Breaking Beautiful Read online

  Ms. Flores hands me a piece of paper and a pen, but I shake my head. “I can’t.” If I try to keep notes, it will come out jumbled because my hands are shaking. I’ll look like a complete idiot.

  “I’ll do it.” A perky freshman with short brown hair—I think her name is Kasey—crosses the room and takes the paper and pen from Ms. Flores. Kasey parks herself in front of Blake. The way she looks at him sends a strand of jealousy down my throat. It wraps around my heart and squeezes my chest. I try to push it away. I don’t deserve him.

  Blake takes over the meeting and I sit in dumbfounded amazement at this Blake I didn’t know. The artistic one. The one who takes charge of things. The one who stands up to Hannah George.

  Chapter

  20

  After school, I pull out my literature book and a piece of paper drifts to the floor like a wounded seagull, stained with slanty-sharp bloodred letters.

  Another note.

  I will myself not to look at it, to leave it on the floor, unread, to let it be swept up with the other trash when the janitor comes by. But I’m afraid someone will see it so I hesitate only half a second before snatching it up.

  You’ll never be alone.

  I want to laugh it off, or throw it away, but it feels like whoever is sending the notes is reading my mind. I glance around the hall, but for once nobody is watching me. I shove the note in my backpack and then touch the tigereye in my pocket. Just a stupid joke. Let it go. I pull my out notebook gingerly, afraid of what else might fall out of my locker.

  “Hey.”

  I spin around and drop my backpack on the floor. My books spill out and the corner of the note taunts me from the bottom of the pile.

  “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” Blake leans his face toward me. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine.” I drop to my knees and start scooping the mess back into my backpack.

  Blake bends over to help me. “Here, let me—”

  “I’ve got it,” I answer fast. I straighten up and jerk the zipper closed. “I need to hurry or I’ll miss my bus.”

  “Oh.” Blake backs off like he’s waiting for me to say something to insult him again. “Um, I was kind of hoping we could go into town and look for some stuff for the dance. But we don’t have to.”

  “Another time.” I sling my backpack over my shoulder and start toward the bus line. Blake ducks his head and goes the other direction. Halfway down the hall I see Mr. Phillips coming in the front door. To get to the bus I have to go past him. I turn around and go the other way.

  Blake is almost to the back door, so I trot to catch up with him. “Actually, today would be okay.”

  “Cool,” he says. He leans against the back door and opens it for me. I glance over my shoulder, but I can’t tell if Mr. Phillips sees us.

  Blake is talking about stuff for the dance all the way to his car, but I’m not listening. His car is at the back of the parking lot. We have to pass James and Randall, leaning against Randall’s truck, and the spot where Trip used to park—left vacant in homage to his memory. I keep my eyes on the ground, but I know they’re watching me as I climb into Blake’s car.

  Blake is oblivious. As soon as he gets in, he hands me his sketch pad. “I came up with some ideas for the decorations. I drew these during sixth period.” He starts the car and points to the map he made of the gym.

  Over his shoulder I can see James watching us.

  “… so I was thinking I could do some giant paintings depicting the town’s history. There are some rolls of old canvas at the fertilizer plant, the stuff they used to make the bags out of, we could put them on frames to look like sails. That was a great idea, by the way.”

  I force my gaze back to his face. “Huh?”

  He looks out the window at James glaring at us across the parking lot. Then he turns back to me. “Forget him for a minute, okay?” He sounds irritated, with me or with James, I’m not sure.

  I look down at his sketch pad. “Sorry.”

  “I’ve known James my whole life. He’s a jerk, but he’s all talk. Not worth worrying about.”

  “Right, sorry.” I let out my breath. Forget James. Forget the note in my locker. Let it go.

  Blake pulls out of the parking lot. “Now about the dance. I want to go by the library and get some books about the town to get some ideas for the paintings. And we need to go to the hardware store for paint, and maybe we could run out to the fertilizer plant and see if my boss will let me get that canvas I was talking about. And we need to figure out something for the frames.” Blake’s eyes dance with excitement.

