Read Breaking Beautiful Online
Authors: Jennifer Shaw Wolf
Blake looks confused. “Do I want to what?”
“Be on the committee … with me?” I don’t think it’s ever taken me so long to say one sentence to Blake.
His expression is guarded anticipation. “Do you really want to do it?”
Here’s my chance. Honestly, there are a thousand reasons for me not to be on the dance committee, but, for whatever reason, Blake wants to do it. And I’m kind of hoping this will be his chance to be a part of something, to show the school what he can do, and maybe Mom, too. Not for me. My chance is already gone. I swallow. “Yeah, it might be fun. Besides”—I look up at him with what I hope is an eager smile—“it might be our only chance to show this school some class.”
His smile makes this almost worth it. “Isn’t the meeting right now?”
“Yeah, we’re late.” I’m hoping he’ll say we can wait until the next meeting, after we talk to Ms. Flores.
“Then we’d better hurry.” He tosses the sketch pad back in his car, grabs his backpack, and slams the car door.
Outside Ms. Flores’s room, my heart sinks. I can hear Hannah’s fake-sweet, high-pitched voice. “So the student council has approved a three-hundred-dollar—”
Hannah is in the middle of her speech, but Blake doesn’t even pause at the door. I follow him, tugging at my hat, not looking at
anyone. Blake sits on a desk in the back of the room and says, “Sorry we’re late.”
“Blake, Allie, great. Glad you could join us.” Ms. Flores nods. “Hannah, go ahead.”
Hannah’s face is frozen halfway between the I’m-in-charge look she was wearing and a face that looks like she ate something that tasted really bad. I sink into a chair opposite Blake and behind Randall. He’s huge—broad and tall, and the center on the football team, but I don’t think he’s big enough to hide me from Hannah’s glare. She looks down at her notes and breathes through her nose. “As I was saying, the student council has approved a three-hundred-dollar budget for the dance. That’s for decorations, music, and food.”
Angie in the front row waves her hand. “Didn’t we have like five or six hundred dollars last year?”
Hannah stares right through Randall to me. “Last year Mr. Phillips made a generous contribution to the student-body fund. I don’t think that’s going to happen this year.”
“You’re in good with that family,” Blake challenges her. “Why don’t you go and ask him if he would be willing to make another donation?”
Her glare shifts to Blake. “Under the circumstances I don’t think that would be appropriate.”
“I agree.” Ms. Flores adjusts her perch. “Besides, a smaller budget will force us to be creative, and luckily our committee is full of creative people.” She smiles at Blake. He beams back at her, like he’s her prize pupil.
Hannah shuffles her notes, looks at Blake, then manages to find me behind Randall again and says, “I thought all
members of this committee had to be approved through the student council.”
“No,” Ms. Flores says. “This is a voluntary committee, so as long as a student’s GPA is high enough, or they receive administrative approval, anyone can be a part of it.”
I have a feeling I was on a “special case” list that the counselor gave to the principal.
“Well,” Hannah says. “It would appear this committee has
plenty
of members. And since I’m swamped with my other student council stuff
and
my Beachcomber’s responsibilities, I won’t be able to be in charge of this. And so”—she pauses for dramatic effect—“I nominate Allie Davis to head the Sweetheart Ball Committee.”
“I second it,” Blake pipes up. I freeze and the blood drains from my face.
“Anyone else want to be the head of this?” Ms. Flores looks around.
I sweep the room, looking for help, but none comes. “I nominate Blake,” I say in desperation.
“I think that’s a great idea,” Ms. Flores says, clapping her hands together. I relax for half a second before she adds, “Allie and Blake as joint chairs. This job is certainly big enough for two.” Blake grins at me. I shoot what I hope are deadly darts at him with my eyes.
Hannah picks up her stack of papers, walks right past Blake’s outstretched hand, and slaps them on my desk. “Good luck.” She smirks. She has a hot-pink Barbie Band-Aid on the back of her hand. I wonder if anyone at school honestly believes Hannah’s hand would take this long to heal.
Before Hannah is even out of the room, Blake scoops up the papers and walks to the front. “Okay, first order of business—theme.” He winks at me. “Allie, do you mind taking notes?”
