Breakable (28 page)

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. “Everything.”

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.