Every Ugly Word Read online

  Finally he looks up. “Your other self was very ingrained in your life, wasn’t she?”

  He’s finally talking about it. About her. If only I could figure out what he was aiming for. “How do you mean?”

  “I mean, you spoke to her about everything—you were very open.”

  I snort. “When she’d let me. We didn’t always see eye to eye, and sometimes it was easier to just not talk about something than to keep arguing. Hard to escape your own reflection.”

  Doc nods slowly. “Were you always honest with your other self?”

  If I’d been taking a drink at that moment, it would have flown out of my nose. As it was, I choked on my own spit and had to blink back tears. “Wha-what?”

  Doc’s face is blank, but he won’t break eye contact. “I think you heard me, Ashley. I want to know if you were always honest with your other self—if you ever lied, or exaggerated, or deceived her.”

  I keep blinking and hope he’ll think it’s because my eyes are still watering from the coughing. “Um . . . no. But I wasn’t always honest with anyone back then. There were things I just didn’t want to get into.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like my problems.”

  Doc’s lips tip down at the corners and he makes another note. “You didn’t want to talk about the things that were causing you problems? Why not?”

  I try hard not to roll my eyes and instead, with one finger, I follow the thread of the pattern on the arm of my chair.

  “The only person I could open up to was Matt. And if I had, he would have just tried to fix me.”

  “And that’s a problem because . . . ?”

  “Because I’m not the one who needs to be fixed.”

  He looks like he’ll argue with me, but I plow on before he can speak.

  •••

  I waited to leave my house until the last possible second Monday morning, hoping Matt would pick me up. I had no idea if he’d tried to call since I’d killed my phone. He certainly hadn’t called our home line. It was raining, but Mom was sleeping in—Mondays were her day off—so I walked the fifteen minutes to school in a steady drizzle, cursing my hair for never being able to decide if it was straight or not.

  By the time I pushed through the doors to get inside, I wasn’t the only one who looked like a mess. The main hallway was steamy and damp. Wet feet made muddy tracks away from each door, and everyone’s raindrop-frosted hair glittered under the fluorescent lights.

  It was one of those mornings when I just couldn’t focus. In second period trig, Mr. Henderson stood in front of the board in the same gray slacks he always wore, waving his marker in the air. My classmates whispered, shuffling to lean into each other whenever he turned his back. But I was having trouble seeing anything except Matt’s face when he looked down at Karyn.

  That is, until there was a scuffle at the seats next to me and someone whispered a frantic, “No!”

  A folded piece of paper fluttered over my elbow, landing on the desktop in front of me.

  I looked around. Brooke was two desks over, Terese hovering—as always—in the seat behind her. Brooke stared intently at Mr. Henderson, nodding along with his lecture. Her glossy black hair fell in gentle waves just past her shoulders—no frizz for her. But her cheeks were tense and her lips kept twitching. Terese had ducked her blond head and was examining the textbook in front of her like she actually understood what it said.

  I slowly unfolded the paper, bracing myself for whatever it was and willing myself not to react.

  The paper was white with blue lines—torn from someone’s notebook. It had been folded in four, flattened, and refolded haphazardly a couple of times.

  Math Tutoring was scrawled across the top. I held my breath and looked at the rest.

  Someone had drawn two stick figures. Going by the short hair and lack of any distinguishable features, the first—seated in a chair—was male. The name Mr. Henderson was written above it.

  The second stick figure knelt between what would have been the knees of the first. This one had on a skirt and messy hair drawn in with red pen. Ashley Watson was emblazoned on the paper, with an arrow pointing at my stick-figure head, which was bent forward into “Mr. Henderson’s” lap.

  Excellent. Freaking wonderful.

  •••

  Word got around quick. A couple of condoms landed on my desk during third period, accompanied by giggles and notes like “Trig Homework.” I ignored them, then hung around at the end of class, letting everyone else leave first. No point inviting further humiliation. Once the hallways stopped echoing with voices, I walked in virtual isolation to the creative wing. When I finally made it into the art room, Mrs. Driley gave me a pointed look, but didn’t break stride. She was lecturing. Her favorite.

  Matt’s eyebrows slid up as I dropped into the seat next to him. Avoiding his gaze, I pulled out my notebook and pencils, leaned my head on one hand, and started to doodle. In half a minute, a hunched figure came to life on the paper—bent forward over a desk, with a wicked smile.

  Matt nudged my arm. I glanced up, and he was frowning a question at me.

  I just kept drawing. But somehow he knew.

  A minute later, Matt’s hand, holding a pencil, appeared next to mine. He moved it in short, confident swipes, our hands jumping and cutting across the paper in a duet that made my heart ache, because I knew what he was drawing. His hand curved up, above and behind my nameless tormentor. A long, low hill was quickly exaggerated, given ears, flattened against an angular skull, and wide, hateful eyes with dilated vertical pupils.

  Teeth and claws came next, jagged and bloodied.

  His demon cat pounced, caught in the split second before it drove the bully into the floor and devoured him.

  The first time Matt had drawn me the demon cat, I was nine. It was the day after my dad visited. I’d arrived at school that morning already wrung out. At recess, I’d stayed at my desk to draw. My picture was unpracticed and jagged, but it was obviously of a man.

