Every Ugly Word Page 21

  “Gorgeous!” a female voice breathed to my right. “That’s stunning. How can he do that with nothing but lines?”

  “I don’t know.” The answer left my lips without my permission.

  The girl flashed the hesitant smile of strangers stuck in the same space. She peered out from behind thick, black-rimmed glasses, and a crocheted hat pressed her hair against her cheeks. “Hi, I’m Shelley. Another finalist,” she said nervously, flapping the ID card at her chest.

  “Hi, Shelley.”

  She looked at the picture, then back to me. Her mouth dropped open. “Ohmigosh . . . is . . . is that . . . It’s you! Did you do that?” she gasped. “Because, seriously, I think this is the best thing here. Like, I’m not joking—”

  “No!” I jumped to interrupt her because . . . oh, man. I could just see it. Everyone would think this was my board. Everyone would think this gorgeous piece was my self-portrait. Then when they saw my real stuff it would be a disappointment. My stomach sank to my toes. I wanted to cross my arms, protect my chest. But that would just draw attention to my scars. So I clasped my hands behind my back instead.

  Shelley looked back and forth between me and the picture, frowning. “I would have sworn—”

  “She didn’t paint it. But it is her.”

  His voice came out of nowhere, from right behind me. My hair shivered and I was pretty sure it was his breath. I couldn’t move.

  Shelley glanced at him, then at me. Her lips shifted from confused frown to smile of delight.

  “Beautiful,” she said. Then she waved and was gone, sinking through the small crowd lingering in front of Matt’s work.

  I turned, and heat rushed through my veins. Matt had dressed formally for the occasion, and I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit he looked amazing. The suit framed his flat shoulders and trim waist to perfection. His chest was broad under the glimmering gray shirt and tie. I ached to touch him, caught myself before I swayed into his arms.

  “You’re late,” he said quietly, smiling.

  “Yes.” I raised a hand toward the picture. “Matt . . . this is . . .”

  The smile slid off his face. “Do you like it?”

  “Like it?” I squeaked, drawing the attention of the people around us. I had to clear my throat so I could whisper. “It’s amazing. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  His eyes twinkled. “I wanted to surprise you. I did it the day after the prom. After . . . you know.” He looked away for a second, chuckling. “But we’d fought, and then . . . and then everything else happened. Anyway, by the time I could have shown you, it had already been submitted. When everything worked out, I figured it would be a nice surprise.”

  I turned to look at the picture again and wanted to weep. It was so beautiful. It made me look beautiful.

  “It’s stunning,” I murmured. “But it isn’t me.”

  “Yes. It is.” He breathed against my skin and pressed a kiss to my neck, just below my ear, heedless of the ugly scar less than an inch away.

  Tingling and goose-bumped from neck to wrist, I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. As his hands snaked around my waist and pulled me closer, it seemed nothing short of thankless for me to insist that he’d done the truth a disservice.

  “Are you okay?” he asked quietly, true concern in his tone.

  I nodded, let myself relax back into him. Let his arms hold me close.

  “This is strange,” I said after a minute. “I didn’t think I’d be here.”

  “But you are,” he said, his deep voice rumbling against my back. “And so’s your painting.”

  Trust Matt to get right to the bottom of what was eating me up inside.

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, I tensed.

  His arms squeezed me closer, ready to stop me bodily from running, if need be.

  “Ashley—” he started.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think I can.”

  “Of course you can. It’s just a painting.”

  I snorted. “It isn’t just a painting. It’s . . . it’s the picture of me.”

  “It’s a picture of the old you.”

  “With swearing,” I added. “And a penis.”

  Matt chuckled. “C’mon,” he said, releasing me from the hug, but keeping one of my hands firmly grasped in both of his. “I’m going with you.”

  “No, I—”

  “Ashley, you know you’ve got to do it at some point. Might as well be now when there’s only fifty people here, instead of five hundred.”

