Breaking Beautiful Read online

  Dillon yells, “Is that your new girlfriend, Juvie? How much does she charge an hour?” Andrew leans forward so he’s blocking most of the window, to keep anyone from seeing me. Blake reaches for the door handle.

  “Just drive away,” I plead. “Please, let’s just go home.”

  Blake sets his jaw and revs the engine again. This time the car lurches forward, Dillion jumps off. Then Blake puts it in reverse so fast that Randall slides off the hood. As we go by, James pounds on the roof. Blake cuts beside him so close that I think we’re going to run over him.

  Blake’s knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel. He keeps his eyes in front of him, but his cheeks flush red. I know he’s embarrassed that I saw them harassing him.

  I’m relieved to get out of town, until we get to my house. Both Dad’s truck and the van are parked in the driveway. Blake hurries to unload Andrew’s chair and help him in. I get the backpack and my purse. Slowly, resigned to our fate, we walk to the front door. Dad is waiting. He points at me, then Blake, then Andrew. “You three, living room! Now!”

  Andrew looks at him groggily, wide-eyed and innocent. “Yes, you,” Dad says. “You’re in on this, too.”

  Andrew beams. It’s been a long time since he was in trouble. I think he likes it. Blake and I perch on the couch; Andrew parks next to us—three felons awaiting sentencing.

  “Where have you been?” Dad’s voice booms from his chest, not yelling—more like projecting—still loud enough that Blake looks ready to bolt.

  “W-we went to Hoquiam,” Blake stammers. “To the roller—”

  “You went all the way to Hoquiam?” Dad sounds like he doesn’t quite believe that.

  “With Andrew? You know he has a cold.” Mom focuses her assault on me.

  “Mom,” Andrew moans. “Not a baby.”

  “It was my fault, sir.” Blake’s defiance to authority doesn’t seem to include my father. “I dragged them—”

  Dad withers him with a look. “Nobody dragged anyone. You’re all to blame for this one.” His eyes focus on me and Andrew. “You two worried your mom to death, and do I dare ask how you got Andrew’s chair to Hoquiam?”

  “In the back of my car.” Blake half stands, like he wants to escape.

  “In the back of your car?” Mom repeats in disbelief. “In the trunk?”

  “In the bed.” Blake sinks back to the couch. “My El Camino—half car, half truck.”

  “It was covered,” I put in.

  “It had better not be damaged.” Dad rests his gaze on Blake.

  “We … I made sure it was secure.” Blake tries to sound confident, but his voice is shaking.

  “We used bungee cords,” I say hopefully. Dad is a big fan of bungee cords.

  “You.” He points to me. “You’re grounded. Again, or still, whatever. And you will spend tomorrow cleaning the auto shop, including the bathrooms. You.” He points to Andrew, who’s trying for innocence again. “Your computer time is limited to homework only.”

  “Dad,” he moans. I know he promised Caitlyn they would chat tonight.

  Dad ignores him and points to Blake. “And you. Your grandma’s lawn is covered with leaves and branches and her gutters need to be cleaned out before it starts to rain again. A good project for tomorrow.” It’s an order, not a suggestion, even if Blake isn’t his kid.

  “Yes, sir,” Blake answers.

  “Allie and Andrew, rooms. Blake, good-bye.”

  I’m shocked. He yelled at us. He reinstated my grounding. But that’s it. Before, Dad would have lost it if he’d caught me leaving the house when I was supposed to be grounded. He totally freaked when he caught me sneaking out before. Maybe my accident made Dad soft.

  After Blake leaves, Mom follows me into my room. She must be the designated “bad parent” now. She sits down on my desk chair and I sit on the bed. She glances around; I’m sure she notices that Trip’s pictures are missing, but she pretends she doesn’t.

  “Do you have any idea how worried I was when I came home and found you and Andrew gone?” Habitually she doesn’t include Dad by saying “we.” Her slippered foot taps on my floor. “You were supposed to be grounded.” Her voice rises a notch. “You can’t just go do whatever you want. Especially not with Andrew.”