  “You want to do all of this tonight?” I’m worried about what will happen if Blake and I are seen together in town, what will happen if I’m late getting home, and what will happen if Mom knows I’ve been with him.

  “Well, not everything.” Blake grins, half-sheepish. “You came up with such a brilliant idea that I want to get going on it right away.”

  “It wasn’t really me.” I shrug.

  “You’re the one who got everyone to stop arguing.” He brakes at a stop sign. “And Historic Pacific Cliffs is a great idea.”

  “Historic Pacific Cliffs” came out during a heated discussion between the three guys in the room—Blake, Randall, and Marshall Yates who’s lobbying to have his band play at the dance—and most of the girls. The guys wanted a dance that didn’t include a tux rental. The girls wanted the one girls’-choice dance to be formal. Angie suggested a costume ball. Ms. Flores shot that down because of dress-code concerns. Randall said matching T-shirts, Angie rolled her eyes. Through the whole conversation I kept my mouth shut, but I could see the sign WELCOME TO HISTORIC PACIFIC CLIFFS through the window in Ms. Flores’s room. When Blake asked for my opinion, I said historic costumes without thinking. The idea snowballed from there. The girls loved the theme and Blake sided with me, so my idea won. I was shocked.

  Blake stops at the library first. I feel eyes on us as soon as we walk in. Every time we pass someone, whispers follow. Even the librarian gives me a disapproving look when she hands Blake a piece of paper and points us to the historical section. We check out Pacific Cliffs, a History and Pacific Cliffs, a City Reborn— two old books full of black-and-white pictures and glowing history from our town.

  We go to the hardware store next. Blake spends a lot of time looking over the shelf of “wrong tint” paint cans. He explains that he’s going to use the rejected house paints to do his sail paintings. “They’re cheap, there’s a lot of paint, and they’ll usually retint them for free.”

  I hide in the corner and pretend to look at paint swatches while Blake is talking to the paint guy. I’m not exactly trying to pretend I’m not with him. I’m just tired of everyone staring.

  Beatrice, of Beatrice’s Famous Chocolates, a little shop in town, comes over and grabs my hand. “Allie. It’s good to see you.”

  Over her shoulder Blake is finishing up at the counter. I will him to stay where he is, but he comes toward us.

  “Such a horrible thing to have to go through so young.” She squeezes my hand. It’s getting slippery with my sweat. “And Trip was such a nice young man. He used to come into the shop just to see how I was doing. He loved my dark-chocolate raspberry truffles. He always paid me twice what they were worth and said I should charge more. He got a few boxes of candy for you, if I remember right.”

  Blake stands behind me, a gallon of paint in each hand.

  Beatrice raises her eyebrows at him and keeps talking. “The two of you were the best-looking couple at the cotillion.” I can feel her eyes on my scar. “Such a tragedy.” She shakes her head toward Blake and releases my hand. “Well, I should get going.”

  She disappears around the corner while Blake says, “You ready to go?”

  I wipe my hand on my jeans and nod.

  We’re almost to the checkout counter when I hear Beatrice again, talking to one of the cashiers, “… with Joyce’s grandson, can you believe it? After everything he’s done? He’s taking
advantage of her grief, that’s what I think.” The cashier mumbles something and Beatrice huffs, “I still say that boy looks like Donald Shelley. Spitting image.”

  I look up at Blake to see if he heard her, but she was talking so loudly there’s no way he could have missed what she said. Donald Shelley was the drama teacher who Blake’s mom ran away with just before graduation. Whether or not he’s Blake’s father has been a popular debate in Pacific Cliffs, probably since before Blake was born.

  I want to duck out the back of the store, but Blake keeps going. He smiles and sets the paint cans on the counter. “Actually, Phoebe—I mean, Mom—told me that my dad wasn’t Mr. Shelley, but that he was from Pacific Cliffs. His name was …” Blake pretends to be thinking hard. The two ladies lean forward, eager for this bit of gossip. “Tom, or was it Bob?” I have to stifle a laugh when I remember that Beatrice’s son is named Tom and the cashier’s husband is named Bob. “Hmm, I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask her again.” Blake smiles at them politely. “Have a nice day.” He pays for the paint and leaves them with their mouths hanging open.

