Breakable Page 6

  “Hi, Mrs. Callaghan,” I called, crossing the linoleum floor.

  “Hi, Stacy. Glad you made it!” Her nasally voice rose from the storage room.

  To my right were two gaps in the wall – doorways to Mrs. C’s world of chaos. There was the storage area, full to bursting with everything from paint and paper, to toppled Styrofoam cups and dyed feathers. The other was Mrs. Callaghan’s office, stacked with canvases, old computers, and art assignments she hadn’t graded.

  Between the doors a large whiteboard hung on the wall, covered in dates to remind classes of assignments due, or deadlines for competitions.

  To my left, the open classroom was dominated by a large U-shape of tables, arranged that way so Mrs. Callaghan could walk around the front of our tables and examine whatever we were working on without getting in our way.

  Mark was seated at the opposite side of the U-shape from where I’d entered. In the wall behind him was a door to the creative wing.

  Then, at my far left, yet another door led into the adjoining easel room.

  I circled the U, clenching my fingers around the straps of my bag as I passed behind Mark.

  I dropped my bag on the seat of the table next to him, then headed for the wall near the easel room where all the juniors and seniors had large cubby-holes for our oversized canvases, pads and workbooks.

  Mrs. C. bumbled out of the storage room, pushing wisps of greying hair from her face, leaving a smear of dust across her forehead. Her skirt was a riot of patterns in bold, eye-watering colors. “You two are to stay in here as long as that door is unlocked. And if you leave, you lock it. I won’t be coming back to close it up. Okay?”

  We both nodded, murmuring our assent.

  “Right then, good luck, kids. See you Monday.” She pinned a long envelope under one arm, then left through the external door, waving over her shoulder as she passed out of sight, her voluminous skirt floating around her legs.

  I hadn’t realized I was staring at the door until Mark cleared his throat. I blinked and turned to look.

  His eyes clamped on mine. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, why?” I started towards my cubbyhole under the big window so I didn’t have look at him.

  “Your eyes look funny,” he said quietly.

  “Allergies. Did your dad come home last night?”

  Mark scowled. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  “Well, I care. Especially if it means he’s–”

  “Just leave it alone, Stace. Okay? I told you, he won’t do it again.” His jaw went hard and he turned back to his sketching. Which meant the subject was closed. Unless I felt like getting my head bitten off. Which I didn’t.

  I felt a little bit awful for using his problems to distract him from mine. But at the same time, I was genuinely worried about what was going to happen to him when his father found out where he spent his Saturdays.

  Sighing, I found my workbook and notes and took a seat a couple tables away from Mark where Mrs. Callaghan had left a project list with my name scrawled on the top. She’d crossed off the pieces I’d already completed.

  STACY 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 Multi-medium 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.

  I still had seven pieces to get done. Mark was ahead of me by one. Mrs. Callaghan was ready to have kittens, we were so far behind.

  Picking up the long, flat ring-binder I used as my workbook, I inserted the pages I’d done the night before, quickly flipping other pages over the top, then continuing through as if that had been my plan all along.

  Mrs. C. wanted me to work on the self-portrait. I’d already tried twice and hated them so much I painted over them. Yesterday she’d pressed for me to get started on the next attempt. But with the mood I was in, I’d end up painting road-kill 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 for–

  A hand flattened the page I’d been about to turn. “I like that one. Why haven’t you done that?”

  Mark leaned over me, holding the page down. His chest brushed my ear. Heat flooded my face, so I kept my eyes on the paper.

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

  I cringed. Why had I left it in here? Mom 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.

  I was horrified Mark had seen it. How would I explain that? “Um, it’s just something I’m playing with. I haven’t decided whether to do it, but they said I had to keep all my sketches, so…”

  Mark stood straight, his fingers brushing my shoulder as he took his hand away. “I think you should. It looks awesome – like you’re seeing both sides of your Mom. She looks a little young in the second one though, you’ll need to give her some wrinkles,” he chuckled.

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

  After a silent half-hour flipping through my sketches, eliminating and comparing, I gave up. None of them would work.

  I slumped. I had less than two months to finish everything. It usually took me that long to finish just a couple paintings! For a moment all I could see was the time ticking away, and my complete inability to get anything worthwhile done. The deadline felt like a weight around my neck, adding to the already overwhelming sense that nothing could go right.

  I decided to throw some new sketches together, see if inspiration would hit. Ignore the sound of Mark breathing and the way it made my heart throb. This was time to focus on the future. The future that, for once, I had to admit probably didn’t include him.

  It wasn’t until I had my head buried in my cubbyhole, trying to find my big sketchpad that Mark spoke again.

  “Are you mad about Karyn?”

