Every Ugly Word Read online

  I swallow. “A coward, just like the rest of them. The kind of person who makes the easy choice rather than the right one. The kind who knows that what he’s doing is hurting someone but does it anyway.”

  The kind who hurt me.

  •••

  The art room on Sunday morning after prom was a sanctuary of silence. I could be truly alone.

  The silence hollowed me out, left me thinking of Matt. What would he tell Karyn?

  What would he tell himself?

  I pushed all those thoughts away. I had to work. There was no time to cry about Matt now. No time to hate on Dex. I had a portfolio to finish.

  Now, more than ever, I had to get out of this town. The competition was my ticket.

  The massive black tri-boards for my art portfolio had finally arrived. I had three days to get them ready and approved by Mrs. D for submission. By the middle of the afternoon, I had two-thirds of them covered. Mom and Dad were up there as the diptych. Mrs. Driley, Karyn, Finn, and Dex, too. I threw in a couple of older paintings I’d done where faces weren’t the main focus, just to show my range. I was left with two big blank spaces and one small one. Matt’s portrait had to fill one of the big ones. I’d throw something together for the small one. But it was the big, central gap that was chilling me. Mrs. Driley insisted that it be my self-portrait. But who wanted to look at a picture just of me?

  I put on some music and pulled out the pieces of Matt’s portrait. Then I grabbed a canvas board out of the easel room and took it to my table, pulling all the sketches, drawings, and scratchings of Matt’s features from the folder. I found myself sitting in front of a table full of his eyes and his smile and his jaw, and it almost killed me. There was only one sketch of his hand—holding a pencil while he drew something. I’d gotten the fingers just right: The heavy knuckles and long digits. The nails short and rounded off, but clean. The tendons that ran from the back of each finger to his wrist. Now, all I could see when I looked at it was those fingers touching my skin. That thumb tracing along my cheekbone. That hand reaching to pull me back when I ran . . .

  I turned it over, took a breath, and then started filtering the images.

  Those eyes were too narrow. That nose a fraction too big. That ear was angular. On and on, until I had only one or two pictures left of each feature. Except his mouth.

  Without letting myself think too deeply about it, I pulled a heavy cartridge paper pad onto my lap and started drawing. There was a slight indentation at the middle of his bottom lip—a plane of soft, unmarred skin that stretched when he smiled and wrinkled when he stopped. His upper lip was slightly thinner than his lower, but both were long and pulled into sharp corners. I drew them in less than ten minutes, and they were perfect. Well, as perfect as I was capable of, anyway.

  With that done, I took the canvas board into the easel room and set it up, pulled another stool up to put my pictures on it, and started playing with the pieces. An hour later, Matt stared at me from the canvas. He looked like he was turned to look at me, holding a pencil as if he were about to use it.

  All his pieces were there, and I wanted to kiss him again.

  Turning the easel around to the natural light from the window, I stepped a few feet back to take in the full effect. But from that distance, something was missing. The use of different media to draw the pieces meant certain parts of his face drew the eye immediately, while others faded into the background. It was exactly the effect I wanted, but it was pulling my attention to the wrong piece first.

  Without my planning it, I’d drawn his eyes and mouth in flat pencil. With his hair and nose in the heavy acrylic crayon and his jaw a dusty charcoal, the lips looked framed. They were perfect and my eye went right to them. But I wanted the viewer to look at Matt’s eyes and see what I saw. Should I go back to some of the other sketches? Find a nose that wasn’t so dramatic so the eyes would pop more?

  “You need to paint them in oil.”

  I yelped and whirled around.

  Matt stood in the door of the easel room, hands in his pockets. There were dark circles under his eyes and heavy stubble on his chin and jaw. He looked terrible.

  He looked fantastic.

  He stared at the picture I’d made of him. It was like I’d opened my chest, pulled my heart out, and handed it to him. He knew me too well not to understand what I was trying to achieve with the picture.

