Breaking Beautiful Read online

  “Beachcomber’s Queens—look at the lot of them.” Grandma Joyce slides her finger down the page. “Your mom, and this is Patty George, Hannah’s aunt. That should have been Phoebe’s year. If she hadn’t run off, it would have been. Just like her dad—ran away when things weren’t going her way.”

  Blake’s face twists. I think it hurts him when his grandma talks like that about his mom. I study the pageant queens so I don’t have to see his discomfort. Hannah’s aunt is wearing a strapless red satin dress, bloodred like my dress from cotillion. It looks so familiar that it makes my head hurt. I close my eyes. Angie’s high-pitched voice fills my head.

  “That’s a fabulous dress, Allie. I don’t know why you keep it covered up.”

  I pull the white sweater closer to my body. “I’m cold.”

  “It’s like eighty degrees in here; how could you be cold?”

  “Allie’s always cold.” Trip drapes his arm over my shoulder and starts fingering the neckline of my dress. “But maybe I can convince her to take off that jacket later tonight, after I give her her birthday present.”

  I elbow him away, and then wait for his subtle retribution—fingers digging into a bruise he knew was there, or a look that tells me I’m in trouble for making him look stupid in public—but it doesn’t come.

  “Everybody bow down.” Angie rolls her eyes. “Here comes the queen.”

  I follow her gaze to what distracted Trip from punishing me. Hannah, standing in the doorway in her sash and crown, on the arm of some trophy date—always hot but never good-looking enough to overshadow her. Trip’s eyes travel every inch of her emerald-green dress, from the deep neckline to the slit at her hip. She watches him, too.

  My stomach twists with remembered jealousy. Grandma Joyce flips the book back to the page Blake was working on. She doesn’t notice me gripping the edge of the table for support. The blood pounds through my scar and into my ears.

  “A lot of history in this town.” She pats Blake’s shoulder. The men standing in front of the mill in the picture swirl to gray. “I know you’ll do a great job.” She turns to me. “Would you like to—” She looks at me. “Blake, get her!”

  The whole room spins. My mind slides into a dark abyss of Trip’s eyes, my bloodred dress, and green-satin jealousy.

  .........

  “We’re having a party after the dance. You’re all invited.” Hannah’s eyes are on Trip. I’m sure if she could figure out a way to keep me from coming, she would.

  Trip pulls me against his chest, but he keeps his eyes on the diamond cutout in the front of Hannah’s dress. “We’re not going to the party with you guys. I have to give Allie her present.” He turns and I tip my face to his and accept a long kiss—public affection, for Hannah’s benefit. “The limo’s dropping us off at Allie’s house. I left my truck there. We want to be alone.”

  “Allie, can you hear me?” Grandma Joyce’s voice sounds far away, at the end of a long, dark tunnel.

  My heart sinks. I don’t want to be alone with Trip. The limo and all of his friends were supposed to be my shield tonight. Randall’s dad insisted on the limo. To keep us safe …

  “Allie, please wake up.” I try to open my eyes, but Blake’s pleading morphs into Trip’s voice, breathless and desperate.

  “Wake up. Do you hear me? I said wake up! You can’t leave me. I’m not going to take the blame for this.”

  “Please wake up.”

  I force the memory out of my head and concentrate on the sound of Blake’s voice. Slowly his face emerges out of the fog around me.

  “Are you okay?” He’s cradling my head in his lap. Grandma Joyce tucks a pillow under my feet.

  “I think so.” My heart pounds in my ears. The forgotten images swirl around my brain, trying to force their way into some meaning. Part of me wants to keep them from slipping away again. Part of me doesn’t want to know what they mean.

  “She skipped lunch today.” Blake brushes my hair off my forehead. I turn toward his voice and see worry in his eyes. “We had a committee meeting.”

  “I’m okay.” But I don’t sound convincing. My face feels hot and I’m not sure I remember how my legs work. I try to get up.

  “Sit still,” Grandma Joyce commands. “I’m going call your mother.”

