Every Ugly Word Page 16

Doc doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, there’s a sharpness in his face that’s mirrored in his tone. “Is that it? Or is that we’re getting close to your incident? When I read your file, it was obvious there’s been a pattern in your past sessions: Whenever your therapists start to analyze that day—to ask you to confront everything that happened—you get tense. Clam up. Or get so upset they’re forced to abandon the topic and your session.”

  I blink. Did I?

  “It isn’t easy to talk about,” I say. My voice sounds like I haven’t used it for a day or so.

  Doc nods quickly. “I can imagine that’s true.”

  The problem with imagining is that it’s got nothing on the reality.

  “I have a theory,” Doc says.

  Peachy.

  He clears his throat. “I believe that human beings have a tendency to live up to expectations: what we expect of ourselves, what we believe others expect of us. I believe we all fit our lives to those patterns. And I wonder if that hasn’t been part of your problem. You make choices based on how you perceive others expect you to behave. You—perhaps subconsciously—draw their attention to your flaws.”

  I roll my eyes. “Man, you’re just as bad as the rest of them.”

  “The rest of who?” he asks, coolly.

  “Them. Parents. Teachers. Shrinks. Whoever. Anyone who hasn’t had to walk down a hall and fear for their life on a daily basis.”

  “You feel they are—were—all against you?”

  “Not against me, exactly. But they didn’t understand.”

  Doc leans forward slightly. “Understand what?”

  I consider not answering. But hell, I’m kind of curious to hear what he’ll say.

  “Okay . . . In high school, they told me just to stay out of the way of the people who hated me. But it didn’t matter what I did—ignore them, fight back, walk away—they’d just find me. Again and again.”

  He touches a finger to his lips. His face looks pinched. “Go on.”

  “So, given your theory, I brought it all on myself? I pushed people to the point where they couldn’t walk away? To a state so aggravated, they had to seek me out?”

  “And if the answer is yes?”

  Anger flares, burning up my ribs. I swallow it down. “I wasn’t the one doing the pushing. That’s what they did to me.”

  “Pushed you?”

  “To the point that I was ready to snap.”

  He glances at his notes. “And your incident?”

  I glare. He fixes me with an impassive expression and waits.

  “I know I didn’t invite that,” I mutter. “I know because I wasn’t looking for them. They came looking for me. In fact, it seemed like, those last few months, it was always that way. They looked for me. And when they found me . . .” I trail off.

  He knows.

  •••

  Monday morning, I waited until fifteen minutes before the bell was due to ring, but Matt didn’t show up to give me a ride. At the last second, I threw on my shoes and ran the mile or so to school. When I was a block away, close enough to hear the sounds of people laughing and shouting, the events of the entire weekend came home to me and I realized I was shaking.

  I tried not to think as I stepped through the gates, just scanned the buildings and told myself there was only one week of real school left before finals, when I could just show up for my tests, then leave.

  “Hey! It’s Ashley! Ohmigosh! Someone call a doctor!” Brooke cackled when she saw me crossing the parking lot.

  What? I turned my head away and pushed forward faster, but a curl of dread started in my chest. What was going on?

  I shoved inside a side entrance and walked down the short hallway from the door to the main hall.

  “Oh! Ashley! Where’s your better half?” Layla called.

  Oh, God. Was she talking about Dex . . . or Matt? What rumors were circulating?

  I turned the corner. Only three classroom doors between me and my locker. I could do that. I could walk past three classes.

  A snorting noise sounded right behind me and someone stood on the back of my shoe. A round of laughter was quickly followed by the thump of a body bracing against mine, shoving me into the wall.

  “Crazy slut,” Eli muttered as he stalked on.

  I bounced off the wall and scrambled for my bag as it slipped off my shoulder. Tears welled in my eyes and I hissed a curse, determined to stay mad so I wouldn’t give in.

  Only two more classroom doors.

  Then one.

  Then I got to my locker and saw a piece of paper taped to the front.

  My dread sputtered, then morphed into outright terror.