  I want to tell her that I’m eighteen and Andrew’s eighteen, and we can do whatever we want, but she’s playing the angry/ concerned mom. I don’t have the energy to fight with her.

  “And then there’s who you were with.” She shepherds a stray paper clip off my desk and into the drawer.

  “Blake?” How can she object to Blake?

  “Yes, Blake.” She sets her jaw into a firm line.

  “I don’t—” I start to reach for the stone in my pocket but then grip the edge of my bed instead.

  “He’s not the same kid you used to play pirates with, not since that thing in Nevada.” She pauses. “A lot has changed; he’s changed”—pause—“and I think maybe it’s better if you don’t”—pause again while she picks up a pen and adds that to the drawer, too.

  “You want me to stay away from Blake?”

  Mom’s eyes move over everything in my room—the dirty clothes in the middle of the room, the pile of gum wrappers on my nightstand, the bare walls and shelves where Trip’s pictures used to be—everything but me. “I’m just saying, maybe it would be better if you spent time with your other friends.”

  “Other friends?” I say incredulously. More acceptable friends? Like I have any of those.

  “Yes, the kids you hung out with before.”

  “Last year I hung out with Trip. And he’s gone.”

  “I’m just saying, so soon after Trip’s accident, people might think … might get the wrong idea about your friendship with Blake, and I don’t want—”

  Her meaning sinks into the pit of my stomach. She’s thinking the same thing I’ve been worried about. What will people think if they know I’ve been with Blake? What will they say if I act like I’m over Trip’s death too soon?

  Mom stands up and puts her hands on her tiny waist. “You are grounded because of his poor judgment, taking you and especially Andrew to Hoquiam. And I’ve heard other things about him, not just the stealing, but drugs and drinking, and right now you need”—she sighs—“you need more stable friends.” She brushes the gum wrappers into my garbage can. “I’m just trying to protect you. He seems to be heading down the same path as his mother. I don’t want you to be guilty by association.”

  I grip the edge of my quilt harder. I’m so stunned I can’t say anything.

  “You’d better get to sleep. Your dad wants you at the shop first thing tomorrow and we both know that Dad’s ‘first thing in the morning’ is at least two hours earlier than the rest of the world.”

  When she’s gone, I kick the garbage can so it crashes against the floor and the gum wrappers spill. Other friends? Like the kids who were staring at us from Big J’s? Or the kids who whisper about me in the halls at school?

  I flop on my bed, pick up the stone, and run it across my lips. I wish it would give me the courage to tell my mom that Blake is the only friend I have. What’s with her suddenly trying to protect me? I bite down on the tigereye. There are a lot of things I wish this stone would give me the courage to say to her.

  Chapter

  15

  My hand snakes under the pillow, jerking the phone to my ear, even before I’m fully awake. It’s an automatic reaction. Dad’s home for the weekend and he’s already warned me about late-night phone calls. Trip calls almost every night now, just to make sure I’m home. To make sure I’m alone.

  This time his voice sounds desperate. “Allie, I need your help!”

  I cling to the phone. “What happened?”

  “We got stuck. We need you to go get Randall’s truck and pull us out.”

  I strain for any sounds from my parents’ room and hiss, “Where are you?”

  “That spot I took you to two weeks ago, on the way to Port Angele
s. Can you find it? It needs to be fast, Al. Dad has some breakfast meeting tomorrow morning he wants me to come to. If I don’t make it back, he’ll kill me.”

  I weigh the consequences of either option.

  “Allie, are you there?”

  I breathe out. “Okay, I’ll come.”

  I sit up in bed as Trip’s voice fades into my memory. The box of pictures and notes mocks me from where I left it, under the windowsill. Having everything boxed up is worse than his eyes staring at me all the time. I can’t put the pictures back up, but I can’t keep them either. A thousand insufficient ideas for getting rid of the box run through my head, but none would work. None would be soon enough. And none seem appropriate.

  There’s only one place to get rid of the box.

