Every Ugly Word Page 20

  My heart stops. Literally pauses in my chest. I am so afraid that he didn’t say what I think he just said, it takes me several seconds to turn around.

  He’s staring at the mirror, watching the guys move, wincing when one of them lands a punch.

  “You . . . you can see that?” I breathe.

  “How are you doing this, Ashley?” he demands. Then he turns to Doc. “Is this a trick? Are you trying to make me crazy, too?”

  Doc frowns. “Of course not,” he says, his face strangely blank. “What are you seeing, Matt?”

  Matt turns back to the mirror without answering. I do, too, but I can’t stop glancing at him. Hope rises so high and fast I almost can’t stand it. I clasp my hands together to stop them from shaking. “You can see it?” I ask him in a whisper. “You can see them?”

  “I see . . . I see us. That day . . . ,” he says hoarsely. “I see you, and your art and . . . that’s me fighting with Finn.”

  My hands fly to my mouth and I’m crying. “You can see them!”

  His expression is something I’ve never seen before—disbelief, fear, uncertainty all mingle and come out looking like someone’s rapped him over the head with a steel bar.

  “Matt—”

  “How are you doing this, Ashley?” he pleads.

  “I’m not,” I say, unable to stop smiling because we’re in this together now. “I’ve been telling you the truth.”

  There’s a clatter in the mirror and I turn. Little Matt and Finn have rolled into the easels. Little Me was knocked to the floor. She’s hunched in on herself, both arms over her head.

  She rocks, breathing hard. “My head,” she groans.

  “Ashley?” I gasp. “Are you okay?”

  •••

  I was on my feet, but the entire room swayed every time I took a breath. My head rang. Scuffles and grunts sounded somewhere near the floor. Then there was a shout to my left. I tried to sidestep. I wasn’t sure what direction I ended up moving, but I heard Matt, breathless and hoarse, swearing at Finn.

  I tried to look at them, but my neck didn’t want to work. I stumbled sideways again.

  “Stop, Ashley. Stop! Stay away from the mirror.”

  I wasn’t sure which direction her voice came from. The spinning in my head was disorienting. So I stopped moving, tried to stand still. But it was as if I was on a boat in a rocky sea. I swayed and lurched.

  “. . . did you do that . . . to her painting? Did you?” Matt growled.

  “Your girlfriend helped.” Despite the wheeze in his voice, Finn sounded like he was smiling.

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” Matt shoved out.

  “Oops . . . forgot.” Finn grunted. “You’d rather screw a psycho.”

  Matt made a noise I’d never heard before. He straddled Finn, one fist cocked back, the other gripping Finn’s shirt, pulling Finn so he was half sitting.

  “Screw. You.” Matt threw a punch that snapped Finn’s head back with a sickening whack. I gasped. Finn slumped. The room went quiet except for Matt’s panting.

  I stumbled forward, wincing when each footstep ricocheted in my skull. But I grabbed Matt’s arm and helped him stand.

  When he was upright, he pulled me to him. With a deep breath, I rested my forehead on his chest and wrapped my arms around his waist. Even the waves of nausea faded into the background. Then his hands came up to bracket my face and I gasped. One of his eyes was already purple and almost swollen shut. He had a fat lip, and blood trickled from his nose.

  “You’re hurt!” I winced again. My own voice was a razorblade to my temples.

  He touched his face, looking over my shoulder into the mirror to examine his wounds.

  “It isn’t as bad as . . .” He trailed off. “What the—” The flush drained out of his cheeks.

  Forgetting my head, I twisted to see what he was looking at and lost my balance. Matt caught me from behind, but he didn’t say anything. I blinked several times into the mirror. Older Me was there, tears welling over the hands clasped over her mouth. Older Matt was there, too. And he stared as if he’d just seen God create the world.

  “That’s me,” my Matt said. I felt the rumble in his chest at my back. He sounded awed.

  “What—?” I started.

