Breaking Beautiful Page 5

  Mr. Phillips drops one hand from my shoulder and pulls his wife against his side. I look up. Her eyes—crystal blue, like Trip’s—are swimming. She catches my gaze, then looks at the ground.

  Mr. Phillips clears his throat and swallows. “We came to talk to Mr. Barnes about setting up a scholarship fund in Trip’s name.”

  “Oh.” I put my hand over the side of my face and study his shoes. They could be brand new. There isn’t a scratch or a speck of dirt anywhere on them.

  “We would like to help you with school, too, Allie,” he says. “If you choose to go to college.” He puts his hand back on my shoulder. “And I’ve been meaning to reinstate your phone on our plan.”

  I step back, still within his reach but farther away. “That’s nice, but …” My throat closes so the words can’t come out. “I couldn’t …” I’m dying for the bell to ring, anything to save me.

  His hand gets heavier on my shoulder. My heart thumps against my chest like I was a cornered rabbit. “It would be no trouble. After everything you meant to our son—” He glances at his wife. “What’s the use of having all this money if we have no one to share it with?”

  Mrs. Phillips twists the strap of her purse around her fingers.

  Guilt and fear make the milk boil in my stomach. I could throw up, right here, on his perfect shoes. Then maybe he’d leave me alone.

  The first bell rings. I almost slide to the floor in relief. But Mr. Phillips doesn’t let go of me, even as the sea of gaping faces moves past us toward class. “I’ll talk to your mom about it.” He lowers his head so I can see perfect teeth and his smile. “You should come by the house sometime. It feels so empty without Trip.” He finally takes his hand away and uses it to steer his wife toward the door. “We’ll be watching for you.”

  I tug at the sleeves of my sweatshirt and force myself to nod, but the chill down my back comes way before the wind that blows in when Mr. Phillips opens the door for his wife.

  After the Phillipses leave I just stand there, frozen in place, unable to move, like Mr. Phillips’s hand on my shoulder was some kind of freeze ray that sucked all the warmth out of my body.

  The second bell rings. The hall empties. I slowly thaw back to motion, but instead of going to my locker, getting my books, and heading to class, I retrace my steps back to Dad’s truck in the parking lot.

  The truck’s engine roars so loud that it makes me jump, but no one comes running out of the building to stop me from leaving school. I crank the heat up full blast to try to relieve some of the numbness that grips my chest. I exhale as I drive past the WELCOME TO HISTORIC PACIFIC CLIFFS sign and realize I’ve been holding my breath.

  A few miles out of town I start to feel alive again. The highway feels free; the hum of the tires, the slap of the windshield wipers, even the feeling of control I get when I step on the gas and Dad’s truck responds with a roar. I can’t make myself stop.

  Nearly three hours later I pull into a gas station in Olympia with the gas light on Dad’s truck burning bright. Only then does it hit me how far I’ve driven. Only then does it hit me that I did something really stupid.

  I try to estimate how much gas I’ll need to get back to Pacific Cliffs and how much money I’ll need to buy all the groceries on the list. I even pull out the manual Dad keeps in the glove compartment to see how many miles per gallon the truck gets so I can divide it out, but math was never one of my strong subjects.

  I give up and spend sixty-six fifty of Dad’s seventy dollars on gas. Then I drive to a pier overlooking the Puget Sound, get out of the truck, and watch the water while I try to figure out what to do.

  For a flash of a second I think about calling Trip. He would berate me for being stupid enough to drive all the way out here, but he’d come pick me up, probably even pay for the groceries.

  Then I remember he’s gone.

  Anyway you look at it, I’m screwed. I have no money. Period. Not here. Not at home. Not even in the bank. I wanted to get a job last year, but Trip said it would cut into our time together, that anything I would get at Pacific Cliffs was beneath me, and “don’t I take care of everything you need anyway?”

  An ugly, scrawny seagull pulls a yellow fast-food wrapper with a little bit of cheeseburger stuck to it out of the garbage can in front of me. Before she can eat any of it, a bigger seagull swoops down and snatches it away. Then a bunch of other seagulls join him. They tear the wrapper apart and squawk and fight over the pieces.

