Andrew’s wheelchair.

  Blake was also my first kiss.

  Trip was jealous of my friendship with Blake. For those two years, it was better for Blake and me to pretend that we didn’t know each other. I guess I don’t have to worry about that anymore.

  “Do you have anything for me to take back?” Blake shifts his weight again as I take the paper from him. “Anything you’ve finished?”

  I shake my head no and step back into my room.

  This is the point when he should leave, when he always leaves, but today he leans against the door frame. “The assignment for art is kind of weird. I could explain it to you. What’s written on the paper probably won’t make much sense.”

  “I’ll figure it out.” Not that I have any intention of actually doing the assignment. Last year I killed myself to get good grades. Studied until my eyes crossed and my brain hurt. It went along with my plan for getting out of Pacific Cliffs permanently. But it doesn’t matter anymore.

  Blake rubs the front of his neck, clears his throat, and then rubs it again—a nervous tick he’s had as long as I can remember. Even Trip noticed. He used to do that when he made fun of Blake. He clears his throat one more time before he finally speaks. “When are you coming back, Allie?”

  I touch the back of my head. “I don’t know.” The truth is, I’d be happy to never leave this room. No, happy isn’t the right word, maybe comfortable. Except comfortable doesn’t fit my self-imposed prison either. The only word that fits is terrified. Terrified to leave this room and face …