  Trying not to look flustered, I reached for the easel and angled it away. “It isn’t finished,” I said to my own feet.

  “I haven’t seen that before,” he said. “Is that why you didn’t tell me you were coming in here all those times by yourself?”

  “I would have shown you when it was done,” I lied. “I-I just wasn’t expecting you today. I thought you’d be . . . getting some rest.”

  “I need it,” he said. He didn’t smile. “Last night the guys got pretty drunk. Noisy. And Dex kept trying to fight me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Our eyes locked and the heat that had sizzled last night snapped between us again, a tangible frisson in the air.

  I got brave. Took a slow step closer. Matt was more confident, apparently. He closed the distance, but his hands were still balled at his sides.

  I touched his chest with trembling fingers. “Last night, when you said—”

  “Well, this looks cozy.”

  My head whipped up. Matt tensed but didn’t turn around.

  Karyn stood inside the door, arms folded, perfect golden hair swaying around her shoulders. The look on her face was pure fury.

  Matt grimaced, but still didn’t turn around. “It’s not a good time, Kar. Just give us a few minutes, would you?”

  Her eyes about popped out of her head.

  “I don’t care if it’s a good time,” she hissed.

  “Look, after you left last night, Ashley had to deal with some real crap, so just back off, okay?” Matt’s voice got harder, angrier.

  Karyn scoffed and started toward us. Matt huffed and turned to meet her. But she was coming for me. I braced as she tried to step past Matt, but he grabbed her arm.

  “Hey!” she spat.

  “Get out of here, Karyn.”

  “You’re sticking up for her? I’m your girlfriend!”

  “Get out!” Matt roared and even I jumped. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

  Karyn’s mouth dropped open and she yanked her arm out of his grip. I was willing to bet she’d never seen him truly angry before. When she spoke, her voice was strong. “It’s always about her in the end, isn’t it? You’re always spouting this ‘just friends’ BS, but every time she makes an ass out of herself, you’ve got to be there. Why don’t you admit she’s the one you want to be with? Oh, wait, that’s right—because you don’t want everyone to hate you, too.”

  Matt grabbed her arm again, but she didn’t come closer, just pointed at me and sneered. “He hates it, you know. He hates that everyone else hates you. He laughs about you when you’re not there—”

  Her words pelted me like stones, leaving bruises. “That’s not true!” Matt snapped.

  She slapped at his hands. “You’re such a pussy, Matt! And you!” She whirled on me. “I know you were there last night with all those guys. You think that’s going to make people like you?”

  It only took three steps to get close enough to shove her. Karyn smirked.

  Matt put one hand on my shoulder. “Let me handle this.”

  But I just spoke past him. ”You two-faced cow!” I wanted to throttle her. “You don’t deserve Matt and he definitely doesn’t deserve to be with a backstabber like you. You let everyone think you’re a little princess, but you’re a total snake. You lie! You cheat! You’re—”

  Karyn gasped. “Oh my—”

  But I didn’t let her finish. “Tell Matt about all those times your friends cornered me and you just stood back and laughed. Tell him about how you dumped me as a friend when you realized I wasn’t popular enough! Tell him all about your little ‘meetings�
�� in the library!”

  Karyn’s eyes widened and her teeth pulled back from her lips. “Finn told you what would happen if—” She clapped her hands over her mouth and immediately looked at Matt.

  My breath came too fast and my hands shook. “I never said a name,” I hissed. “You did.”

  Matt stared between us. But all he said was “Finn?”

  Karyn’s mouth dropped open. She stared at me. But then, slowly, she turned from me to Matt and her eyes got all liquid and pleading. “It wasn’t . . . I mean . . .”

  A silence fell heavy over the room.

  “Matt, I—” She reached for him, but he flinched and she stopped.

  Matt’s shoulders were hunched and rigid. He glanced back and forth and I could see him making connections, asking himself questions, seeing things differently. Then he looked at me for confirmation of his fears. I nodded.