  “No.” I sit up fast and my eyes start to fog over again. I lean back against Blake. “I mean, you can’t. She’s at work.”

  “You’ll probably be okay,” Grandma Joyce says at last, and touches my forehead. “Just stress, lack of food, and maybe some smoke from the melted wax. That attic is pretty warm today.”

  I nod, glad to accept her easy explanations. “I feel better already.” With Blake’s arms around me, it’s not entirely a lie.

  “Take it slow,” Grandma Joyce says.

  I try sitting up again, slower this time. Blake slides forward to support my back. I lean into him and let him hold me up. His fingers leave black charcoal streaks on the sleeves of my sweatshirt. After a few minutes I let him help me to a chair by the table. The book is lying on top, closed.

  Grandma Joyce brings me a mug of herbal tea. “Rest for a while. When your color looks better, I’ll have Blake take you home. Get some rest, and if you’re up to it, you can come back and work for real in a couple of days. Just make sure you leave the window open for some fresh air.”

  “No. I’m okay.” I stand and Blake scrabbles to help me. I have to lean on him to stay on my feet.

  “Make sure she eats tomorrow,” Grandma Joyce says as Blake gathers up my backpack. “I’m counting on you to watch out for her.”

  “I will,” Blake says seriously. He grips my arm like I might slip out of his grasp and fade away.

  Chapter

  25

  “Do you have the receipt Angie turned in from the store?” Blake leans close to me, waiting for my answer. We’re sitting with Andrew in the library, trying to figure out the rest of the budget for the dance. “Are you okay?”

  I pull myself out of my endless maze of thought—Trip and I were going to be alone, his truck was at my house, why was he trying to wake me up? Or was that because Blake was trying to wake me up? “Yeah, just a second, it’s here somewhere.”

  “You look pale.” Blake touches my arm. “You aren’t going to pass out again, are you?”

  Andrew looks up, alarmed.

  I give Blake a dirty look and flip through my notebook. A piece of paper with red writing on it makes me stop.

  I’m watching you.

  I try to shove the note back between the pages, but Andrew has already seen it. “What is that?” His real voice is hoarse and breathless.

  “Nothing. Just a scrap of paper.” I flip the notebook’s cover closed.

  “Please.” Andrew’s communicator voice is even and electronic, but the hurt look in his eyes stops me.

  Blake glances between Andrew and me. “What is it?”

  Andrew stares hard at my notebook.

  Blake holds out his hand. “Let me see it.” Something about the worry I see in both of them, or maybe just my own exhaustion from bearing the weight of all my secrets, gets to me. I open the notebook and hand him the paper.

  His forehead wrinkles and his hair drifts into his eyes as he studies the note. “Is this the first time you’ve gotten a note like this?”

  I say, “Yes.”

  Andrew says, “No.”

  “How many?” Blake asks, but he’s looking at Andrew.

  I let it out with a breath. “This is the fourth one.”

  “Were they all like this?” He turns the note over and fingers the edges.

  Andrew reaches for it. Blake holds it out for him to see. After studying it, Andrew types furiously. “Cut out of a card.”

  “You’re right,” Blake says. “It looks like it was cut out of something else. Maybe with a razor blade?”

  It’s surreal, the two of them playing detective, figuring something out for me.

  “Do you have the other ones?” Blake asks.


  I open up my backpack and pull out the other notes from the pocket in the side. Except for the one I sent over the cliff, I kept them. I’m not sure why, as evidence or something.

  “It’s Trip’s handwriting.” I swallow hard. “I’d know it anywhere.”

  They examine them one by one. Pointing out things I hadn’t noticed before. The notes all look like they were cut out from a bigger piece of paper. The words were written first in black or blue ink and then traced over with red marker. One was cut out just around the words and glued on to another piece of paper. Why didn’t I look at them closer?

  “Let’s see. Who would have a bunch of notes with Trip’s handwriting on them?” Blake scratches his head for emphasis.

  I’m thinking Mr. Phillips, or maybe Trip’s mom, but Andrew comes up with a different answer. “Hannah.”

