Every Ugly Word Page 22

  But he frowned again, looking at me, then at the pictures on the wall. “Oh, my . . . These are yours?” he said, throwing an arm toward my portfolio. He sounded aghast.

  I flushed. “Yes. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to make you—”

  “No, no, don’t apologize. I didn’t really give you a chance to tell me, did I?” he said ruefully.

  “I think—”

  “But I never would have recognized you from this,” he said, gesturing toward my painting.

  I frowned. “Well, either you’re being nice, or I’m a terrible painter, because that’s a self-portrait. And it’s only six months old.”

  “Oh, no, dear, I assure you, now that I know, I can see it’s a perfect likeness. But I wouldn’t have recognized you from it because . . . you’re different. This isn’t you.”

  I wasn’t sure that was entirely true, but I offered him a smile because it was easier to pretend it was.

  “Thank you. For saying that. And those other things . . . You were very kind. And mostly right.”

  I was startled when he boomed a laugh in response. “Mostly right . . . oh, dear, you are a firecracker, aren’t you!”

  I waved my hands. “No! No, I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “It’s fine—”

  “No, I meant—” I turned toward the wall, intending to tell him that I hadn’t thought as deeply about Finn’s lips as he thought—that he’d given me too much praise. But all I saw were the pink letters and that awful graffiti, and I stood there, finally, motionless in its glare.

  My own face, haggard and sad, stared back at me, and for a moment it was as if Older Me were here . . .

  As if I was her.

  Because I remembered the moment when I painted that expression. How I’d felt so hopeless and . . . heavy.

  And it occurred to me, as I let myself follow the lines of the letters and my lips silently formed their words, that I didn’t feel that way anymore.

  “I meant what I said, dear,” Jeremy murmured at my side. “I find your courage humbling.”

  “I don’t have courage.”

  “Of course you do, sweetheart. You just haven’t grown up enough yet to realize courage isn’t fearless.” He patted my shoulder. I thought he was walking away. I thought our conversation was done. Then he reached into his bag.

  “Here,” Jeremy said. He held out a slim, glossy pamphlet.

  When I took it, my hands shook.

  He patted my shoulder again. “Unfortunately, Ashley, bullying doesn’t stop when you grow up. It just looks a little different.” He wrinkled his patrician nose and shook his head. “Don’t let the snooty buffoons who run this tell you that you’re unfinished, or too green. Your work isn’t green. It’s honest. Raw.” He cleared his throat, then met my eyes. “Vintner isn’t large. And it doesn’t have quite as a prestigious name as the Institute, or CFA. But we won’t try to turn you into someone else. And we won’t denigrate your work. We believe in trial and error. And we believe in letting you tell us who you should be.”

  He straightened his sash and pushed back his shoulders. “Just don’t let them make you think you’re lacking. They’ll jump all over Matt because he’s so polished. And they may give you a chance, too. But I hope you’ll consider us anyway.” He flashed a wide smile. “With us, you can be proud of exactly who you are. Right now. And when we’re done with you, I promise, you’ll never be mistaken for someone else.”

  I opened my mouth, but he kept talking.

  “And stop sitting back as if you don’t deserve to be here. Even those flamingoes with their noses in the air could see that you do. It takes a lot out of an artist to show their plain face to the world, like this.” He gestured toward my work again.

  I snorted. “I didn’t have much choice.”

  “Oh, you might be surprised, my dear.”

  When I looked at him, he offered a sad smile, but then he brightened. “Well, I better go find the competition and steer them away from this corner, all the better to keep you to myself. My phone number is on the back,” He flapped his hand toward the pamphlet. “Call me anytime. Acceptance starts next month!”

  “I know.” The words came out too soft. He was almost out of sight before I remembered my manners and called after him. “Thank you!”

  “Thank me by telling the rest of them where to put their scholarships!” he yelled. Then he was gone.

