Breakable (5 page)

“Stacy–”

“Just
leave it, okay?”

“I’m
not… Did you get hurt?”

“I’m
fine. I tripped. Everyone laughed. End of story.”

“He
tripped you, you mean?”

“I
said, leave it alone!”

“No!
You shouldn’t have to live this way! Why don’t you talk to the teachers again?
Or…or just avoid him?”

I
gaped at her then. “Seriously? Did that work for you?”

Her
face tightened but she didn’t speak.

I
rolled my eyes. “It doesn’t work to just “avoid” them, because they find me.
And it doesn’t work to tell the teachers, because Finn and his friends just get
more careful
and
get more mad at me. So until you have a better idea,
shut your face.”

“I’m
trying to help.”

“Well,
you aren’t.”

She
dropped her head in her hands. I turned away, pacing the tiny room, suddenly
full of pent up energy. She didn’t get it, which was crazy. How had she had it
so much easier when we were living the same life? And why did she refuse to
tell me about the future, except in the vaguest terms?

The
tiny, twisting fear I’d always had suddenly clicked into place. “Maybe I’m nuts
after all.”

“Don’t
you
ever
say that!” Older Me hissed.

I
whirled. “Why? Because your precious husband thinks you’re cuckoo?”

“Don’t.”

She
hated when I brought that up. Her husband had had her committed last year. But
they only held her for three days. It had scared her though. And to be fair,
she was right – I didn’t want to think about that happening to me. That I might
not be able to convince professionals I was sane.

So,
why wasn’t she helping?

I
stormed back to the mirror, finger aimed at her chest. “No matter how much I
ask, you don’t tell me what’s coming. No matter what I go through, you won’t
explain anything until it’s already happened. What good is it being able to
talk to you if you can’t even
help
?”

“I
help you all the time!”

“That’s
crap!”

“I
helped you understand what happened with Dad! I told you everything I knew
about why Mom was so screwed up.”

That
much was true. She’d helped me through Mom’s constant jibes, and when Dad
stopped showing up for visits – or even sending birthday cards… But how did I
know I hadn’t just picked that stuff up somewhere else? Twisted it in my mind
to make it come from her?

I
shook my head. “Maybe you’re just the voice of my subconscious. A complete
figment of my imagination.”

“Don’t
talk like that.”

“Maybe
you aren’t really my future. Maybe you’re just some wacky idea of what my brain
is scared I’ll become. So it’s putting you in front of me to taunt me–”

“Stacy–”

“–because
it doesn’t make sense otherwise. What point is there to knowing your future if
your future self won’t tell you–”

“I’M
HERE TO HELP YOU DO IT BETTER!” she screamed.

I
gaped. She’d shocked me out of my rant. I’d never seen her yell before.

We
were both silent. She stood at the mirror’s surface, breathing so fast her
shoulders heaved.

“You
don’t get it, Stacy. You just don’t. And you won’t until you’re on this side of
this stupid glass.” She flicked her finger at the mirror and her image rippled
again. I swallowed hard.

“I
don’t think–”

“Would
you just listen, for once? Please!” She closed her eyes. When she spoke again,
her voice was softer. “Somehow…somehow I’m here. God, or whoever, put me here
with you. You’re not crazy. And neither am I. And even if you don’t feel like
it, I am helping. It’s my job to help you avoid the mistakes I made. Everything
I tell you, or don’t tell you, is
intended
to help you make better decisions
than I did when I was your age.” She stopped, biting her lip. “When you’re in
my shoes, you can make different choices if you want. But I’m here, and I’m
doing the best I can.”

I
hated those reminders that she’d once been in my shoes, on this side of the
mirror. I only knew it from a couple slips she’d made over the years. If she
was reluctant to talk about my future, she flatly refused to talk about her own
past. Honestly, it wasn’t something I wanted to hear much about. I’d hate being
her – knowing what was coming and having to talk to someone about it. But I
knew if I was ever on that side of the mirror, I’d tell my younger self
everything. Warn them about
everything
.

Her
eyes lifted to meet mine. But before either of us could say anything else, she
hissed a curse and whirled. When she turned back, her face had paled.

“I
shouldn’t have yelled,” she whispered, her hands closing to fists. “He heard
me.” Her voice caught.

“Tom?”
Her husband.

She
nodded. “I’m sorry, Stacy. We’re going to have to finish this later.”

“But
we haven’t even talked about Mark and…”

But
there was no point saying anymore. I’d be speaking to thin air.

I
blinked once, twice. Then bit my lip. She was gone.

Mark
was gone too, in a way. Everything was changing.

In
fact, right then it felt like the only constant in my life was Finn and his
sycophants, always waiting, ready to pounce.

Inside
I was glass in a vice, the edges cracking under the pressure.

Mark,
hunched on his bed, hands in his hair.

He
needs me.

 Mark,
rising out of the car, curling his arms around Karyn.

The
space behind my ribs that should have felt full of my heart, thumping as it
was, threatened to splinter and fall away.

