Every Ugly Word Page 17

  Awful didn’t cover it. Awful didn’t even start to describe it. I was an embarrassment to my own mother. I was the laughingstock of my school. Matt knew everything . . .

  Matt.

  That was the last straw. I breathed too hard, then I broke. All the pieces inside snapped apart and fell away, tinkling to the floor of my life and leaving a yawning hole where my heart should have been.

  I sucked in a breath, but nothing came.

  “Ashley?” Mom stopped her tirade long enough to realize I was imploding.

  “Can’t . . .”—wheeze—“breathe . . .”

  “Ashley! Ashley, listen to me—”

  I shook my head, tumbled forward onto my hands and knees. My fingers clawed into the carpet, twisting until the tiny fibers caught beneath my nails. My balance wavered.

  “You have to relax. You have to breathe!”

  Black shimmered around my edges, turning my room into a tunnel. Tiny sparks flared and snapped across my vision. I couldn’t tell if it was Mom or Older Me calling to me.

  “Look at me. Ashley, look at me!”

  I swung my head drunkenly, gasping like a fish, certain I was about to suffocate. My heart pounded against my ribs, throbbed in my skin, pulsed in my ears.

  I felt like I would die. And frankly, that had a plus side.

  Mom dropped to the carpet and hit me hard on the back. My vision blurred, I coughed, and suddenly I could suck in air again—if only to shove it back out in a sob. For a moment, her expression was earnest and desperate in a way I’d never seen before. But then it dissolved as if it had never been there at all. Mom looked at me flatly and muttered, “You need help.”

  I puddled to the floor. Couldn’t she see? She was too late.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  “All roads lead back to Mom,” Doc mutters.

  I lean my head on my hand and wait for him to explain. When he catches my look, he shrugs. “It’s a cliché, but it’s true,” he says, waving a hand in the air. “Our parents mold us, whether they mean to or not. Your mother convinced you that you were inadequate, that you lacked the necessary value. It’s inherent in you. It colors every decision you’ve ever made.”

  I sit up straight. “I take responsibility for my choices, Doc. I don’t blame her.”

  “Whether you blame her or not is entirely up to you,” he says flippantly, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “But the fact remains that she was your first bully. She wrote the script, so to speak, that echoed in your head. When your peers began to deliver the same lines, it was easy for you to believe them, because, let’s face it, you’d been hearing it at home for a while.”

  It is something that niggles at me at times. Would I feel differently about myself if Mom thought differently of me?

  There is no way to know. I’ve never had any other mother, so it seems pointless to speculate. Instead, I flap a hand. “I think it’s a good theory,” I say. “But who knows?”

  “I do,” he says emphatically, making another note—this time his pen scratches across the paper, as if he’s angry at it. “I do.”

  I turn away, discomfited by the resolution in his tone. I am angry at my mother, sure. But I can see through her now. She can’t manipulate me like she used to.

  But can Matt? Does he still have that power over me?

  Sunlight from the window hits the mirror and glares in my peripheral vision. Without thinking, I turn to look at it.

  When I look back, Doc has an eyebrow raised. “So what did you do next?”

  I swallow hard. “What I always did. Art.”

  •••

  After Mom finally left my room, I sat on the carpet in front of my mirror, my entire body rigid. For the longest time, I couldn’t move. Eventually, I managed to crawl over and close the closet door so I could see Older Me, though I couldn’t miss seeing myself, too. My face was so swollen from tears that it looked like I’d gone two rounds in the boxing ring.

  “What am I going to do now?” I whispered.

  Older Me sat on the floor, hugging her own knees. “They aren’t going to beat you, do you hear me?” she choked. Then I realized she was crying.

  For me.

  “But . . .” And my own tears broke.

  “Finn and Karyn aren’t going to win.” She inhaled sharply. “They won’t. In just a few minutes, you’re going to wipe your face clean, stand up, and do this. And you’ll prove them all wrong.”

  “D-do what?”