  I looked from the slick photographs in my hand to the horrific painting in front of me. The sad face, the sickening pink. The words spewed all over the surface. I looked into my own face and braced for recognition. For remembrance.

  But I couldn’t find it.

  •••

  “Ash?” Matt’s low voice rose quietly behind me. I turned. He had his hands in his pockets, and there were lines in his forehead.

  I patted the bench next to me, then turned back to my paintings and waited for him to join me.

  I’d been there all night. Sometimes I’d answered questions. Sometimes I’d let people talk around me. Like Jeremy, most hadn’t recognized me, and that was fine. I’d been inside myself, watching from a distance. There were still one or two people wandering around, but it was getting late. The night was almost over.

  Matt settled next to me, sliding his arm around my waist. I leaned on his shoulder and let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  “How did it go?” I asked, tipping my head so I could see his face.

  Matt’s eyes sparkled. “I have choices.”

  “Congratulations!” I put both arms around his waist.

  “Ditto.” He hugged me back. Then his face turned grim. “Dad won’t like it.”

  “No, he won’t,” I agreed.

  While Matt’s dad had eventually agreed to let Matt attend the opening, he’d refused to come, or even let Matt’s mom attend.

  My own mother just waved her hand whenever I talked about what she referred to as my “little art show.” That was fine with me; having her here would have ruined it for me.

  Matt and I were both silent. Then I picked up his hand, twining our fingers. “We can handle your dad. Together.”

  Matt nodded, still staring into the half-distance.

  A minute later he snapped back into focus. “How about you?”

  I thought about it for a second. Then I told him.

  I’d spent most of the night staring at my painting, not really seeing it. Instead of studying brushstrokes or intentions, I’d examined my life.

  The pamphlet Jeremy gave me, and the hope it represented, was damp in my hand. I was afraid to let it go. Afraid to lose it. So it stayed with me, waiting out the night. It wasn’t until an hour earlier I’d realized I wasn’t afraid of my painting, or even of Finn—or people like him. I was afraid because, even after everything I’d overcome, I still had holes. Even with Matt loving me. Even with an art school dean asking me to choose his school’s scholarship. My dreams were coming true—but they weren’t filling the gaps.

  I still felt . . . less than.

  Then, twenty minutes before Matt arrived, I’d remembered something Older Me had said. Her voice echoed in my memory and raised my tears.

  . . . it isn’t what happens to you in your life that destroys you. It’s what you do about it.

  I’d decided to keep fighting, keep searching for answers. Because as long as I did that, there would always be a chance my holes would heal. I could have hope. My gaps only became inevitable when I stopped believing they could be filled. Because that’s when I’d sit back and let life pile on the crap.

  Like she did.

  As long as I had hope, the good things would stay good.

  So, no, I’d never be a kick-ass movie heroine.

  But I was real. And loveable.

  And for now, that was enough.

  A Note from the Author

  Bullying is a unique form of torture. I know, because I was a victim of it for many years.

  While Ashley’s story is fictional, and the ev
ents and people in it are wholly fabricated, I drew on my own emotions to inform hers. I wanted you, the reader, to know I still remember how it feels. If you’re currently living a story like Ashley’s, take it from me: They aren’t right about you. And the only way you’ll ever know that for sure is to connect with people who value you exactly as you are. You need help. You deserve help. So reach out. If you can’t be sure of help from those around you, get in touch with Teen Line where you can talk to other teenagers who understand:

  Call (310) 855 4673 or (800) 852 8336

  Text “Teen” to 839863 (between 5:30pm and 9:30pm PST)

  Or go online: www.teenlineonline.org

  I used to be afraid to walk down that hall, or into that room. I used to lie in bed at night and doubt myself—whether it would ever be different for me, whether anyone would ever really care, or think I was special.

  They have no right to make you feel that way. Trust me: You occupy a very special place in this world. And if you were gone, the rest of us would be left with a hole shaped just like you. Don’t let anyone make you believe any different.

