Breakable Read online

  “What do they do?”

  “Forget I said–”

  “No way, Stacy,” he bit off each word. “Tell me. The whole truth.”

  It made me mad that he’d ask like that. So I whipped him with words.

  “Last week, Karyn and her friends threw my jeans in the sink during PE. They told everyone I wet my pants. Someone left a pack of bladder control pads on top of my locker.”

  His head jerked back. “Why didn’t you–”

  “Your last girlfriend drew a picture of me giving the math teacher a blowjob and passed it around class. Guys asked me for “math tutoring” for weeks!”

  Mark’s eyes dropped, but I was on a roll now. Let him hear the truth.

  “Finn humiliates me and tells me he hates me pretty much every time he lays eyes on me. He makes sure his friends tell me that too. Do you have any idea how it feels to have people look you in the face and tell you they hate you, and mean it?”

  Mark blew out a breath, but he wasn’t meeting my eyes anymore. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was so…”

  I snorted. “You didn’t want to know. You were embarrassed.”

  “No,” he said, emphatic. “I’m not embarrassed to be friends with you.”

  “Then what was Karyn talking about?”

  “C’mon, Stace. She knows I like you. She’s pissed off. If she treats you so crappy why would you listen to her? I’ve been your friend for ten years. Even if I didn’t… even if you felt like I wasn’t paying attention, you could have told me.” His voice kept getting louder. “You should have trusted me!”

  “Well, sorry, Mark. Sorry I doubted you. Sorry I thought you’d get sick of me like everyone else and then I’d have no one. Sorry if that upsets you.”

  “Grow up, Stace. I’ve always been there for you. Even when you were a total idiot, I stuck up for you. You should know you can trust me by now.”

  “Me?! It’s your friends who are the idiots–”

  “Oh, come on! You could get away from them if you wanted to. You keep throwing yourself in front of them, then crying when they make fun of you.”

  “I do not!”

  “Really? Really?! You want to have this conversation? Because what about that party with Dex? You came screaming out of that bedroom, crying. It looked like he’d raped you. I stuck up for you – I got you out of there and pushed Dex around. Then I find out you were just drunk and crying over a fight with Finn.”

  “I told you it wasn’t as bad as–”

  “And what about last night?” he yelled. “I get that you were upset, but instead of finding someone – finding me! – and asking for help like a normal person, you disappear. Everyone looked for you – even Finn. Did you know that? They thought something had happened to you! Then it turned out you’re just crying in a corner. People don’t like drama. And you make drama all the time.”

  Mark’s words were knives on my skin, cutting to the bone. Couldn’t he see that I didn’t want drama, drama just happened because of who I was? I couldn’t change that.

  Could I?

  “I couldn’t have confronted them last night. Finn would have crucified me. It isn’t a petty fight with him. He… he…”

  “What? What did he do, Stace? Why were you even talking to him at that party? If he’s so awful, why did you agree to go to his house?”

  Mark was right in front of me, leaned down in my face, angry but wanting answers. I wanted to tell him. I wanted to tell him the whole story and give him the letter and have him fold me in those warm, strong arms like he did a few hours earlier. I wanted to feel his fingers twined with mine again. I wanted him to touch me and kiss me and do things I’d never done before…

  Then I remembered Finn’s face – the wicked grin he got when he talked about the letter. He knew. He knew Mark would freak if he read that letter. He knew it would end our friendship forever if Mark found out I was psycho and in love with him.

  I stepped back, shaking my head.

  “Oh, for–!”

  “Stop yelling at me!” The tears were back, sheets of tears. I hugged myself and backed away from him.

  Mark groaned through gritted teeth, then whirled. “Fine. Forget about it. Forget everything.” He stalked towards the door, shoving the pile of easels leaned against the wall as he passed, sending them clattering to the floor in a crash. I jumped and the tears came harder.

  “Mark!”

  “Forget it!”

  The external door slammed.