  I think about what would happen if I kept driving and didn’t ever go home. I could drive until I ran out of gas again. Find a place where no one knows me.

  Or I could point the truck toward the ocean and drive until I run out of land.

  The truck has Davis Auto on the side and a big winch on the front—conspicuous. Besides, Dad needs it for work.

  And then there’s Andrew.

  The drive back to Pacific Cliffs is slower. The rain is coming down in sheets so the wipers can hardly keep up. Every mile that ticks by feels like a lead weight pressing on top of me. What is Dad going to do to me when I come back without the money, and grocery-less?

  When I get to Hoquiam, a lit yellow sign catches my eye. PAWN X-CHANGE: ELECTRONICS, GUNS, JEWLERY.

  My stomach clenches. I reach up and finger the diamond stud earring in my left ear.

  “I got you something.”

  I slow down as I pass the pawnshop. The neon sign blinks OPEN.

  “They’re the real deal. Nothing’s too good for my girl.”

  I keep driving for three blocks.

  “I got them to make up for things …”

  Three more blocks slip past.

  “… to show you how sorry I am for what happened last night.”

  I turn around.

  “Please look at me, Al.”

  I drive back and pull into the parking lot of the store next to the pawnshop. My freaky eye accuses me from the mirror, so I focus on the earrings—turn my head back and forth and watch them sparkle.

  I remember his hand on my face, his fingers tracing my sore cheekbone.

  “I just lost it, okay? The whole day with my dad—I can never do anything right when he’s around.”

  I turn off the truck’s engine and stare at the yellow sign until the letters are burned into my retina.

  “It will never happen again. I promise.”

  I’ve worn the earrings since Trip gave them to me. The skin has grown around them so I have to twist to get them out. My right ear bleeds a little. I wipe it off with a napkin I find in the center console of the truck.

  In my hand they seem so tiny. Trip said they were real. How much could they be worth? The grocery list is still sitting on the seat next to me. How much do I need? Fifty dollars? Dad thought seventy would be enough, with some change left over.

  If I ask for seventy dollars, will they laugh in my face?

  I hesitate, rubbing the rough spot on my stone. Then I go inside.

  The man behind the counter is younger than I expected, like twenty-something. He has dark hair and a mustache and his arms are covered in tattoos. He’s trying to look respectable, wearing a clean blue polo shirt tucked into jeans, but not quite pulling it off.

  I’m grateful for my gray-sweatshirt shield that keeps him from seeing whatever his eyes are perusing for as they take me in. I cover the side of my face with my hand and keep my head down. My other hand is clutching the earrings, digging them into my palm.

  “Can I help you with something?” He smiles, but it’s a slippery smile, like any minute it could slide into something more sinister.

  I grip the earrings tighter but force myself to pull them out of my pocket. “I wanted to—” My voice squeaks, so I swallow and try again. “I was interested in what I would get for these.” I open my hand. The earrings have left angry red marks on my palm. I should have thought through the presentation better.

  “Let’s have a look.” He pulls out a piece of black velvet and motions for me to set the earrings on top o
f it.

  “They’re real.” I go for confident, but it comes out more like a question.

  He reaches under the counter, pulls out some kind of magnifying glass, and studies the earrings. “You have a fight with your boyfriend?”

  My hand automatically goes back to the scar over my eye. “No. It was an accident. I mean, I got this in a car accident.”

  He looks at me strangely. “I meant why are you selling the earrings? You trying to get back at the guy who gave these to you?”

  “No, he’s de—” I bite off the word and say, “Gone,” instead. He looks at me hard, but I acquire a sudden and deep interest in a piece of artwork on the shelf behind him—a collage of faces, different expressions and different colors flowing into each other.

  He goes back to the earrings, studying each one with the glass while the clock ticks by agonizing second after agonizing second. He finally looks back at me with no expression. “What did you want for them?”

  I’ve seen enough bargaining on TV to know I should start higher than what I want. “One hundred fifty.” I bite my lip and wait for him to laugh in my face.

