Breaking Beautiful Page 11

  “About the dance thing?” I shrug. “I think the counselor asked Ms. Flores to get me ‘involved.’ I guess you got dragged into it because she thinks—because we’re friends.”

  “It might be good for—” Blake bumps the toe of his worn-out black Vans against the bottom of the nearest locker. Then he looks up at me. I read concern in his eyes. I look away. “I mean, it might be fun.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I just stare at him. Helping with—even participating in—a school function is just not Blake.

  “I know you don’t want to be seen with me.” He taps the locker with his foot again, a little harder.

  “It’s not that,” I start, but I can’t explain why I’ve been so mean to him. How it’s for his own good.

  “It’s okay.” He crosses his arms over his chest and then uncrosses them. “I guess I understand. But—” He looks down the hall. Hannah’s friend Megan gives us a long look before she turns into the girls’ bathroom. “Nothing you do is going to make them accept you. Believe me, I’ve tried. I just think that”—he catches me in his eyes—“maybe it’s time you figured out who your real friends are.”

  Chapter

  18

  The day after Thanksgiving used to be a day for me and Mom. We’d pore over the Black Friday ads the night before and decide our best strategy for Christmas shopping. It was one of our few mother-daughter-bonding things. This year, she leaves for the resort first thing in the morning, before I’m out of bed.

  Dad already has the Christmas lights up. Mom had him haul all the decoration boxes down from the attic, but we aren’t allowed to put them up without her and she probably won’t be around to do it until later.

  I thought when Dad left the military she would spend less time at the inn. But she’s always working, or on the phone talking about work, or resting because she needs her strength for some big event coming up. Mom is kind of a hostess, event scheduler, and personal assistant to Mr. Phillips. It’s the perfect fit for her organizational and people skills. Maybe she should do the dance committee.

  The whole idea of Christmas seems kind of bleak and gray, like the weather outside. Last week a big windstorm stripped all the trees of their fall leaves so they look like bare twigs. The constant drizzle has let up for a couple of hours, but the sky is overcast as always. Outside my window, Dad and Andrew are in the carport, lying on their backs, half under Dad’s work truck, changing the oil or something. Cars are Dad’s and Andrew’s thing. When Andrew was little he used to lie on the ground next to Dad while he worked. Andrew would do his best to hand Dad his tools, and Dad would explain what he was doing. Andrew’s brain absorbs information like a sponge. He knows any car, make and model, by sight. If he could make his hands work, he could probably fix anything he wanted to.

  He loved Trip’s truck, a classic 1967 Chevy. Trip made a big deal of taking Andrew out for rides in it. I know it drove Andrew crazy that Trip didn’t know anything about the truck and that he treated it the way Trip treated everything else. Like it was something he was entitled to, something that was his to use and destroy.

  If things were different, Andrew could be driving a truck like Trip’s or maybe some project car that he and Dad would trick out together on weekends. If things were different, Andrew might be taking over Dad’s shop someday.

  I’m putting my laundry away when my hand brushes the iPod that Trip gave me for Christmas last year. I haven’t used it in months. The earbuds are still wrapped around it. I touch the button to see if it has a charge, and it lights up.

  A morbid sense of nostalgia washes over me. I put the earbuds in my ears and press play. A slow, syrupy-sweet love song comes on. I push the Next button and hear some garbage like “I’ll be your sky, your earth, your air.” Irritated, I shuffle through the songs, each one making me more irritated than the one before. The lyrics are full of lies. I’m ready to turn off the iPod, or chuck it across the room, when the song comes on. The one that came out the summer I first met Trip, the one that talks about a summer love that lasts forever.

  “I requested this one for us,” he murmurs into my hair. I’m floating in a sea of bloodred satin, his arms around me, his body pressed against mine. “More than any other song, this one reminds me of you.”

  I don’t answer. I try to keep my body from becoming rigid, even as he forgets and his hand presses hard against my back, into the bruise that’s hidden under my white sweater.

