Breaking Beautiful (23 page)

“I had a little scrapbook,” Hannah sniffs. “I kept everything in it that Trip gave me when we were dating. I wanted to look at it last night. I was just missing him or something. But it was gone.”

“Are you sure you didn’t just lose it?” Mr. Barnes sounds condescending, the way adults do when they don’t get how important something is.

“Yes!” Hannah looks at him incredulously. “I always kept it in my top drawer.”

I almost want to ask her if that’s her underwear drawer, to see if we are really that much alike.

“And you’re sure it wasn’t just misplaced?” Ms. Holt is gentler than Mr. Barnes, but Hannah is just as vehement.

“Yes!”

Blake and I exchange a glance. If Hannah’s book was really stolen, then maybe she wasn’t the one leaving notes in my locker. But she could have made up the whole thing to get us in trouble. The last note is still in my backpack. If I pull it out now, does it
look like I
did
break into her house? Blake is watching me. I press the tigereye and pick up my backpack.

“Maybe it’s better if both of you go to class,” Mr. Barnes says.

This is my moment to escape, for both of us to escape. I don’t want to get Blake into trouble. I hesitate for a second, but I unzip the pocket and pull out the note. I show it to Hannah. “Was this part of one of your notes from Trip?”

Her eyes widen and she snatches the note from me. “What did you do to it?” She looks at Ms. Holt and Mr. Barnes. “This proves she stole my book. Stole it and destroyed it. She cut it into pieces.” Hannah covers her face with her hands, now completely devoid of the marks I put there, and starts sobbing again.

Blake looks nearly as shocked as Hannah does. He probably hates me for bringing out the notes, because somehow he’ll take the blame.

“Where did you get this?” Mr. Barnes barks at me, his half-patient, coaxing tone gone.

“I found it in my locker”—my voice falters—“last week.” Blake reaches over and takes my hand. “It wasn’t the first one.”

Mr. Barnes looks from Blake to Hannah to me. He nods to Blake. “Do you have anything to add to this?”

He grips my hand tighter. “I saw the other notes that were in Allie’s locker.” He clears his throat. “But I threw them away.”

“Is there anything else I should know,” Mr. Barnes says slowly, “before I call the police?”

“Andrew saw the notes, too,” I answer. At least we’ll all go down together.

He licks his lips. “I see.”

With the addition of Andrew and Detective Weeks, the nurse’s office is overflowing. Mr. Barnes sets up chairs outside so we can come in one at a time for questioning. Hannah goes first. She tells Ms. Holt that she has a headache, so Detective Weeks questions her while she lies on the little bed with a cold cloth on her head. Then Hannah’s mom comes to picks her up. She spends a few minutes in Ms. Holt’s office, then leaves with Hannah. Both of them look very pale.

Andrew is shaking and coughing when he goes into the office. I’m sorry I dragged him into this, but his interview is short. He gives me a weak thumbs-up and goes back to class. Blake’s is longer. I’m dying to press my ear against the door and listen, but there are too many people around. I get the full brunt of the whispers and stares as the other students pass by on their way to class. I hear words like “jealous” and “crazy” and “juvie.”

Blake finally comes out. He looks okay, and he smiles and squeezes my arm when I pass him on my way into the office.

Detective Weeks is at the desk in the little closet that was Ms. Vincent’s office. That counseling session seems ages ago. He looks serious when I sit down. Then he starts firing off questions. “When did you get the first note?” “Who has access to your locker?” “Have you given your combination out to anyone?” “Does Blake have it?”

I answer as honestly as I can, but I don’t tell him about Blake’s knife. I don’t tell him Blake doesn’t need the combination to get into my locker.

His last question is the hardest. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

I struggle for an answer. I didn’t think anyone would believe
me. I didn’t want anyone to think I was crazy. I didn’t want everyone to be thinking about Trip and the accident again. I finally come up with “I don’t know.”

He shakes his head and lowers his voice. “If someone is threatening you, I need to know. I’m on your side, Allie. I’m just trying to find out the truth. Now, is there anything else you want to tell me?”

I think about Mr. Phillips, and the diamond earrings, and what pawnshop Paul told me. I wonder if there’s any way Detective Weeks would believe me if I said someone was following me. Not a chance. Then I think about the secret, above everything else that I have to keep. My secret. Trip’s secret. Everything else could just be my imagination. That at least I know was real. I have the scars to prove it. I swallow. “No, sir.”

