Breaking Beautiful (11 page)

I try to force a flirty tone through the terror in my voice. “How about I buy you one?”

He pries my fingers off his. “Two laps.”

I make it around the first lap with Blake skating beside me. I’m getting more confident, but I still feel like a complete klutz, especially when I watch little kids who can skate rings around me. Blake pulls ahead of me. “All on your own this time. You’ve got it.”

So I push, glide, push, glide all by myself, reaching for the wall every few feet but staying up. When I finish the second lap, I go for a third. Blake gives me a thumbs-up from across the floor. I beam back at him and don’t see the kid who falls in front of me. He sweeps my feet, and I go down. Hard. I hit my butt first and then bang my head against the wall.

Blake is kneeling beside me almost before I realize what happened. He cups his hand around my scar. “Your head—are you okay?”

“I’m okay.” I’m dazed, either by the bump or because his face is so close to mine. “I didn’t hit my head that hard.” I lean forward and rub my hip. “Mostly just my butt.”

Blake’s face breaks into a grin of relief. “We wouldn’t want to damage that either.”

“My butt?” I give him a funny look. “Um, what? For a second, it sounded like you were trying to flirt with me.”

Blake ducks his head and turns red. “Nah, I just—”

“You were flirting!” I try to see his eyes, covered by a lock of bangs. “And badly.”

“Yeah, well.” He helps me to my feet without looking at my face. “You were skating. And badly.”

“Hey.” I slap his arm. “You said I was doing great.”

“Oh, come on, Allie, you know guys will say anything when they’re trying to impress a girl.” The idea that Blake might be trying to impress me feels weird, wrong, but good, too, even though I know he was just kidding around. He turns around and grabs both of my hands. “C’mon, I owe you a slushy.”

“Andrew.” I cover my mouth. “I completely forgot about him. He’s probably bored out of his mind.”

Blake laughs and points behind me toward the snack bar. “I’d say Andrew is doing just fine.”

I grab on to the wall and turn myself around. Andrew is still at the snack bar but not alone. There’s a flamboyant redhead perched on the table in front of him. She’s holding a slushy to his mouth while he drinks out of the straw.

I stare in shock. “Who is that?”

Her name is Caitlyn, and she has dangly blue earrings, an embroidered tunic top that’s retro 1970s, and neon-blue skinny jeans. She’s enthusiastic about absolutely everything and thinks my freaky eye is totally cool, and her dad is a mortician. They live above the morgue. I find out all this in about five minutes, after Blake and I join them at the snack bar. I also find out that she and Andrew have been chatting online for the last couple of months. He and Blake definitely planned this.

I study Caitlyn while she talks, wondering if she could be considered pretty. Her jeans are too tight, her face is red and kind of splotchy, and she laughs too loudly, with her mouth open. She sounds like a donkey. But she has a nice smile, brilliant
blue eyes, and hair the most amazing color of red I’ve ever seen. I’m not sure if it’s her real color. In another era, Caitlyn would probably have been considered beautiful. I’m just not sure which one.

I can tell Andrew thinks she’s gorgeous. She kisses him on the cheek when she leaves. Protective instincts fire like mad when I see her with him. He’s never had anything close to a girlfriend before. I wish I knew more about her.

I watch her go outside and I’m shocked to see the sun going down. I didn’t realize we’d been gone so long. I wonder what “home late” means for my parents. If Mom and Dad get home before we do, they’ll freak out.

“We’d better go,” I say to Blake. Andrew nods, but he’s still smiling. It’s good to see him happy, and I actually had fun. If we can make it home without getting busted, today might be okay.

Chapter
14

On the way home, Andrew falls asleep with his head on my shoulder. I’m jittery the whole way. Blake reaches over and puts his hand on my bouncing knee. “Relax,” he says. I’m not sure if Blake’s hand on my knee makes me relax or makes me more tense. I focus on keeping my legs still, but he doesn’t move his hand.

Blake is driving fast, trying to get us home before Mom and Dad do. As we get into town I want to tell him to slow down, but I’m afraid it’ll make him mad. Then I see blue lights in the rearview mirror. Blake swears and pulls over, right in front of Big J’s, the only restaurant in town besides the café, and where everyone from the high school hangs out. I slide down into the seat and wish Blake had tinted windows.