Ms. Flores hands me a piece of paper and a pen, but I shake my head. “I can’t.” If I try to keep notes, it will come out jumbled because my hands are shaking. I’ll look like a complete idiot.
“I’ll do it.” A perky freshman with short brown hair—I think her name is Kasey—crosses the room and takes the paper and pen from Ms. Flores. Kasey parks herself in front of Blake. The way she looks at him sends a strand of jealousy down my throat. It wraps around my heart and squeezes my chest. I try to push it away. I don’t deserve him.
Blake takes over the meeting and I sit in dumbfounded amazement at this Blake I didn’t know. The artistic one. The one who takes charge of things. The one who stands up to Hannah George.
After school, I pull out my literature book and a piece of paper drifts to the floor like a wounded seagull, stained with slanty-sharp bloodred letters.
Another note.
I will myself not to look at it, to leave it on the floor, unread, to let it be swept up with the other trash when the janitor comes by. But I’m afraid someone will see it so I hesitate only half a second before snatching it up.
You’ll never be alone.
I want to laugh it off, or throw it away, but it feels like whoever is sending the notes is reading my mind. I glance around the hall, but for once nobody is watching me. I shove the note in my backpack and then touch the tigereye in my pocket. Just
a stupid joke. Let it go. I pull my out notebook gingerly, afraid of what else might fall out of my locker.
“Hey.”
I spin around and drop my backpack on the floor. My books spill out and the corner of the note taunts me from the bottom of the pile.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.” Blake leans his face toward me. “Are you okay?”
“Fine.” I drop to my knees and start scooping the mess back into my backpack.
Blake bends over to help me. “Here, let me—”
“I’ve got it,” I answer fast. I straighten up and jerk the zipper closed. “I need to hurry or I’ll miss my bus.”
“Oh.” Blake backs off like he’s waiting for me to say something to insult him again. “Um, I was kind of hoping we could go into town and look for some stuff for the dance. But we don’t have to.”
“Another time.” I sling my backpack over my shoulder and start toward the bus line. Blake ducks his head and goes the other direction. Halfway down the hall I see Mr. Phillips coming in the front door. To get to the bus I have to go past him. I turn around and go the other way.
Blake is almost to the back door, so I trot to catch up with him. “Actually, today would be okay.”
“Cool,” he says. He leans against the back door and opens it for me. I glance over my shoulder, but I can’t tell if Mr. Phillips sees us.
Blake is talking about stuff for the dance all the way to his car, but I’m not listening. His car is at the back of the parking
lot. We have to pass James and Randall, leaning against Randall’s truck, and the spot where Trip used to park—left vacant in homage to his memory. I keep my eyes on the ground, but I know they’re watching me as I climb into Blake’s car.
Blake is oblivious. As soon as he gets in, he hands me his sketch pad. “I came up with some ideas for the decorations. I drew these during sixth period.” He starts the car and points to the map he made of the gym.
Over his shoulder I can see James watching us.
“… so I was thinking I could do some giant paintings depicting the town’s history. There are some rolls of old canvas at the fertilizer plant, the stuff they used to make the bags out of, we could put them on frames to look like sails. That was a great idea, by the way.”
I force my gaze back to his face. “Huh?”
He looks out the window at James glaring at us across the parking lot. Then he turns back to me. “Forget him for a minute, okay?” He sounds irritated, with me or with James, I’m not sure.
I look down at his sketch pad. “Sorry.”
“I’ve known James my whole life. He’s a jerk, but he’s all talk. Not worth worrying about.”
“Right, sorry.” I let out my breath. Forget James. Forget the note in my locker. Let it go.
Blake pulls out of the parking lot. “Now about the dance. I want to go by the library and get some books about the town to get some ideas for the paintings. And we need to go to the hardware store for paint, and maybe we could run out to the fertilizer plant and see if my boss will let me get that canvas I was talking about. And we need to figure out something for the frames.” Blake’s eyes dance with excitement.
“You want to do all of this tonight?” I’m worried about what will happen if Blake and I are seen together in town, what will happen if I’m late getting home, and what will happen if Mom knows I’ve been with him.
“Well, not everything.” Blake grins, half-sheepish. “You came up with such a brilliant idea that I want to get going on it right away.”
“It wasn’t really me.” I shrug.