  But in the mirror, Older Matt leaned forward. “Wait . . . can he see me?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Yes, I think so.” Older Me touched Older Matt’s chest, then turned to beam at me. “He can see himself, Ashley. He’s . . . they’re . . .”

  “What is this?” Matt says, his hands tightening on my arms. “How did you do this?”

  The mirror faded in and out of focus in time with the throbbing in my head, but I could see my Matt, his face pale. He was fixated on the reflected image of his older self, and he was beginning to shake.

  “Ash, how are you doing this?” Matt said through his teeth, his hands tightening on my arms, almost the point of pain.

  “I don’t know,” I breathed. “But it’s real. I promise.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Little Me is obviously shaken. I turn to Matt, touch his pale, stunned face. He jerks, then turns his head to look at me.

  “I know it’s scary,” I say quietly. “But you’ll get used to it. I promise.”

  He just stares, his head slowly shaking back and forth.

  I swallow. “You have to believe me. I’m not crazy. And neither are you.”

  Matt’s gaze never leaves mine. He breathes twice before he speaks. “We’re done here.”

  The hope in me crumbles away. I drop my head into my hands.

  “Excuse me?” Doc says, his voice tighter than I’ve ever heard it.

  “I said we’re done here. Ashley’s done here. You can sign her out, or I can go get her mom to sign her out, but either way, she’s not staying here a second longer.”

  I gasp and look up, straight at Matt. He swallows and glances at the mirror, then back to me.

  I throw myself into his chest and the tears come because . . . because . . . oh, my . . . I can’t . . . this isn’t even possible. Is it? I pull back again and I’m going to tell him how amazing he is, and how happy I am, but everything happens at once.

  Doc says, “Ashley will not be leaving. In my professional opinion, she is suffering delusions and psychosis. I will be recommending at least another six months of treatment.” Then he tips his head at the orderlies.

  But Matt pulls me away, shoves a hand out, places himself between us. There’s a flash of movement in the mirror. It’s a reflex to turn.

  Little Me and Little Matt are staring at each other, worry and hope on both their faces.

  And Finn is staggering to his feet behind them.

  “Watch out!” I scream.

  Matt thinks I’m talking to him and swings around.

  The orderlies grab for him.

  Finn launches himself at Little Matt’s back.

  The three of them tumble toward the mirror.

  “NO!” I scream, and dive to catch her.

  “NO!” both Matts scream, and the entire world echoes.

  And for the second time in my life, I see the glass coming. It’s worse this time because I know what it’s going to feel like.

  But it’s better, too. Because this time I know I want it.

  I need it.

  For her.

  And so I brace, then dive, hands first into the mirror, reaching to stop her before she hits the shining surface, stretching toward her even when the mirror flashes, then detonates . . .

  There’s a special kind of pain reserved for dancing with shattered glass. It comes in stages: The initial assault is fear; you see the glass coming and you know it’s going to hurt.

  Then there’s the moment everything explodes and the glass tears at your skin, catching, peeling, shaving you away and you think, I might die.

  Then the pieces fall and break into new pieces. You’re heading to the floor, too, but they beat you there and all the tattered parts of you land on all th
e shattered parts of it. They are needles in open wounds. Knives on raw flesh.

  And then the fire arrives—hot, burning flames that lick the wounds. And every time you move, the tiny pieces that stuck with you cut a little deeper and the flames roar higher.

  In short, it sucks.

  Even more the second time.

  But as my shredded body slumps toward the floor, it doesn’t land on thick carpet. My screams aren’t muffled by furniture and curtained windows. Instead, my screams become a shrieking, grating sound that crosses time, echoing in my ears.

  My hands connect with Ashley’s shoulders, pushing her back before she can crash into the mirror. A moment later my knees hit hard on cold and dusty linoleum. But the rest of me lands in soft arms.

  Violently trembling arms.

  When I stop moving—when I am afraid to move again—my nose is in her hair, and she is holding me.

  “Y-you came . . . you’re h-here.” Her voice is high and thin, wavering.

