Every Ugly Word Read online

  “Huh. So, he seems okay,” Matt murmured. His voice was soft, but there was an edge to his expression that I knew well.

  I frowned. “What are you annoyed about?”

  A squirrel skittered up a nearby tree. Someone a few streets over honked their horn. Matt ate a couple of chips before answering. “I’m not annoyed. I just don’t want to see you get hurt again. The guy’s a jackass.”

  “I wouldn’t argue with that.” I took a bite of my hot dog and stared at the table.

  “So, what are you doing talking to him?” Matt asked.

  I gave him a look. “What, I should just kick him out of my house when he comes to apologize?”

  “Sounds like a plan to me.”

  I scowled. “Why are you being so harsh?”

  “Why are you defending him?” Matt swallowed the last of his hot dog and brushed his hands together.

  “I’m not defending him! I just . . .” I took a deep breath. “I didn’t think I should just cut him off. He’s been in rehab.”

  Matt’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

  “That’s what he said. And he looks really different.” I remembered the open-faced apologies and Dex’s wincing admission to acting like a jerk. “He was acting different too.”

  “Just be careful,” Matt said quietly. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Oh, thanks. I’ll get right on that.”

  He gave me a pointed look. “You know what I mean. Sometimes people aren’t as good as they look. Just because you want to believe they care doesn’t mean they actually do.”

  Images of Finn and Karyn flashed through my head. I could feel the weight and shape of the words in my mouth.

  She’s cheating on you.

  He’s betraying you.

  But what I actually said was, “Thanks. I’ll be fine.”

  Matt shook his head, staring off into the distance.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. Girls are just . . . weird,” Matt grumbled. “You’re ready to forgive Dex at the drop of the hat, but you’re pissy with me because I don’t want you to get hurt. Karyn’s annoyed because I took you home last night, even though she told me to. And Mom’s mad because I’m not talking to Dad. But you all smile and tell me everything’s fine. What is it with you? Why are you mad all the time and pretending you aren’t?”

  I swallowed. “I don’t know about your mom, but Karyn’s probably acting weird because she’s afraid I’m going to try to break you guys up.” I bit my lip to stop myself from saying more on that. “And I’m glad you’re looking out for me. I’m not mad.”

  “Wait, Karyn thinks you’ll break us up?” He looked half worried, half amused. “Did I just walk into a reality show or something?”

  I threw a chip at him and he ducked, chuckling.

  “Mock me all you want. Girls get jealous. They don’t really believe we can hang out without . . . you know . . .”

  Matt frowned. “But—”

  “C’mon, you know I’m right. Remember Olivia?”

  “Bad example. Olivia was insecure about everything,” he said, stacking his now-empty boxes together. “But I know what you mean. Sometimes I think they’re right.”

  “Who’s right about what?”

  “About how guys and girls can’t ever really be just friends. I mean, how many times do I make friends with girls just to see if I want to date them?”

  His words placed a strange mix of hope and panic in my chest. “Then I guess you can’t blame Karyn for getting upset,” I said uncertainly.

  Matt blinked, then turned to look at me. “Except for you,” he said, hastily. “I mean, I wasn’t just . . . we got that sorted out years ago—”

  “I know,” I said, kicking myself, remembering that day in eighth grade when Matt had asked me to a dance at his middle school. I’d said no. Because I had a crush on Finn. Oh, the irony.

  “That wasn’t what I meant, though,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Your girlfriends think that way about me because they know guys think that way about them.”

  Matt thought about that for a minute. Then he shrugged. “Maybe.”

  He stood, extricated himself from the picnic table, and offered me a hand. I took it gratefully, feeling a pang when he dropped it as soon as I had both feet on the grass.

  As we walked toward the sidewalk and back to the art room, inwardly I recoiled from the uncomfortable truth:

  I had become such a friend to Matt that he didn’t even see me as a girl anymore.

  •••

  That night, Older Me paced on the other side of the mirror, arms folded, mouth turned down. To me it looked like she was pacing the floor of my room.

