Breaking Beautiful Read online

I stand up with my back to him.

  He breathes in. “You miss him, don’t you?”

  I let the tears gather in my eyes, turn around, and look up at him through damp eyelashes. I bite my lip and nod. It’s better this way. Better than telling the truth.

  .........

  I know I’m in trouble when I slide my fingers into the edge of the window frame and find it shut tight. I walk around to the side door, but it’s locked and the key is missing from under the mat. By the time I reach the front door, Dad is waiting.

  The good-humored firmness from last night is gone. This is the dad I remember. “Where have you been?” he demands.

  “I … I went for a walk. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I saw his car.” Fire lights up his eyes. “Blake’s car. Your mother told you to stay away from him. He doesn’t have the best reputation.”

  “Nothing happened.” My heart races as I try to come up with an excuse. “I needed to think, needed to get away.”

  Mom emerges from behind Dad. Her shoulders slump and she slides into one of the dining room chairs. Without her makeup I can see the wrinkles and dark circles under her eyes. “What’s going on with you, Allie?”

  I lean my head against the wall. I don’t think they really want an answer to that question.

  “Skipping school, fighting, sneaking out at night?” Dad is so worked up that he’s pacing. “You didn’t used to be like this, Allie. What changed? Was it that boy? Was it Trip?” His eyes search mine and I have to look down.

  “No!” Mom breaks in, like questioning Trip is a personal attack on her. “Trip was a good kid. It’s Blake. He’s the bad influence.”

  “She snuck out before to be with Trip, too, remember?”

  I close my eyes and let them argue over the top of me about last time. That I do remember. How Dad grounded me. How I told him he wasn’t being fair. Then I ran to my room and cried with relief. How he was gone the night of the cotillion. How Mom made me go anyway. How I couldn’t tell her I didn’t want to go.

  I look up and realize Dad is talking to me again. “We’ve tried to be patient. We’ve tried to understand, but you’re pushing us.”

  Mom’s turn. “I don’t know what to do for you anymore, Allie. I don’t know what to do with you. It’s like I don’t know you anymore.”

  “Know me?” I stare at her, incredulous. “When did you ever know me? When did you ever care what was happening in my life? You’re so busy showing everyone how great you are and how perfect everything is that you don’t know anything about me.”

  “Don’t talk to your mother that way,” Dad snaps.

  I turn on him, deliberately step in front of him, anger boiling my insides. I’m in his face—challenging. “And when did you become Dad? You’ve been gone most of my life, and now, now you think you can just pick up where you left off? Like I’m still a little girl. Like you still have some say in my life. You don’t.”

  Dad’s mouth twitches with anger, his eyes reflect pain, but I don’t back down. His hand balls into a fist. I wait. He grits his teeth. The muscles in his neck clench, then relax. He lets out a long breath. “Maybe now isn’t the time to talk about this. We’re all tired and on edge. Go to bed. We can talk in the morning.”

  When he steps away, I realize I’ve been holding my breath. Bracing myself, even though I know Dad would never hurt me. I wonder if I’ll always be afraid.

  I can’t look at him. I want to tell him I’m sorry, but I don’t know how. Instead I yell at him. “You can set up the electronic monitoring collar in the morning!” I stomp back to my room and slam my door as hard as I’ve ever slammed it.

  In a few minutes, I hear Andrew’s chair in the hall. He taps on the door. “Allie, I’m sorry,” he whispers. “When I saw you were gone—”

  I fling open the door. “You told on me?”

  “I … I … was worried.”

  “Go away, Andrew,” I growl. “You’re with them. I don’t even want to look at you.” I slam the door a second time. Andrew stays for a long time. I can hear his breathing, labored and raspy on the other side of the door. Finally, his chair bumps into the wall. It whirs as he leaves, and the door to his room clicks shut.

  Chapter

  16

  “How are you doing, Allie?” His words are friendly, but his tone has an edge to it. I look up from my locker to see James towering over me, his eyes narrowed.

