Breakable (6 page)

Chapter Seven

 “Don’t
let Mom rattle you.”

The
words came as a whisper, half an hour after I got home. I’d been in bed,
drawing frantically, trying to put all my tension and feeling and fear onto
paper. It wasn’t working. When I heard her voice I jerked, startled, and my
pencil jagged across the sketch. I swore. But if Older Me was talking to me,
that meant I wasn’t
completely
alone.

Pushing
my papers aside, I jumped off the bed and walked to the large mirror on my
closet door.

“You’re
still talking to me,” I said sheepishly.

She
gave me a look that said I hadn’t been forgiven, but then she glanced over her
shoulder and turned back wide-eyed. “I don’t have long,” she whispered. “Tom
heard me earlier and he’s freaking out. But I had to see what happened. I was
there when you got home.”

I
blinked. That meant she’d come to the mirror on the wall in the dining room.
I’d never looked past Mom.

She
shook her head. “You can’t let Mom get under your skin that way. You can’t let
anyone do that to you.”

“Are
you kidding me? I’ve got some jerk sending me sexts and she thinks I’m
asking
for it! I show up at the dance and Finn humiliates me in front of my entire
class. And Mark’s dating
Karyn.
” My hands were in my hair because it had
honestly started feeling like my head was going to explode.

Older
Me’s hands came up, soothing. She kept her voice to a whisper. “I know. I do.
But you have to keep going. You just have to. If you push through this, it will
work. You’ll show them. You’ll show them you didn’t deserve this!”

Those
words... I didn’t deserve it.

I
chewed them over. They felt right and wrong at the same time. They were true,
but I didn’t believe them.

I
let my eyes wander over the room, my bag, my pictures. It felt like sitting in
this room with the door closed was my only safe space.

Older
Me kept talking. “You think the way these people treat you is the end of the
world. But I can tell you, it isn’t what happens to you in your life that
destroys you. It’s what you do about it.”

“Are
you trying to say it’s my fault everyone–”

“No.
I’m saying that you’ve had crap thrown at you. You can either clean yourself up
and keep going and prove everyone wrong – show them you didn’t deserve to get
it in the first place. Or you can roll around in it and think you deserve it,
and start acting like you do.”

Oh.
“Is that what you did?”

She
nodded. “Crappy things happened to me and I gave up. And believe me, when you
give up, the crap just piles on thicker until pretty soon you don’t even
realize it’s crap anymore.” She inched closer to me, her eyes piercing mine.
“Stacy, if I had the chance to go back and live it again – to be in your shoes
– I’d do it in a heartbeat. Because you’re going to walk away from this and
figure out it wasn’t your fault.

“One
day you’ll look back and realize that everyone you grew up with didn’t get it
right. They didn’t actually know you. They didn’t really hear you. They were
just so messed up, they threw all their own crap on you.

“But
the thing is, if you can understand that it’s their problem, you’ll brush it
all off and walk away clean. While they’ll still be looking for other people to
dump on. You’ll win. It’ll be worth it.”

I
couldn’t look away from her. “I don’t know…” Her words seemed so right. But I
didn’t want to believe them because it meant I had to fight. And I was so tired
of fighting.

She
ran a hand through her hair and looked as tired as I felt. “There’s nothing I
can tell you that will make this easier,” she whispered, “But you have to keep
going. Because… because it took me this long to see the truth of that. And Mom
still doesn’t get it. That’s why she’s such a jerk. If you can believe that the
problem is theirs – know it’s true – you won’t end up like me, or her. You’ll
be better. Stronger.”

“But
everything
else
thinks it’s me! Even if I believed what you’re saying,
it wouldn’t change what they thought.”

“True,
but
you’ll
feel better.” She sighed. “Look, the only thing I know is
I’ve always had a big hole inside. And no matter how I tried to be who they
wanted me to be, no one ever loved me enough to fill the hole up. In fact, the
harder I tried, the less they had to offer. So… it’s got to be better to fight.
It’s got to be better not to give yourself up for other people. But there’s got
to be more than that too.” She gave a watery smile. “When you figure out the
rest, let me know.”

The
sadness on her face scared me. And made me feel bad for her. I swallowed. Hard.

“I’m
sorry about what I said…”

She
looked down, shook her head. “Just… don’t turn into one of them, okay?”

“I
don’t think we need to worry about that,” I muttered.

Older
Me opened her mouth, but then she jerked around. “He’s back. I have to go.”

I
nodded.

“Will
you be okay?” she whispered.

I
nodded again. “I think so.” Not really.

“I’ll
try to see you tomorrow, but if I don’t show up, don’t freak out okay? I might
have to give this some space to calm him down.”

Then
she was gone.

I
waited a minute, but she didn’t return and I had a bad feeling it was going to
be a little while before we could have a normal conversation. Sighing, I turned
back to my bed. There was no way I could sleep. But I couldn’t stand lying in
bed staring at the wall. I needed to draw some more.

Careful
not to crinkle the papers all over it, I got back in bed and picked up my
sketchbook. I couldn’t stop thinking about the events of the night.

Shying
away from the image of Mark in my head, I grabbed my acrylic crayons and rubbed
Karyn into existence on a sheet of heavy cartridge paper. The bold colors and
shiny effect suited her edges. I wasn’t happy with her hair, which came out
more gray than the platinum I’d been aiming for. But her eyes were perfect –
scraped out of the waxy crayon with a razorblade. They augured into you.

Finn
was there too, also in crayon. I discarded two false-starts before I got his
rodent-like features right. I made his too-wide lips an acidic blend of red and
purple. By the time I’d worked over his cheekbones and the narrow angles of his
face, there was too much black on the paper, but the effect was perfect: He’d
dirty anything that touched him. Just like in real life.