  “Hannah?” I gasp and then feel stupid. Of course Hannah. I remember the box I threw into the ocean. Every card, every flower, every scrap of paper Trip ever gave me. I saved them all. Hannah must have done the same thing.

  Blake shakes his head. “That twisted little b—”

  “—you have to tell someone,” Andrew says.

  “I can’t.” I look down at my hands. The tigereye appeared there almost without me knowing it. “I mean, it’s not worth it.” Not worth bringing the accident back into the forefront of everyone’s minds. “Now that I know where the notes are coming from, I can just ignore them, right?”

  “You should tell,” Andrew insists.

  “No, Allie’s right. It’s not worth it. Telling the principal something like this would just bring up a bunch of trouble for her. We can take care of Hannah George.” Blake’s face is hard and angry, like when he got back from Reno. His expression scares me. I glance at his pocket, wondering if he has the knife on him now.

  “No. Just forget it. She’s looking for attention or whatever. We don’t have to give it to her.” I try to force a laugh, like all of this is a big joke.

  “I still say we should—” Andrew looks from Blake to me, but I know he won’t tell if we decide not to.

  “Allie’s right. It’s better to forget it.” Blake crumples up the notes, walks to the corner of the room, and pushes them deep in the garbage can. The bell rings and Blake gathers up his books. “See you after school, Allie.” His voice is forced casual.

  Andrew glances at the garbage can with its buried evidence and then gives me a long look before he leaves the library.

  “You have to tell someone.”

  I close my eyes and know I’ve heard him say that before.

  Chapter

  26

  “Do you think your grandma will need me after Christmas is over?” The thought has been nibbling at me so long that I break the usual comfortable silence between Blake and me.

  He looks over at me from his canvas and rolls his paint-brush between his fingers. “I don’t know. I hope so.”

  Blake’s attic has become my refuge. It’s the only place I can get away from the behind-the-back whispers at school and the backward glances I get whenever I go into town. And here I don’t have to deal with the betrayed/hurt/concerned looks I get from Mom, or Dad’s subtle attempts to get me to remember something about the accident: “Do you remember who was with you at the dance?”

  “Do you remember getting in Trip’s truck?”

  It’s the only place I can pretend that the last two years never happened, that I don’t have to see the looks James gives me when I walk down the hall, or the pictures of Trip smiling from the trophy case.

  I love everything about the attic: the sound of the ocean or the rain on the roof: the smells of flowers and nuts and fruit from the lotions and candles I make; the view through the window; and my quiet, comfortable alone time with Blake.

  I like to watch him—lost in his art. His face contorts in concentration, not like what he’s doing is hard but like he’s focusing on something he loves. I memorize the way the light plays across his face, the way his forehead furrows, the way he bites his bottom lip when he’s thinking hard, the scratch of his pencil or the quiet of his brushstrokes.

  “If Grandma doesn’t need you, there’ll still be dance stuff to do,” Blake says.

  “Yeah, for a few weeks.” I strain to reach a jar on the top shelf. He walks over and pulls it down for me. “Thanks,” I say. I’m not sure when he got so much taller than me.

  He goes back to work, but I catch him looking at me, a lot. And he keeps dropping stuff. I’m worried that he’s thinking about the notes in my locker and how to get back at Hannah, but he doesn’t say anything.

  He’s quiet until he takes me home. Then he starts talking fast. “I’m leaving tomorrow morning to spend Christmas break with Phoebe. She’s doing really good, been working, local commercials and stuff.” He takes a breath and starts up again. “She’s dating this guy who produced one of her commercials. He has a condo at Lake Tahoe and we’re spending Christmas there. She likes him a lot. I think she’s hoping I like him and he likes me.”

  Blake drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he drives. I can tell he’s nervous about going to meet his mom’s new boyfriend. I should say something that would help, something like, “Of course he’ll think you’re great. Who wouldn’t?” But I don’t say anything.