  “Fine.” I slam my locker shut and turn toward my next class.

  He moves out of my way but falls into step behind me. “You have a good time with Juvie this weekend?” People around us stop to listen.

  I ignore him and keep walking, but I’m in full panic mode.

  “What about when the two of you went up to the cliff?”

  I freeze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Blake starts working toward us from the opposite end of the hall.

  “So that wasn’t you with Juvie when he got pulled over, or in his car parked at the edge of the cliff?” He says it loud enough that everyone around us can hear him. Voices murmur around me. Dark looks are cast in my direction. I know what they’re thinking: the ultimate sacrilege, being with another guy at the exact spot where my boyfriend died.

  “No,” I say. I look up. Blake is almost to us.

  “That was your brother in the car, I know that was him.” James is standing close enough that I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. “Seems like you got over Trip pretty fast.”

  I turn around and face James. All I can think is damage control. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wasn’t with anyone on Saturday.” I wrinkle my nose with disgust the way Angie did, and nod my head toward Blake. “Why would I be hanging out with him?”

  Out of the corner of my eye I see the hurt in Blake’s eyes, but he covers for me. “I wasn’t with Allie. That was some chick I met from Aberdeen.” Then he adds his own jab. “Why would I be with Allie?”

  James looks from me to Blake. I don’t think he believes either of us. “Whatever. Just make sure you stay away from her.”

  “No problem.” Blake turns around and walks the other way.

  My heart sinks as I watch him leave. Somehow I keep pushing away everyone who means anything to me.

  .........

  Despite our joint denial and the fact that we don’t even acknowledge each other at school, the rumor mill still links Blake and me together. Whispers follow me everywhere I go. I get tripped or bumped whenever I walk down the hall. I don’t ever look up to see who does it. I don’t talk to anyone, not even Andrew. I eat lunch in a corner by myself, with my nose buried in a book that I can’t focus on anyway. The accident and my paranoia have made it impossible to concentrate on anything. My grades are worse than they have ever been, even though I spend all my time studying. There’s nothing else for me to do.

  I’m lonely.

  In a twisted way I miss Trip. Every time someone bumps me in the halls, I miss his arm around me, shepherding me to my next class. When I go to lunch and see Angie and Randall, together again, kissing or feeding each other fries, I miss the togetherness, the feeling of being one of two. With Trip around, I was isolated from the rest of the school, but I was isolated with him for company.

  Now I’m just alone.

  .........

  The Wednesday before Thanksgiving, my locker decides to stop opening. I twist the ancient lock built into the door and jerk it hard, but it refuses to budge. Even the fixtures at school are conspiring against me. I want to slide onto the floor and cry, but instead I slam my fist against the door. The bang resonates down the hall and the thin metal quivers. Two freshman girls watch with wide eyes. Maybe since I attacked the queen, they think I’ll come after them. I have this urge to growl and see if they run.

  The bell rings and the halls empty out and still the door won’t budge. I twist the combination, jerk harder, and when that doesn’t work I pound it a second time.

  “You know that’s not going to help.” Blake’
s voice behind me makes me jump.

  I rub my fist. “It makes me feel better.”

  “Can I try?”

  I’m shocked that he’s even talking to me, but I step away from my locker. “Be my guest.” I’ve already been condemned. I might as well be civil to him.

  He twists the combination and then leans against the door like a thief in an old movie—listening for the tumblers to click into place. I wait for him to ask me for my combination, too pissed to volunteer that information.

  The halls echo emptiness, but Blake keeps his voice low. “Cover me.”

  “What?”

  He grabs the edge of my sweatshirt and pulls me closer. He does it so gently that I don’t even flinch. When my body is shielding his hand from the rest of the hallway, he pulls a knife out of his pocket and flicks the blade open.

  The glint of sharp metal makes my blood run cold. I step back, close my eyes, and lean my cheek against the locker for support.

