Breakable Page 24

  But he didn’t.

  When I reached the car and locked myself inside, away from the sounds of the guys rehashing everything that had happened, I realized Older Me had been right about one thing: Mark Grey, the love of my life and the most amazing kisser in the world, wasn’t perfect.

  He wasn’t even close.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I shuffle down the hospital hall, leaving behind Doc’s office – a quiet, soft-cornered room full of knowledge and time and fakery.

  I’m surrounded by linoleum floors, white walls with handrails, doors and people and noise.

  As I stumble along the familiar floor, I can barely think. I am back in the story as it really happened, and here, now, waiting for it to end. Waiting to see if, by changing the script, I’ve messed everything up.

  And that stupid doctor thinks I’m playing games?

  I shuffle along the hall, swallowing tears, head down, praying no one notices it’s me. Fat chance since there are only twenty patients here. Every staff member knows every face. Every name.

  “Stacy?”

  I pretend I didn’t hear, dart around the corner in the hall, pass two doors on the right, and open the third.

  The room. My room. It isn’t big. Pale blue walls, carpet in the same gray shade as the linoleum in the hallway. Light curtains on the window of reinforced glass. There is room in here for two small beds, two chests of drawers, two small closets. But I have been lucky enough not to gain a roommate. I’ve been here, alone, for three months. Again I’m reminded what a relief it is that she can’t see my room through the mirror. Not that it matters after this.

  I won’t be here tomorrow. One way or the other.

  The art room on the Saturday morning after prom was a sanctuary of silence. As soon as I walked in I wanted to cry because it was the one place no one would see me. I could be truly alone.

  It was awful.

  The silence hollowed me out, left me thinking of Mark. Made me wonder what he’d be doing this morning. What would he tell Karyn?

  What would he tell himself?

  My breath caught and I pushed it all away. I had to work. There was no time to cry about Mark now. No time to hate on Dex in my head. I had a portfolio to finish.

  Now, more than ever, I had to get out of this town. That competition was my ticket.

  Fear and stress swirled up to crash over me together. I took a deep breath, swallowed them and went to my cubby hole.

  The massive black tri-boards that would eventually be my art portfolio had finally arrived. I had three days to get them ready and approved by Mrs. C. for submission.

  By the middle of the afternoon I had them two-thirds covered. Mom and Dad were up there as the diptych. Mrs. Callaghan, Karyn, Finn, and Dex, too. I threw in one or two paintings I’d done where faces weren’t the main focus, just to show my range.

  I was left with two big holes and one small one.

  Mark’s portrait had to fill one of the big ones. I’d throw something together for the small one. But it was the big, central gap chilling my stomach.

  Mrs. Callaghan insisted that needed to be my self-portrait. I needed to wow with it. But I couldn’t think of any way to make a picture of myself look interesting. I flipped through my previous sketches, but nothing worked.

  Who wanted to look at a picture just of me?

  That thought took me too close to what had happened with Mark and Dex the night before. I couldn’t cope with that. So, frustrated, I slammed my workbook closed and pushed my chair back. If my head insisted on thinking about Mark, well, I’d use that to my advantage.

  I put on some music and pulled out the pieces of Mark’s portrait. Then I grabbed a canvas board out of the resource room and took it to my table. All the sketches, drawings and scratchings of Mark’s features had to come out of the folder.

  I found myself sitting in front of a table full of his eyes and his smile and his jaw and it almost killed me.

  There was only one sketch of his hand – holding a pencil while he drew something. But I’d got the fingers just right – the heavy knuckles and long digits. The nails short and rounded off, but clean. The tendons that ran from the back of each finger to his wrist and stood out proud and looked so strong.

  I almost screwed that one up because all I could see when I looked at it was those fingers curling tight at my waist. That thumb tracing along my cheekbone. That hand reaching to pull me back when I ran…

  Oh, gawd. What had I done?

  Turning the hand sketch over so I didn’t have to look at it anymore, I took a breath and started the filtering process.

  Those eyes were too narrow. That nose a fraction too big. That ear was pig ugly. On and on until I had only one or two pictures left of each feature.

  Except his mouth.

  Without letting myself think about it, I pulled the heavy cartridge paper pad onto my lap and started drawing. There was a slight indentation at the middle of his bottom lip – a plane of soft, unmarred skin that stretched when he smiled and wrinkled when he stopped. His upper lip was slightly thinner than his lower, but both were long and pulled into sharp corners.

  Most girls would have killed for those lips. I would have killed to kiss them again.

  I drew them slightly parted, the lower lip protruding a fraction, the wetness from his mouth barely visible at the inner edge.

  These lips said I want you. I drew them in under ten minutes and they were perfect. Well, as perfect as I was capable of, anyway.

  With that done I had eight or nine sketches of different parts of Mark’s face. They were on different papers – different weights, different tones of white and cream. Each in different proportions.

  For a few minutes I played with composition, laying each piece in different positions against the others. But two of them were in acrylic crayon and two in heavy pencil. They shone when light reflected off their surfaces, and there was no way for me to get the true effect from the whole when it lay flat on the table with the light from the window glaring off it.

