Breaking Beautiful (9 page)

Ms. Vincent is on the heavy side, with short brown hair and a pair of thick black-rimmed glasses. Her “office” was probably the health-room supply closet up until a few days ago. The quarters are tight, with just enough room for a little folding table, a vase of flowers so big that it looks ridiculous perched on top of it, a desk chair for her, and a hard plastic chair for me. Behind Ms. Vincent’s chair there’s a whiteboard and two markers.

“So, Allie,” Ms. Vincent says warmly. She tries to avoid staring at my scar. “How are you today?”

I erase all emotion from my face and stare back at her. I have one defense left. Silence. They can make me sit in this chair, but no one can make me talk.

She riffles through some papers. “I’ve been through your file. It sounds like you’ve had a pretty bad few months.”

I wonder what those papers say. Why should I answer if she already has all the information she needs to pass judgment on me?

“Maybe we should start with something easier and not go back so far. We could start with what happened last week.” She laces her fingers together. Her fingernails are painted red, and she has little jewels on each of her thumbs. “I’ve heard Hannah’s version of the story. Maybe you’d like me to hear yours.”

I blink.

She’s unfazed. She swivels her chair around in the sparse space and picks up a red marker. Fumes permeate every inch of her closet when she uncaps it. The smell brings forward the ache in the back of my head that’s always waiting for an opportunity to start throbbing. “Have you ever heard of the stages of grief, Allie?” She doesn’t wait for an answer: maybe she’s figured out she won’t get one. “The model I follow has seven stages.” She says them as she writes: “Shock and denial, pain and guilt, anger and bargaining, depression, the upward turn, reconstruction, and, finally, working through.” She turns back to me. “These aren’t always linear. Sometimes you can stay in a stage for a long time, sometimes you can revert back to an earlier stage, rarely someone will skip a stage altogether.” She caps the marker and sets it on the table. “What stage would you say you’re in now?” She rolls the marker back and forth on the table with her fingers.
The fluorescent bulbs above us hum. Ms. Holt coughs in the next room. Somewhere down the hall a ball bounces. “Do you mind if I take a guess?”

I keep my eyes on the jewel on her right thumb.

She uncaps the marker again and swivels back around. She circles the “anger” part of “anger and bargaining,” and then turns back to me with a smug smile. “In this stage, people do things they wouldn’t normally do. Hurt or push away the people who are close to them, kind of a defense mechanism, to keep from getting hurt again. Sometimes they even revert to physical violence, like what happened with Hannah. You’ll probably find yourself getting angry. Blaming what happened on your friends, your parents, God, or even”—she catches my eyes in her muddy brown ones—“yourself.”

My whole face gets hot, and I drop my eyes. I reach into my pocket, pull out the stone, and rub it between my fingers.

“What happened to your boyfriend wasn’t anybody’s fault. It was an accident. I know it doesn’t help that you were there, too. That you survived the crash, and, as I understand, due to some heroics on the part of Trip.”

I jerk my head up. Ms. Vincent smiles sympathetically. “Hannah told me that Trip pushed you out of the truck to save your life when he realized he was going over the cliff. Survivor’s guilt is a very common thing in this sort of situation.”

I blink. Is that what everyone thinks? That Trip saved my life and that’s how I ended up on the side of the road? Or is it something that Hannah made up so everyone would hate me more? Everyone thinks I have survivor’s guilt. What would they say if they knew what was really inside?

“It feels like you have a lot of bottled-up anger.” She glances down at my right hand, now wrapped so firmly around the tigereye that my knuckles are turning white. “I want you to try channeling that energy into something positive. Get involved at school. Do charity work. Do some kind of vigorous exercise. If it gets too bad, beat up your pillow.” She smiles and touches my fist. “And you can always call me.” She hands me a card with her picture on it, in a sharp blue business suit, without glasses and about fifteen pounds lighter. “I’m at the school the rest of this week and then available for counseling sessions at my office.”

She stands up to indicate that our session is over. I stand, too. She opens the door so Ms. Holt can hear us. “It was nice to meet you, Allie. Think about the things we talked about. We’ll talk again soon.”