He shakes his head. “And I suppose you don’t remember anything more about the accident, either?”

What do I remember? Being jealous of Hannah, being afraid to be alone with Trip, seeing his eyes just before he died. Things that make me even more confused about what really happened that night—that make me wonder if somehow I’m responsible for Trip’s death. I can’t tell him that either. “No, sir.”

“That isn’t good enough anymore, Allie.” He stands up, frustrated, angry. I shrink toward the door. “I have something at my office I want you to take a look at. Something that might jog your memory. I’ll expect you there after school on Monday. That’ll give you a couple of days to think about it.”

Chapter
33

“My sister isn’t here yet.” The woman standing behind the counter in front of the vintage clothing store takes me by surprise. She’s tall, model thin with all the right curves, and impeccably dressed. The only hint that she’s related to Caitlyn is her hair. It’s long and red, not as flaming as Caitlyn’s, and swooped into gentle, effortless waves that probably took her hours to achieve. Standing next to her I feel like an ugly dwarf. I self-consciously tug at the scarf on my head. She reaches a long slender hand out to me. “I’m Mel. I set some ideas aside for you two in the back room.” A chunky gold bracelet slides down her arm as she sweeps her hand toward a door behind her. “You can go look if you want to. Caitlyn’s always late.”

“Thank you.” I don’t know what else to say so I push through the door. The back room is full of boxes and racks of clothes, neatly organized by size. To one side is a pale green-and-gold,
old-fashioned settee piled with garment bags. I try to shake a feeling of dread when I look at the bags. They remind me of the one in my closet. And of body bags.

My interview with Detective Weeks has me terrified. Anything I remember condemns me, and I’m not sure if I’m a good enough liar to make him believe something I made up. It would probably go something like this:

Me: “We drove up the cliff, to celebrate my birthday. Trip brought a couple of bottles of champagne. He drank them both himself.”

Detective Weeks: “Why did you let him drive if he was drunk?”

Me: “Because he would have beaten me up if I didn’t.”

I can’t say that. Nothing I come up with works.

My head hurts. I pick up a gray-and-black-plaid garment bag, thinking about the one I have in my closet.

“You came!” Caitlyn’s voice startles me so bad that I drop the bag and it slides to the floor. She sounds genuinely surprised. She walks over and throws her arms around me. I stiffen, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “This is going to be so fun.” She’s wearing an orange silk top, red jeans, and a thick gold chain. Her hair is done up in a thousand fiery red braids. “I’ve never had a girls’ day out like this before. Never even been shopping with anyone except my mom and my sister, and Mel hates to shop with me.” She picks up the bag I dropped. Inside is some kind of red cocktail dress. She holds it up to herself and then offers it to me.

I shake my head. I am not wearing anything red to this dance. “I haven’t ever been shopping with anyone but my mom, either.”

She stops unzipping the next bag and looks up in surprise. “Really?”

I shrug. “Yeah.”

“But you’re so … I don’t know, gorgeous.” She sounds sincere. I should acknowledge her compliment, but right now gorgeous is the last thing I feel. I shake my head and adjust the scarf over my hair. She finishes unzipping the bag and takes out a ruffled blue hoopskirt. “I’d think someone like you would have tons of friends.”

“We moved around a lot, so it was hard to make friends.” I lean forward and reach for another bag so she doesn’t see the stab of pain hit my face.

“My problem is, I live above a mortuary and my dad’s a mortician. People either think that’s übercreepy or just gross.” Caitlyn measures the hoopskirt against her waist, sighs, and hands it to me. “People are so weird about death. I mean, it happens to everyone, right? So what’s so weird about it?”

I take the skirt and set it aside as a maybe. “I guess people don’t like what they don’t understand.” I think that could explain why Catilyn doesn’t have any friends, but I’m starting to like the way she’s open about everything and not afraid of what people think. I wish I could be like that.

“Death isn’t so hard to understand. Your body stops working for whatever reason, so your soul leaves. Simple enough.” She walks over to the corner where a scented candle sits on an antique dresser. “It’s like this.” She licks her fingers and then uses them to put out the candle. It hisses out and smoke curls up from where the flame had been. She gestures to the smoke. “The fire isn’t really gone, it’s just different. People don’t
disappear, either, they just change into another form.” She lights the candle again with a box of matches sitting next to it. “Mel hates the smell of dust and mothballs.”