  I try to pull back, to meet her eyes, but my head is too heavy for my neck. I end up lolling around until she pulls back far enough to look at me. Her cheeks shine with tears.

  “How?” she asks.

  “I caught you,” I say weakly. “It was always about catching you. Every time. I just didn’t always know how.”

  Her face crumples, and her hands tighten. She clings to me, blood like a veil on her shoulder.

  I realize it is mine.

  I suck in a breath, but no oxygen comes with it. Suddenly, I am tilting.

  Little Matt is behind her, his face white as a sheet. There’s a curse. And another.

  My head slides to her shoulder because it’s become too heavy for me. I can only move my eyes. But I see Finn, on the floor, scrambling backward away from me, his eyes so wide the whites are showing all the way around.

  “Y-you can’t . . . that’s impossible . . . ,” he stutters. His teeth are chattering with fear, and the petty part of me is happy.

  “Older Me?” Ashley’s voice quivers.

  I close my eyes. We don’t have long. The effort to bring my hand up to her shoulder is Herculean. I am left breathless and wrung out. But I manage to whisper in her ear.

  “I love you,” I say, cursing the lump in my throat that threatens to stop the words. “I only ever wanted the best for you,” I murmur, fingers digging into her shoulder so she won’t let go. “It worked.”

  “What worked?” she sobs.

  “You’re free.” I manage. My eyes drag closed.

  After a second she gasps again and shakes me. “Older Me!”

  I force myself to look at her. “It will be different for you. And that’s good. So remember you’re worth it.”

  “Different how?” she whispers.

  “Better,” I murmur. “Because you’re braver. I couldn’t ever . . . I didn’t use the painting . . . use it. You have to get to New York.” My lips are heavy now, too. My hand slides from her shoulder.

  “Older Me? Older Me! Help her. Somebody, help her!” she screams.

  I wince. I want her to stop yelling. But I can’t seem to move. And thinking becomes hard.

  I am jostled. There are voices. I want to soothe them, but I can’t move my mouth.

  There is something I am here to do.

  I can’t remember what it is. But as hands close on my arms and shoulders, pressing into those burning lines, and someone says “artery” and someone screams “ambulance!” I can smile.

  It has been a long time since I could smile and mean it.

  The warmth of her chest disappears, and with it the cold linoleum under my knees.

  As I slip away, I am laying somewhere soft. There are only two things left:

  Matt’s warm hands holding me.

  And the knowledge that she will be okay.

  Six Months Later

  Chapter Thirty-six

  I pressed the soft bills through the little window in the cabby’s bulletproof screen and waited for my change. Outside the car, a wide sidewalk was littered in tiny pieces of color from people’s lives. A steady stream of bodies flowed by, but none of them turned toward the six shining glass doors at the top of the stairs behind them.

  The gallery.

  Posters hugged both ends of the building, proclaiming national young artist of the year!

  Mrs. D told me one of the half-dozen posters they printed this year featured my portrait of Finn. I hoped she was wrong.

  I opened the taxi door and tried to pretend I was ready to do this. The second my feet hit the pavement, a wave of fear washed down my spine. The thick, woolen jacket I wore covered me from neck to knees, hiding my dress and the tiny, crosshatched scars on my arms. I took a reluctant step forward.

  Six months after the “incident,” I could move freely. The only thing that hurt anymore was twisting my head. A scar, only a couple of inches long, lay at the point where my shoulder met my neck. It was the last reminder I had of her—of how she was real. How she’d saved me from the mirror. From Finn.

  From myself.

  Thoughts like that always brought tears, so I shook my head and trotted along the pavement, around the corner to the side door I’d been told to use. As an exhibitionist I had to be there early, before the doors opened to the public.

  There were fewer people on the side street—and less light, too. As the late afternoon sun dropped behind the massive face of the city, part of me wanted to walk right past the dark little door on my right and find a cute, hole-in-the-wall bakery instead. But just as my steps faltered, the door came into view. I set my teeth and grabbed the handle.