I don’t wait until her back is turned to throw the card in the garbage.

When I step into the hall I almost run into James. He steps back quickly, like I was contaminated, and then glares at me. I look away from him and find that the hallway is a sea of angry faces. Amazing how quick the groupthink at a small school can change from sympathy to loathing. Your boyfriend dies and you’re the center of their compassion. Fight back against the queen and you’re public enemy number one.

I know what they’re thinking. They wish I had died instead of Trip.

A lone friendly face meets me at my locker. “How was—” Andrew starts.

“My appointment with Dr. Freud?” I jerk open the door to my locker. “Classic.” I push against the tower of books that’s
threatening to fall on my head. “She thinks I’m angry.” I yank out my English book and shove the rest of the stack back in so hard that a pile of papers slips off the top and scatters on the floor. “Dammit!”

“Angry?” Andrew is smart enough not to laugh, but there’s a smile threatening to bubble over.

“Shut up, okay?” I kneel down to retrieve the papers. “I don’t need it from—” The writing on one of the papers stops me. I pick it up and look at it closer—three words written in red marker.

We’re not through.

Fierce, slanty handwriting I’ve seen too many times not to recognize.

I lean against the wheel of Andrew’s chair for support. Andrew reaches for the paper, but he can’t bend low enough with the restraints on his shoulders. I crumple it in my hand, but he’s already seen.

He looks at my face. “What does it say?”

I use the arm of his chair to stand up. “Nothing.” I shove the paper into my pocket, next to the tigereye. “Somebody’s idea of a joke.”

“You should tell …” Andrew sounds as breathless as I feel. “Someone. I could—”

“Let it go, okay! There’s nothing you can do!” When the hall gets quiet I realize how loudly I yelled. Angry, just like Ms. Vincent said. The whole hallway turns and stares at me like they’re waiting for me to lose it again. I focus on Andrew. He looks like I hit him. “I’m sorry.” I bend down beside him, but he pushes
the control on his wheelchair and turns away. His shattered look brings back a memory locked in my brain.

“Let me tell. Let me help you
.”

“
There’s nothing you can do.”

I slump against my locker. The tardy bell rings, but I don’t care. I keep my books pressed against my chest to keep from trembling. I shouldn’t have yelled at Andrew, but I can’t tell him the truth. He’d never believe me. Even I don’t believe what I’m holding in my hand. It has to be somebody’s idea of a cruel prank, or revenge, something to scare me.

I’d know Trip’s handwriting anywhere.

Chapter
11

The dark presses against me from all sides. My eyes hurt from the strain of searching for any speck of light. The damp is almost as thick, and heavy with the smell of saltwater and seaweed. I’m in our cave, but I don’t know how I got here and I don’t know how to get out. No matter how far I go, I can’t find the little room with the light. I see a patch of white, vague and blurred, in front of me. I lunge toward it. Seaweed tangles around my feet and I fall forward. When I try to stand, I’m covered in it, but it’s not really seaweed. It’s a mass of red satin—heavy and soaking wet. It clings to me, covering my face until I can’t breathe.

I tear it away, sit up, and instinctively put my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. It isn’t the first time I’ve had this dream. The place varies: from the cliff to the beach, to the woods, and once I even dreamed I was in my old house in Texas. I’m always running from something. I’m always covered in red satin. I’m always trying to make it to a patch of white I can never get to.

It has something to do with the accident. I’m sure of it. But I’m afraid to find out what.

Half a snore and a cough come from the floor beside my bed. Andrew. He’s ended up on my floor every night this week, ever since I got the note in my locker. He hasn’t said anything else about it, but I know he’s worried. I can see it when he looks at me. Maybe staying in my room all night is his way of protecting me. His chair isn’t with him. That means he crawled and slid himself from his bedroom, down the hall, to get to me.

His eyelids flutter open. He sits up and does his backward crawl thing. Then he pushes himself against the wall on his good side. With one hand on my dresser, he slides up the wall, takes two labored steps, then half sits, half falls onto my bed. By the time he leans against my headboard and drags himself the rest of the way up, he’s out of breath.