My
hands shook again. It got harder to breathe.

Panic.

I
couldn’t be in that room a second longer.

I
flipped the lock back and rolled the door open. I needed air. I needed space. I
needed to be away from this place.

I
saw it in my head then, what it would be like now Mark was with her. How he’d
spend more and more time with her – even at school. How he’d lean down so she
could whisper in his ear, and they’d laugh. How I’d never know for sure if they
were laughing at me.

How
she’d fill his eyes and his hands, so he’d never question her. Never have time
to think about anything but her perfect, silver beauty.

Oh,
gawd, I had to get out of there.

I
stumbled down the hallway, heedless of my heels on the linoleum, uncaring if
anyone came to investigate the strange hitching sounds coming from my aching
chest.

I
shoved through the fire doors too hard and they swung back, almost to the
walls. If they’d thumped, I’d have been done. But I caught them before they
could thunk together in the middle of the hall, eased them back into place, and
took a breath.

This
hallway emptied into the back of the foyer, facing an emergency exit. But this
end of the foyer was dark. If I could just make it across to the exit without
anyone seeing me, I’d be home safe. I could cry, and draw, and try to figure
out what the hell I was going to do now.

So
I slipped to the end of the hallway and peered slowly around the corner.

Along
the wall between the foyer and the auditorium, two, wide double-doors yawned
open. Darkness, music and the babble of a hundred voices leached out. The bass
thumped under my feet. Voices drifted across my hair.

But
it was the light and dark that stole my breath again.

Because
Mark hadn’t returned to the dance.

Twenty
feet from where I peered around the corner, the bright, fluorescent lights of
the foyer silhouetted two forms leaned against the opposite wall – one small
and feminine, the other tall, masculine, looming over her.

His
head started to turn towards me, but her hand came up to catch his chin.
Whatever she said, he smiled and tipped his hips forward, pressing hers back
into the wall.

His
fingers slid into her hair as her tiny hands trailed down his chest, under his
open jacket, and she smiled. Said something too low to be heard over the
hubbub.

He
answered by leaning down, pulling her face up to meet his–

I
shot across the darkened floor, took the bar on the door with my arm, slamming
it home so the door would give under my weight.

Then
I was out in the dark, in the night, running across the parking lot to Mom’s
car, trying desperately to ignore the pains in my chest, the cracks screaming
deep in my middle. Trying to see through the tears so I could drive home…

Chapter Six

Doc
is paying attention now. He's forgotten himself and leaned forward, elbows on
his polyestered knees. "It sounds like Karyn took pleasure in you finding
out about her relationship with Mark. Was she aware of your feelings for
him?"

Blink.
Oh, right. He’s pretending he doesn’t care that I talk to myself in the mirror.

I
sighed. "Yes. At least, I think so."

"Did
you tell your mother about these events?"

Hell
, no. "No."

"Why
not?"

I
roll my eyes. "All Mom cared about was that I didn’t embarrass her."

Doctor
frowns, but I can see the light turn on behind his eyes. A dysfunctional mother-daughter
relationship is his bread and butter. "What made you feel that way?"

Oh,
please.
“Just little
things.”

“Like?”

“Like…She
wasn’t interested in understanding how things were for me. She wanted me to
conform. Be like everyone else. Be normal."

"And
how did she define “normal”?"

Scoff.
“Wearing the right clothes, belonging to the right groups. Being popular. You
know, high school stuff.”

The
finger on his moustache freezes. "I see."

"Do
you?"

He
meets my eyes and nods. "Yes, I think so."

Awkward
silence because I don’t believe him.

He
sits back in his chair. “Can you give me an example? From around that time?”

I
snort. “Take your pick.”

“Just
tell me the first one that comes to mind.”

That
was easy.

When
I walked in the door at home that night after the dance, I was already
composing a sketch in my head. Not one for my workbook. One for my personal
collection. One in which a cartoon Karyn’s eyes were nothing but crosses due to
the axe blade protruding from her skull. I was debating blood dripping off hair
versus blood trailing down her nose when I walked into the kitchen to grab a
glass of water to take to my room. The only light seeped in from the dining
room. Mom must have left it on.

Once
I had my water, I headed that way so I could turn it off. When I rounded the
corner past the kitchen, I was treated to the sight of my mother in her robe,
sitting at the table. That was odd enough to stop me in my tracks. Mom left the
house every morning before five. Even on the rare occasions I went out, she was
usually in bed by eight.

Though
it was late for her, and she was ready for bed, she was her usual, sleek self,
with her near-black hair twisted into a perfect bun, her black-rimmed glasses
on the end of her nose, the shape of the frame highlighting her cheekbones. I
didn’t know how she found them. But they looked perfect on her. Then again,
everything did.

She
sat, rigid, at the dining table, staring at something.

My
phone.

My
heart dipped, bounced off my lower abdomen and returned to its rightful place
where it sped off, thumping painfully.