  Chapter

  21

  After the hardware store Blake takes me to his house. It’s still weird for me to come here and see condos where my grandma’s house used to be. Grandma died of a heart attack two months after we moved to Pacific Cliffs. I wanted to sell the house we had just bought so we could live in Grandma’s house, but Mom said it wasn’t practical for Andrew. In typical überefficient Mom style, she had Grandma’s house cleared out and sold within two months.

  Blake leaves the paint cans on the porch, grabs two apples from the kitchen, and heads upstairs to the attic. The house is empty. Blake’s grandmother, Grandma Joyce, must be at her shop. She makes natural body-care products. She sells them in town, and every room at Pacific Cliffs Inn is stocked with her soap and little jars of her homemade lotion.

  He sets the library books on a table in front of a pair of french doors that open to the widow’s walk and a great view of the ocean. He starts flipping through the pages. The sun glints on his hair and a chunk of his bangs slips over his eyes. “What about this one?” His voice startles me. I realize I was watching him instead of looking at the book.

  I lean closer so my arm almost touches his. The black-and-white picture shows a group of men in suspenders and hats staring back at the camera with stern expressions. In the background is the lumber mill that employed most of Pacific Cliffs before it shut down about twenty years ago.

  “Good historical moment?” Blake asks. When he turns his head I have to step away because I was leaning so close to his face.

  “Yeah, but there’s a lot of detail.” I reach to brush my hair back before I realize it doesn’t fall over my shoulders anymore. “The crane, the logs, the little dog.” I put my finger on a shaggy white mutt—the only creature in the picture who looks like he’s smiling.

  Blake clears his throat. “You don’t think I can do it.”

  I lean back farther. “I didn’t say that. I know that I couldn’t do it.”

  “You’ve never seen any of my paintings,” Blake says. I can’t tell if it’s a question, a comment, or an accusation.

  I shrug. “You never volunteered to show them to me.”

  “Maybe I didn’t know you’d be interested.”

  “I am,” I say firmly.

  He looks like he’s waiting for the punch line. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  He goes to a corner of the room where a big divided shelf holds four racks. He pulls a stretched canvas off the rack. The image is blurred, like something out of a dream, with all the colors—muted grays and blues and greens—running together. Still, I can tell it’s the entrance to our cave. There’s only one bright spot in the picture, something red hanging from a rock on the side of the cave. It reminds me of the red jacket I lost when I was eight.

  I reach toward the painting but pull back, afraid to touch it. “It’s beautiful.” He ducks his head and slides the picture back into the rack. “Can I see more?” I look at him shyly.

  He reaches into the rack and pulls out a picture of his El Camino, tricked out with blue racing stripes and custom wheels.

  “Cool,” I say.

  He shrugs. “It’s just a dream.” He slides the painting back into the rack and I reach for the next one. “Not that—” He tries to take it from me, but I’ve already seen what it is: a painting of me, half-done, from before my accident, the scar over my eye missing.

  I blush and look away.

  “That one’s just a dream, too,” he says quietly, replacing the painting in the rack.

  The weight of a thousand things I should say to him hangs over me, but I let the silence speak instead.

  “Blake, you home?” Grandma Joyce’s voice floats up the stairs. I breathe again and step away from him toward the corner.

  Blake clears his throat. “We’re in the attic.”

  “We?” Grandma Joyce huffs as she climbs the last stair. “Oh, hi, Allie. Good to see you.” She put her hands on her hips and evaluates me. “You look a lot better than you did last time I saw you.” I touch my scar. The last time I remember seeing Grandma Joyce was when I was in the hospital. “You still look a little pale, though.” She steps forward and peers at my face from behind her glasses.

  “How’s your shop doing?” I ask to get off the subject of me.

  “Great, actually, if I can keep up with the holiday orders.” She sits back on a chair and looks me over. I’m waiting for her to say something about my hair or about my being too thin. Instead she asks, “I’ve been thinking about hiring someone to help me out.” She raises her eyebrows. “How would you like to work for me?”