  He had a point there. But I hadn’t been kidding when I told him I didn’t think I could.

  “Mr. Gray!”

  Matt hesitated, then turned—not letting go of my hand—as a stern-looking man wearing a suit and thin metal glasses approached. One of the judges. I recognized him from the information packet they’d sent me. And he had a couple of less formal, but equally self-important-looking men following him.

  Matt looked chagrined to have his attention turned from me, but I was relieved.

  I’d dragged my feet getting ready tonight, told Matt to go ahead without me, then shown up at the last possible minute. A part of me hoped the show would open and I wouldn’t have time to look at my wall. But deep down I knew it wasn’t going to work that way. The whole point of being here tonight was to answer questions about my work—first for the judges, then for members of the public and art professors from many of the best art schools in the country.

  Even the thought made my nerves twist.

  “. . . very interested in your talent, Mr. Gray. I believe our curriculum could benefit your work immensely. Have you accepted a scholarship proposal yet?”

  Matt flushed, and shook his head.

  I’d known this would happen. I fully expected Matt to win the scholarship tonight. But even if he didn’t, I had no doubt he’d leave the gallery with several offers.

  This moment was particularly sweet. Matt’s dad was livid that Matt had entered the competition against his wishes. But when he realized how prestigious the competition was, he’d agreed to give Matt one chance: Matt came home with a full-ride scholarship, or he gave up art school dreams and followed his father’s footsteps and became an engineer.

  As Matt became more and more engrossed in the conversation with the men, I slid my hand from his grip, then inched back.

  It was time.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  I moved deeper into the gallery, following the feast of art that surrounded me on every side. As I examined the brushstrokes on that painting, or how this artist used color to create a sense of light, I wasn’t consciously anticipating the moment. In fact, when the moment came, it was shocking. Yet, somehow, not.

  Crazy Ashley Loves Dick.

  The words stole my breath—and not in the good way. In fact, I think if there’d been another human being present, I might have fled. But instead, I forced my feet to step closer. Forced my lungs to inflate. Forced my eyes to remain open. Forced my heart down, out of my throat.

  There, on the very back wall of the gallery, in all its illuminated glory, was my story. Every face. Every stroke. Every moment of humiliation and shame.

  Luckily, each artist’s wall had a bench seat, and I dropped onto the wooden slats. This was it. The moment. This was where I was supposed to face my fear with courage; stare down the demons of my past and realize they had no power. If it were a movie, I might cry, but I’d walk away with my head held high and never look back.

  Right?

  But courage failed me. Fear set my hands shaking and twisted my gut into knots.

  There were no tears, praise God, but my breath came in short puffs. My hands twisted in my lap. And the thought of looking at that picture again made adrenaline surge until my heart raced so fast I was afraid it might beat out of my chest.

  What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I be the kick-ass heroine, like in books? Or the strong, noble star of a movie?

  Because it hurts.

  Something inside me broke
open. I gripped the edge of the seat, swaying. My skin sung as every muscle in my body went rigid, because this wasn’t just a story. This was my life.

  That’s the part they never tell you in the movies. That’s the part the books pretend doesn’t happen.

  Sure, I made it to New York. And I have a wonderful, glorious boyfriend who I love. And none of that would have happened without my past. So I can’t go back. I can’t wish it away.

  But it still hurt. Every stinking day.

  Even if I walked out of that room, right at that moment, and never looked back . . . it would still ache inside when I thought of that picture, or worse, had to look at it.

  Even if Matt loved me for the rest of his life, and never so much as blinked in the direction of another woman, there’d still be pain in our past. Fear that we might let each other down again.

  And being with him was wonderful, but Older Me was right about one thing: Matt wasn’t perfect. He was still working through stuff with his dad. We were going to face that again. Together, hopefully. But still . . .

  Matt wasn’t free yet, and I was not unscathed. I had scars—inside and out—that would never leave me. The pictures on the wall in front of me were just images put together, mostly by my hand. But they represented the weight I would carry for the rest of my life. And tonight it felt almost too heavy to bear.