“Tell me.” His voice sounds raspy, like he’s getting a cold. “Your dream.”

I lean against him and squeeze his hand, but I can only shake my head. The residue of the dream clings to me like the wet satin, but I can’t find the words to describe it to him.

I close my eyes, taking comfort in his bony shoulder against mine. Light filters through my blinds and chases the dark into the corners of my mind. The house is quiet except for Andrew’s breathing and my slowing heartbeat.

It’s Saturday. Mom said last night that she would be leaving early for work. Dad is spending today in Shelton helping an old army buddy who’s having car trouble. He’s probably already gone.

“Okay?” Andrew says.

“Fine.” I try to smile. “Just a dumb dream.” I slip from his
side, but make sure my pillow is still propping him up. “I’ll get your chair, and we can have breakfast.”

While Andrew gets dressed, I mix up a shake for him. Some days he needs help, depending on how much time he has and how he’s feeling, but today we’re taking it slow, so he’s okay. I do a lot of things for Andrew that most people would think were weird or gross—helping him get dressed or sometimes in the bathroom. For us it’s normal—the way things have always been.

Mom left a note on the counter. “Please pick up your room and do your laundry, and keep an eye on Andrew—he’s getting a cold. We’ll be home late.”

Mom freaks out every time Andrew has a little cough or a runny nose. It drives him crazy, but I have a hard time blaming her. He’s had pneumonia a couple of times—both close calls.

I don’t know what will happen if Mom comes home and finds out I didn’t clean my room. It’s not like there’s anything else she can take from me. She’s refusing to do my laundry now—that is, Dad told her not to—so I guess I should at least do that.

I kneel down on the floor and gather up the stray socks coated in fuzz and dust from under my bed. I add them to the pile of T-shirts in the corner, pull one of my bras off my desk chair, and dig a couple more socks out from under my desk. When I pick up my jeans I habitually dig through the pockets. Once last year I accidentally washed my cell phone. Trip was furious. It was an expensive phone, but I think he was more frustrated that he couldn’t keep track of me for a few days until he replaced it.

In the second pair of jeans, I find a piece of paper buried in the pocket. I catch my breath when I pull it out. It’s the note I found in my locker. I sink onto the bed and read it again.

We’re not through.

It looks like Trip wrote the note, but that isn’t possible. I stare at it for a few minutes, then I go to the closet, reach gingerly around the dress bag, and pull out the box where I kept everything Trip ever gave me—gifts, cards, wrapping paper, and all. The cards are on top. I pick up the first one:

To the most beautiful girl in the world, Happy Birthday!

It’s written in the same handwriting as the note from my locker.

I dig through the rest of the cards from Trip, comparing them one by one.

I’m sorry. I love you.
Will you do me the honor of accompanying me to prom?
Forgive me for being such a jerk.
Thanks for always being there, Love ya, Trip
.
Please don’t hate me. It will never happen again.

Most of the notes say the same thing, over and over again.

I’m sorry. It will never happen again.

Suddenly it feels like evidence. Evidence that everything wasn’t always okay between me and Trip. Evidence that I had something to hide. My heart thumps with panic and I scan the room. After what James said to me, and the note in my locker, everything around me feels like evidence against me. Pictures of Trip and me, notes that show our relationship wasn’t always perfect. A whole box of memories that condemn me.

I have to get rid of it.

I take out everything valuable: the jewelry, a digital camera, and an iPod Trip filled with our favorite songs, and put them in my top drawer, tucked safely beneath my underwear. Then I gather up every single picture I have of Trip, even the one from cotillion, hidden under a thin layer of dust on top of my hutch. I press them facedown in the box—laid to rest on a bed of tissue paper, pressed flowers, and lies.

I stop when I see the last picture sitting on top of my dresser. The one of Trip and me on the beach from the first summer we were together.

I pick it up and touch his face.

“I don’t want you to leave.” His breath tickles my neck and his voice makes my stomach do backflips. “This has been the most amazing summer I’ve ever had.”