  Matt appeared beside me. “Who’s that?”

  I stopped drawing, but didn’t look up.

  “My dad,” I said.

  “He looks mean,” Matt said.

  I just nodded.

  Without another word, Matt picked up my pencil and began to draw. At first I wanted to stop him. But then I saw that the long body and tail leaping through the air had paws. And claws.

  That very first demon cat devoured my father, and my bad mood along with it. Since then, it had pounced on teachers who gave me detention, my mother when she was irrational, Dex . . .

  Now I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t hide my smile.

  Suddenly, Mrs. D clapped her hands. “I want the drawings by next Tuesday. Come see me if you have questions or need help.”

  The assignment. Right. Probably should have been listening for that.

  All around us chairs screeched and voices rose, and Mrs. D appeared at the other side of my table.

  “Okay, you two.” She noticed the drawing and shook her head. “Perhaps you should try to use your powers for good next time, Matt,” she said in a resigned tone.

  He gave her his best innocent expression. “We were just—”

  Mrs. D held up her hand. “I want you two working on your portfolios. Find a way to fit one of your pieces into this assignment. We don’t have any time to waste. In fact, how would you feel about coming in on Saturdays for the rest of the semester, if I were to open up the room for you?”

  I closed my mouth and glanced at Matt, who was nodding.

  Last week, spending every Saturday with Matt would have sounded like heaven. Now it felt like walking to the gallows. But even as I recoiled from the thought, I knew if I could get into art school—any art school—I’d be free. It didn’t have to be the best school if it meant I could leave this hellhole.

  “Thanks,” I said. “That sounds great.”

  Matt agreed.

  “Excellent,” Mrs. D said. “I’ll discuss the detai
ls with you on Friday. Now, get to work.”

  Matt and I grabbed our sketchpads and headed to the easel room, a small nook with a steel sink for washing brushes, a dozen bar-height stools stacked in a corner, and easels leaning in neat lines against the wall. One wall was almost completely windows, drenching the space in natural light.

  Matt set up immediately, right at the front of the room, his easel tipped to pick up the sunlight. I’d always admired Matt’s fearlessness. When I was just starting a piece—and usually getting it wrong—I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else judging it. I always kept my easels facing the back of the room, preferably a corner, so no one could see what I was doing.

  When I finished pulling materials from my cubby, Matt fixed me with a stare. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, why?”

  “You’ve been really quiet,” he said.

  “Didn’t sleep well.” I flipped through my workbook. Mrs. D had left a project list with my name scrawled on the top. She’d crossed off the pieces I’d already completed.

  ASHLEY WATSON

  All works should demonstrate a common theme or subject. Use workbooks to plan. Keep all sketches and studies, even for works not included in the final portfolio. Date and sign every page.

  Extra credit for works outside these requirements will only be considered once all required elements are complete.

  Each portfolio must include:

  - Still life

  - Self-portrait

  - Reproduction of a classic artist

  - A multimedia work

  - Use of impressionism

  - Use of realism

  - Use of cubism

  - Diptych: one panel in style of artist’s choice, second to reproduce the first in abstract

  - Three other works in theme, demonstrating the artist’s range.

  Mrs. D wanted me to start the self-portrait. So far I’d tried twice and hated both efforts so much I’d painted over them. She was already pressing for my next attempt. But with the mood I was in, I’d end up painting roadkill and calling it My Life. I did have an idea for the diptych—a two-paneled work. But I had to make a final decision on which picture I would use.

  A hand flattened the page I’d been about to turn. “I like that one.”

  Matt leaned over me, holding the page down. I could feel the heat from his chest on the back of my neck. A blush flooded my face, so I pretended to examine the paper.

  It was a planning sketch for a self-portrait. In the foreground I’d drawn myself from behind, from the shoulders up, looking in a mirror. In the reflection, I had crossed arms. Older Me stood behind me with a half smile. Mom hunched deeper in the background, scowling.

  I cringed. Mom had caught me drawing it a couple of months earlier and freaked out. I got a huge lecture about how she thought I’d “finished that phase.” We fought over whether or not I was mental, then never talked about it again. Why had I left it in my workbook?

  “Um, it’s just something I’m playing with.”

  Matt stood up straight, his fingers brushing my shoulder. “It looks awesome—like you’re seeing yourself as you age, right? That last one makes you look like your mom.” He chuckled.

  I forced a laugh, nodded, and turned the page, praying he didn’t notice my shaking hand.

  He buried his hands in his pockets and swallowed audibly. “Are you mad about Karyn?”

  I looked up. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

  Yes. “No. I’m just trying to figure out what picture to do next.”

  One of his brows rose in trademark skepticism, but I pretended to be dense. “What?”

  He shook his head. “There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  Again? I was coming to dread those words out of his mouth. “What’s that?” I unzipped my pencil bag, my heart thumping.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said carefully.

  “Always dangerous,” I muttered.

  He grinned, but shook his head. “Ashley, I think you should spend more time with me and Karyn . . . and everyone else. Especially Finn. I feel like everyone’s holding on to ancient history. But if we all just hung out, I know it’d be okay again. What do you think?”