  But then my heart jumped and I heard her—remembered her face. But especially her voice.

  You’re worth it.

  I bit my lip and swallowed the tears.

  I had no idea if she’d lived on her side of the glass. No idea if she missed me, or wondered what I was doing.

  But I knew, with certainty, that she loved me. That she’d been willing to die for me.

  It opened my eyes. It changed my world.

  She loved me enough to give everything. And if I walked around with my head down, and my heart strangled . . . how was that going to honor her—the person who had worked so hard to save me?

  I remembered the days when I’d believed she didn’t love me, that she was nothing but a liar. My fingers tightened on the bench, whether to hold me still or push me up and away, I wasn’t sure. But when I looked up through tears, I saw the picture again.

  Crazy Ashley Loves Dick.

  And I heard her voice.

  That says everything about them and nothing about you.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  Quiet footsteps sounded on my left and I quickly wiped my face, heart thumping.

  A low whistle rose then fell. A gruff baritone murmured, “Finally! I’ve been looking for this one.”

  The man standing a few feet to my right, staring at my wall, was almost a caricature. He wore brown leather short-top boots, with thick socks that bunched halfway up his calf. And a kilt. An actual, tweed, wool kilt with one of those man-purses hanging at the front. He’d paired it with a formal black jacket, white shirt, a matching sash that dropped to mid-thigh, and a floppy hat that reminded me of something on old French painter might wear.

  He looked ridiculous. And somehow . . . right.

  He glanced at me with a wry smile, then did a double take and turned, frowning. “Have we met?” he asked.

  “Um. No.”

  “Are you sure? You look very familiar.”

  “Uh, yes, I’m sure.” I think I’d remember.

  But then he looked me up and down and snapped his fingers. “You’re the girl in the painting! Matthew Gray’s portfolio!”

  Stunned, I nodded.

  He closed his eyes and sighed peacefully. “That piece is remarkable. The movement! When I saw it I wished I could meet the young lady to see how it felt to be the inspiration behind such an erotic work. I never imagined—but you must be his girlfriend, then?”

  “Uh, yes . . .”

  “Wonderful! Tell me the story! Did he have you sit for it? Did you know it would be so . . . suggestive?”

  I swallowed, feeling violated, and relieved, and inadequate, all at the same time. “I didn’t know he’d painted it, actually. He didn’t tell me.” When he looked surprised, and not in the good way, I wanted to fall between the slats of the bench and disappear. “It’s complicated,” I murmured.

  “Ah, of course. The good stories always are, aren’t they?” He waggled his brows, then turned back to fix his piercing gaze on my wall. My moment of relief quickly became gut-wrenching fear. “Now, this one, I’d love to hear the real story behind it,” he said, flipping a finger toward my wall.

  I swallowed. “Oh?”

  “Yes. Have you heard about it?”

  And then I realized he didn’t know who I was. He thought I was only there as Matt’s girlfriend.

  The relief turned my knees to water. I was glad to be sitting down. “Uh . . . ,” I croaked. “There’s a story?”

  He flapped his hand at me without looking away from my wall. “Well, I’m sure the story we heard isn’t even close to the truth of it. But apparently the artist was . . . shall we say, unpopular.” He gave me a pointed glance from the side. “Those awful words were actually painted by someone else, in an attempt to sabotage her chances at getting here.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  He nodded. “Instead of painting over it, or starting again, the artist used the saboteur’s contribution.” He shook his head. “Inspired.”

  “Really?” It fell out of my mouth in shock, but he didn’t notice.

  “Really.” He stepped closer to my wall and pointed. I was forced to turn; otherwise, it would be too obvious.

  Finn.

  “See how she’s used red and purple here? It looks positively sinister. She could have done his whole face that way, to denote a truly evil person. But she hasn’t. She’s used the implication sparingly. On the mouth.” He turned, beaming, satisfied. “She’s implying that the individual’s words are dark, rather than his heart.”