“You’re the one who got everyone to stop arguing.” He brakes at a stop sign. “And Historic Pacific Cliffs is a great idea.”
“Historic Pacific Cliffs” came out during a heated discussion between the three guys in the room—Blake, Randall, and Marshall Yates who’s lobbying to have his band play at the dance—and most of the girls. The guys wanted a dance that didn’t include a tux rental. The girls wanted the one girls’-choice dance to be formal. Angie suggested a costume ball. Ms. Flores shot that down because of dress-code concerns. Randall said matching T-shirts, Angie rolled her eyes. Through the whole conversation I kept my mouth shut, but I could see the sign WELCOME TO HISTORIC PACIFIC CLIFFS through the window in Ms. Flores’s room. When Blake asked for my opinion, I said historic costumes without thinking. The idea snowballed from there. The girls loved the theme and Blake sided with me, so my idea won. I was shocked.
Blake stops at the library first. I feel eyes on us as soon as we walk in. Every time we pass someone, whispers follow. Even the librarian gives me a disapproving look when she hands Blake a piece of paper and points us to the historical section. We check out
Pacific Cliffs, a History
and
Pacific Cliffs, a City Reborn—
two
old books full of black-and-white pictures and glowing history from our town.
We go to the hardware store next. Blake spends a lot of time looking over the shelf of “wrong tint” paint cans. He explains that he’s going to use the rejected house paints to do his sail paintings. “They’re cheap, there’s a lot of paint, and they’ll usually retint them for free.”
I hide in the corner and pretend to look at paint swatches while Blake is talking to the paint guy. I’m not exactly trying to pretend I’m not with him. I’m just tired of everyone staring.
Beatrice, of Beatrice’s Famous Chocolates, a little shop in town, comes over and grabs my hand. “Allie. It’s good to see you.”
Over her shoulder Blake is finishing up at the counter. I will him to stay where he is, but he comes toward us.
“Such a horrible thing to have to go through so young.” She squeezes my hand. It’s getting slippery with my sweat. “And Trip was such a nice young man. He used to come into the shop just to see how I was doing. He loved my dark-chocolate raspberry truffles. He always paid me twice what they were worth and said I should charge more. He got a few boxes of candy for you, if I remember right.”
Blake stands behind me, a gallon of paint in each hand.
Beatrice raises her eyebrows at him and keeps talking. “The two of you were the best-looking couple at the cotillion.” I can feel her eyes on my scar. “Such a tragedy.” She shakes her head toward Blake and releases my hand. “Well, I should get going.”
She disappears around the corner while Blake says, “You ready to go?”
I wipe my hand on my jeans and nod.
We’re almost to the checkout counter when I hear Beatrice again, talking to one of the cashiers, “… with Joyce’s grandson, can you believe it? After everything he’s done? He’s taking advantage of her grief, that’s what I think.” The cashier mumbles something and Beatrice huffs, “I still say that boy looks like Donald Shelley. Spitting image.”
I look up at Blake to see if he heard her, but she was talking so loudly there’s no way he could have missed what she said. Donald Shelley was the drama teacher who Blake’s mom ran away with just before graduation. Whether or not he’s Blake’s father has been a popular debate in Pacific Cliffs, probably since before Blake was born.
I want to duck out the back of the store, but Blake keeps going. He smiles and sets the paint cans on the counter. “Actually, Phoebe—I mean, Mom—told me that my dad wasn’t Mr. Shelley, but that he was from Pacific Cliffs. His name was …” Blake pretends to be thinking hard. The two ladies lean forward, eager for this bit of gossip. “Tom, or was it Bob?” I have to stifle a laugh when I remember that Beatrice’s son is named Tom and the cashier’s husband is named Bob. “Hmm, I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask her again.” Blake smiles at them politely. “Have a nice day.” He pays for the paint and leaves them with their mouths hanging open.
After the hardware store Blake takes me to his house. It’s still weird for me to come here and see condos where my grandma’s house used to be. Grandma died of a heart attack two months after we moved to Pacific Cliffs. I wanted to sell the house we had just bought so we could live in Grandma’s house, but Mom said it wasn’t practical for Andrew. In typical überefficient Mom style, she had Grandma’s house cleared out and sold within two months.