Detective Weeks gets out of the now-familiar black Charger and shines his flashlight into Blake’s eyes, and then mine. He
takes note of Blake’s hand resting on my knee. “Do you have any idea how fast you were going?” Four sophomores gawk at us as they pass beside Blake’s car on their way into Big J’s. I pull my hat down and keep my eyes focused on the dashboard.

Blake taps the speedometer, stuck on 100 miles per hour. “This thing doesn’t work.”

Detective Weeks points his flashlight at the dash. “How long has it been broken?”

“It stopped working a couple of hours ago.” Blake grits his teeth. I’m sure the speedometer has been broken as long as he’s had the car. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch James point out Blake’s car to Randall. I slide farther down into the seat so Andrew’s body is blocking me from their view.

“Uh-huh.” Detective Weeks leans back and lowers the flashlight. “I don’t suppose you’d mind if I took a look under the tarp in the back?”

“Do you have a warrant?” Blake moves his hand off my leg and grips the steering wheel. His face hardens. I remember that face. This is the Blake who got arrested for breaking and entering, the Blake who spent six months in juvie. I shrink away from him. I’ve had too much experience with personality-shifting guys.

“I don’t need a warrant.” Detective Weeks doesn’t seem to like Blake’s attitude. “License and registration, please.” Blake pulls his wallet out of his pocket and then leans over me to open the glove compartment. Detective Weeks shines his flashlight on Andrew, who’s still asleep with his head lolling against his chest and a little bit of blue drool, from the slushies, dripping down his chin. “Have you kids been drinking?”

“That’s my brother.” I say it quick, so he’ll let us go. “He has cerebral palsy. His wheelchair is in the back, under the tarp, if you want to take a look.”

Detective Weeks smiles and hands Blake back his license and registration without giving him a ticket. “You guys slow down, okay? The road up ahead is pretty narrow and dangerous, especially around the cliff.” He looks straight at me when he says that. I grip the tigereye hard. Blake’s jaw is working, like he has something he wants to say to Detective Weeks, but he holds it in.

After Detective Weeks pulls away, Randall and one of Trip’s other football buddies, Dillon Mitchell, walk in front of Blake’s car. Dillon pounds on the front window, then sits down on the hood so we can’t leave. Andrew jerks his head up.

“Hey, Juvie, where’d you pick up this fine automobile?” Dillon yells. “You steal this one, too?”

“May be from the junkyard.” Randall sits next to Dillon, and they start bouncing the car up and down.

I wish I could slide all the way to the floor. I hope they don’t recognize me.

Blake revs the engine and reaches to shift into drive, but his car sputters and dies. He swears. Laughter explodes all around us.

Dillon yells, “Is that your new girlfriend, Juvie? How much does she charge an hour?” Andrew leans forward so he’s blocking most of the window, to keep anyone from seeing me. Blake reaches for the door handle.

“Just drive away,” I plead. “Please, let’s just go home.”

Blake sets his jaw and revs the engine again. This time the car lurches forward, Dillion jumps off. Then Blake puts it in
reverse so fast that Randall slides off the hood. As we go by, James pounds on the roof. Blake cuts beside him so close that I think we’re going to run over him.

Blake’s knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel. He keeps his eyes in front of him, but his cheeks flush red. I know he’s embarrassed that I saw them harassing him.

I’m relieved to get out of town, until we get to my house. Both Dad’s truck and the van are parked in the driveway. Blake hurries to unload Andrew’s chair and help him in. I get the backpack and my purse. Slowly, resigned to our fate, we walk to the front door. Dad is waiting. He points at me, then Blake, then Andrew. “You three, living room! Now!”

Andrew looks at him groggily, wide-eyed and innocent. “Yes, you,” Dad says. “You’re in on this, too.”

Andrew beams. It’s been a long time since he was in trouble. I think he likes it. Blake and I perch on the couch; Andrew parks next to us—three felons awaiting sentencing.

“Where have you been?” Dad’s voice booms from his chest, not yelling—more like projecting—still loud enough that Blake looks ready to bolt.

“W-we went to Hoquiam,” Blake stammers. “To the roller—”

“You went all the way to Hoquiam?” Dad sounds like he doesn’t quite believe that.

“With Andrew? You know he has a cold.” Mom focuses her assault on me.

“Mom,” Andrew moans. “Not a baby.”

“It was my fault, sir.” Blake’s defiance to authority doesn’t seem to include my father. “I dragged them—”

Dad withers him with a look. “Nobody dragged anyone.
You’re all to blame for this one.” His eyes focus on me and Andrew. “You two worried your mom to death, and do I dare ask how you got Andrew’s chair to Hoquiam?”