  “Win. You’re going to win, Ashley. Do you understand? You’re going to take the crap they’re throwing at you and turn it into something good. Something beautiful. And you’ll win.”

  “How? H-how?”

  She dropped her head for a second. When she raised it again, her eyes were full of tears. “Look at it, Ashley. Really look at it.” She looked over my shoulder. I turned, wiping my eyes, chest catching in shuddering breaths I couldn’t stop.

  She was looking at the painting.

  The painting of me that was plain and empty and devoid of life. The one with hate scrawled all over my face.

  How apt.

  Then I blinked. And sucked in hard.

  The painting was still there—a forced, two-dimensional image of me covered by sabotage in bright pink. But this time, I saw it. My painting—with their words—had become more real, more representative of me, than anything I’d managed on my own. It told the story—the me that didn’t look special. That didn’t have depth. Nothing to appeal. And their words, their spite, their hate, scrawled across it. Then I looked at Older Me’s face and realized why she wasn’t talking. She wasn’t worried, or afraid. She was . . . remembering.

  “You—” I cut myself off.

  Older Me’s breath caught and I knew.

  “This happened to you, too,” I breathed.

  Tears tipped onto her cheeks. She dashed them away with an impatient knuckle. But then she laughed. “Yes,” she said. “I mean, it was a little different for me, but they did this to my painting . . . yes.”

  I swallowed. Awed. Angered. What else had I missed? But there was no time.

  “The p-painting. If I use it . . .”

  “You will.” She nodded.

  “Can I do it?” My voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “Yes,” she said vehemently. “Absolutely. You can.” She swallowed. “You have to.”

  “But—”

  “Now, Ashley. Don’t think. You know this will work. And . . . and it’s the way it has to be.”

  I stared, but no matter what else had happened, I knew she was right. I nodded and scrambled to my feet, holding on to the closet door until I felt like I wasn’t going to fall over anymore. Then I turned for the painting, but stopped myself. Turned back.

  Older Me still knelt on the ground, a world of pain and determination on her face.

  “Hey, are you okay?”

  On her side of the mirror, a knock sounded and a muffled voice called, “Ashley, it’s time.” She glanced over her shoulder, then turned back to me. “I’m so sorry, but I have to go.” She smiled wanly. “And don’t worry about me. I’m fine, Ashley. I’ve already been through this. And I know how it has to end.”

  It seemed an odd way to phrase it and I wanted to ask, but she was already gone. So, ignoring the tightness in my throat that was at complete odds with the sense of emptiness in my chest, I locked my door, set the painting up on my desk, and tried to prepare myself to show the world my monsters.

  •••

  That afternoon, sight blurring after focusing on my painting for so many hours, I walked back to school, head down, carrying the painting, in a sick reflection of the way I’d left just hours earlier. I arrived in the middle of fifth period.

  My footsteps echoed on the quad. There was no sound except a murmur of voices from a classroom too far away to be dangerous, and the twittering of a few birds still looking for crumbs left by thoughtless students at lunch.

  Classes were in. Chances were, people would look
out the window and see me crossing the quad. Someone who hated me would hear that I was back.

  But the path to New York was through those doors.

  When I reached the art room, I didn’t slow down. I didn’t flinch. I just opened the door and stepped inside.

  Empty.

  Of course, the seniors were already having their finals. And they had the afternoon block for electives, so the room would stay blessedly clear.

  Shaking with relief, I started across the floor, then yelped as I ran into Mrs. D rushing out of the storage cupboard.

  “Ashley!” she panted, hand on her ample bosom. “I didn’t know you were here . . .”

  She trailed off as she saw the painting in my hand. Her jaw dropped slightly. I flinched. But when her gaze cut back up to meet mine, her face was tender. She swallowed. “Are you here to work?”

  I nodded, tears in my eyes. She put a hand on my arm, her brow creased. “You’re very brave to come back,” she said.

  I wiped my face on my sleeve. “I am the furthest thing from brave.” I was still trembling just from crossing the quad.