“Maybe she shouldn’t be working in a place like this, then.”

“Maybe, but she’s trying to work her way through beauty school.” Caitlyn unzips another bag and pulls out, ironically, a black velvet dress that looks like it belongs at a funeral. “Yuck, I hate black.” She tosses it aside. “I’ve felt them, you know.”

“Felt what?” I wonder if there’s something in the conversation I missed.

“People’s souls,” she says nonchalantly.

The hair all over the back of my head stands on end, and I check in with the stone in my pocket. I can’t decide if Caitlyn is trying to scare me or impress me. But she’s so casual about it that it doesn’t seem to be either.

“They stick around for their funerals, to see where they’re being buried, and to say good-bye to their family.” She pushes aside a pioneer-style dress, also black. “The sad thing is, I don’t think their families even know that they’re hanging around, because they’re too sad. But I can feel them.”

“That’s kind of creepy.” Goose bumps rise all along my arms.

“Not really,” Caitlyn says. “Most people are pretty decent, so their souls are pretty decent, too. It’s not a bad feeling when I know someone is in the room that no one else can see. It’s just different.”

Of all Caitlyn’s eccentricities, I’m having the hardest time wrapping my mind around this one. What kind of person views death and ghosts so casually?

“Like you, for example,” Caitlyn says. “Andrew told me that
your boyfriend was killed in an accident, where you got that.” She points to the scar above my eye. “So do you ever feel like your boyfriend is with you, even though you can’t see him?”

Not just my scar, but my whole body prickles. I’m pressing against the stone in my pocket so hard that it’s digging into my leg. “No,” I answer firmly.

“Andrew didn’t like him very much.” Caitlyn picks at a loose string on the edge of the settee.

“Who?”

“Your old boyfriend.”

“I don’t know. Trip used to take him out in his truck once in a while. Andrew liked that.” It’s a lie, but lying to defend Trip is a habit I haven’t broken yet.

Caitlyn is shaking her head. “No, Andrew didn’t like Trip at all. He told me that Trip didn’t treat you very well. Andrew said that if he were strong like your dad, he would have thrown Trip out.”

I’m not sure how to answer her, so I force a laugh. “I guess no guy likes his sister’s boyfriend.”

“You’re probably right.” She picks up a tie-dye flower dress. “Oooh, I like this one, I’m going to try it.” She disappears into the dressing room.

“Heard you fighting.” Andrew’s voice trembles with anger. “Heard what he called you. He shouldn’t … shouldn’t talk to you that way.”

“It isn’t like … you don’t understand.” I pull my sweatshirt tighter around me, glad he can’t see what’s underneath.

“I’m stuck in this”—he gestures at his chair—“not deaf
.”

“
It’s his dad. Trip’s under a lot of pressure. He says those things. He
doesn’t mean it.” I can’t meet Andrew’s eyes, can’t let him see my hurt. “He’ll be sorry tomorrow.”

“He’ll bring you something, so it will be okay.” His bad hand shakes wildly. “But it won’t be.”

I trace the scar over my eye, thinking of the look on Andrew’s face, trying to remember how many times he might have seen me and Trip fighting. Andrew told me once that people forgot he was in the room, because of his chair. I didn’t think I did, but maybe I was wrong.

“Haven’t you tried on anything yet?” Caitlyn’s voice brings me back to the shop. “Let me help you.”

The next bag she opens has a tan-and-gold spandex jumpsuit with tiger stripes and feathers at the wrists. “Isn’t this cool?” She holds it against my chest. “And it matches your cool cat-eye.”

I’m already shaking my head. “What era is that?”

“I don’t know, disco? Seventies?” She holds it to her own chest. “I wonder if it would fit.”

Probably not, but I don’t say that out loud. I’m trying to imagine what Mom would say if Caitlyn showed up at our house wearing that.

“Maybe not.” Caitlyn opens the next bag—a fringy leather dress. “What do you think—Sacagawea?”

I smile. “I can just see Andrew in a coonskin cap.”

“This is so much fun,” Caitlyn says. “I’ve never had a friend like you before.” She squeezes my arm.