“In the back of my car.” Blake half stands, like he wants to escape.

“In the back of your car?” Mom repeats in disbelief. “In the trunk?”

“In the bed.” Blake sinks back to the couch. “My El Camino—half car, half truck.”

“It was covered,” I put in.

“It had better not be damaged.” Dad rests his gaze on Blake.

“We … I made sure it was secure.” Blake tries to sound confident, but his voice is shaking.

“We used bungee cords,” I say hopefully. Dad is a big fan of bungee cords.

“You.” He points to me. “You’re grounded. Again, or still, whatever. And you will spend tomorrow cleaning the auto shop, including the bathrooms. You.” He points to Andrew, who’s trying for innocence again. “Your computer time is limited to homework only.”

“Dad,” he moans. I know he promised Caitlyn they would chat tonight.

Dad ignores him and points to Blake. “And you. Your grandma’s lawn is covered with leaves and branches and her gutters need to be cleaned out before it starts to rain again. A good project for tomorrow.” It’s an order, not a suggestion, even if Blake isn’t his kid.

“Yes, sir,” Blake answers.

“Allie and Andrew, rooms. Blake, good-bye.”

I’m shocked. He yelled at us. He reinstated my grounding. But that’s it. Before, Dad would have lost it if he’d caught me leaving the house when I was supposed to be grounded. He totally freaked when he caught me sneaking out before. Maybe my accident made Dad soft.

After Blake leaves, Mom follows me into my room. She must be the designated “bad parent” now. She sits down on my desk chair and I sit on the bed. She glances around; I’m sure she notices that Trip’s pictures are missing, but she pretends she doesn’t.

“Do you have any idea how worried I was when I came home and found you and Andrew gone?” Habitually she doesn’t include Dad by saying “we.” Her slippered foot taps on my floor. “You were
supposed
to be grounded.” Her voice rises a notch. “You can’t just go do whatever you want. Especially not with Andrew.”

I want to tell her that I’m eighteen and Andrew’s eighteen, and we
can
do whatever we want, but she’s playing the angry/ concerned mom. I don’t have the energy to fight with her.

“And then there’s who you were with.” She shepherds a stray paper clip off my desk and into the drawer.

“Blake?” How can she object to Blake?

“Yes, Blake.” She sets her jaw into a firm line.

“I don’t—” I start to reach for the stone in my pocket but then grip the edge of my bed instead.

“He’s not the same kid you used to play pirates with, not since that thing in Nevada.” She pauses. “A lot has changed; he’s changed”—pause—“and I think maybe it’s better if you don’t”—pause again while she picks up a pen and adds that to the drawer, too.

“You want me to stay away from Blake?”

Mom’s eyes move over everything in my room—the dirty clothes in the middle of the room, the pile of gum wrappers on my nightstand, the bare walls and shelves where Trip’s pictures used to be—everything but me. “I’m just saying, maybe it would be better if you spent time with your other friends.”

“Other friends?” I say incredulously. More acceptable friends? Like I have any of those.

“Yes, the kids you hung out with before.”

“Last year I hung out with Trip. And he’s gone.”

“I’m just saying, so soon after Trip’s accident, people might think … might get the wrong idea about your friendship with Blake, and I don’t want—”

Her meaning sinks into the pit of my stomach. She’s thinking the same thing I’ve been worried about. What will people think if they know I’ve been with Blake? What will they say if I act like I’m over Trip’s death too soon?

Mom stands up and puts her hands on her tiny waist. “You are grounded because of his poor judgment, taking you and especially Andrew to Hoquiam. And I’ve heard other things about him, not just the stealing, but drugs and drinking, and right now you need”—she sighs—“you need more stable friends.” She brushes the gum wrappers into my garbage can. “I’m just trying to protect you. He seems to be heading down the same path as his mother. I don’t want you to be guilty by association.”

I grip the edge of my quilt harder. I’m so stunned I can’t say anything.

“You’d better get to sleep. Your dad wants you at the shop first thing tomorrow and we both know that Dad’s ‘first thing
in the morning’ is at least two hours earlier than the rest of the world.”

When she’s gone, I kick the garbage can so it crashes against the floor and the gum wrappers spill. Other friends? Like the kids who were staring at us from Big J’s? Or the kids who whisper about me in the halls at school?