  My pencils clattered to the floor. I slid off the stool and knelt to pick them up, my knees shaking.

  “I think that’s about the stupidest thing you’ve ever said,” I said, placing the pencils back in the bag.

  “Hear me out.” Matt bent down to help. “If we give them a chance to talk to you when it’s not pressured—when you’re relaxed—they’ll find out they like you. You’re way more interesting than most of the girls we hang out with.”

  Except Karyn, apparently. Anger fizzed in my chest. I bit my lip to keep the comment inside. “It won’t work.”

  “Sure it will,” he said hopefully, as we both stood. “Finn’s having a party at his place on Friday. You should come.”

  Party at Finn’s place? Right. Sure.

  “So?” Matt said, leaning in close, one hand hooked around the top of my easel.

  “So, what?”

  “C’mon, Ash. I’m trying to help you.”

  “Well, don’t.” I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice.

  “Why not?” Confusion marred his features.

  I grabbed my workbook and tossed it onto my bag with a whump, unable to believe he was so dense. “You tell your friends to talk to me, and while you’re there they will. But as soon as your back is turned, they’ll be rolling their eyes—at me and you.”

  Matt stared at me. “I’m telling you, you’re wrong. And Karyn agrees with me.”

  I almost threw my pencils at him. “Well, clearly I misjudged the situation. I guess I should think about it, then,” I said scathingly.

  “That’s all I ask.” Matt brightened, the sarcasm apparently lost on him. “You’re always complaining that your life is boring, so come hang out. They’ll get to know you, and you can . . . I don’t know, make more friends, or something? We’ll get to spend more time together . . .”

  His obliviousness was astounding.

  “Ash, please. I think . . . Things with Karyn are really cool. It would be awesome if we could all hang out. And the other guys are with us all the time. So, give it a shot. For me?”

  His face was so close that I could have kissed his soft, broad lips and run my hands through his hair. Instead, I saw Karyn doing those things and Matt, eyes closed and smiling with the pleasure of it.

  I turned back to my canvas, and for the first time in my life, I told Matt what he didn’t want to hear.

  “No.”

  Chapter Seven

  Doc watches me like a cat watches a sparrow. “Why wouldn’t you accept Matt’s help?” he asks carefully.

  “Weren’t you listening? It would have made my problems worse. And I didn’t want to be a charity case. I didn’t want to turn Matt into a target, which is what would have happened.”

  “How so?”

  I cross my legs and wonder how to explain it. “Clearly you were never bullied.”

  “Let’s assume not.”

  Right. “Well, it’s hell, okay? And it isn’t just hell on you, it’s hell on anyone who’s brave enough to admit they don’t hate you. I lost almost every single friend I had in the space of a week when I was thirteen—not because what I’d done was so awful. But because the people everyone wanted to be friends with decided it was awful, and they’d crucify anyone who didn’t agree. So, sure, Brooke and Terese back off because they’re pissed. But all the other girls? First, they’re turning down hallways to avoid me, then they’re joining the whispers in class, because if they didn’t, Brooke and Terese, and Finn and Eli would be chewing pieces out of them almost as badly as they had out of me.”

  When I stop talking, I realize I am breathing too quickly. I pause to regain control.

  Doc waits, his hand resting on his notebook. “But Matt continued to be your friend? Why didn’t they turn on him earlier?”
r />   “It’s one thing for Matt to have hung out with me on his own,” I explain. “Bringing me into the group was an entirely situation.”

  “How so?” Doc asks.

  “Just trust me,” I say quietly. “In the end, I learned that it was better to protect the people around me from whatever firestorm I was in. High schoolers don’t really appreciate being dragged into social leprosy just because they let you borrow a pencil. And when push comes to shove, most kids will turn on you to save themselves.”

  He chews on this for a moment. “So, you wouldn’t accept Matt’s help in case his friends turned on him. Instead, you did what?”

  “Instead, I planned to stay under the radar. Avoid those people as much as possible.”

  “And did that work?” he prompts.

  I drop my head back and stare at the ceiling tiles. “No.”

  I can hear him shuffling papers, but I don’t look down.

  “Why not?”

  I rub my face. Remembering makes my skin feel too tight. “It all comes back to that damn letter,” I murmur.

  •••

  I thought Matt would forget the conversation about me making nice with his friends, but I was wrong. All week, he pestered me to come with him and Karyn to the rec room. By Friday, I was about ready to scream. So at morning break, instead of heading to my locker and the inevitable argument with him, I turned the corner in the hall and pushed out the door to the courtyard.

  The library was a huge, old building, completely separate from the main school building. Hardly anyone went there, and that Friday, it was empty. It was a beautiful day after almost a week of rain—even the nerds were outside.

  Upstairs there were fewer windows and a lot more shelves. I hid in my favorite section, the one with all the historical commentaries, where the books were leather bound, the old kind with gilded spines and vintage lithographs. I’d just unzipped my bag to get out my sketchbook when I heard a giggle.

  Footsteps sounded lightly on the carpet, coming from the direction of the stairs.