  “Hmmm, I don’t think so.” He steps back and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Try again.”

  “One twenty-five.” All of the faces in the painting laugh at me.

  He fingers the earrings. “I won’t go higher than a hundred.”

  I look down at the studs, sparkling hopefully even in the grimy fluorescent light. I feel like they deserve better than to end up in a place like this, but I look away from them and say, “Okay.”

  “Done.” He grins.

  I only wanted to get Dad’s money back so I wouldn’t be in trouble, but as fast as he agreed, and as big as his smile is now, I get the idea I’m being taken.

  “There are a lot of jerks out there, Al. That’s why you need me around. I’ll always be here to protect you.”

  The man scoops the earrings into a little box and a bubble of panic hits my throat. What is Trip going to say when he finds out I … ? I squash that thought with my hand pressed against my forehead. Trip can’t find out anything ever again.

  Chapter

  8

  On the way home, my ears—used to Trip’s earrings—swell in protest. They feel bare and I keep pushing insufficient wisps of hair around them. I wonder if anyone will notice that they’re gone. Mom will. Now that we’re pretending everything is normal again she barely notices me, but missing earrings? That she’ll notice. But maybe because everything is supposed to be normal, she’ll pretend she doesn’t.

  Dad’s truck feels huge and loud as I pull into the parking lot at Simmons’ Grocery. Since it’s the only store in town, Simmons’ sells everything from groceries to pocketknives to souvenirs for tourists. I spent so much time getting home that I’ve hit the after-work crowd. Instead of the store being empty, there are five other people shopping. The aisles are too low to hide behind, so I feel everyone’s eyes on me as I try to find the stuff on Mom’s list as fast as possible.

  The first reactions I get from the other customers are mixed—a sympathetic smile from an old man who holds the door to the fridge open so I can get the milk and an open-mouthed stare at the side of my face from a kid standing by the candy aisle.

  Then I see Grandma’s old friend, Sherry Clark, one of the gossip-seekers who came to see me in the hospital after the accident. She’s talking on her cell phone, but stops midconversation when she sees me. In a voice loud enough for the person on the other end and the entire store to hear she says, “Allie Davis, it’s good to see you out.”

  I mutter something like “thanks” and try to squeeze by her, but her body seems to swell enough to fill up the aisle. “I remember when I lost my Patrick, I couldn’t bring myself to go anywhere for nearly six months.” She looks at me over the top of her glasses. I feel like I’m being examined for acceptable signs of mourning. I automatically reach to pull my hat down over my scar and, if possible, to cover my bare earlobes.

  “Dad asked me to go shopping. I have to pick him up. I need to hurry—” I try again to push my cart in the little hole between her and the canned tomatoes.

  “Just seeing other people, people getting on with their normal lives, is such a hard thing after you’ve lost someone so close to you.”

  “Yes. It is.” I look down at the floor and try to look appropriately shattered.

  She pats my hand. “Hang in there. You’re a trouper.” She lets me by, but I’m not even to the next aisle when I hear her on her phone again, even though she’s trying to whisper. “Huge scar on the side of her face … horrible, poor child. She was such a pretty thing.”

  I can’t leave fast enough, so I get the basics, skip the rest of the list, and push my cart to the front of the store. Angie’s mom is working the only open register.

  I start unloading my cart. Angie’s mom looks at me like she’s surprised. “Oh, Allie, how are you feeling?”

  I’m not sure how I’m supposed to answer that question anymore. I stick with a quiet “Okay.”

  “Angie told me you were back at school. That you’ve been eating lunch together. I think it’s nice that they’re reaching out to you.” She’s running the groceries through, superspeed. She barely misses a beat when James walks in. “You’re late,” she says without looking at him.

  I shrink back instinctively, but there’s nothing to hide behind. “Sorry,” he mumbles. He throws his coat under the counter, sends a dark look in my direction, and starts bagging my groceries.

  Angie’s mom picks up her conversation with me without missing a beat. “Have you seen the monument they put by the cliff?”