  He keeps sharpening the stick, watching the fire, and me, and sharpening the stick with his pocketknife. We’re alone. Everyone else has coupled up, left the party, or passed out in Randall’s parents’ camper. I’m waiting for an invitation to join him on the other side of the fire, but his expression tells me I’m in trouble. I know why.

  “James is a jerk when he’s drunk,” I finally say. I never know when it’s better to speak up and try to defend myself or when I should keep my mouth shut.

  Trip doesn’t miss a beat in the scrape, scrape, scrape of his knife against the stick.

  “It’s not like I wanted to sit on his lap.” Scrape, scrape, scrape. “I tripped and fell against him.” Scrape, scrape, scrape. “And then he wouldn’t let me go.” Scrape, scrape, scrape.

  “C’mon, Trip, you know I love you.” I cross toward him, push his whittling aside, and sit on his lap. I wrap my arms around him and kiss his neck. He drops the stick and reaches like he’s going to hold me. Instead he grabs my wrist and twists my arm behind my back. It feels like he’s breaking my arm, but I don’t scream until I feel the point of the knife slice into my skin.

  “Maybe that will help you remember who you belong to.”

  “Allie, are you okay?” Blake’s voice sounds far away. “You look sick.”

  I open my eyes and try not to look at the knife in his hand. “Why do you have that?” My voice comes out in a hoarse whisper.

  “Protection,” he replies. I study his face, trying to decide if he’s kidding, but he turns back to my locker and concentrates on the lock. “Protection and this.” He slips the blade back into the lock and wiggles it. The door springs free. “I had the locker from hell last year, so I figured out how to pick the lock.”

  “Oh. Thanks.” I wonder how long he’s carried a knife to school, and what he meant about it being protection. He traces his finger along the edge of the blade. I touch the scar on my arm through my sweatshirt. I wonder if he’s ever used the knife.

  Heavy footsteps of authority approach from the hall behind me. Blake closes the knife and slips it back in his pocket in one quick motion. The principal, Mr. Barnes, strides around the corner. His eyes narrow at us. “Why aren’t you kids in class?”

  I take a step back from Blake. “We were just—”

  “Just helping Allie get into her locker.” Blake smiles without any hint of nervousness. I’m sweating enough for both of us. He slips his hand into his pocket to cover the knife.

  “It seems to be open now.” Mr. Barnes’s eyes dart from me to Blake.

  “It is.” Blake moves away from me. “I’d better get going, wouldn’t want to keep Ms. Franklin waiting in trig.” He waves with his other hand. “See you, Allie.”

  “Thanks,” I manage to squeak.

  “And you?” Mr. Barnes focuses on me.

  “I need to get my books.” I can feel his eyes tracing the scar on the back of my head. I try to be quick enough to satisfy his tapping foot, but my hands are shaking.

  When I reach for my government book on the top of the stack, my fingers find the edge of a little piece of paper. My stomach clenches.

  Another one.

  I’m not as slick as Blake as I curl my fingers around the note and slide it into my pocket next to the tigereye.

  “Do you have something there you want to show me?” Mr. Barnes steps toward me and I panic.

  “It’s just,” I begin. I scrape my fingernails across the one rough edge on the tigereye. “Girl stuff. I, uh, need to go to the restroom.”

  “Oh.” He backs away with his hands up like I said I had a live grenade in my pocket. “Oh … yes … of course.”

  I slam my locker shut with one hand, forget my book, decide to leave it, and walk toward the bathroom with my hand shielding the note in my pocket. As soon as I’m safely inside I pull out the paper. I’m hoping maybe it’s nothing, just a random scrap of paper that got mixed with my stuff. But it has the same writing as the first note.

  You’ll always be mine.

  I slide my sleeve up and trace the T-shaped scar on my forearm. I swallow hard twice, then turn around and get sick in the toilet.

  Chapter

  17

  I’m trying to run away but swirls of red satin tangle around my legs. I stumble forward as claws tear and snag at the skirt. A patch of white ahead of me beckons against the gray and green all around me. If I can get to the light I’ll be safe.