  Keep going.

  It might not get better tomorrow, but it will get better.

  Acknowledgments

  This book is a work of fiction. But if Ashley and I share anything, it is that we entered our twenties with an awareness of the holes inside, the wounds (self-inflicted or otherwise) that never completely heal.

  I am unable to give enough of myself, my work, or my life to adequately say thank you, Jesus, for moving in to fill those gaps and heal my wounds. Your work in my heart is nothing short of miraculous. I hope you find some measure of delight in what I have delivered here. Thank you for bringing the incredible people into my life who made all of this possible:

  Alan, you are a renaissance man: corporate businessman, hobby farmer, sometimes house-husband, Fun Dad, and rock of my world. None of this would have happened without you. So thank you, Darling. You have superior husbanding skills.

  Lanie Davis, your first e-mail changed my life, and you’ve been making my dreams come true every day since. To you, Eliza Swift, and all the team at Alloy, thank you for taking a risk on a little book nobody knew about—and for making it so much better. The heavens are full of stars expelled in your honor . . . if you know what I mean.

  My family deserves endless honors, especially my parents, Ernie and Ricki Pruitt, my sister, Heather, my cousins Emily and Mandy, and everyone else who insists on loving me even when it isn’t easy. There are too many of you to list, but I promise that I’m grateful for your love, your support, and your willingness to listen to my “book talk.”

  Nyria Ratana and Raewyn Hewitt: There are three couches and a warm fire in heaven where you will be rewarded for your never-ending support and encouragement, and Jesus will join us in the next movie giggle-fest.

  Kelly Geister, thank you for your incredible help when Every Ugly Word was a breakable little book. You are the most talented person I know, and your smile lights up a room. I fear our jokes are forever destined to be too sick for minors, but you know what? I kind of like it that way . . .

  There’s a group of incredible authors who’ve always believed in me and my book: First and foremost, Cora Carmack, who managed not only to tell people to read this story in its first iteration, but, I suspect, forced them to buy it. Vanitha Sankaran, Melody Valadez, Mary Elizabeth Summer, Sharon Johnston, Mikaela Gray, Liz O’Connor, Lorna Suzuki . . . (the list goes on!), your advice, time, friendship, and support have been a gift.

  To all the bloggers, tweeters, Facebookers, readers, and others who loved this book before, thank you. You started this ball rolling. I’ll always remember you with genuine gratitude.

  And finally, to my favorite redhead in the entire world, thank you for sharing me when you didn’t have a choice. Never stop believing that God will be the one to fuel your dreams and make them come true—and that your father and I love you almost as much as He does.

  About the Author

  Aimee L. Salter lives in Oregon with her husband and son. She writes novels for teens and the occasional adult who, like herself, is still in touch with his or her inner-high schooler. She never stopped appreciating those moments in the dark when you say what you’re really thinking. And she’ll always ask you about the things you wish she wouldn’t ask you about. Aimee blogs for both writers and readers at www.aimeelsalter.com. You can also find her on Twitter and Facebook.

  Looking for more great reads? Turn the page for an excerpt of the sci-fi adventure

  REBEL WING

  By Tracy Banghart

  Eighteen-year-old Aris’s life falls apart when her boyfriend is drafted to fight on the front lines of Atalanta’s war. She has no idea when—or if—she’ll ever see him again. So when she’s recruited to a secret program that helps women fight in the all-male Military, she leaps at the chance. The only catch: She’ll have to technologically disguise herself as a man . . . Just how far will she go to be with the boy she loves?

  Chapter 1

  High above the olive groves and blinding white roofs of the village, Aris danced. She twisted and dove, guiding her wingjet straight out over granite cliffs and the glitter of the ocean. As she did, she imagined its wings were her arms, reaching far out into the blue. Her fingers would knife through a wisp of cloud, and the moisture would linger against her skin, like a kiss.