  He was gone.

  I waited a minute, barely breathing, praying for him to come back. Even if he was angry, if he came back it meant I meant enough to him…

  But the silence wasn’t broken by anything except the shuddering breath I had to take a few seconds later. Then another.

  The longer I stood there, the more certain I was. It had happened. I’d been right all along. He’d finally given up on me.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  The wait for 1:45 is hell. I sit on my bed. Stand on the floor. Go to the bathroom three times. I look for her, in the mirror even though I shouldn’t. But it isn’t time yet.

  I’m left standing in the middle of the floor. Aimless.

  My scars burn. When I get upset, I tend to storm around and forget about the pain. Which is nice, while it lasts. But I can’t ignore it now.

  I have to get out of here. But Doc has to do his part too.

  What the hell am I going to do?

  The window in my room calls to me. Peering past the steel mesh inside the glass they put there to make sure I don’t, you know, throw myself through it, I can see the whole street – the flat, black tarmac of the road, the leaf-strewn sidewalk that only has cracks where the blocks of cement seam together. Occasional cars parked on both sides – none of them more than a couple years old.

  It’s a nice neighborhood. Do they know the good Doctor has a house full of nutjobs up here?

  This side of the street is nothing but houses. But across the road there’s a park. I can see tall trees with near-black bark and golden leaves planted equidistant on a carpet of plush grass.

  A shriek rises from a distant room, bouncing off the perfect white walls and raising the hair on the back of my neck. I turn. That will be Joyce. I don’t know what happened to her, but she’s scared of everything. Everything. Including silverware and doors and curtains.

  Turning back to the window, for a second, I catch my breath. A guy just got out of a car on the street. For a second I think it’s Mark.

  That’s happened a lot. Sometimes when there’s a lot of voices and hubbub bouncing around my head, I think I hear his voice.

  Even just this morning I mistook one of the male nurses for Mark. I’d stood in the hallway, shaking and breathing, examining the guy’s face and reminding myself Mark isn’t here.

  It’s so stupid.

  The guy on the street walks out of sight and I can breathe again. At least I’m not shaking this time. Not much, anyway. Because I lost Mark a long time before I came here…

  But those thoughts are poison. For a time I struggle to breathe.

  I know what I’m here for. And I know I can fix this. All of it. If Doc will just do his part…

  I stare at the clock, keep my back to the mirror, until it says it’s time to return.

  When I reach his office, Doc is already seated. He points to my chair and waits for me to sit, tapping his pen on the paper in front of him.

  He doesn’t have the warm sympathy in his eyes that was there earlier. He isn’t looking at me like I’m a wounded child. He’s examining me like a bug he doesn’t trust not to sting him.

  He clears his throat quietly, then stills. “Let’s get back to it then.” He reads something on his notes, then nods. “You were telling me about being in the art room the day after prom. What happened next?”

  I take a deep breath. It’s painful to remember. “You’ve read the file,” I mutter.

  His lips thin. “I’m asking you to tell me.” He pauses. “Ever
ything.”

  It’s reflex. My eyes cut up to meet his gaze and my stomach drops.

  Behind that perfect moustache, his lips are pressed to thin lines. His jaw is hard.

  How can he be angry? I’ve been telling him the truth! Well… most of it anyway.

  Tearing my eyes off his, I let him see my hands shake as I reach for the glass of water that’s sat next to me since this morning without so much as a glance. I take a sip, clear my throat, then meet his eyes again.

  My heart thumped against my ribs and my breath came too fast. I considered picking up the easels Mark knocked over, but my arms felt like jelly. Then my knees shook and I slid to the floor.

  Every time an image of Mark flashed in my head – his anger, his hurt, his frustration – I pushed it away and tried to breathe.

  I sat there until my tailbone ached and my eyes stung from not blinking.

  It happened. He’d left. He’d kissed me last night and wanted me, but I was too much drama. Too much hard work.