  I take a step back farther into the corner. “I can’t—”

  “Not in the shop.” Grandma Joyce’s voice is coaxing. “I know you aren’t comfortable with that sort of thing. But I could use your help here, filling orders. I could show you how I mix things up.”

  “I don’t know.” I look around at the array of glass bottles, measuring equipment, and jars filled with the ingredients that go into Grandma Joyce’s natural body products. If any combination is explosive, I would be the one to find it. I touch the stone in my pocket. “I don’t think I can.”

  “Yeah, you can.” Blake’s eyes shimmer with the same excitement I saw when he was talking about the dance. “You could work for Grandma and we could do the project at the same time. I mean”—he looks down at the floor—“if you want to.”

  “It would be fun to have you around here again.” Grandma Joyce’s face crinkles into rows of wrinkles that frame her eyes, bluer than Blake’s but the same shape. “I could really use your help. Blake makes beautiful paintings, but when he tries to help me in the shop … let’s just say he doesn’t have the right touch.”

  “Maybe I don’t either.” I glance at Blake, but he’s still staring at the floor. I think about the painting of me on the rack behind him.

  “Only one way to find out.” Grandma Joyce reaches for an apron behind the door. “Let’s get started.”

  Chapter

  22

  Two days later there’s a note stuck to the bulletin board. This one is signed, “Mom,” but it scares me worse than any I’ve gotten so far.

  Detective Weeks called. He would like to meet with you on Friday right after school.

  I’d like to think that my being seen with Blake has nothing to do with my appointment with Detective Weeks, but I know better. I was with another guy, in public, not playing the good widow. And not just any guy, it was Blake “Juvie” Evans, the town delinquent. The dark cloud of if Detective Weeks is going to question me turns into when.

  Mom says she can’t get off work to go with me. She’s busy preparing for the holiday travel season, like Pacific Cliffs is a big winter destination. Dad says he doesn’t want me to go alone. He takes the afternoon off from the shop to drive me. We get there about ten minutes before my appointment.

  Like most of Pacif
ic Cliffs, the police station struggles to be quaint and nostalgic but barely pulls off small and insignificant. The building is red brick and white trim, with a wide front lawn and a flag waving patriotically in the breeze. The lobby is filled with portraits of hero cops, most of whom attained their status merely by sticking it out in Pacific Cliffs until they were old enough to retire.

  The receptionist/dispatcher takes our names, even though she knows exactly who we are, and tells us, “Please, sit down. Detective Weeks is still in another meeting.”

  Dad sits calmly and picks up a six-month-old copy of Field and Stream. I work on making the rough spot on the tigereye smooth. With any luck, I look as messed up as I feel and Detective Weeks will take pity on me. More likely he’ll take my face as a sure sign of guilt and lock me up on sight.

  I’ve tried to convince myself that he’ll only ask questions about the night of the accident. I won’t have to lie because I still don’t remember. That he won’t go into the dark abyss of before. Dad has been bugging me to concentrate, to try to remember something. “Maybe if they know what happened that night, Trip’s mom and dad can find some peace.”

  I doubt that anything I could tell Trip’s parents about their son would give them peace.

  The walls of the police station are supposed to be bullet-proof or at least soundproof, but I can still hear his voice. Loud. Demanding. Terrifying. Dad looks at me, but I don’t think he knows who is in Detective Weeks’s meeting. I’ve heard that voice and that tone too many times before not to know. I recognize it from the times I cowered in Trip’s truck while the walls of his house shook with one of Mr. Phillips’s episodes.

  Trip hated going to his house. Hated it. I hated it, too, because after a fight with his dad I could never predict whether Trip would be needy or just angry.

  The argument moves into the hall between the lobby, the offices, and the little holding cell in the back. I don’t look, but I can picture Mr. Phillips’s face, beet-red and sweating, like when Trip dinged the side of his truck on a gas station pillar. “If you were doing your job, you would have something more concrete by now.”