  “Help me!” I try to scream, but there’s something tied around my mouth, some sort of gag. My hands are free, but I don’t pull it off.

  Something grabs my legs and tears into my skin. I fall forward and wake up—my sheets tangled around my legs and cold sweat sticking my T-shirt to my back.

  I touch my mouth. Why didn’t I take off the gag? Why didn’t I scream for help when I had the chance?

  Andrew bumps my door open with his chair, but he looks like he’s afraid to come inside. I’ve barely spoken to him since the night he told Mom and Dad I snuck out. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want to talk?”

  I should say no, but I’m so lonely that I say, “Sure.”

  Andrew parks his chair beside my bed. “Another nightmare? About the accident?”

  I nod. I’ve never told Andrew that I dream about the accident, but I guess he knows.

  “What do you dream?”

  “A lot of running, falling, getting wrapped up in that stupid dress.” I gesture toward the closet.

  “The truck?” Andrew’s face contorts out of control for a second.

  “No,” I answer. “I don’t see it at all.”

  He reaches his hand up toward the scar on my face. “Does it still hurt?”

  “Sometimes. Mostly it just looks hideous.”

  “Not bad.” Andrew smiles sadly.

  I feel guilty for complaining about my scarred face when Andrew has lived his whole life in a wheelchair, whispers and stares following him everywhere he goes.

  He reaches his hand to mine and I take it. “Still prettier than Hannah, or Angie, or any other girl at school.”

  “Thanks,” I answer, “but aren’t you supposed to be like every other bratty little brother and tell me how ugly I am?”

  He shakes his head.

  “So if I’m prettier than Hannah and Angie, am I prettier than Caitlyn?”

  He shakes his head no, hard.

  “No?” I study his face, concerned. “Are you still chatting with her?” He nods. “You really like her, don’t you?” He nods again.

  Fear for my brother’s heart makes me grip his hand tighter. “She’d better not do anything to hurt you, or I’ll go after her.”

  Andrews face gets sad and he looks down at the floor. I wonder if he’s thinking of Trip. I study his expression, wondering how much Andrew knew about what Trip did to me.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  I take a breath. “For getting me busted for sneaking out the other night?” He doesn’t confirm that that’s why he’s sorry, but I let that assumpt
ion hang between us. “It’s okay, little brother, you were trying to keep me safe.”

  .........

  “Allie and Blake, I need to see you for a few minutes after class.” Ms. Flores looks at me for a long time before it registers that she’s talking to me. To Blake and me. The rest of the class flows out the door in a wave of whispers and backward glances. Ms. Flores perches on a desk in front of us. She’s tall and thin, with salt-and-pepper hair, and always has a smudge of something—charcoal, paint, flour from papier-mâché—on her face. She smiles and tugs her skirt down over her knees.

  I’m waiting for the lecture about paying attention in class, turning in work, at least trying. Blake spends the whole period with his head on his desk listening to his music, and I’m not much better at paying attention.

  “Kids, I need your help.” Ms. Flores brushes her hand against her cheek and leaves a streak of pink chalk from today’s project. “I need a committee to plan and create the decorations for the Sweetheart Ball in February. I thought of the two of you. I was hoping you’d be willing to be part of it.”

  “Us?” To say I was shocked would be an understatement. I’ve never been a person who was “thought of” when it comes to planning a school function, and Blake is the antisocial poster child of high school events.

  Ms. Flores smiles at me. “I could use your organizational skills.”

  Organizational skills? I always got a “needs improvement” on that section of my grade-school report card. That counselor must have put her up to this.

  “And I really need Blake’s artistic talents.”

  I look at him, confused. As far as I know, Blake has never raised his head in art, much less turned in an assignment.

  “Think about it.” Ms. Flores leans against her desk and smiles encouragingly. “The committee meets for the first time the Monday after Thanksgiving, during lunch. It’s good for extra credit.” She hands us both a tardy excuse note and then heads for the front of the room.

  I walk out without looking back at Blake, but when we’re a few feet outside the classroom, he stops me. “So, what do you think?”