  I don’t know what she’s talking about, so I just shake my head. “No.” James is still watching me. His dark eyes bore into the side of my face, but I can’t look back at him. Why is he staring? What is he thinking? Does he notice the earrings are missing?

  “… They did a beautiful job on it, but I would imagine it would be hard for you to go up there.” Angie’s mom hands me my receipt and says pleasantly, “This is such a sad thing for you to have to go through.” She pats my hand. “Tell your mom I said hi.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter, and reach for my cart, but Simmons’ is a full-service grocery store. James grabs the handle before I can. I walk around him and head for the doors. He follows me out, pushing the cart, his gaze on the back of my head. I want to tell him I can get it, that I don’t need his help, but I don’t dare say anything. We stop at Dad’s truck and I fumble around the tigereye for the keys in my pocket. I’m probably the only person in Pacific Cliffs who locks their car door, and now I wish I hadn’t. James’s close proximity and silent glare make me nervous. My hand slips off the handle once, but I manage to get the door open. He reaches past me and puts the groceries behind the seat. He straightens up but doesn’t leave.

  “Thank you.” I study the front tire of the truck.

  He lets out a heavy breath and then says through his teeth, “Nobody has forgotten anything. You aren’t going to get away with pretending everything is okay.” He turns around, shoves the cart hard, and heads back to the store.

  I’m so shocked I can’t move. His words chill me as bad as Mr. Phillips’s touch. I stand for a minute, letting the rain soak through my sweatshirt, before I recover enough to climb in the truck.

  What is that supposed to mean? Pretending everything is okay? I’ve been walking around school with my head down. Talking to no one. Looking at no one. How am I supposed to be acting?

  I’m so distracted that I miss the one red light in town. When I’m halfway through the intersection, a horn blares. I slam on the brakes, slide on wet pavement, and barely avoid hitting a blue clunker Ford Maverick. Every heartbeat sends sparks of adrenaline through my body. The driver, Marshall Yates, a sophomore with a garage band and a huge attitude, flips me off and keeps going.

  I take half a breath before I see flashing lights in my rearview mirror and Pacific Cliffs’ new, unmarked black Charger behind me.
>
  I pull over and lean my head against the steering wheel. How could today possibly get any worse?

  Then the officer gets out—tall, blond, definitely not Chief Milton. He leans in my window. “How are you doing today?” Dumb question. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

  Hannah was right about the new cop being hot, but I’m not in the mood to try to flirt my way out of a ticket, and the way I look now it wouldn’t work anyway. I swallow hard. “I missed the red light.”

  “Kind of a hard one to miss, don’t you think?” His blue eyes laugh at me. “License and registration, please.”

  I pull my license out of my purse and reach for the registration in Dad’s glove box. The door sticks so I have to hit it and jerk on the handle a couple times before it falls open.

  I glance at the clock—5:55. Between the ticket and my being late, Dad will never let me take his truck again, even if he never finds out that I ditched school.

  He takes my license and registration. “Be right back.” Why are cops so friendly while they ruin your day? I wonder if Dad was wrong about this guy being some kind of detective. Traffic stops seem like grunt police work. Maybe it’s all a rumor and he’s just a regular cop.

  Through the rearview mirror I watch him walk back to his car. He stops at his door, looks at my license, then turns around and comes back. “Allison Davis?” He’s still looking at my license when I roll the window down again. I keep my eyes forward, so my scar is hidden on the other side of my face.

  “Yes.” I lick my lips because my mouth has gone dry. “Is there a problem?”

  He smiles—even friendlier. “It might take a while to run your license through the system—old computer. I don’t want to stand out here in the rain. Do you mind sitting in the car with me?”

  I do mind, but I don’t think I’m allowed to say no to a police officer. I slide out of the truck and follow him. He opens the passenger-side door of his car for me. I climb in and bury my hands in the pockets of my sweatshirt. The damp seeps into my skin and I have to hunch my shoulders to keep from shaking. The outside of the car looks like a regular Dodge Charger—sneaky—but inside the dash is covered in blinking lights, wires, and even a laptop. I focus on the dash while he gets in his side.