  “Ashley,” she started gently.

  I shook my head. “Mrs. D, please don’t. I have to draw or I’m just going to . . .” Die? Kill myself? “. . . to fall apart.”

  She frowned, as if she could hear my unspoken words. But if there was one thing Mrs. D didn’t question, it was the creative outlet as therapy. She stared at me for a second, then pushed her lips together and nodded.

  “The easel room still has the big mirror in it,” she said quietly. “And I’ll give you as long as I can, but . . . I’m sorry, I will have to make a decision by the end of the day.”

  “I know,” I managed.

  Grabbing my paints and brushes, I ducked into the easel room. At first I headed for my usual corner, but something tugged at me. Instead, I took three easels from the stack and set them up facing the light from the window, like Matt always did. I dragged the large, full-length mirror along the wall until it leaned just a couple of feet to my left.

  I stacked the three big portfolio boards on easels next to each other, then took my still-drying painting and gently tacked it onto the space I’d left on the middle board.

  Ignoring my thumping heart, I picked up a paintbrush and stared at the awful painting, trying to see it as someone else might. But all I could see was that I had put myself out there for the world to see and gotten a penis drawn on my face. I exhaled. Now that I was over the shock, there was a strange kind of relief in looking at the painting. Horrific as the fallout would be, they’d done their worst.

  I worked for a few minutes on final touches, but there wasn’t a lot more I could do. When I stepped back to take in the overall effect, two things hit me. First, there was still a big hole where the Matt picture was supposed to go on the left. Second, my eyes were sucked to the self-portrait, just like I’d wanted. It stood out, stark against the black and demanding attention. It screamed.

  Since Finn had taken his poison to it, I’d only changed three things: The portrait of me now looked down and away, trying not to see the words and pictures Finn had scrawled. I’d cleaned up the edges on all the letters. The unpracticed eye wouldn’t notice, but there was the tiniest black outline to give them crispness. They and the other . . . additions cut through the rest of the picture and jumped off the canvas.

  It was deeply satisfying and deeply painful. I suddenly felt very vulnerable and sure the judges wouldn’t get it at all. But what choice did I have? It was use the painting, or nothing.

  I had no idea what had happened to the pieces of the Matt picture I’d torn off the canvas. I rummaged through my cubby until I found my workbook. Sure enough, a large brown envelope fell out, all the pieces of the Matt sketches jumbled inside it. I’d have to remember to thank Mrs. D. Again.

  I turned it upside down on the floor and knelt to sort the pictures out. Three were smudged, the forehead had been torn almost in half, and the waxy acrylic on one cheek had a long scrape through it—had I done that? They weren’t salvageable, but at least I could copy them. That would make the redo much quicker.

  So I grabbed another canvas board from the resource room and tacked it to the panel where Matt should have been, and got busy placing the pieces as I would when they were clean and complete.

  Minutes melted into hours until the clock said 1:36. My hands still shook, but I set myself at the picture with a sense of purpose I hadn’t felt . . . well, ever. Deep down, I knew this day was the turning point. The moment I’d look back on and say, “That’s when my life changed.” I needed to forget about how it came about and just use it to my advantage. Use Older Me’s betrayal as fuel to keep going. Use Finn’s spite to headline my success.

  He’d hate that.

  He’d tried to ruin me. But I wasn’t giving up. There was still one door I could walk through. One worthwhile version of my future still waiting for me.

  With a deep breath, I picked up a different brush.

  And there, in the middle of the dark, yawning hole inside me, a tiny ball of hope sprang to life.

  Chapter Thirty

  For the first time, Doc looks troubled. I scan back through everything I’ve just said, trying to figure out which part is bothering him. But then he taps his foot.

  “Ashley, I think I should tell you: I saw some of your pictures. Including your self-portrait. Or rather, images of them.”

  “What? How?”

  “Given the part your art plays in all this, I contacted your high school and asked to see them when you requested to leave. They had pictures of three or four of them—from the teacher and the yearbook photographer.”