  Fingers tight on the paper I’d gone searching for, I pulled out of the cubby and turned around, forcing myself to look at him. He smiled, but his lips pressed together too hard, and his eyes didn’t leave mine.

  I frowned, pretending confusion. “No. I’m just trying to figure out what picture to do next.”

  His expression said I lied. “Well, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  Again? “What’s that?” Taking the few steps back to my table, I pulled my pencil case from my bag and opened it. My heart thumped.

  “Last night made me think.”

  I froze.

  “I think if you got to know some of the other guys – if they got to know you – they’d see you’re okay. They’ll stop… you know. I think you should spend more time with me and Karyn and the whole crowd. Especially Finn. I think they need a chance to get to know you.”

  My pencils clattered to the tabletop. I pulled out the chair and dropped into it before my legs could give.

  “I think that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said,” I said, picking the pencils up and placing them in the jar.

  “Hear me out.” Mark leaned across his table, eyes fixed on me. “
If we give them a chance to talk to you, 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.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because they hate me.”

  “No, they don’t.”

  Right. Sure. I stifled a snort.

  I sifted through the pencils in the jar, pretending to try to choose one, letting them clink against the side.

  “So?” Mark said, still leaning towards me.

  “So, what?”

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

  “Well don’t.” I couldn’t keep the anger out of my voice. “I told you, it’s a stupid idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it won’t work.” I threw my sketchpad down, unable to believe he was so dense. “You tell your friends to talk to me, and while you’re there they will. They’ll sit there and make nice conversation, then as soon as your back is turned they’ll be rolling their eyes. They’ll tell everyone else what a moron I am, and they’ll all make fun of you for thinking otherwise. I’ll hear about how I’m your charity case, and someone will slip How To Win Friends and Influence People into my locker. You won’t change anything, you’ll just give them more ammunition.”

  And maybe a reason to start hating him, too.

  Mark stared at me, mouth open. “It’s that bad? What did you do?”

  I shook my head and looked away.

  “I didn’t mean it like that, Stace. I meant, what is it they’re holding against you? I’ve tried asking them, but they all just…” he trailed off and I was glad I didn’t have to listen exactly how pathetic his friends thought I was.

  “Leave it alone,” I said, hands clenched on the table. “Or you’ll just make it worse.”

  Mark sank back into his chair, scowling at the tabletop.

  Blinking back tears, I picked up a random pencil – 4H, the hardest lead I owned. Hard enough to rip the paper if I wasn't careful. Perfect.

  I started working, barely seeing the page in front of me, but desperate to get away from the conversation.

  “Karyn agrees with me,” he said.

  I almost threw the pencil at him.

  “She said she couldn’t understand why everyone gave you such a hard time when she arrived.”

  “Well, I guess I should think about it then,” I muttered. Apparently the sarcasm was lost on him.

  “That’s all I ask,” Mark said and went back to his sketch.

  Chapter Nine

  Doctor's eyes are narrowed, crinkled in the corners. "Why wouldn't you accept Mark's help?" he asks carefully.

  "Weren’t you listening? It would have made my problems worse."

  He chews on this for a moment. Then, “Stacy, look at me, please.”

  I turn, braced for combat, but meet his eyes.

  He holds my gaze. “I won’t be manipulated. I want to help you. But if I’m not convinced that you’re ready to go, if I feel like you’re holding back I will keep you here.”

  “Holding back?!” My voice slips up an octave. “Doc, I told you I talk to myself in a mirror. How is that holding back?”

  His lips purse. “Stacy, you’re relaying this story as if it happened to someone else. Some of the events you describe would legitimately traumatize an adult. Some of them skirt the borders of legality. I can’t shake the feeling that your attachment to your alternate self is actually a coping mechanism for what has happened to you at the hands of your peers – and worse, the adults who should have been a positive influences in your life.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Doc. No one sent me home with broken bones. It sucked, the way I was treated. But I’m only telling you about it because it’s what started the mess that got me into that…that…”

  Doc quirks an eyebrow. “I appreciate that this is difficult for you, Stacy. But when I say “open up”, I mean, let me know the shape and manner of your wounds.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud, Doc. I can show you the scars!”

  He shakes his head and I feel like I’m five. “I meant the ones no one else can see, Stacy.” He doesn’t look away and neither do I, but he’s scaring me and I think he knows it.

  The mirror is screaming at me. I could think better away from it. On my feet.

  I swallow. “Can I walk?”

  He gives a short nod. “Certainly. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

  I push to my feet, past the big coffee table, past the doily-laden lamps, to the other side of the room, past the broad, heavy desk, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the ugly wallpaper.

  I stop in front of the fake fireplace in the corner. There's a huge picture of one of those old-fashioned sailing ships with a dozen square sails hung over it and I've been wondering whether it's real.