  He grips the steering wheel. “I want you to come with me. Mom said I could bring a friend for a few days. I would pay to fly you down. Like the day after Christmas so you could still be with your family.”

  I’m already shaking my head, but he keeps going. “I could teach you how to snowboard—I mean, I’ve only been once, but we could learn together. It would be great, I mean fun, if you were there.” Blake clears his throat. “Nothing weird, just as friends.”

  I shake my head harder, and my scar starts to hurt. “Me, snowboarding?” I force a laugh, trying to keep it light. “Now that is a truly horrible idea. I’d probably break my leg just trying on the boots. I’ll never even make it to the mountain, and if I did, I would totally humiliate you.”

  Blake stops at the one red light in town and looks at me seriously. “What happened to you, Al? When we were kids you weren’t afraid of anything. Now you’re like, I don’t know, scared to try.”

  I’m half-hurt and half-offended, but I know he’s right. I try to cover it with a joke. “Maybe I’ve finally figured out that I’m a hazard to myself and others.”

  Blake turns back to the road. “And you’re always putting yourself down. I hate that.”

  I tuck my hand into my pocket and cup the tigereye. “I’ve always been a klutz. You know that. Remember when I tripped on the cliff and almost went over the edge? Or when I slid down the sand dunes on my face? It’s kind of a miracle I made it to eighteen.”

  “I did that kind of stuff, too, lots of times. You aren’t any clumsier than I am.” He pulls into my driveway and looks at me, his green eyes pleading. “Please come with me. It would take a lot of pressure off me if you were there. Mom really likes you.”

  I’ve met Blake’s mom twice. Both times I got the impression that she was too out of it to register who I was, but I’m not going to tell him that. “I can’t. Even if I wanted to.” I know it stings him when I say that—I mean it to. “There’s no way my parents would let me go.”

  “You went with Trip’s family last summer when they went to Florida,” Blake points out.

  I shiver at that memory and grip the stone in my pocket. “That was different. Dad wasn’t around and …”

  “And it was Trip.” Blake hits the side of the steering wheel, not hard, just enough so I can see his frustration.

  I hate that he’s right about that. Mom would freak if she knew I was in Blake’s car now. Going away for the weekend with him would be impossible. I open my door quickly. “Thanks for the ride. Have fun in—”

  “Wait.” Blake reaches behind his seat. “Since I won’t see you over Christmas, I’ll give you this now.” He pushes a flat, rectangle-shaped package into my hands. It’
s wrapped in white plastic.

  I look down at it. “Do you want me to open it now?”

  “Yeah.” He leans back, then rubs his neck. “I mean, if you want to.”

  “Okay.” I slide my fingers under the plastic and realize they’re shaking.

  Blake is watching me. “It’s really not much. I just—”

  “Oh,” I gasp as soon as the cover is off. It’s a painting—three kids, a girl and two boys, digging a moat around a sand castle with the ocean in the background. It’s muted and shadowed with blues and grays, like all of Blake’s paintings. Even the sand castle is gray, the way a sand castle on our beach would be, and not the sunny yellow that picture-book sand castles are. The bright spot in this picture is the long braid of yellow down the back of the little girl’s head. I slide my finger over it.

  “It’s us,” Blake says.

  “I know,” I breathe. The painting makes me happy and sad at the same time—something about seeing myself painted that way, young and innocent, before … before everything.

  Blake is looking at my face while I trace my finger over the swirls that the paint makes on the canvas. “Do you like it?”

  “I love it,” I say, and feel tears pricking the corners of my eyes. I have to bite the inside of my mouth to keep them from slipping out.

  He leans over, and I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. “I tried to do Andrew’s chair, but I couldn’t make it work. It just didn’t seem right.”

  “It’s perfect.” I trace Andrew’s face. “Just the way it is.”

  Blake’s face splits into a grin. “It was really hard to keep this hidden from you. You’ve been at my house so much lately, not that I’m complaining, but I really wanted to surprise you.”

  “It’s the nicest present I’ve ever gotten.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth I know how cheesy that sounds, but I also know it’s true.