  My hands are shaking so hard by the time the song ends that I can barely turn off the iPod. When I touch the scar above my eye, my forehead is slick with sweat. My head hurts and I feel like I could throw up. The always-closed closet doors mock me. Behind them is the garment bag; inside that is the dress from my memory.

  It’s the first time I’ve remembered something from the night of the accident.

  I close my eyes and try to push my mind back there—picture myself in the red dress, dancing with Trip. Instead I come up with images from my dream, running through a tangle of thorns, my heart racing. I open my eyes. My scar pulses. The memory is there, lingering somewhere beyond conscious thought. But it feels like a new wound, too painful to touch, even if touching it might make it better.

  I sit up and shove the iPod into my pocket. My room feels too close. My house feels smaller than ever. I need to get away. I’m freezing so I put another jacket over my sweatshirt and head outside.

  I pause by the truck and watch Andrew and Dad work. I’m jealous of their easy togetherness, jealous of the bond between them, jealous of their normalcy. A cold wind blows through my jacket, into my sweatshirt, and chills me to the bone.

  I take a couple of breaths to calm my voice. If Dad’s distracted, I might be able to tell him I’m leaving without much explanation. “Hey, Dad.” I work on sounding casual and not desperate. “I kinda wanted to go shopping.”

  He leans out to face me. “Shopping?”

  “Yeah, Christmas stuff.” I press the tigereye inside my pocket, hoping he won’t ask for details.

  He works his hand around the wrench he’s holding. I know he’s trying to decide if it’s been long enough for me not to be grounded anymore. “By yourself?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “For how long?”

  “A couple of hours, maybe three or four if I find some good deals.” I lean against the side of the truck.

  “Just in town?”

  “Town” is the last place I want to go. I bite my lip. I’ve learned to be a pretty good liar. Still, I’m not sure I’ve ever successfully lied to Dad before.

  “It’s still leaking.” Andrew pulls Dad’s attention back to their project.

  “Where?” He slides back underneath the truck. “Go ahead, Al, just be back before dark.”

  I give Andrew a look of thanks, climb into the van, and head toward Hoquiam. I listen to the song over and over as I drive, replaying not the moment in Trip’s arms, maybe the last time he ever held me, but Blake’s lips against mine in the back of a damp cave.

  Maybe it’s time I did figure out who my real friends are.

  .........

  The pawnshop is busier than I would have thought, people looking for bargains for Christmas presents, or maybe trying to sell stuff to get money to buy presents. The whole shop has an air of desperation. I’m nervous that someone from Pacific Cliffs will see me here. I keep my head down and scan the crowd, but no one looks familiar.

  I circle the store a couple of times, check out a new laptop that would make a great gift for Andrew and an espresso maker that Mom would love. I walk over to a display of old signs, the kind Mom decorated Dad’s shop with. One of them says, EL CAMINO PARKING ONLY, and it makes me think of Blake again. Maybe I could get it for him as a kind of peace offering. Trip always gave me something when he wanted to make up for things.

  I pick up the sign and work my way to the counter. There are three guys making quick deals with the crowd of customers. I hold the sign against my chest. If there is anyone here from Pacific Cliffs they
’ll know exactly who it’s for. Blake’s the only person in town who drives an El Camino. When I reach the front of the line the guy at the counter to my left calls out, “Cat-Eye Girl, I knew you’d be back.”

  It’s the guy who was here before, but I can’t answer for a minute.

  He nods encouragingly.

  I force a smile. “Allie.”

  “Right, Allie. And I’m Paul.”

  I set the sign on the floor, reach across the counter, and shake his outstretched hand. “Hi, Paul.” So now I’m on a first-name basis with a pawnshop guy. Mom would be mortified.

  He trades places with the guy in front of me. “I’ll handle this one. Allie’s one of my special customers. What do you have for me today?”

  I pull the iPod out of my pocket and he examines it. “Is there anything wrong with it?”

  It was given to me by my dead boyfriend and it’s filled with songs that bring back painful memories except for one that I love, but it makes me feel guilty when I listen to it. “No.” I shake my head. “I’m just expecting a new one for Christmas.”