  “Rehab, huh?” she murmured, surprised.

  I sat on my bed, picking at a loose thread in the quilt. “I almost fell over when he showed up at the door.”

  She stopped pacing and turned, biting her lip, but she was nodding. “And Dex acted . . . possessive?”

  I snorted. “When Matt showed up, Dex practically pissed on my leg.”

  She grinned, but her heart didn’t really seem in it. “Well, I guess . . . I mean, you need to be careful, because he was a complete—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ve already had the lecture from Matt. Don’t you start in too.”

  Older Me shook her head. “I’m not. I’m just saying, be on guard. But maybe . . . maybe this is a good thing, you know? Maybe it’s a good way to move on from Matt since . . . well, you know.” I glanced at her, and her hands came up. “Don’t get me wrong—it’s nice that Matt’s looking out for you.”

  “It’d be nicer if he’d notice the truth about his own friends,” I muttered.

  Older Me sagged. “Yeah . . . that . . .”

  “Will he figure it out?” I asked, my voice so low it was almost a whisper. “Or should I . . . ?”

  She ran a hand through her greasy hair. “I don’t know, Ashley. I really don’t.”

  I slumped back on my pillows, groaning. “Why does everything have to be so complicated?”

  Older Me had stopped pacing, but she stood in profile to me, staring into the middle distance. “You should be grateful,” she said absently. “It could be a lot worse.”

  “Worse how?” I muttered, not expecting her to actually answer.

  But she did.

  “You can’t control how other people hurt you, Ashley. But you can control how you hurt yourself.” She turned then, her blue eyes fixing on me. Piercing. “You’re doing a lot better on that score than I ever did.”

  I blinked. “What do you mean?”

  The smile she offered was watery and clenched my stomach. She opened her mouth and every muscle in my body went rigid. Was she going to tell me about my future? Her past?

  “Look, I know this is going to sound abstract, but I’ve always had this big gap inside, and I know you do, too. A place that nothing seems to touch and nothing can fill. And I used to think if I was popular, or if Matt loved me . . . that would do it. I would feel whole. But no matter how I tried, no one ever loved me enough to fill the hole up. Not even him. In fact, the harder I tried, the less he had to offer . . .” She trailed off miserably. “I’m just telling you that there has to be more to your life than Matt.”

  I was struck dumb. For a moment her words echoed, vibrating in my skin . . . I used to think if I was popular, or if Matt loved me . . . that would do it. I thought it would close me up so I could feel whole . . .

  I knew exactly what she meant. And that scared me. The sadness on her face scared me. And made me feel bad for her. I swallowed. Hard.

  “I have to go,” she murmured, with a glance over her shoulder. “But just remember, you’re better than the rest of them, Ashley. Trust your instincts. Don’t fight fire with fire.” She turned away.

  “Wait!”

  “I’ll see you later.”

  “Older Me, please.”

  She stopped midstep, her shoulders rigid. “What?” she whispered. “I’m serious, Ashley
, I have to go.”

  “What did you mean, ‘Don’t fight fire with fire’?”

  Her head tipped to the side and she sighed. “I mean . . . You’ll never beat them at their own game.” She swallowed. “Trust me on that.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Doc laces his fingers together. “So, your older self encouraged you to give Dex a chance?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. It’s more that she didn’t discourage me.”

  “Did she ever admit to having a relationship with Dex in her . . . lifetime?”

  I have to think for a moment. “You know, Doc, I really don’t know. I don’t think she ever talked about it. I’m not sure I ever asked her.”

  I’m surprised by the discomfort I feel when this occurs to me.

  Doc must see something on my face, because he leans forward. “That bothers you,” he says.

  I nod. “I guess I spent so much time trying to figure out what was wrong with me, I forgot to be there for her.”

  Doc nods. “That would make sense.”

  I shake my head. “It’s very self-involved.”