  I held my breath and read the first line of my own handwriting.

  Dear Matt,

  Things have been a little strange lately, but I want you to know I understand . . .

  The letter.

  Oh, no. Oh, no no no.

  I panicked. My mind went blank. Then flooded with every one of my fears. How many people had seen it? Had Matt seen it? I snatched it off my locker door and scrunched it into the tiniest ball possible, then shoved that deep in my pocket.

  “Oh, Matt, I understand . . .” a voice cooed from behind me, followed by a cloud of laughter. Mortification fizzed through every nerve ending in my skin. My locker blurred in front of me and I dashed the tears away. I needed to get out of here. Now. I’d go straight to the nurse, tell her I was sick, make her sign me out of class. Yes. Good plan.

  But before I could move, a group of my classmates, led by Terese, trooped past.

  “How was Friday, Ashley? Did you find anyone drunk enough to hook up with you?”

  “Or crazy enough?” someone else added.

  “Hey, does your other self give you sex tips? Or does everyone run screaming from her, too?”

  “Ohmigosh, why doesn’t she just die already?”

  I flinched. Their taunts and laughter echoed in my ears as they sauntered down the hallway. It wasn’t until someone else bumped my shoulder that I could snap myself into action. I whirled, and walked smack into a broad chest. Firm, familiar hands took hold of my upper arms.

  Matt. “I’m really sorry, I was going to pick you up, but I was running late . . .” He trailed off, gazing at my face. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

  He clearly hadn’t seen—or heard about—the letter yet. My chest squeezed. Should I tell him? Show him myself, so I didn’t have to wait to find out what his face was going to look like when he rejected me?

  “Seriously, Ashley, you’re scaring me.” The tone in his voice had changed, like something had just dawned on him. The hallway around us was abnormally quiet, though there were plenty of bodies in my peripheral vision.

  They were watching.

  Waiting.

  I couldn’t look away from his chest.

  Something brushed my hair and I flinched. Two guys ran past singing “Crazy in Love.”

  Matt swore at them, then turned back. “What’s going on?”

  In that moment I decided: I didn’t want to be there to see the horror dawn on his face. Suddenly, I was desperate to be somewhere else. Someone else. I didn’t need to be popular, or even accepted. I would have been happy with invisible. To be able to wander the halls without having to watch out. To do anything and not have someone tell me to kill myself.

  I stumbled away from him because it hurt too much to be that close.

  Matt grabbed my sleeve. “Where are you going?”

  “The nurse. I’m sick,” I croaked. I tugged out of his grip and marched down the hall, watching my shoes. Over our heads the bell clanged. This hall led to the main lobby at the front of the school. I was already shaking. Pale. The nurse would believe I was sick.

  Matt took my hand and pushed ahead. When we reached the lobby, he gasped and halted. The bell had run, but the lobby was full of people. Everyone pressed in on the notice board wall, peering over one another’s shoulders, laughing, pointing, gasping, whispering . . .

 
; “Is that her?”

  “Oh my g—”

  “Go kill yourself, you freak!”

  “Hey!” Matt lunged at some girl, but I pulled him back.

  “What is it now?” My voice broke.

  Before he could respond, Mrs. Driley walked into the lobby. “What is going on here?” When her gaze landed on the notice board, her hands flew to her mouth. Then she looked right at me, and the pity on her face made me wish I’d never been born.

  “All of you! Leave! Now!” Mrs. Driley shrieked.

  I gritted my teeth and pushed forward as everyone else pressed back. Matt shook his head and tried to pull me away, but it only made me more determined to see.

  “Stop her, Matt!” Mrs. Driley shrilled.

  “Ashley, don’t!” He grabbed for me again, but I dodged. Bodies pummeled me as I tried to push between the last two guys. Then, my foot landed on something slick. My leg slid forward and I almost fell. Matt caught my arm and steadied me. We both looked down.

  There was paint on the floor.