  Her father wouldn’t approve of such thoughts. To him, flying was a practical pursuit, for dusting crops or traveling from place to place. Their village was built high on carbonate stilts, so wingjets were the easiest form of transportation unless you were working the land or hiking down the steep paths leading to the narrow beach below the cliffs. Most everyone here could fly. But no one flew like Aris did.

  At least Calix understood what flying meant to her.

  She pressed the pedals under her feet and twisted the hand controls, diving in a last tight pirouette before nosing the tiny two-seat wingjet toward home.

  A flicker of light caught at the edge of her vision. She glanced out to sea and steered the wingjet in the direction of the movement.

  Suddenly, the flash became a speeding wingjet. It hurtled toward her, its silver sides reflecting the sun. Aris hovered just off shore, the beach a golden crescent beneath her, waiting for the wingjet to change course or slow to land. Instead, it grew larger, advancing quickly. Surely the flyer saw her? Her hands tightened on the controls. She moved farther from the cliff. The other wingjet shifted too, keeping her directly in its path.

  Aris nearly waited too long. She jerked the controls down, the force of the other wingjet’s passage rattling the bones of her machine as she locked into a downward spiral. Heart beating wildly, she waited until the last second before pulling up and skimming the water. Beneath her, waves rolled from deep blue to white, ruffled by her jet wind.

  The other flyer followed, matching her move for move. Her stomach twisted as the wingjet drew up alongside, giving her a clear view of its needle nose and the Atalanta flag decal stretched across its sloping tail. No solar panels curved above its wings like on her wingjet. Instead the whole thing shimmered a silvery gold, the hallmark of new-tech solar material. Aris had only ever seen Military wingjets on news vids, never up close.

  What was it doing here, so far from the front lines of the war?

  Without warning, the jet shot upward, piercing the cloudless sky like a shining arrow. She slowed to watch its progress, waiting for it to disappear. But with a flash of reflected sunlight, it dove again, straight for her.

  What is he trying to prove? Her apprehension shifted to annoyance. She darted out from under the jet and flipped through the air to face him. It had to be a him. All members of the Military sector were male.

  For a moment they hovered in a strange standoff. Then the other wingjet rocketed forward, forcing her into a series of evasive spins and loops. At first Aris dipped and whirled away in anger and frustration. But gradually, his movements lost their aggression and s
he relaxed into the dance, pushing farther and twisting faster until it was suddenly her chasing him across the sky. She, who flew the most intricate patterns, she who nipped at his jet wind, whooping as she tumbled toward the flashing waves below.

  Eventually, the other flyer slowed and headed back to the cliffs, tipping his wings in a “follow me” gesture. She watched him land, her heart still hammering, then followed suit.

  As she touched down, the tall, yellow-flowered grass beneath her swept in wild circles. She wrenched the hood-release lever twice before the glass slid back. It always stuck a little—the hazards of a second-hand machine. Not that she was complaining. Her parents had given her the wingjet three months ago for her eighteenth birthday. It was hers, and the only thing she owned that she really, truly cared about.

  Aris slid both hands through her hair, trying to smooth it down. She’d left it loose and curling, the way Calix liked, but her recent maneuvers had given the heavy auburn waves a reckless disregard for gravity.

  The other flyer stood among the flowers, waiting for her. Dressed in full uniform—blunt-toed boots, trim pants, sleek forest-green jacket—the man represented every fear she had for Calix. On the back of his neck was the black rectangular brand that marked him as Military. He could have just as easily appeared in a news vid as in one of Aris’s nightmares. Her breath froze in her throat, and her hands went cold.

  “That was incredible.” The stranger was slight, with a fine-boned face and thin lips turned up in a smile.

  “Thanks?” she replied, taken aback by his enthusiasm.

  “Really, I mean it. I’ve never seen anyone go from a right-hook flutter pattern straight into a flat-nosed full spindrop.”

  With a grin, she said, “I call it the swing zinger.”