  So I took the canvas board into the easel room and set it up, pulled another stool up to put my pictures on it, and started playing with the pieces.

  An hour later, Mark stared at me from the canvas. He looked like he was turned to look at me, holding a pencil as if he were about to use it.

  He looked alive, and funky and all his pieces were there and I wanted to kiss him again.

  Turning the easel around so it took the natural light from the window, I stepped a few feet back to take in the full effect. But from that distance, something was missing.

  The use of different media to draw the different pieces meant parts of his face drew the eye immediately, while others faded into the background. It was exactly the effect I wanted, but it was pulling my eye to the wrong piece first.

  Without my planning it, his eyes and mouth had both ended up drawn in flat pencil. With hair and nose in the heavy acrylic crayon, and his jaw a dusty charcoal, the lips looked framed. They were perfect and my eye went right to them. But I wanted the viewer to look Mark in the eye and see what I saw.

  Should I go back to some of the other sketches? Find a nose that wasn’t so dramatic so the eyes would pop more?

  “You need to paint them in oil. They’ll shine then.”

  I yelped and whirled around.

  Mark stood in the door of the easel room, hands in his pockets. There were dark circles under his eyes and heavy stubble on his chin and jaw. He looked terrible.

  He looked fabulous.

  He stared at the picture I’d made of him. It was like I’d opened my chest, pulled my heart out, and handed it to him. He knew me too well not to understand what I was trying to achieve.

  Trying not to look flustered, I reached for the easel and turned it around so it faced the wall. “It isn’t finished,” I said to my own feet.

  “I always see your stuff before it’s finished,” he said. “But I haven’t seen that. Is that what you’ve been hiding from me? Is th
at why you didn’t tell me you were coming in here all those times by yourself?”

  “No.” Yes… in part. I fiddled with the settings on the easel and rearranged my sketches, but he didn’t say anything else. I was forced to give up and look at him.

  He hadn’t moved from his spot in the door. He still looked disheveled and marvelous, but there was a light behind his eyes now – an angry edge. The little muscle at the back of his jaw jumped and so did I.

  “I would have shown you when it was done,” I lied. “I-I just wasn’t expecting you today. I thought you’d be… getting some rest.”

  “I need it,” he said. He didn’t smile. “Last night the guys got pretty drunk. Noisy. And Dex kept trying to fight me.”

  “I’m sorry. I guess I should have talked to him before I left. I just… I didn’t want to…”

  Mark sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “He figured out what you heard from what you said,” he said slowly. “Why didn’t you confront him when it happened? Instead of hiding, I mean. Dex was a jerk and Finn was another jerk for talking about it. So why didn’t you say that? Why run away so I had to come looking for you?”

  My eyes jerked to his then. Was he saying he wished he hadn’t found me?

  Mark’s mouth dropped open. “I’m not saying it was bad… I mean…” One hand came up to soothe me. “I just meant, usually you fight back. I don’t understand why you ran away instead of giving them an earful.”

  That was it. The moment when I could have told him the whole story – all the cutting comments he missed, all the sneers and jeers, all the feet sliding into my path, all the jokes at my expense, the disdain, the contempt, the feeling that I was nothing but a steaming pile that no one wanted to get close to – something to make others laugh when someone stepped on it.

  He’d never asked and I’d never told because, deep down, I was afraid when he realized just how bad it was, he’d want to be away from me too.

  But also, he should have known.

  My breath kept catching, jumping in my throat. Tears threatened again and I was so sick of crying it made me mad. I was a mess. Last night was the first time I’d fallen apart in front of Mark and there was comfort in the fact that he’d, well, comforted me. But could I trust him to stick around if he knew the truth? Older Me didn’t think so.

  The letter.

  I took a breath and stepped back, pulled in on myself. Pretended I was okay. Then I shrugged and met his eyes, determined to be strong.

  “I was outnumbered,” I said. “Those guys don’t like me anyway. If I’d confronted them alone… I didn’t feel safe. And it hurt. I thought Dex…” I shrugged, unwilling to say it out loud.

  But Mark knew. He nodded slowly and walked across the room until he stood right in front of me. “Yeah,” was all he said. But the word was heavy in his mouth and his eyes held mine. For a second I forgot how certain I was he didn’t want me and wondered if he was about to kiss me again. He looked mad. The question was, mad at Dex, or mad at me?

  I got brave. Took a step closer. Mark closed the distance, but his hands were still fists at his sides.

  I touched his chest. “Last night, when you said–”

  “Well, this looks cozy.”

  My head whipped up, Mark tensed but didn’t turn around.

  Karyn stood inside the door, arms folded, perfect silver hair swaying around her shoulders. The look on her face was pure fury.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Standing over me, Mark grimaced, but kept his eyes on me. “It’s not a good time, Kar. Just give us a few minutes, would you?”

  Her eyes about popped out of her head.

  “I don’t care if it’s a good time,” she hissed.

  “Look, after you left last night, Stacy had to deal with some real crap, so just back off, okay?” Mark’s voice got harder, angrier.

  Karyn scoffed and started toward us. Mark closed his eyes and turned to meet her. But she was coming for me. I braced as she tried to step past Mark, but he grabbed her arm.