  I didn’t know about that. But as I stared at the painting, I had to ask myself if he was right.

  I’d only seen Finn once since That Day. A few weeks before I went to New York. It was a Saturday. I had just walked out of the country store near Matt’s house, when Finn almost walked into me on his way inside. We both stopped like we’d been sledge-hammered, staring. And for the first time since we were twelve, I didn’t see the glint in his eye. All I saw was fear. And a question.

  It was a shock to see him. He and Karyn had both been expelled from Black Point High. I heard he’d been sent to boarding school. And therapy. But since Matt hadn’t kept in touch with him, and anyone who did was avoiding me like I had a contagious disease, I didn’t really know what he’d been up to.

  But at that moment, he stood in front of me, slack jawed, looking weaker than I remembered. While I gaped, unable to move my feet, even though my brain screamed Run!, Finn blinked a couple of times, then turned on his heel and fled.

  I shook my head, returning to the present. The man was pointing at the picture of Dex.

  “. . . and so two-dimensional! It’s as if she doesn’t know—or perhaps care about—this man at all.”

  When I registered what he’d said, I almost smiled. He was exactly right.

  Dex and I hadn’t spoken since prom night. I heard later he’d dated Brooke for about three weeks—– until they had a huge fight on the quad and she called him all kinds of names and outed him for doing drugs again. He left Black Point High for the second time, and no one’s seen him since.

  Now my new friend was waxing lyrical about how I clearly despised my father, held my mother in contempt, and had barely suppressed rage toward Karyn. By the time he was finished, I was almost in tears—and ready to tell him who I was just so I could thank him for taking the time to look.

  Before I could speak, he moved to the center of the wall and stared at my self-portrait. The words I’d been about to say died on my tongue because he was looking at the picture with such sadness that I wanted to weep.

  “The courage it must have taken to use this.” He shook his head, the
n looked back at me. “I was bullied in high school, too,” he murmured.

  Reflexively, I scanned him from head to toe.

  “Yes, yes. I wasn’t quite so flamboyant then. But there was no doubt I had . . . flair.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh and I couldn’t help but chuckle with him.

  “But I never would have had the courage to do this,” he said quietly, the smile fading as he turned back to my painting. “This is an artist who’s willing to lay herself bare in order to tell the truth.” He nodded once. “And that’s where real art comes from.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “I’m determined to sit here all night until she shows up. I’m hoping she’ll agree to—”

  I froze. “Excuse me, sir . . .”

  He blinked, then turned back to me. “I’m so sorry, I’ve been rude! I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Jeremy August, I’m one of the deans at the Vintner School of Art.” He took the four strides to reach my side, holding out a hand. I knew I should stand, but I was still feeling shaky. And he didn’t know who I was, so I just shook his hand and nodded again.

  “I shouldn’t have been yammering to you. You’re here to celebrate!” Jeremy said, throwing his hands in the air. “You must be so proud of Matt—another very talented artist, I must say. Such an opportunity to be here with him tonight! So what are you doing hiding back here? You should be standing by his wall! Let the people tell you how beautiful it is—you are, I mean.” He grinned. “The likeness is uncanny. He’s very talented.”

  It was like being buried in a whirlwind of words. “Uh, yes, he is. But I’m not . . . I mean—”

  “Oh, don’t be shy! Come on, I’ll take you over there. I have some friends who’d love to talk to you.” He took my elbow and pulled me to my feet.

  “Wait! I can’t!”

  “Trust me, dear, this is one of those moments you’ll remember for the rest of your life. Make the most of it. That boy is going places.”

  I shook my head. “No, you don’t understand. I have to stay here . . . with mine.”

  Jeremy lurched to a stop. I tugged my elbow out of his grip and straightened my dress. “I’m sorry. I really do appreciate your compliments. But I’m exhibiting, too. And they said I have to stay here in case any of the judges come . . .”