  I teetered on the edge for a long time before I could breathe without wheezing. Until the shivers stopped running up and down my spine. I stayed on the floor, wrapped around the pain, forcing the cracks inside to hold. I could breathe. But with oxygen came a weird kind of clarity.

  I rolled onto my hands and knees, waiting to make sure my head would stay in one place. When it did, I pushed to my feet and used my trembling hands to pull around the easel I’d been using.

  Tearing the Mark sketches off the canvas, I picked up a pencil and started sketching – very light so the lead wouldn’t show through later brushstrokes. Then I thumbed through the brushes until I found a tiny, thin one suitable for drawing in paint.

  I painted.

  I painted me. Surrounded by nothing. Zero. Alone. Just my face and my shoulders, chin in my hand, and blank, blank space beside and behind me.

  The world became a very small place. Just me and the painting.

  Once the basics were in place, I pulled a huge, full-length mirror out of the storage area and propped it up against the wall so I could study myself. It was weird to have a mirror out and not call Older Me, but I didn’t want to look at her any more than I had to.

  I spent hours sketching and mixing colors to try on a canvas board, but something was missing and it drove me nuts. I tried sketching the same form on a piece of paper and messing with water colors over the top. I even drew glasses, like Mom’s, to see if a different line balance would light it up. But it didn’t help. I frustration I tore the sketch in half and stormed back into the easel room.

  But when I stood in front of that painting, I just wanted to howl. It was off. Sure, someone who knew me would look at it and say, “That’s Stacy!” But there was nothing in it. It just showed my features. It didn’t say anything about who I was.

  I turned around, looking for inspiration, and my eyes landed on the window. Somehow it had grown dark outside. With a sigh, I packed everything up and cleaned my brushes. My painting was finished, sort of. But it was a flat, blank image. Nothing surprising. Nothing revealing. I knew Mrs. C. would hate it.

  I certainly did.

  But because she had to know it was done, I put it on an easel to dry, left it in the storage area where she’d come across it when she came in. We could talk about it later.

  I was spent.

  I headed for home with my sketch pad and a practice board under my arm. As an after-thought, I grabbed some paint tubes too. If inspiration hit at home, I wanted to be able to get something on the canvas so I wouldn’t lose it.

  The walk home was silent except for the hiss of cars on the road.

  I struggled with the painting all day Sunday, but didn’t have any more luck. I got home late. Mom was already in bed. I ate cereal and went to bed. The last thought I had before I went to sleep was that I hadn’t heard from Mark at all.

  And he didn’t show up to give me a ride on Monday morning either.

  So, at the last minute, I threw on my shoes and ran the mile or so to school.

  I’d been so consumed over the weekend, I’d been able to avoid thinking about what would be said about Friday. But as my feet dragged me closer and closer, and the sounds of people laughing and shouting, socializing, reached me across the morning air, I realized I was shaking.

  I tried not to think, just kept my eyes on the buildings and told myself there was only one week of school left. Even utter hell could be endured for one week. Especially if it meant getting that art portfolio done. I had to win a spot in New York. I had to. But with that nothing of a self-portrait…

  “Hey! It’s Stacy! Ohmigosh! Someone call a doctor!”

  I didn’t know the guy who yelled, or his laughing friends – except that they were seniors. I didn’t understand why what he’d said was funny but had no doubt it had to do with rumors about Friday. Keeping my head down, I ignored the clamor of taunts rising behind him and trotted up the stairs into the main building.

  Down the short hallway from the door to the main hall. Lots of students. Lots of banging and laughing and people running back and forth. A busy Monday, nothing more.

  “Oh! Stacy! Where’s your other half?” a girl from my math class called.

  What were they talking about? This was going to be hell.

  I turned the corner and started down the hall. Only three classroom doors between me and my locker. I could do that. I could walk past three classes.

  A snorting noise sounded right behind me and someone stood on the back of my shoe. A round of laughter was quickly followed by the thump of a body bracing against mine, shoving me into the wall.

