Breakable (29 page)

Mark
grabbed my sleeve. “Where are you going?”

“The
nurse. I’m sick.” I tugged it out of his grip and marched down the hall with my
eyes on my shoes. Over our heads the bell clanged.

This
hall led to the main lobby at the front of the school. If I just kept going,
ignored all the wicked smiles and jeering, I could tell the nurse I didn’t feel
good. I was already shaking. Probably pale. Puffy from not enough sleep. She’d
believe me. I could get out of here.

“Stace?”

I
shook my head. If I let my teeth loose they would chatter. If he hadn’t seen
the letter already, it wouldn’t be long. I didn’t want to be there to see the
horror dawn on his face.

Mark
muttered another curse and took hold of my arm, pushing ahead, walking in front
of me and opening the crowd. I kept my eyes on his fingers touching me and
committed the sensation to memory because I was sure it was the last time
that
would happen.

We
reached the lobby and it was full of people. Odd, since the bell had rung. Then
Mark gasped and froze. I ran into his back.

“Stacy,
turn around. Get out of here.” His words were flat. Toneless.

It
snapped me out of the clouds. My guts twisted to braids because he wouldn’t
sound like that if was nothing to do with me.

I
looked up. There were students everywhere, pressing in on the noticeboard wall,
peering over each other’s shoulders, laughing, pointing, gasping, whispering…

“Is
that her?”

“Oh
my–”

“She’s
such a freak!”

The
babble rose in waves, everyone turning, looking for me with a morbid
fascination I’d learned to recognize years ago.

I
looked at Mark and he looked at me.

“What
is it?” My voice broke.

He
shook his head and tried to pull me away, but it only made me more determined
to see. Had Finn posted my letter there?!

I
jumped and stretched and yanked my arm out of Mark’s grip, but I couldn’t see.
There were too many tall guys at the front.

I
trembled. “Mark, please leave.”

“What?
Why?”

Mrs.
Callaghan’s voice rose above the babble of student voices. “Step back please and
let me through. Go to your classes now, please. Step
back
.”

A
girl pushed out of the crowd, her eyes wide and a huge smile on her face. She
whispered something in a friend’s ear and the friend gasped. They both looked
at me, then ran down the hall.

Oh
no. Oh no, no, no, no, no.
“Mark,
please leave. Now.” It came out in a breath. I don’t think he heard. I had to
get up there and get the letter off the noticeboard.

“All
of you! Leave! Now!” Mrs. Callaghan shrieked – and she wasn’t a shouter. This
was bad. This was very bad.

I
pushed forward as everyone else pressed back. Mark called at me to leave,
bodies pummeled me, then – just before the last two guys moved and I could see
what was in front of them – my foot hit something slick. My leg slipped forward
and I almost fell over. Mark caught my arm and steadied me. We both looked
down.

There
was paint on the floor.

A
mixing cup lay on its side on the linoleum, crudely mixed white and red paint
spilling from inside it. Slick, foot-width lines said more than one person had
slipped in it already.

Pink?

For
a second it felt impossible to lift my eyes from that mess. Maybe if I didn’t
see it, it wouldn’t be real. But I had to know.

Mark
had stepped gingerly over the paint, easing himself between me and whatever was
on that wall.

My
eyes snapped up and my heart stopped. His hands came up to stop me, but I
pushed him aside. And there it was.

Someone
had tacked my painting to the wall.

Except
it wasn’t my painting anymore.

When
I left the easel room yesterday, the nearly square canvas showed a flat,
accurate, painted representation of me. Nothing special. Nothing spectacularly
bad.

That
painting was still there, but now there was a crudely drawn cock-and-balls
pointing right at my mouth. Mark swore and reached for the painting over my
shoulder, but I grabbed his arm. I had to see it all.

Diagonally
across the top, in jagged capital letters and obscuring most of the zero behind
my painted head, CRAZY STACY LOVES DICK screamed out from the canvas.

And
on either side of it, the notices, posters and announcements had been cleared
so the brown pinboard perfectly framed two copies of the letter.

I
couldn’t stop reading them. Couldn’t stop looking at the hate in those words on
the painting. Couldn’t believe I hadn’t predicted Finn despising me like
this
.

Then
Mark squinted and leaned forward, his lips moving silently as he read the awful
words on that page. He froze and turned to look at me, open-mouthed shock on
every line of his gorgeous face.

I
couldn’t feel anything from the neck down. I watched my arms lift and tear the
letters off the wall, watched my hand take hold of the canvas on the corner
where it was dry. Watched my other hand take the other corner.

Mrs.
Callaghan’s lips moved, but I couldn’t hear her.

Mark
got in my face, but I couldn’t hear him anymore either.

There
was a short circuit somewhere and all I could do was hold on to the painting so
no one else could put it anywhere. I needed to go home and be alone. Be safe.

 I’m
not sure if I said that, or they just figured it out because Mark let go of my
arm and Mrs. Callaghan – looking on the verge of tears – nodded and headed for
the door ahead of me.

I
was three steps into the lobby before I realized there was still a crowd of
people there. It almost ended me. I froze and felt Mark press into my back. But
the warmth from his chest made the ache so strong it might flip my insides out.
So I stumbled forward, carrying the painting awkwardly, away from my body so I
wouldn’t get the paint on my clothes, crying because of what they’d done and
crying because I loved him and he didn’t love me and if he had I wouldn’t have
cared about the rest.

I
tried to ignore the smiles and the whispers, the too-bright eyes, and the
shaking heads. Right then, right there, I wanted to be dead. Nothing.
Untouchable.