  It felt like the building swallowed me as I stepped inside the black space of the doorway, into a dark, narrow hallway lined with pipes and electrical cords. A minute later, a door at the end opened to a shadowed corner of the lobby. The bathrooms were in a discreet alcove to my right. I stopped short, then I was in the lady’s room and through the large, sliding door of the handicapped stall before I could think.

  Old habits die hard.

  Sure enough, the stall sported its own sink, and a small, square mirror directly above it—though even I had to stoop to see my face. When I looked, all I saw was myself, my blue eyes bright, a smudge of mascara on my eyelid. Every time I was alone in front of a mirror, the pangs started in my chest. She wasn’t there. She hadn’t been since that day in the art room.

  That moment when I almost hit the glass, when she came through for me . . . for a split-second I thought we were going to be together. But then she was gone. And she’s never come back.

  After all the years sharing my reflection, it was a strange feeling. But even though she was gone, I could still hear her. Hear her wisdom, and her laughter. Hear her telling me to remember . . . But though it was from within now, not from the mirror, I knew it was still her.

  I took two more deep breaths and made my way to the lobby. Natural light from those glass doors brightened the broad space. But between the red carpeting and the wood-paneled walls, it kind of looked like an old-fashioned movie theater.

  A cute guy with trying-too-hard hair emerged from the den of cubbyholes and coats. He couldn’t have been much older than me. “Do you have your ID?”

  Oh, right. I tugged at the lanyard around my neck until the large plastic card popped out of the neck of my jacket.

  The guy scanned it and smiled. “Can I take your coat, Ashley?”

  I ignored the way he stilled for a moment when my arms were revealed. Luckily, my scars are pale and fine. In normal light they’re barely visible. But in the bright, white light of a gallery, they glimmered.

  They were nothing like Older Me’s. Hers had been thick ropes, separating her skin into jagged chunks. Mine were just . . . scars. Fine lines where tiny pieces of shattered mirror had slid across my skin on their way to the floor, and the deeper one where my neck met my shoulder, where a shard had been caught in her hair and pressed into me when she pushed me back from the mirror.

  So, as the guy back-pedaled,
the flirtatious smile dissolving, I held my chin high and gritted my teeth.

  Tonight I was here to enjoy a measure of success. And no one was going to take that from me.

  I passed the first wall of the exhibition and kept moving, past the next, and the next. There were black-and-whites, pencil sketches, two sculptures, and an abstract oil painting taking up an entire panel. A girl from Nebraska had submitted a surrealist piece, where her near-photographic cows had lamps instead of heads.

  Everywhere I turned, there were new colors and new techniques, and for a second I was transported away from my fear and into this amazing world of people far more talented than me. I wandered aimlessly, taking it all in.

  Then I turned a corner . . . and I was looking at myself.

  I froze. Nailed to the floor. I couldn’t speak or breathe because there was a picture of me on the wall.

  But I wasn’t the one who’d painted it.

  Then I took in the pictures around the image and realized. Matt.

  A handful of people huddled in a group, some pointing at the wall, talking, some nodding. I pushed past them.

  Sure enough, all three panels were familiar, covered in pieces I’d seen before—pictures of movement—the fine, ruffled hair of a bounding dog, the gentle sweep of leaves in the wind . . . all pieces I knew, all pieces I’d envied at every step of their development. Matt’s pictures were alive and about to step off the page. It always astounded me.

  But the one in the middle? I’d never seen it before. It was nothing short of breathtaking. And it was me.

  On a clear background, I was depicted from the front. In stark, black lines, my face tipped down until my chin almost met my chest. My hair, lush and flowing in a way real life never delivered, fell over my shoulders—over my breasts, because there were no clothes indicated in the stark lines.

  My shoulders peeked through my hair. My waist slid out of the frame. My eyes were downcast, but my lips curled into a smile.

  I was gentle, womanly, beautiful in a way I’d always wanted to be.

  I sucked in a shuddering breath, took a step back.