  “Ah, bigger and better, huh?” He turns it over. “It seems to be in good condition. This was top of the line last year. Does it have anything on it that I can play or did you erase it?”

  I wish now that I had thought to erase it. “No, it still has some stuff on it.”

  He turns it on, scrolls down to “Allie’s Mix,” puts one of the earbuds in his ear, and gets a big cheesy grin on his face. “Oooo, la la. Somebody’s a romantic.”

  I blush down to my toes. I feel like somehow I’ve been violated, or like I’ve violated Trip’s memory.

  He turns off the iPod and pulls out the earbud. “How much?”

  “One hundred,” I say hopefully.

  “Try again.”

  “Seventy-five?”

  “I’ll give you fifty cash for it plus the sign you have there.”

  “Okay.” I wasn’t positive I was going to get the sign. It feels wrong to buy a present for Blake with money from selling something Trip gave me. Now I’m stuck, so I get it.

  On the way out of Hoquiam, I fill up the van with enough gas that Dad won’t suspect I drove this far. It makes me feel good, like I’m keeping everything under control. But the whole time at the gas station, I feel like someone’s watching me. When I look up, there’s a guy leaning against the outside wall. He’s tall and he’s wearing a jacket and baseball cap. His face is in shadow, but I’m almost sure his eyes are on me. It’s enough to make me drop the gas cap and then stumble over the edge of the curb in my hurry to leave. Even though I know it’s not possible, and I’m being paranoid, I check my rearview mirror for a an old Chevy truck the whole way home.

  Chapter

  19

  The Monday after Thanksgiving I take a deep breath and go looking for Blake at lunchtime. I’m carrying my backpack with the sign hidden inside. I’m not sure I’m brave enough to give it to him, but I feel like I should at least talk to him.

  Blake always spends his lunch hour in his car. I assumed—along with the rest of the school—that he was in there smoking a joint or drinking or worse. When I approach his car, he’s sitting in the front seat with his head down, bent over something. Looking closer, I realize it’s a pad of paper and he’s sketching.

  Is Blake an artist? Is this what Ms. Flores was talking about? I lean toward the window and try to see the picture

  Blake sits up fast; maybe he feels me watching him. The notebook slides off his lap and closes shut before I can see what he’s drawn. I tap on the window, so he thinks I wanted him to see me there, not that I was watching him in a private moment. He glances up at me in shock and then smiles. He rolls down the window. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” I’m suddenly shy, like Blake is a stranger and not someone I’ve known forever. “Were you drawing?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah.” His face is guarded, as if he’s waiting for me to say something mean again.

  “Can I see it?”

  He hesitates, but then he reaches for the sketchbook and gets out. He sets it on the hood of his car and flips it open. The picture he was working on is a squirrel. It looks so lifelike that I think if I brushed my finger along its bushy tail it would feel soft. “That’s really good.”

  He blushes and gestures toward the trees. “I fed him bits of my lunch for almost a week to get him to pose for it.”

  I close the book and push it back toward him. “This is what Ms. Flores was talking about. You are an artist.”

  He ducks his head, but he’s smiling. “I started drawing in Reno. It kept me sane. For a while.”

  I lean close and lift the edge of the page. “Can I see more?”

  He nods and starts flipping through the book. Each picture feels like a glimpse into a piece of someone I thought I knew but didn’t really. Blake is an artist. How did I not know? By the sheer number of drawings it looks like he spends every lunch hour out here in his car sketching the world around him.

  Alone. Like me.

  Blake’s eyes move between the sketchbook and my face, looking for approval. I think about what he said about trying to make the kids at school like him. Maybe he doesn’t want to be alone either. I finger the edge of the sign through my backpack. It seems too cheap to give to him, but maybe I can do something else as a peace offering. “I was thinking, you know that dance, the Sweetheart Dance or, um, Sweetheart Ball?” He raises his eyebrows. “I mean the dance committee, the one that Ms. Flores wanted us to do. Do you want to?”

  Blake looks confused. “Do I want to what?”

  “Be on the committee … with me?” I don’t think it’s ever taken me so long to say one sentence to Blake.