  A mixing cup lay on its side on the linoleum, crudely mixed white and red paint spilling from inside it. Slick, shoe-width lines said more than one person had slipped in it already.

  I looked up and my heart stopped. There it was.

  There I was.

  Someone had tacked my self-portrait to the notice board. Except it wasn’t my painting anymore. When I’d left the easel room the day before, the nearly square canvas showed a flat, accurately painted representation of me. Nothing special. Nothing spectacularly bad. That painting was still there, but now there was a crudely drawn penis pointing right at my mouth.

  Matt swore. “I can’t believe . . .” He trailed off. “Ash, I’m so sorry. I’ll help you fix it.” He reached for it, but I grabbed his arm. I had to see it all.

  Diagonally across the top, in jagged capital letters, the words CRAZY ASHLEY LOVES DICK screamed out from the canvas.

  On either side of the canvas, two copies of the letter were pinned to the notice board.

  No, no, no, no, no, no. “Matt, please leave. Now.” It came out in a breath. I don’t think he heard me, because he just squinted and leaned forward, his lips moving silently as he read the awful words in the letter. He turned slowly to look at me, openmouthed shock in every line of his gorgeous face. He reached for one of them, but my hand slapped his away and I tore it off first. But I couldn’t ignore the way he jerked back, put half a step between us. Pain roared, then I was numb.

  Suddenly it felt as though I were outside my body, like a silent observer just watching my life crumble. My hand lifted, tore the second letter off the wall and shoved it into my pocket. Then I took hold of the canvas on the corner where it was dry, then grabbed the other corner. I struggled for a moment to pull it off. But it finally gave and I turned away from the wall.

  Mrs. Driley’s lips moved, but I couldn’t hear her.

  Matt got in my face, but I couldn’t hear him anymore, either.

  There was a short circuit somewhere and all I could do was hold on to the painting so no one else could see it. I was terrified. I was exhausted. I needed to go home.

  I’m not sure if I said that, or they just figured it out, because Matt let go of my arm and Mrs. Driley—looking on the verge of tears—nodded and headed for the door ahead of me.

  I was a few steps into the lobby before I realized there was still a crowd of people there. I tried to ignore the smiles and the whispers, the too-bright eyes and the shaking heads. Right then, right there, I wanted to be dead. Nothing. Untouchable.

  Someone said my name. It bubbled toward me like air through water. But I didn’t want to hear it. Pretty soon I was running and since I was crying, everything passed in a literal blur. I hit the bar on the double doors and ran down the stairs and out, across the parking lot, wondering why my name kept bouncing off the air behind me. But I didn’t have any answers. I had to be alone. And maybe I did need to kill myself, because if it could get worse than this, I didn’t have it in me to survive anyway.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Doc has his head tipped down. If it weren’t for the pained expression on his face, I’d think he was praying.

  Then he inhales and his eyes tip up to meet mine. “They told you to kill yourself?”

  I almost bark a laugh. If I wasn’t strung tighter than a guitar string right now, I would have. That’s what’s got him all quiet and careful?

  “They used to say stuff like that all the time,” I said incredulously. “If I’d done everything someone else told me to do, I wouldn’t have made it through high school.” I try to crack a smile, but it doesn’t really work. “Seriously, Doc, that’s not why we’re here.”

  He gestures for me to keep going, but I can’t help noticing that he hasn’t agreed with me.

  •••

  I don’t remember the walk home, or how I got into the house with the painting in my hands. I don’t remember anything except seeing that it wasn’t even nine o’clock in the morning and already I wished I’d never been born. I walked into my room and found Older Me in the mirror, her face pinched with worry.

  “What happened? What’s wrong?”

  For a second, I considered ignoring her completely. But then I dragged the chair from my desk into the space in front of the mirror and placed the painting on it. All the color drained from her face. She froze in the beam of it. “Finn and Karyn . . .” She trailed off.

  I nodded, then drew the curtains, got in bed, and pulled the quilt over my head.