“Mom,
what are you doing up?”

“Who
is sending these, Stacy?” Mom held up the phone, screen bright with a text
message.

“You
opened my messages?! Those were private!”

Mom’s
face remained impassive. She turned the phone to herself and began to read. “Oh
em gee. You’re so fat and stupid. Stop throwing yourself at guys.
Everyone…h-eight…hates you.”

Mortification
started at my hairline and cut through every nerve ending on its way to my
toes. “Mom–”

“Bow
wow. Go home dog.”

I
swallowed. But she wasn’t finished.

“Hey,
Fugly. If you really want some, you can have this.” Her eyes finally lifted to
meet mine. “There’s a picture attached of a boy’s penis. At least, I think
that’s what it is. He isn’t the best photographer. And frankly, in a year or
two, he’ll realize what he’s got there isn’t really anything to be proud of.”

I
knew I should laugh. She was mocking whoever had sent it. But she didn’t smile
and I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t find any thought except,
tell
me they’re wrong.
She was my mother. She should look at stuff like that and
reassure me. Right?

“What
is this, Stacy?” Her voice was cold. Any hope I’d had that she would make this
easier curled up its toes and died.

“I…uh…it’s
just. It’s joking stuff. I tripped at the dance and a guy fell on top of me.
They’re…they’re just teasing me about it.”

One
of her eyebrows slid higher. “Do teenagers routinely send photos of their genitals
to each other? I thought that was just a Dateline special?”

I
shook my head. I couldn’t answer that. My cheeks flamed. I’d learned a
long
time
ago to set my phone not to automatically download images, and not to open any
attachments.

Mom
dropped the phone to the tabletop and sat back, chewing the inside of her lip.
She sighed. “This is so…”

Awful.
Undeserved. Unfair. Wrong.

“…disappointing.
You have to learn to stand up for yourself, Stacy! I mean, life isn’t going to
get easier out of high school. You know that right?”

I
swallowed new tears and nodded.

“No
one’s going to hand you respect. You have to earn it. Demand it! You can’t walk
into a room of teenagers looking like last year’s leftovers and expect them to
admire you.” She flipped a hand at my now bedraggled appearance. “It starts
with how you look, then you tell them what to think of you, then you act like
you own the world. That’s the only way to get through this life without being a
loser. Do you want to be a loser? Like your father?”

I
closed my eyes. “No.” I couldn’t make it sound strong.

Mom
dropped her face into her hands. “It seems like everything I say goes in one
ear and out the other. You think I just want to hear myself talk?”

Sometimes.
“No.”

“So
why do these kids feel like they can do this? Why aren’t you on that phone
giving as good as you get? Why do they feel like it’s okay to do this to you?
What did you do?” She indicated the phone and my jaw dropped.

“Me?!
What did
I
do?” She thought I
wanted
this?

Her
stubborn, questioning face didn’t change.

I
couldn’t handle any more. I stormed over to the table, grabbed the phone and
made for my room.

“Stacy,
I’m not finished!”

“Well,
I am.”

I
slammed the door into the hallway over her frustrated growl and ran to my room.
Throwing the door closed behind me with a satisfying bang, I threw the phone as
hard as I could, so hard I grunted with the effort.

It
smacked against the wall and tumbled to the floor, the screen a starburst of
cracks. But the stupid cover stopped it from falling apart. It just lay on the
carpet, green light blinking to let me know yet more of my classmates had taken
the time to get in touch.

I
needed a bumper like that for my heart.

Doc’s
face is blank. When I close my mouth, he doesn’t move immediately. And when he
does, it’s a simple tilt of his head, as if he’s listening to something I can’t
hear.

Then
he takes a breath. “Did she ever confront you about the phone again? Or mention
the texts?”

I
shake my head. “A couple days later she left a new card for my phone with a
note telling me to change the number and not give it to anyone except Mark.”

“Did
you do that?”

“No.
I cracked the screen really bad when I threw it. It never really worked right
after that. And since it had just become another way for people to taunt me, I
just stopped using it.”

His
eyebrows climbed almost to his hairline. “At seventeen years old you stopped
using a cell phone?”

“What
choice did I have?”

His
inability to come up with a better answer is satisfying. But it also lowers my
defenses. I find I’m suddenly desperate, again, for someone – him – to tell me
those texts were wrong. To tell me I was strong.

But
I know what’s coming. I can’t need his approval. I have to be sufficient. Sane.

His
lips purse under the light fringe of his mustache. “I’m sorry that happened to
you.”

I
tipped a shoulder. The fire in my scars made me wish I hadn’t.

"Stacy,"
he says quietly. "I'm here to help you. You know that, right?"

They
are simple words, but the well of emotion that springs up in their wake
surprises me. I am suddenly hopeful and afraid in the same breath.

“I’m
on your side, Stacy. No matter what else happens, I want help you.”

No
matter what
. Does he
mean it? No one’s ever said that to me before.

I
swallow and start talking so I won’t cry.