  It’s almost one o’clock. If I walked it would probably take me at least an hour to get to the cliff. Through the walls I can hear Andrew snoring. I listen toward Mom and Dad’s room, to try and tell if they’re asleep. Dad may have been soft on us when we came home from Hoquiam, but if he catches me sneaking out again, I’m not sure what he’ll do. Two hours is too risky. Driving would be better, but there’s no way I could start Mom’s car without waking someone up.

  There’s only one person who might help me.

  My heart pounds so loudly in my ears as I walk past my parents’ door that I’m sure the sound will wake them up. I get the phone from the kitchen, carry it into my bedroom, and muffle it against my pillow. My fingers dial Blake’s number without looking.

  He picks up on the fourth ring. His voice is husky and groggy. I almost hang up, but he recognizes my phone number. “Allie, is that you?”

  I take a breath. “Blake, I need your help.”

  His voice changes to sharp concern. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, I just—” I close my eyes and press the phone against my ear. This is stupid. I can’t make him come based on my paranoia. “Never mind—”

  “No,” he answers fast. “It’s okay, I wasn’t asleep.” His voice softens. “What do you need? I’m here.”

  I look at the box again. I feel guilty for using him. “I need you to come pick me up. I need to do something. It won’t take very long. I just … you don’t have to—”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He hangs up before I can change my mind.

  I put on a bra, my sweatpants, and my sweatshirt. I tuck the tigereye in my pocket. I wait by my window. Five minutes go by, then ten.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Trip’s eyes are blazing.

  “I came as fast as I could. I … I got lost.”

  “Get out of my way.” I shrink away from him, but he still shoves me against Randall’s truck on the way to get the tow rope.

  A tap on the window makes me jump. I listen toward Mom and Dad’s room again, and then open the window for Blake. He helps me pop out the screen, takes the box from me, and helps me through without saying anything. I turn around and slide my window most of the way closed, leaving just enough space to slip my fingers along the edge so I can open it when I come back.

  We walk up the sidewalk to where he left his car, next to Randall’s driveway, three houses down. I glance at Randall’s pickup and remember how scared I was, sneaking into their yard, getting the keys out from under the seat, how much I jumped when the engine roared when I turned the key.

  There aren’t any streetlights in this part of town, the older part, away from the beachfront. The moon is blanketed by a thick haze. The neighbor’s yappy little dog goes nuts when we walk past. Otherwise the street is silent except for the sound of our footsteps and our breathing.

  Hazy moonlight and the shadows from the yard lights play tricks on my eyes. I see people watching us, hiding in an alleyway, behind the neighbor’s fishing boat, or in the shadows behind the trees. I chalk it up to guilt-induced mind tricks but move closer to Blake anyway. We get to the car and he opens the door for me. I slide into the seat and wrap my arms around the box.

  Blake starts the car. “Where are we going?”

  “The cliff,” I say without looking up.

  “Can I ask what’s in the box?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  I can feel him watching me, but I don’t turn my head. He turns back to the front and pulls into the street. His car has a bad muffler knock. It’s so loud that as we pass by my house I expect to see my dad standing at the front door, but my house stays dark.

  Twice on the way up, Blake starts to say something, but he doesn’t finish.

  He parks by a little fence at the edge of the cliff and turns off the lights. We sit for a long time, listening to the ocean hiss and roar on the rocks below. I hold the box, squeezing it against my chest so hard that the corner digs into my thighs. Finally, I gather enough courage to open the door. Blake starts to open his, but I stop him. “Stay here.”

  “Allie, I don’t think—”

  “Please.” I reach for his hand. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  He nods but doesn’t let go of my hand.

  I squeeze his fingers and then climb out, clutching the box against my chest. I creep toward the guardrail. It’s dented at the end, but there’s no other indication that anyone has ever gone off the ledge. Everything else looks the way it’s always been. Apparently, even right after the accident there wasn’t much to see. Dad explained—coolly and logically—that there was no real wreckage, just me and the torn-off back bumper to Trip’s truck.

  There was a storm that night, and an extreme high tide that made it too dangerous for anyone to go below the cliff to retrieve the truck or Trip’s body. By the time the tide went out again, there was nothing left. It was like the ocean swallowed Trip whole, truck and all.