  “Hey!” she spat.

  “Get out of here, Karyn.”

  “You’re sticking up for her? I knew it!”

  “Get OUT!” Mark roared and even I jumped. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. His face turned red and his hand on her arm shook.

  Karyn’s mouth dropped open and she whirled to face him, yanking her arm out of his trembling grip. “All this ‘just friends’ crap, but every time she makes an ass out of herself you’ve got to be there. Why don’t you admit she’s the one you want to be with? Oh, wait, that’s right – because you’re too embarrassed.”

  In a blink she faced me, her face twisted. Mark grabbed her arm again, but she didn’t come closer, just pointed at me and sneered. “He hates it, you know. He hates that everyone else hates you. It embarrasses him. We laugh about you when you’re not there. He–”

  “That’s not true!” Mark snapped.

  “–won’t tell you because he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. But, trust me. He doesn’t like you. He feels sorry you.”

  Her words pelted me like stones, pressing into my skin and leaving bruises. Mark swore and pulled her back and this time he didn’t let go. He yelled at her, but he avoided my eyes. I was afraid there was some truth in what she said.

  Everything that had happened – everything she’d done – turned into a ball of heat in my chest. I stepped forward just as Mark tried to pull her out of the room, but she turned back, her voice high and shrieking.

  “I know you were there last night with all those guys. You think that’s going to make people like you?!”

  It only took three steps to get close enough to shove her. I pushed but she twisted and stepped back. Mark yelled “Stacy, don’t! Let me handle it!”

  Karyn smirked.

  He put one hand on my shoulder, but I just spoke past him.

  “You two-faced cow!” I wanted to throttle her. “You let everyone think you’re a little princess, but you’re a total snake. Tell him about all those times your friends cornered me and you just stood back and laughed. Tell him about snuggling with Finn! And your little notes! You don’t deserve Mark and he definitely doesn’t deserve to be with a backstabbing ferret like you.” My breath came too fast and my hands shook. But it felt so good to tell the truth about Karyn I didn’t even want to cry anymore.

  Mark stared between us, gaping. But all he said was “Finn?”

  Karyn rolled her eyes and shoved away from him. “She wants you to break up with me and go out with her. You’re so gullible!” But she never met my eye. She stared at Mark a minute and he stared back, then she swore and stormed out of the room.

  Mark’s eyes closed as she left. His hands were white-knuckled fists at his sides. He jumped when the door slammed, but he didn’t go after her.

  “Mark?” I said softly.

  He opened his eyes, but his face was blank. The tendons on his neck stood proud. His face was red and growing redder.

  “Mark?” I touched his arm. His head snapped down, looking at where we touched. “Are you okay?”

  “Just, give me a minute,” he said through clenched teeth, peeling my fingers off his arm.

  I nodded, watched his chest rise and fall, his fingers splay, then close to fists again and again.

  It took me a minute to realize Mark was trying not to lose his temper. Trying not to be like his dad…

  I covered my mouth with my hands and stepped back. Mark saw the movement and gave a cold chuckle. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not you I’m mad at.”

  Small relief. I wanted to reach for him again. I wanted to put my arms around him and bury my face in his chest and rub his back. I wanted to comfort him.

  “Not much, anyway,” he said in a flat voice.

  “Well, that’s reassuring.”

  A minute later, Mark blew out a breath, then turned to face me again. The hardness still clung to his jaw and shoulders, but he ran a hand through his hair and shook his head.

  H
e sighed. “Finn?”

  I swallowed and shrugged, still holding my insides together. “I caught them kissing. At least, I think that’s what they were doing. It was just… You know.”

  He frowned. “When?”

  “A few weeks ago.”

  Disbelief and anger narrowed his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I thought you’d think I was trying to break you up.”

  “Why!?”

  “Because! I mean, she’s your girlfriend–”

  “And you’re my best friend!” Mark took a step closer. The edge had entered his voice again.

  His anger scared me. I stepped back. “But, she’s your girlfriend. If I said anything–”

  “I’d believe you. Geez, Stace, we’ve been friends since we were seven. When are you going to start trusting me?”

  “I do! I thought you wouldn’t trust me!”

  “Why not?!”

  “Because no one else does.”

  Mark rolled his eyes. “You really think I’d believe them over you?” His voice went up sharply at the end.

  “You do. All the time.”

  “I do not!”

  “Mark you choose them every time. You hang out with them at school even though they make my life hell. You go out with girls who hate me – then believe them when they tell you they don’t.”

  “That’s bull. When people hurt you I try to help, but you won’t let me. You won’t say who–”

  I threw my hands up. “I shouldn’t have to! It would be obvious to you if you opened your eyes! They’re your friends and your girlfriends! Why should I have to tell you what jerks they all are?”

  Mark’s jaw flexed. “Karyn?”

  I groaned. “Karyn, Belinda – and don’t forget your other best friend Finn. All of them!”

  He glared, but we weren’t finished. He was gathering the courage to ask me for the truth.

  Could I do it? Could I tell him? He was angry and might not believe me. But even if he did, admitting this stuff was like reliving it and I wasn’t sure I could keep myself together.