As
midnight passed into early morning, I relented and tried to draw Mark. But it
was impossible to get him right. No matter what approach I took, his eyes
always looked dead, his face just a flat copy of the real thing. No life.

The
only one that came close was a pencil sketch of Mark, sitting on his bed, head
in his hands, as I’d seen him when I first walked in. Because his eyes were
covered, I was able to focus on the shape of his shoulders, the way his fingers
clawed into his scalp.

But
when it was done, it was so hard to look at, I crumpled it up and threw it on
the floor.

The
rest of the papers were covered in splotchy, uninspired messes that would
barely pass for worksheets for my folder.

My
folder.

For
the art competition.

Mark…

The
clock said it was almost five in the morning. Pushing all the papers aside, I
let myself sink into the blankets. Let consciousness drift. Prayed I wouldn’t
dream about Karyn or Finn and their smug smiles…

…and
woke up three hours later feeling like I hadn’t slept at all.

I
groaned and dragged myself to the bathroom to clean up.

By
eight-thirty I was supposed to be standing outside the art room. Today was the
first day we were supposed to spend our Saturday at school. Alone. Working on
our portfolios.

Seven
hours alone with Mark.

Yesterday
it had sounded like heaven. Today it felt like walking to the gallows.

I
gathered up the pages I’d done overnight. They could go into my workbook –
essentially a record of all the art I’d tried or envisioned over the course of
the year. Workbooks made almost twenty percent of the final grade in the
competition. I had a bad habit of not planning my pieces enough, so my workbook
was a little thin. No point wasting my efforts. As long as I shoved them in the
back and didn’t show Mark…

My
stomach clenched.

Images
of the night before flashed through my head, of Mark’s happiness when he looked
at Karyn. When he touched her. Of her smug delight.

It
wasn’t just the fact that he had a girlfriend – I suffered through that
particular indignity every couple months. Don’t get me wrong, I loved Mark, but
he was a little bit of a man-whore.

This
was different, though. The fact that he hadn’t talked to me about it before…Was
he more serious this time? About
her
?

Usually
I got warning when someone caught his eye. He’d ask about a girl. Find out if I
knew anything that might help him attract her.

He
never believed me when I told him he just needed to smile.

Usually
I knew when he was working up the courage to ask someone out. I’d help him
figure out his first date so he could impress her. I’d listen to him gush about
her for a few weeks. Then something would change. He’d stop talking about her
all the time. Hang out with me more. Start complaining about whatever she was
doing that irritated him…

It
was a cycle we’d been repeating since freshman year. But now he’d broken it.

So,
what was different this time?

I
was too scared to ask. Too frightened of the answer.

How
I was I going to spend every Saturday alone with him, knowing he’d be leaving
to go see her? Knowing he still only thought of me as his
friend?
That
nothing I’d done really mattered in the long run because one day he’d get
serious about someone. And if it wasn’t me, I’d lose him forever. And maybe
that day had already happened? Maybe Karyn was his One?

The
thought stopped my breath.

The
glass in my chest popped under pressure, cracked behind my ribs.

One
of the pages in my hand slipped out from between the others, drifting slowly to
the carpet. I stooped to gather it quickly. Filling my hands with something to do,
trying to put all the hurt out of my mind. But my head spun with a loop of
Mark’s betrayal, Finn’s curses, my own words to Older Me, Mom’s disgust – then
back to Mark stepping out of the car to wrap his arms around Karyn.

I
took a deep breath to hold back a sob and shoved the pictures into my bag.

I
would go to the art room today, and I would act like Mark hadn’t pulled my
heart out of my chest and sliced it into a million pieces.

I
would pretend I didn’t care about anything that had happened last night.

I
would work hard. Because if things continued as they were, there was no future
for me in this town. I couldn’t watch Mark walk the tightrope with his dad and
pretend it wasn’t dangerous. I couldn’t watch him bury himself in Karyn to try
and forget about it. I couldn’t handle fending off Mom’s constant
disappointment.

I
had to get out. And right now, the competition was my best bet.

The
top twenty artists were displayed in New York over Christmas. The winner was
awarded a full-ride scholarship to the College of Fine Arts, New York. But all
the finalists had a shot; between the judges – who were usually tenured
professors at top schools – and the gallery opening, most ended up with
scholarships to other schools.

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, start fresh. Get away from the
madness here…

For
a moment I could see it. I could
feel
the freedom. Then reality crashed
home.

I
could try. I
had
to try.

Please,
God, may it work.

Get
me out of this place.

Chapter Eight

Doc’s
lips purse at me over the arm of his glasses he’s holding in one hand. His eyes
narrow. “I’m curious…if you’d known where this whole situation was going to take
you, would you still have gone through with all of it?”

I’m
startled by the question because it rides so close to the mirror and what
happens there. Either he doesn’t care, or he’s trying to trip me up.

I
swallow, pretend to think about it. Then, “I wasn’t lying when I said it felt
like my only option was to get out of town. Try to get into a good college. If
I went back, that would still be true.”

He
tips his head. “But what if you’d known?”

I
sit, silent.

What
would I have done?

I
was only five minutes late getting into the art room. I stopped just inside the
door and took a deep breath, letting the smell of turpentine and paint and dust
fill me up. The art room was my favorite place in the world – and not just
because Mark was usually there. This was the room where anything was possible.

Mark
looked up when the door clicked behind me. He smiled, but his eyes drifted to
the storage room and he tipped his chin. I nodded.

“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.