  His face went blank. With a jaw like stone, he got up in Karyn’s face and growled, “What’s going on with Finn?”

  Whatever spell Karyn was under broke. Her crystal facade returned. She shoved her nose in the air, folded her arms, and huffed out a shaky breath. “Nothing!” She made a big show of tipping her head at me. “She wants you to break up with me for her. You’re so gullible!” But she never looked at me. She stared at Matt a minute and he glared back, then she swore and stormed out of the room.

  Matt tensed when the door slammed, but he didn’t go after her.

  “Matt?” I said softly.

  His face was expressionless.

  “Matt?” I touched his arm. “Are you okay?” His head snapped down, looking at where we touched.

  “Just . . . give me a minute,” he said through clenched teeth, peeling my fingers off his arm.

  I bit my lip and stepped back. Matt gave a cold chuckle. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not you I’m mad at.”

  Small relief. I wanted to reach for him again. I wanted to put my arms around him and bury my face in his chest and rub his back. I wanted to comfort him.

  “Not much, anyway,” he said in a flat voice.

  “Well, that’s reassuring.”

  A minute later, Matt blew out a breath, then turned to face me again. The hardness still clung to his jaw and shoulders, but he ran a hand through his hair and shook his head.

  “Finn?” he said.

  I swallowed, still holding my insides together. “I caught them kissing.”

  He frowned. “When?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  Disbelief and anger pinched his face. “A few weeks? And you didn’t tell me? You just let me stay with her, like an idiot? Why?”

  “Because I had no proof. And you always believe them when they tell you things.”

  Matt’s jaw dropped. “You really think I’d believe them over you?” His voice went up sharply at the end.

  “Of course I do. You’ve been doing it for years!”

  “I have not!”

  “Matt, you choose them every time. You believed them when they accused me of calling Terese’s mom. You hang out with them at school even though they make my life hell. You go out with girls who hate me—then believe them when they tell you they don’t.”

  Matt grimaced and ran a hand through his hair. “That’s not true. I don’t understand why you would think that.”

  And that was all it took. “You don’t understand? Seriously?”

  He must have heard the shift in my tone, because he answered warily. “Yes.”

  I took a step closer. “Fine, then I’ll explain it. Let’s start with Karyn. Last month, she and her friends threw my jeans in the sink during PE. I told the teacher, so they told everyone else I wet my pants. Someone left a pack of bladder control pads on top of my locker.”

  His head jerked back. “Why didn’t you—”

  “A couple of weeks ago, Brooke drew a picture of me giving the math teacher a blowjob and passed it around class. I’ve been getting cracks about ‘math tutoring’ ever since!”

  Matt looked away, but I was on a roll now.

  “Finn humiliates me and tells me he hates me pretty much every time he sees me. He makes sure his friends tell me that, too. Do you have any idea how it feels to have people look you in the face and tell you they wish you were dead, and mean it?”

  Matt blew out a breath, but he was staring at the carpet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was so—”

  “You didn’t want to know. I embarrass you,” I said quietly. “I get it.”

  He shook his head. “No. I am not embarrassed by you.”

  “Then what was Karyn talking about?”

  “Grow up, Ash.” His voice kept rising. “She’s jealous because I’m always there for you. Do you realize that—that I’m always there for you? Even when you’re a total idiot, I stick up for you! You should know you can trust me by now.”

  That felt like a slap. “Me? It’s your friends who are the idiots—”

  “Oh, come on! You could get away from them if you wanted to. You keep throwing yourself in front of them, then crying when they make fun of you.”

  “I do not!”

  “Really?” Matt’s face got hard and he leaned in. “You really want to have this conversation? How about that party at Finn’s house, where you got drunk and started crying over a fight with Finn that you started?”

  “I didn’t start it, and I wasn’t drunk!”

  “And what about last night?” he yelled. “I get that you were upset, but instead of finding someone—finding me!—and asking for help like a normal person, you disappear. Everyone looked for you—even Finn. Did you know that? They thought something had happened to you! Then it turned out you’re just crying in a corner. People don’t like drama. And you make drama all the time.”