  “Slut.”

  I bounced off the wall and scrambled for my bag as it slipped off my shoulder. Tears welled and I hissed a curse, determined to stay mad so I wouldn’t give in.

  Only two more classroom doors.

  Then one.

  Then I got to my locker and saw a piece of paper taped to the front.

  My dread froze, then morphed into outright terror.

  With a shaking hand I pulled the paper off and read the first line of my own handwriting.

  Dear Mark,

  Things have been a little strange lately, but I want you to know I understand…

  The letter.

  Oh, no. How many people had seen it? It took three tries to get the combination to my locker right because my fingers shook too hard. Then, when I got the door open I just stared into it because I couldn’t remember what I needed. Which class did I have first?

  A cloud of giggles rose from down the hall and I tensed.

  Breathe. Need to breathe. I can do this.

  Oh, Lord, how can I do this?

  Dumping the contents of my bag into the space, I picked out my magazines, toilet bag and a few other personal things. I shoved them and the copy of the note deep in my bag and ignored everything else. I’d go straight to the nurse, tell her I was sick, make her sign me out of class.

  I flinched as a group of my classmates, led by Belinda, trooped past.

  “How was Friday, Stacy? Did you find anyone drunk enough to hook up?”

  “Or crazy enough?” someone else added.

  The roar of laughter was the last straw. I flipped the locker closed and yanked my almost empty bag over my shoulder. Then I turned and walked smack into a broad chest. Firm, familiar hands took hold of my upper arms.

  Mark.

  “Stacy, where were you yesterday?” His voice was hard, but hearing it was like coming home because it meant he was still talking to me.

  He couldn’t have seen the letter yet.

  He kept talking, shaking me a little by the arms, but I didn’t care. His face was leaned into mine – almost as close as it had been on Friday. That ‘v’ was shoved in between his sandy brows. His eyes narrowed over tense cheeks.

  I wanted to touch his face, tell him how relieved I was that he wasn’t ignoring me, how good it felt to know he was still talking to me. Then I remembered Friday was a drunk thing. And now he was about to
see the letter…

  “Well?”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off his chest.

  Something brushed my hair and I flinched. Two guys walked past singing Crazy for Love.

  Mark swore at them, then turned back. “What is going on?”

  I shook my head because it was impossible to explain. Once he knew, he’d never speak to me again.

  In that moment I was desperate to be someone else. Another person entirely. I didn’t need to be popular, or even accepted. I would have been happy with invisible. To be able to wander the halls without having to watch out for whoever was walking towards me – or worry who might be coming up behind. To do anything and not have someone tell me how worthless it was.

  To be good enough for him.

  But Mark stood there, staring at me, saying things and frowning, and there were fifty people within earshot. No matter what I did, it would get me in trouble somehow. I didn’t have any energy left.

  I pushed away from him and started walking.

  Mark grabbed my sleeve. “Where are you going?”

  “The nurse. I’m sick.” I tugged it out of his grip and marched down the hall with my eyes on my shoes. Over our heads the bell clanged.

  This hall led to the main lobby at the front of the school. If I just kept going, ignored all the wicked smiles and jeering, I could tell the nurse I didn’t feel good. I was already shaking. Probably pale. Puffy from not enough sleep. She’d believe me. I could get out of here.

  “Stace?”

  I shook my head. If I let my teeth loose they would chatter. If he hadn’t seen the letter already, it wouldn’t be long. I didn’t want to be there to see the horror dawn on his face.

  Mark muttered another curse and took hold of my arm, pushing ahead, walking in front of me and opening the crowd. I kept my eyes on his fingers touching me and committed the sensation to memory because I was sure it was the last time that would happen.

  We reached the lobby and it was full of people. Odd, since the bell had rung. Then Mark gasped and froze. I ran into his back.

  “Stacy, turn around. Get out of here.” His words were flat. Toneless.