Breakable (2 page)

Chapter Two

A
billow of steam rose from the chunk of my hair flattened in my straighteners.
The vapor licked the surface of the mirror, obscuring my reflection and turning
the bedroom behind me into a smudge. Wretched things. I should have dried my
hair more. But I was already running late. I’d gotten distracted by another
argument with Older Me.

Somewhere
to my left, my phone buzzed. I fumbled on the carpet with my free hand to find
it, then dragged a finger across the surface. The name “MARK” appeared at the
top of the screen, scrolling to “come 2 my room wen u get here”

I
texted back “leavin in 5”

Cursing
my frizzy strands of copper hair that insisted
on defying me at every
turn, I redoubled efforts to turn my mop into some kind of sleek…something.

I
swiped my sleeve down the mirror, smearing the vapor aside.

In
the mirror’s reflection, Older Me stood over my shoulder, appearing close
enough to touch if she’d actually been in the room, her face twisted into that
look of concerned pity I
hated
.

She’d
been giving me that look in the mirror since I was twelve. The first time she
appeared I thought I was crazy. It wasn’t until she told me stuff no one else
could know that I realized she was real. Too bad I’d already told Mom at that
point. She was horrified – and embarrassed. She made me promise never to tell
anyone else. A course of action that Older Me supported.

“Was
that text from Mark?” Her voice, still sullen, was an oddly deeper version of
mine.

 “Yes,”
I sighed. “He’s expecting me soon and my hair is just… ugh.”

The
too-long beat of silence that followed my complaint meant we weren’t finished
discussing
things.

“I
just–” she began.

I
groaned. “Can we just agree to disagree? I have to get out of here.”

But
she kept talking. “I don’t understand why you insist on going to this dance
when you know they’re going to give you a hard time.”

“Would
you let it go already?” After all, it wasn’t like she was going to help.

Once
I’d gotten used to seeing her, it wasn’t long before I figured out Older Me
would know how things happened for me in the future. I’d been giddy, rushing to
the mirror, calling for her until she appeared, demanding that she tell me. She
refused.

I
got mad. She didn’t care. I screamed. She shrugged. I cried, she apologized,
but still refused to budge.

And
so began a conversation we’d repeat ad nauseam for…well, for almost six years
so far. Oh, she was great at telling me why people acted the way they did
after
the fact
. But what’s the point of having a window into your future, if half
the time your future self refuses to clear the fog so you can see through it?

So
I’d stumbled through the last few years, screwing everything up. Now all I had
left was Mark. My best friend and, I hoped, soon-to-be-boyfriend.

Mark
was my
future. I’d written the letter in my pocket to make sure he knew
that.

“Stacy…”

“I’m
not talking about this anymore.”

Older
Me glared. “You always say you want me to help.”

“I
wanted you to help me break up Mark and Belinda in ninth grade. I wanted you to
tell me what to study on my Chemistry final. I
wanted
you to help me not
make a complete ass of myself at that party last spring.”

“But
that’s just it, Stacy,” she said through gritted teeth. “You don’t want help
when it means missing out on something. Like this dance. Where you
know
they’re
going to make your life hell.”

“Do
you really think I need you reminding me that everyone hates me?”

She
sighed. “Hate is a strong word.”

“Exactly
my point.”

She
met my glare with a worried frown. My stomach clenched, just for a second. But
I wasn’t backing down this time. Not now, when I finally felt like maybe things
might happen between me and Mark. I hadn’t told her about the letter. No matter
what the future held, I knew she’d think that was a bad idea.

Her
mouth opened at the same instant my phone buzzed. I used one hand to pull the
straighteners over another strand of hair, and swiped my thumb across the
screen with the other. “He’s probably wondering why I’m not there yet – and my
hair still looks like a birds-nest,” I muttered.

“Your
hair looks fine,” she sighed. But I wasn’t listening anymore.

I’d
been expecting another text from Mark.

I
didn’t check the sender before I opened the text.

The
words screamed at me from the glowing screen:

HEY
FATTY R U COMIN 2NITE?

DONT
4GET UR BRIDLE

FINN
WANTS 2 GO 4 A RIDE

My
ears burned. I could just see them, all gathered around Belinda’s phone,
cackling. I’d learned a long time ago it wasn’t worth opening anything that
came from her, or Karyn, or Terese.

Why
hadn’t I checked the stupid phone?

With
shaking fingers, I deleted it. My stomach hardened into a knot, the bitter
taste of bile rising in my throat. I drew the straighteners through the last
strands of my hair without really paying attention.

Oh,
gawd. Was Older Me right? Should I stay home? If they’d started taunting me
before we even got there, they were going to make it hurt.

But…
Mark
.

Mark
had grabbed my elbow as I ran from art that morning. Told me we needed to talk.
He’d run his hand through his sandy hair. His blue eyes wouldn’t quite meet
mine. He’d been nervous. Twitchy.

Mark
was
never
nervous with me. And I’d only ever seen him twitch when he was
talking to whatever girl he had the squeeze for.

When
he left, I’d almost danced on the spot. So, I had to go tonight because I
thought – I hoped – Mark was finally going to ask me out. But if the vultures
were already circling…

I
stared at the phone in my hand and swallowed hard. Then realized Older Me was
still talking.

“…seems
hard to believe, but your friendship with him is probably more fun than
anything else you could have right now. And who knows what will happen later?
Wouldn’t it be better not to risk that?”