Someone
said my name. It bubbled toward me like air through water. But I didn’t want to
hear it. Pretty soon I could run and since I was crying, everything passed in a
literal blur. I hit the bar on the double-doors and ran across the parking lot,
wondering why my name kept bouncing off the air behind me. But I didn’t have
any answers. I had to get home. I had to be alone. Maybe I needed to kill
myself because, if it could get worse than this, I didn’t have it in me to
survive anyway.

Chapter Thirty-Five

I
don’t remember the walk home, or how I got into the house with the painting in
my hands. I don’t remember anything except seeing that it wasn’t even nine
o’clock in the morning and already I felt like dying. I walked into my room and
found Older Me in the mirror, her face shifting from surprise to horror.

“What
happened? What’s wrong?”

For
a second I considered ignoring her completely. But…no. Let her see what she’d
done with her lies.

I
dragged the chair from my desk into the space in front of the mirror and placed
the painting on it.

When
I stepped back, her eyes followed me first. But then she glanced down, and all
color drained from her face. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. Didn’t speak.
That suited me.

I
pulled the curtains, got in bed, pulled the quilt over my head.

A
minute later she cleared her throat. Spoke softly. “It’s okay, Stacy. You’re–”

“Shut
up!” I screamed at the cotton over my face. “I’m not listening to you. I can’t do
this anymore! I’m done!”

Her
breath was audible. “Stacy…I didn’t–”

“Shut
up
! Just. Shut. UP!”

There
was a massive bang and for a split second I thought Older Me had come through
the mirror. Somehow she was alive and here with me, and maybe that would be
awesome.

But
when I threw the blankets back and sat up it was Mom in the doorway, in her
pajamas, panting, eyes so wide they were white all the way around. She had one
of her long-necked vases in her hand, brandishing it like a club.

What
was she doing there? 

Oh,
crud. It was Monday.  Her sleep-in day. She’d been woken up by my
screaming.

Farkle.

“Who
are you yelling at?!” Mom panted, still frantically scanning the room. 
“Who’s here?!”

“No
one,” I breathed.

“Stacy
Watson, WHO IS IN THIS ROOM WITH YOU?”  She ran to the closet and threw
the door open. Older Me cursed as she swung out of sight.  Mom buried her
head inside, then backed out and checked behind the curtains even though they
were only halfway down the wall. She even opened some drawers and got on the
floor to look under my bed.  The whole time she had that vase – dripping
water – clasped so hard her knuckles turned white. 

I
couldn’t do anything.  I just watched.  Then she got up from the
floor and stood over me, face red and twisted with rage. 

“Who
were you yelling at? Where are they, Stacy? Why aren’t you at school?”

“There’s
no one–”

“You
were yelling
at
someone!”

“Leave
me alone!”

“You
skip class to come home to sulk and yell at yourself in the mirror?”

“It
isn’t like that!”

“Stacy,
if any of the neighbors heard you, they’d think you were being murdered. For a
second
I
thought you were being murdered! WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON IN
YOUR HEAD?!”

Struck
speechless, I just huddled up in the blankets, hating her. Hating how worthless
she made me feel. Well, I’d kept the worst from her before, but now I’d show
her. Maybe I’d been going about this all wrong, trying to hide my social
failure from her. Maybe if I embarrassed her enough she’d give up and leave me
alone.

Scooting
out of bed, I skirted around her to the chair she’d shoved out of her way on
her rampage across the room.

“Don’t
walk away when I’m talking to you!”

I
scoffed and grabbed the chair, swiveling it around so the painting faced her.

She
opened her mouth to chastise me again, then her eyes fell on the painting and
she froze.

She
took one step closer. Then another.  She clapped a hand over her mouth,
but I could see her lips moving behind it, reading the words.  Finally her
eyes snapped to mine and she dropped her hand.

“Did
someone else do this?”

My
jaw dropped.  “Do you think
I’d
do it?” 

She
stared at the painting again, shaking her head.  “Stacy… why do they hate
you so much? What did you do?”

Oh.
My… She thought it was my fault.

She
thought it was
my
fault?!

A
fracture started behind my navel, the brittle pieces shivering, on the edge of
letting go.  I hunched forward because it hurt and I didn’t want her to
make it worse.  But Mom was talking again. And even through the haze,
pieces of her tirade sifted in.

“I
can’t believe this. You’re a…a mess. A laughing stock. No wonder the other
mothers act so awkwardly when they come in…”

“…I
do everything I can to help you, and you just screw
everything
up…”

“…I
don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know how to fix you…”

“…have
you ever thought about how embarrassing it is for me
to have a daughter
who’s so…so…”

She
was so busy talking about herself, she never realized I was about to implode.

How
could she not see it?

Behind
the door, Older Me must have guessed.  “Stacy, I told you, she’s screwed
up.  Just let her get it out. Ignore her. She’s wrong.”

I
shook my head, but even I couldn’t tell which of them I was denying.  “I
didn’t do anything, Mom,” I managed. “I’m not the crazy one.” Somehow I got my
lips around the words. “These people are psychotic. They hate me. But I didn’t…
I didn’t deserve this.”

Mom’s
eyes came back to me, disbelieving. And that was all it took. 

I
gasped and hunched, wanted to throw up.  The cracking inside was so sharp.
So tangible. Mom kept talking, but I couldn’t take it in. I looked down,
wondering if my stomach would suddenly punch in and suck through itself, suck
me away into nothing.

That
might be nice.

But
no, my breasts still rose in front of my nose, my stomach still slid away from
my ribcage.  My feet were still planted on the carpet.

It
was just the
Me
threatening to
split open.

Then
Mom put her hands to her face and shook her head. “We need help.”

I
sucked in a breath. Couldn’t she see? She was two minutes too late.