  He leans his temple on one hand and smiles at me, which he hasn’t really done since we’ve been here. “I think you’ve just had what we like to call a ‘moment,’ Ashley,” he says. “So, let’s pursue this. If you were, indeed, a little fixated on yourself during those years, how did you cope with that? Obviously, you had a lot of disdain for yourself during this time. So what did all that self-analysis lead to?”

  I shrug. “Honestly, I think it was mainly about wishing I could escape the people around me.”

  “And how did you express that?” he asks, pen poised over his notebook.

  “Through my art.”

  Doc nods, and I know what he’s thinking: That all things considered, maybe I should have found another outlet.

  •••

  Monday at school, walking the halls was like flipping channels on TV—if all the channels were playing gossip talk shows. And all the talk shows featured Dex.

  “. . . heard his father threatened to sue the school if they didn’t let him back in . . .”

  “. . . He’s in my chemistry class. I sat right behind him. He looks even better with the jacket off . . .”

  “. . . wonder if it was one of those places where they make you go to church and stuff. He has that spiritual quality . . .”

  “. . . Dad said his parents make him see a psychiatrist for his repressed rage . . .”

  “. . . Coach says he’s got a great arm. He’s letting him train with the squad . . .”

  And when I wasn’t hearing about Dex, I was thinking about him—and what Older Me had said. Was he a way to move on from Matt? Had he really changed?

  I zoned out all through social sciences while the teacher talked about ape family circles. She’d closed the curtains and pulled down the screen over the whiteboard, using the projector to show us images of apes in various family groups, eating leaves, playing, hunting.

  Yawn.

  At least, until the darkness flashed and a picture of an orangutan—belly protruding and lips distended toward a handful of leaves—came onto the screen.

  “Isn’t that your freshman photo, Ashley?” Finn yelled. Everyone laughed. I tried to make myself invisible, and hunched over my desk until the hour was over.

  I spent fourth period ignoring Matt’s pointed looks while Mrs. D yammered about the impressionistic masters. Then I made excuses to him about lunch and decided to stay in the art room to work.

  After everyone—including Matt—left, I pulled my workbook and folders out of my cubby and sat down. My workbook opened right to the sketches I’d done in bed that night after the dance.

  Karyn was there. So were Finn and Matt. Even though they were hurried, there was something in them that felt real.

  People were my “thing.” Mrs. Driley encouraged me to use the human form in my portfolio as much as possible, because I was good at it. But I felt most vulnerable when I drew people I knew. Sure, I could get the curve of Matt’s dark lashes right, the shape of his cheekbone . . . but how could I communicate the warmth of his skin? I flipped back to the image of Finn and considered turning the idea into a painting—using a spatula for hard lines to depict the sharpness of his features, heavy thick paint for his rhinoceros skin, fat brush strokes for his brows, like caterpillars on his face, his long mouth a venomous red slash.

  For Karyn I’d use glossy pastels—waxy crayons that shone on the paper. I could layer red, white, beige, and cream to make her cheeks blush. Then, when everything was done, use a tool to scrape her eyes out of the heavy wax, holes in a poisonous blanket.

  As her face came to life in my mind, I pulled out the crayons. My hand moved quickly, inspired. A snapshot of possibilities sprang up on the paper in minutes—a shiny, plastic face that hid the darkness beneath. I’d run a candle flame along the edge of her paper so it’d burn unevenly.

  I turned to a new page and Mom emerged in pencil, smudged across the paper, most of her face turned away. Dad could be the opposing panel, his face an empty shell, just a few simple strokes without features. I tried Mrs. Driley next, but her graying waves ended up looking drab instead of unruly, and I couldn’t quite make her eyes twinkle. She’d need paint—her lined cheeks highlighted with blues and greens. Every color of the rainbow in her face—outshining even the gypsy-clothes she wore. She’d be the only one with color in the background. I gave Dex a stab, but couldn’t quite figure out what to do with him. The figure that emerged could have been any good-looking teenage guy. A cartoon.