  A lot of people don’t understand the difference between a real painting, and a print. They figure, you get a picture to look at so what’s the big deal? Right? They don’t understand. Artists don’t just work with color and shape. They work with texture. With material. With light. You can’t get that from a print of a painting any more than you understand the taste of rain from a photograph.

  Anyone can fake on two-dimensions.

  Either Doc has taste, or he got lucky. The painting over his fake fireplace is real.

  It’s an oil painting. Realism. A near photographic reproduction. She’s lurching out of the white-topped, green-grey waves, the clouds behind her deep and ominous.

  It's not my style, but beautifully done. I can feel the wind chasing her. Feel her deck pressing on the feet of the sailors as it crests the wave. Like the way you feel when an elevator takes off too fast–

  "Stacy?"

  I jump. "Yes? Sorry, what were we...?"

  “The reason you wouldn’t accept Mark’s help.”

  Oh. That.

  Sigh.

  "I told you what happened with the girls in eighth grade. And Belinda and Finn.” I paused, stretch my neck, feel the pull of my scars in the pit of my stomach. But Doc doesn’t say anything, so I continue. "I got sick of feeling lonely. And I wanted to impress the girls. I thought maybe they’d take me back into their circle if I did.

  "One Monday when I knew Finn and Mark had gotten together over the weekend, I told some girls I had snuck over to Finn's house. I said I slept with Finn – who was dating Belinda, by this time. I proved it by telling them about a little birthmark Finn has in a place you can only see when he's naked. He told me and Mark about it one time when we were playing Truth or Dare.

  “Anyway, Belinda heard my story and asked one of the guys if the birthmark was real – which it is. Next thing you know the entire school is talking about it. Belinda broke up with Finn. Told the other girls he was a cheater. Blamed me. To get me back, Finn told everyone we didn’t sleep together because when I showed up I was all mental and sex-crazed. That I was lying to cover myself. Between them they turned everyone else against me.

  "Once I realized everyone didn’t think I was cool for sleeping with him, I tried to apologize and admit it was a lie. But my proof was too good. No one wanted to believe the truth."

  Pause. "Why did you start a rumor that cast yourself in a negative light?"

  "Because I was thirteen and stupid. Back then everyone was kind of in awe of the girls who slept with guys. I thought they'd think I was grown-up and cool, then the whole thing would blow over. But they never let it go. Never. I’m pretty sure they all know I made it up. But it’s more fun for them to pretend it’s true. Ever since that day I became the slutty freak."

  "What did Mark think of all this?"

  I squirm. "Mark didn't know the real story for a long time. After I apologized, Finn was civil when it was just me and him and Mark. But once Mark came to high school, he saw how Finn and I didn't get along."

  "What did he do?"

  "I guess he asked Finn what happened and Finn told
him to talk to me. I told Mark it was just a fight and to forget about it. So he did."

  He frowns harder. "How did that make you feel?"

  Oh, please. I turn to face Doc so he can see I’m serious. "I felt relieved that Mark was still my friend since I’d lost everyone else."

  "So the three of you worked out a truce, then?"

  Snort. "I wouldn't go that far."

  Monday morning. I hated Monday mornings. Especially on days when it rained. Walking the halls meant squeezing through other students – a scenario ripe with hazards.

  Our school was so old, the lockers still used the old-fashioned bolt locks. They were combination locks now, but it took time to get the stupid things open.

  I arrived at mine, keeping my head down to avoid notice. I pressed the numbers on my lock and yanked it open just as the bell rang. I’d just grabbed my folder for English when someone bumped me from behind.

  “Back off!” I muttered, kept my eyes on my locker. Predators view eye-contact as a challenge.

  “Settle down, C.”

  Finn. His oily voice made my skin crawl.

  I knew he wouldn’t leave, so turned to scowl at him, gripping the door to my locker in case the chance arose to slam his fingers in it. “I have class. What do you want?”

  “You heard about Mark and Karyn?”

  I nodded once, waited to see if there was more.

  Finn’s eyes glittered. “Just making sure.”

  “Grow up, Finn.”

  “What, like you?” He leaned into my face. “Congratulations on that, by the way.”

  “On what?”

  “On growing up.” His hand darted past me, into my locker and came out gripping a box of tampons I kept for emergencies. I slammed the door too late. He’d already thrown the box over his shoulder, smiling. All the little packets spilled out and down in a pattering arc of shame. “Give Stacy a hand everyone, she’s finally a woman now!” He backed away and pretended to slip on one of them. “Whoops! She already used that one!”

  The roar of laughter pressed on me, buffeted me like the day in gym everyone threw the balls at me at the same time. Ignoring the mess, I turned my back on him and stalked down the hall.