  A minute later she cleared her throat. Spoke softly. “It’s okay, Ashley. You’re—”

  “Shut up!” I screamed at the cotton over my face. “I can’t do this anymore! I’m done!” My whole body shook. My breath came in jagged gasps.

  Her breath was audible. “Ashley . . . I didn’t—”

  “Shut up! Just. Shut. UP!”

  There was a massive bang! and for a split second, I thought Older Me had come through the mirror. That somehow she was alive and here with me.

  But when I threw the blankets back and sat up, it was Mom in the doorway, in her pajamas, panting, hair twisted and wild. She had one of her long-necked vases in her hand, brandishing it like a club.

  What was she doing there?

  Oh, crud. It was Monday. Her sleep-in day.

  “Who are you yelling at?” Mom barked, still frantically scanning the room. “Who’s here?”

  “No one,” I breathed.

  “Ashley Watson, who is in this room with you?” Mom ran to the closet and threw the door open. Older Me swore as the mirror—with her in it—swung out of sight.

  Mom then proceeded to search my room. She checked behind the curtains, even though they were only halfway down the wall. She even opened some drawers and got on the floor to look under my bed. The whole time, she had that dripping vase clasped so hard in her hand, her knuckles turned white. Then she got up from the floor and stood over me, face red and twisted with rage.

  “Who were you yelling at? Where are they, Ashley? Why aren’t you at school?”

  “There’s no one—”

  She slammed the vase down on my desk. “You were yelling at someone!”

  “Leave me alone!” I yelled, pulling the covers back up over my head.

  “You skip class to come home to sulk and yell at yourself in the mirror?”

  “It isn’t like that!” My voice came out muffled.

  “Ashley, if any of the neighbors heard you, they’d think you were being murdered. For a second I thought you were being murdered! What the hell is going on in your head?”

  Struck speechless, I just huddled up in the blankets, hating her. Hating how worthless she made me feel. Well, I’d kept the worst from her before, but now I’d show her. Maybe if I embarrassed her enough she’d give up and leave me alone. Scooting out of bed, I skirted around her to the chair she’d shoved out of her way on her rampage across the room.

  “Don’t walk away when I’m talking to you!”
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  I grabbed the chair and swiveled it around so the painting faced her.

  She opened her mouth to chastise me again, then saw the painting and stopped. She took one step closer. Then another. She clapped a hand over her mouth, but I could see her lips moving behind it, reading the words. Finally she looked at me and dropped her hand.

  “Did someone else do this?”

  My jaw dropped. “Do you think I’d do it?”

  She stared at the painting again, shaking her head. “Ashley . . . why do they hate you so much? What did you do?”

  I blanked.

  She thought it was my fault?

  A few months ago, Mom had hit a bump in the road and her windscreen cracked. Nothing major, just a tiny little line that started at the bottom of the glass.

  She drove home, parked the car in the garage, and made an appointment to take it to the shop the next day.

  Except, when we pulled the car out the next morning, that tiny line had turned into a jagged crack a foot long. And as we drove, it moved—never when you were watching—sliding farther, branching off, until a third of the glass was marred by the lines.

  When we got it to the mechanic, he whistled and said we were lucky. He said that crack was under so much pressure that the tiniest bump from the wrong direction could have broken it into a million pieces and showered us with shards of glass.

  Now, as Mom put her hands to her face and shook her head, I felt like that windscreen.

  Crack, crack, crack.

  A fracture started behind my navel, the brittle pieces shivering, on the edge of letting go. I hunched forward, pain exploding through my body.

  “I can’t believe this. You’re a . . . a mess. A laughingstock. No wonder the other mothers act so awkward when they come in to the store . . .”

  “. . . I do everything I can to help you, and you just screw everything up . . .”

  “. . . I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know how to fix you . . .”

  “. . . have you ever thought about how embarrassing it is for me to have a daughter who’s so . . . so . . .”

  “Ashley . . . just breathe through it,” Older Me called. “I know this is awful but we’ll get through this, okay? I . . . I can help. I promise.”