  Starting on Matt felt natural, but as soon as I’d outlined his face, I dropped my pencil. I couldn’t do it. Drawing him this way would be like cracking my ribs open and revealing my heart. It was too much to take all of him in at once. With a shaking hand, I looked back through the workbook to the sketches I’d done of him. They were rough, piecemeal snapshots, but I had almost all his features from the shoulders up. Only his mouth was left unfinished.

  Intrigued, I pulled the paper from the book and ripped around the edges of each sketch until I had seven scraps, each with a disproportionate body part on it. Taken together, they looked like Picasso’s shot at realism—one eye open and from the front, the other downcast in profile. His nose was too big and his jaw took up the space where his shoulders should have been. Yet Matt—all mutilated and betwixt—stared at me from the paper.

  “Gracious, Ashley. This is genius! When did you do these?”

  I started. Mrs. Driley stood to my right, staring openmouthed at my sketches.

  “I . . . uh . . . I was just fooling around . . .” I trailed off.

  She nodded. “That’s when I do my best work, too. But even in these fast strokes you’ve captured . . .” She blinked, turning to look at me, understanding dawning on her face. “Has anyone else seen these?” she asked, hushed.

  I shook my head. “Of course not.”

  She turned back to the table, looking from picture to picture, smiling with delight when she landed on the one of her. She gathered the pictures together like a stack of cards, pulling each from the top to the bottom and examining them individually, making small approving noises in her throat.

  “Ashley, these are breathtaking. You should use these for your portfolio.”

  Even though it felt kind of like she was reading my diary without asking, a blush spread through me in the face of her approval. “But it’s due in just a few weeks,” I reminded her.

  She tapped the table. “Yes. But if you’ve done these in just a few minutes . . . Ashley, if you work hard and get a dozen of these complete, fitting them into the assignments, I really think you’ve got a shot at a scholarship.”

  I frowned. It had taken a year to get this far with my portfolio. Then again, each piece had been like pulling fingernails because they weren’t real. But these? These were real. To make portraits depicting not what each person looked like, but who they were to me. To tell the judges about my predators—and my s
aviors. They wouldn’t know who these people were. They would judge only the artistic impression.

  Mrs. D stopped leafing through the drawings and looked at me. “Are you brave enough? Because these are very . . . revealing. If any of your classmates see them, they’ll understand what you’re saying.”

  I sighed. “I know. It’s risky.”

  Mrs. D nodded. “You could keep some of them at home.”

  I glanced at the picture of Mom in her hands. “I can’t do all of them at home.”

  Mrs. D thought for a moment. “How about this—I’ll let you use the art room on Sundays, too, for the next month, if you go ahead with this concept. You’ll have to use every spare minute because you’ll have to completely rebuild your workbook. But you’ve already got that nude, which would work alongside these. And it looks like those pieces of Matt might make up another.”

  “Thank you,” I said, calculating. I could do all the planning in my breaks and lunches, then use the weekends to draw and paint. I was a lot faster with a pen than a brush. I could use acrylics, colored pencil, graphite pencil. It would be harder to impress with them, but if I could deliver something special, the simple tools would only make the work stand out.

  Mrs. D clapped her hands. “Good. Then go into the easel room and get started right now. I’ll get you excused from your afternoon classes, just this once—let inspiration take you while you have it. By the end of the day, I want to see at least half a dozen developed sketches, canvas sizes, and material lists for each.”

  My heart thumped. “Sure, but I thought most of them would be pencil, charcoal, crayon. You know? That way I can cut and scrape—”

  Mrs. D looked back at the sketches. “You’ll have to paint at least two of them—and there’s got to be a multimedia.” She frowned. “Oh, dear, maybe this is too much—”

  “No! No, I can do it. I’ll get the others done first and finish with the paintings when I know how much time I have.”

  “You’ll have to make the self-portrait exceptional. In the face of these illuminating pieces, your self-portrait would have to be the central work.”