  “That’s not fair! You can’t just go snooping around in my life!”

  Doc grimaces. “I’m sorry I didn’t let you know sooner, but I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to get them and didn’t want to upset you if it wasn’t relevant. Your teacher was right, by the way—they’re incredibly revealing.”

  “Those pictures were art, not therapy!”

  “Relax, Ashley. I said they were revealing. I didn’t say I was concerned about them.”

  Pause. “You weren’t?”

  “Heavens, no! I wish all my patients could communicate themselves so articulately. I’m glad you did. They give me a very clear picture of your view of yourself and those around you prior to your incident.”

  I swallow hard. “They do?”

  “Yes. Even more than your recollections of events, I think, because your memories are tainted by your choices to hide things or modify them as you think I want to hear.” His expression is kindly, but there’s a warning in those words.

  “I’m not lying to you.”

  “And I’m not accusing you of that. But it’s clear to me that you’re very aware of how others think of you. You modify your word choices, downplay feelings, sugarcoat events. You hide behind these things because you’ve grown accustomed to being ridiculed simply for being yourself. But that’s why I’m so glad I saw your paintings. They tell me a big part of the story.”

  Gulp. “Like what?”

  Behind his glasses, Doc loses the analytical glaze.

  “They show me how you were hurt. Deeply. That each wound was unique, but all left you bleeding.” I flinch, but he waves a hand. “My apologies, bad choice of word. I meant it figuratively.” He crosses his legs again. His eyes won’t let me go. “Ashley, your paintings tell me your story is real and regardless of how others may view it, that your pain—even before the incident—was extensive.”

  Oh crap oh crap oh crap oh crap. My throat aches. My vision blurs. I’m swallowing a lump that keeps bobbing back to the surface.

  I can’t cry. I can’t! If I lose it, he’ll think I’m not ready.

  I look away. I can’t respond to what he’s said. I have to move on. Have to change the subject. I let my head rest on the back of my seat and breathe deeply.

  “It wasn’t all bad,” I manage.

  “Ashley—”

&
nbsp; “Just give me a minute, will you?”

  I have to get a grip. I can’t afford to let him sideswipe me again. Not with what’s coming.

  It’s 1:48. I have an hour. An hour.

  I am already strung so tight I feel like if someone touched me, I’d twang.

  Doc clears his throat and I jerk my attention back to him.

  He’s tapping his pen on the arm of his chair. I wonder if that is what has creased the leather there. The metal tip makes a muffled whump at each click.

  “About that day . . . ,” he says carefully. “About your incident.” His voice is soft, but his eyes are bullets trained on me.

  Every muscle in my body tenses. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly the way a therapist showed me years ago. I imagine water sliding off my head, through my hair, down my back, my chest, my arms—down, down, down, all the way to my toes, letting my muscles unwind with it as it passes.

  “Ashley?” There’s a note of impatience in his tone.

  “Why is everyone so fixated on that day?” I mutter.

  Doc tips his head. “It is rather pivotal, don’t you think?”

  I am immediately tense again. I can’t stop jiggling my foot. “No, actually. It’s nothing but the . . . the frosting on the cake. All the ingredients, all the time, all the cooking? That had all been going on for years.”

  Doc drops the pen so it thumps onto the large notepad in his lap. “Well, then, I guess we’re interested to see how the culmination of all that affected you. Tell me what happened.”

  “I’m sure it’s in your little file.”

  “I’d like to hear it in your words, please.”

  My body is rigid, but I won’t be able to relax until I’m out this place. And I’m running out of time.

  “Ashley—”

  “Fine! I’ll tell you!” I think I shout it, but it comes out as barely a whisper. “I was just deciding which of Matt’s ears I liked best when the door opened. I thought it was Mrs. Driley, back early, but it wasn’t. It was Karyn . . . and Finn. It was a half hour before the final bell rang. There was an end-of-year assembly that day. I’d forgotten that.”