  His expression is guarded anticipation. “Do you really want to do it?”

  Here’s my chance. Honestly, there are a thousand reasons for me not to be on the dance committee, but, for whatever reason, Blake wants to do it. And I’m kind of hoping this will be his chance to be a part of something, to show the school what he can do, and maybe Mom, too. Not for me. My chance is already gone. I swallow. “Yeah, it might be fun. Besides”—I look up at him with what I hope is an eager smile—“it might be our only chance to show this school some class.”

  His smile makes this almost worth it. “Isn’t the meeting right now?”

  “Yeah, we’re late.” I’m hoping he’ll say we can wait until the next meeting, after we talk to Ms. Flores.

  “Then we’d better hurry.” He tosses the sketch pad back in his car, grabs his backpack, and slams the car door.

  Outside Ms. Flores’s room, my heart sinks. I can hear Hannah’s fake-sweet, high-pitched voice. “So the student council has approved a three-hundred-dollar—”

  Hannah is in the middle of her speech, but Blake doesn’t even pause at the door. I follow him, tugging at my hat, not looking at anyone. Blake sits on a desk in the back of the room and says, “Sorry we’re late.”

  “Blake, Allie, great. Glad you could join us.” Ms. Flores nods. “Hannah, go ahead.”

  Hannah’s face is frozen halfway between the I’m-in-charge look she was wearing and a face that looks like she ate something that tasted really bad. I sink into a chair opposite Blake and behind Randall. He’s huge—broad and tall, and the center on the football team, but I don’t think he’s big enough to hide me from Hannah’s glare. She looks down at her notes and breathes through her nose. “As I was saying, the student council has approved a three-hundred-dollar budget for the dance. That’s for decorations, music, and food.”

  Angie in the front row waves her hand. “Didn’t we have like five or six hundred dollars last year?”

  Hannah stares right through Randall to me. “Last year Mr. Phillips made a generous contribution to the student-body fund. I don’t think that’s going to happen this year.”

  “You’re in good with that family,” Blake challenges her. “Why don’t you go and ask him if he would be willing to make another donation?”

  Her glare shifts to Blak
e. “Under the circumstances I don’t think that would be appropriate.”

  “I agree.” Ms. Flores adjusts her perch. “Besides, a smaller budget will force us to be creative, and luckily our committee is full of creative people.” She smiles at Blake. He beams back at her, like he’s her prize pupil.

  Hannah shuffles her notes, looks at Blake, then manages to find me behind Randall again and says, “I thought all members of this committee had to be approved through the student council.”

  “No,” Ms. Flores says. “This is a voluntary committee, so as long as a student’s GPA is high enough, or they receive administrative approval, anyone can be a part of it.”

  I have a feeling I was on a “special case” list that the counselor gave to the principal.

  “Well,” Hannah says. “It would appear this committee has plenty of members. And since I’m swamped with my other student council stuff and my Beachcomber’s responsibilities, I won’t be able to be in charge of this. And so”—she pauses for dramatic effect—“I nominate Allie Davis to head the Sweetheart Ball Committee.”

  “I second it,” Blake pipes up. I freeze and the blood drains from my face.

  “Anyone else want to be the head of this?” Ms. Flores looks around.

  I sweep the room, looking for help, but none comes. “I nominate Blake,” I say in desperation.

  “I think that’s a great idea,” Ms. Flores says, clapping her hands together. I relax for half a second before she adds, “Allie and Blake as joint chairs. This job is certainly big enough for two.” Blake grins at me. I shoot what I hope are deadly darts at him with my eyes.

  Hannah picks up her stack of papers, walks right past Blake’s outstretched hand, and slaps them on my desk. “Good luck.” She smirks. She has a hot-pink Barbie Band-Aid on the back of her hand. I wonder if anyone at school honestly believes Hannah’s hand would take this long to heal.

  Before Hannah is even out of the room, Blake scoops up the papers and walks to the front. “Okay, first order of business—theme.” He winks at me. “Allie, do you mind taking notes?”