Ignoring
the irony of my future self asking rhetorical questions about the future, I
dropped the phone onto my bed and picked up my bag. Picking through items one
by one, pretending I was listening, I made sure the condoms I’d bought that
afternoon were still safely hidden under my wallet and make-up bag, stifling
the shiver that ran down my spine.

If
I was right and Mark asked me out, would I have the courage to invite him back
home? To sneak him in? How many of these would I need if… if it came to that?

“Stacy?”

After
giving her my best
we’re done here
expression, I turned back to my bag.
Would it be better to put them in the zip pocket so there was no risk of them
falling out and embarrassing me? Or would that make them too hard to find in
the dark?

“Are
you listening to me at all?”

I
groaned and dropped everything but my keys back in my bag. “I’m leaving.”

“But–”

“I’m
sure I’ll see you in the car,” I called back over my shoulder as I left the
room.

She
gaped at me from the surface of the mirror, but I kept walking.

Tonight
was a turning point. I just knew it.

She
did show up in the rear-view mirror of the car. But she’d obviously decided I
wasn’t going to change my mind, because she just sat there, staring. I ignored
her as I drove too fast to Mark’s house a couple miles out of town. I stopped
at the imposing black gates his father had erected and rolled down my window to
yell my name into the intercom. But it buzzed and the gates swung open before I
said a word. As I drove through, I patted my pocket and the corner of the
letter poked into my thigh.

With
a little luck, Mark’s parents would be gone. We could talk. I could give it to
him. Maybe we wouldn’t make it to the dance at all.

Older
Me frowned as I followed the paved driveway around the perfect lawn, to the
circle in front of their immaculate house. I was about to ask her why, when I
looked into the mirror and realized I had an identical expression on my face.
Because I hated this house.

I
didn’t come here much anymore. We’d practically lived at each other’s homes as
kids – back when Mark lived in town and his parents didn’t have as much money.
But the more successful his father got, the more he discouraged Mark from
inviting me over. Funny, though, how the hostility didn’t start until
after
I
found out the truth about where the scars on Mark’s arms came from.

The
memory of that night made me shudder. Older Me looked away, biting her lip, no
doubt she was remembering too. It would have been better for me and Mark to
have our conversation somewhere else. But this was one of the rare nights when
Mom was happy for me to borrow the car. And besides, Mark had asked me to pick
him up. He never did that.

“Is
his dad home?” Older Me asked quietly.

“I
hope not.” I parked the car on the cobbled area in front of the garage, and turned
on the light to check my make-up before I went in. Beside me, Mark’s house
loomed through the dark. A solid brick monument to his father’s success. A
monument with sound-proofed walls.

I
shivered.

“Be
careful,” Older Me murmured as I turned the little light back off.

“Geez,
he’s not an axe-murderer,” I snapped. But I didn’t wait to see if she replied.
I got out of the car and trotted across the driveway. I wanted to get inside.
To see Mark. To see what his face did when I walked in.

To
see whether he was still
nervous.

But
as soon as I stepped inside the door of Mark’s house, I knew something was
wrong. The open entry hall with immaculate white walls and wood-flooring echoed
silence. Not the soft, easy quiet of happy solitude. But the tense, brittle
hush that signaled a barely-maintained truce falling on the heels of all-out
war.

If
Mark hadn’t been in here somewhere, I would have turned and fled.

As
it was, three paces inside the door, I jerked to a stop. If things had gone
wrong with his dad, Mark might not be in his room after all. Or his dad might
kick me out if he hadn’t had his fill of whaling on Mark. But someone opened
the gate to let me in, so…

“Up
here.”

Directly
in front of me, a wide flight of stairs rose to the second level of the house.
I caught sight of Mark just as he turned and disappeared around the corner
towards his room.

This
was bad.

I
swallowed hard and ran up, ears perked for any footsteps behind me, or voices
rising.

Nothing.

I
topped the stairs and crept around the corner and down the hall to Mark’s room.

Downstairs
the house was shiny and cold – like a showroom in an architect’s portfolio. But
upstairs the hardwood floors gave way to carpet, the walls were dotted with
family pictures, and the many bedrooms leading off the hallways on both sides
of the stairs were awash with comfortable quilts and plump, soft furnishings.

When
they moved in I’d told Mark it was as if they’d taken his mother’s house and
sat it on top of his father’s, then linked them by a stairway.

Mark
hadn’t laughed.

His
room was three doors down, on the left. The door was open. I slipped inside and
closed it behind me.

I
barely registered the posters on the wall, the large screen in the corner, and
the carpet strewn with gaming controllers.

Mark
sat on the bed, head in his hands. His fingers made claws in his sandy-brown
hair. He still wore the light-blue polo shirt and jeans he’d had on at school,
despite a dark smudge on his shoulder.

The
knot in my stomach tightened. I walked across the deep carpet to sit next to
him on the edge of the bed, laid a tentative hand on his back and swallowed
hard. Mark was trembling.

“What
happened?” Not that it was a mystery.

“I
told Dad about the competition.” Mark’s voice was hard. Rough.

I
closed my eyes and dropped my head to his firm shoulder.

Mark
and I were in AP Art. Against my every expectation, we’d
both
qualified
for National Young Artist of the Year. I mean, I’d known Mark would get in. He
was incredible. But I was floored when I got the letter too.

The
problem was, according to his dad, Mark wasn’t supposed to be an artist. Last
year, when he won a local competition with this amazing water color he’d done,
his dad accused him of being gay, then refused to attend the award ceremony. As
far as his father was concerned, Mark was going to MIT to be an engineer, just
like him.