  Matt’s words were knives on my skin, cutting to the bone. Couldn’t he see that drama just happened because of who they thought I was? I couldn’t change that.

  Could I?

  “I couldn’t have confronted them last night. Finn would have crucified me. It isn’t a petty fight with him. He . . . he . . .”

  “What? What did he do, Ash? If he’s so awful, why did you agree to go to his house? Twice?”

  Matt leaned down in my face, angry but wanting answers. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him the whole story and give him the letter and have him fold me in those strong arms like he had a few hours earlier. I wanted to feel his fingers twined with mine again.

  Then I remembered Finn’s face—the wicked grin he got when he talked about the letter.

  Could I trust Matt to stick around if he knew the truth about what I saw when I looked in the mirror? Finn didn’t think so. Neither did Older Me.

  I stepped back, shaking my head.

  “Oh, for—!”

  The tears were back, sheets of tears. “Stop yelling at me!” I hugged myself and backed away from him.

  Matt groaned through gritted teeth, then whirled. “Fine. Forget about it. Forget everything.” He stalked toward the door, shoving the pile of easels leaned against the wall as he passed, sending them clattering to the floor with a crash. I jumped and the tears came harder.

  “Matt!”

  The door slammed and he was gone. I waited a minute, holding my breath, praying for him to come back. But the longer I stood there, the more certain I was that he wasn’t coming back.

  My heart thumped against my ribs and my breath came too fast. I should have picked up the easels Matt knocked over, but my arms felt like jelly. Then my knees shook and I sank to the floor.

  I teetered on the edge for a long time before I could breathe without wheezing. Until the shivers stopped running up and down my spine. I stayed on the floor, wrapped around the pain, forcing the cracks inside to hold. Until I could breathe. But with oxygen came a weird kind of clarity.

  This. I had to capture this.

  I rolled onto my hands and knees, waiting to make sure my head would stay in one place. When it did, I pushed to my feet and used my trembling hands to
pull around the easel I’d been using.

  Tearing the pieces of Matt off the canvas, I picked up a pencil and started sketching—very light so the lead wouldn’t show through later brushstrokes. Then I thumbed through the brushes until I found a tiny, thin one suitable for drawing in paint.

  I painted me. Surrounded by nothing. Zero. Alone. Just my face and my shoulders, chin in my hand, and blank, blank space beside and behind me. I drew my eyes and outlined my forehead and turned my hair into something resembling a nice cut.

  The world became a very small place. Just me and the painting.

  Once the basics were in place, I pulled a huge, full-length mirror out of the storage area and propped it up against the wall so I could study myself. It was weird to have a mirror out and not call Older Me, but it was hard enough looking at myself. Every time I did, I heard my own voice.

  He doesn’t want you. You’re too much drama.

  I spent hours sketching and mixing colors, working the details. But every time I stepped back to take in the effect, something was missing. I went back to my workbook and tried sketching the same form on a piece of paper and messing with watercolors over the top. I even drew glasses, like Mom’s, to see if a different line balance would light it up. But it didn’t help. In frustration, I tore the sketch in half and stormed back into the easel room.

  I turned around, looking for inspiration, but instead I found the window. Somehow it had already grown dark outside. With a sigh, I packed everything up and cleaned my brushes. My painting was finished, sort of. But it was a flat, blank image. Nothing surprising. Nothing revealing. I knew Mrs. D would hate it.

  I certainly did. But it was all I had left.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The clock on the wall says 1:16. I bite my lip. When I turn back to Doc, he glances at the clock, then back to me.

  “Are you in a hurry, Ashley?” he asks.

  Yes. In a hurry to get out of this place. To be out of here before all hell breaks loose. To be free of this junk they call therapy.

  But I say, “Wouldn’t you be, if you thought after six months you might get free of this place?”