  I step closer. I wonder where they found me, where the bumper to Trip’s truck was, and where Blake found the tigereye. I wonder where Trip and his truck are now; just at the base of the cliff, caught in some kind of underwater cave, or far out in the ocean where he’ll never be found.

  My toes curl as I lean against the guardrail. In the dim light, I can barely see the water, churning and angry below. The wind whips my hair against my face and sends chills down my back. It whistles through the trees along the ridge and makes a low mournful noise, like the ghostly moans of lost sailors, or the sounds of their widows crying. Like Trip’s ghost might make. I balance the box in one arm and reach into my pocket for the stone.

  “What’s your problem, Allie?”

  “I need to go home. I told Mom I wouldn’t leave Andrew alone.”

  “You don’t have to go anywhere. The spaz is fine.”

  I jerk away from him, get out of the truck, and slam the door behind me. Three steps down the path into the woods he catches me. I spin around to face him, furious. “Don’t ever call him that!”

  He grabs my shoulders, his fingers digging in. “I can say whatever I want.” He smiles—crooked and cruel. “I can do whatever I want.” He drags me toward the edge. I kick against his leg and pound my fists against his chest. He laughs.

  I grab on to his arms and hold on to keep from falling. “No. Please. I’m sorry, please.”

  He smiles and breathes beer-breath into my face. “I could kill you, Allie. All I have to do is let go. Over the cliff. Into the ocean. No one would ever find your body. No one would ever know what happened. No one would even care.”

  I throw the box as hard as I can. The waves roar as it disappears beneath them. I turn, take a step, and scream.

  Blake catches me as my leg slips between the ledge and the guardrail. He pulls me up, and I hang on to him, trembling. “I’m sorry, Allie. I had to follow you. I didn’t think you’d jump, but I had to be sure.” He steps away from the edge with me still in his arms. He holds me close. I lean against him and listen to the pounding of his heart against mine. He brushes his hand over the back of my head and murmurs into my neck, “It’s okay. You’re okay now.”

  I look up at him. The wind drives the clouds away from the moon and all I can see is Blak
e’s face. I’m caught in his blue-green eyes. He leans forward, toward my lips. I almost let go, almost lean into his arms and let him kiss me. But something behind him, glowing white in the moonlight, stops me. I pull away. He lets his arms fall off my shoulders.

  Next to the cliff is a white marble plaque, like a headstone. When I get closer, Trip’s picture smiles back at me. Startled, I stumble backward into Blake. He puts his hand on my elbow to steady me. This must be the monument Angie’s mom was trying to tell me about. I step forward and read the inscription: TRAVIS RYAN ISAAC “TRIP” PHILLIPS, BELOVED SON, ATHLETE, AND FRIEND. No birthday, no date of death.

  I trace the letters with my finger. Trip’s blue eyes and perfect teeth shine from the picture like some guy in a toothpaste ad, like he wasn’t a real person, someone I knew.

  The base of the plaque is covered with ghostly mementos: dead flowers, deflated balloons, a football, a teddy bear, and lots of cards. I kneel in front of the plaque and read them. “Rest in peace, buddy.” “I’ll never forget fourth-period wood shop with you.” “To the craziest off-roader I ever met—you’ll be missed.”

  The football has Trip’s jersey number, 33, written on it in faded red marker, and every member of the football team signed it. The bear is holding a heart and has a simple but dramatic message: “To my first love—I’ll never forget you.—Love, Hannah.”

  I lean forward with my head resting against the plaque and cover my face with my hands. My scar pounds in the back of my head. Trip meant something to all of these people, enough that they left flowers and notes and things to remember him. Then there’s me, the person who should have been the closest to him, and I just threw all evidence of our relationship over the cliff. All I want to do is forget.

  They knew a different Trip than I did. No one saw what I saw. He made sure of that. I made sure of that. What would it take for them to believe anything I said about him? What would it take for anyone to understand? I startle as Blake rests his hand on my shoulder. What would it take for him to understand?