Breakable (8 page)

A
piece of white, lined paper, folded into a rectangle.

The
name
Mark
written on it.

In
my handwriting.

My
locker left unlocked when Finn made a scene. My wallet inside it. The note I’d
written Mark before the dance, when I thought…

The
truth came home to me with a crunch.

I
gasped and grabbed for the paper. But Finn yanked it away easily. Then he held
it over his head, feet above my reach.

“Finn…
please
…”
I sounded pitiful. But I couldn’t care less. If Mark ever saw that. If anyone
else
ever saw it…

“Tsk,
tsk, C. Sloppy leaving your
precious
sitting around where anyone could
find it.”

“You
STOLE that you stinking a–”

“Don’t!”
he spat, his free hand snapping forward to grab my shirt. Karyn gasped.
Unadulterated fury twisted Finn’s face and I stumbled back, suddenly sure he
would pound me into the floor.

He
yanked me to a stop. We stared at each other then; me breathing hard, his face
broken by a snarl.

There
was a strange kind of honesty in the moment.

“Who
else has seen it?” I asked quietly, all heat gone from my voice.

“Just
me,” Karyn said from behind me, her voice oozing every kind of delight.

Finn’s
eyes narrowed. “You and your ugly face already ruined my life once. I’m not
letting you do it again,” he ground out. “You say one word to Mark, and he’ll
find this in his locker.
After
copies go up all over school.”

“But…but
you could do that anyway.”

His
eyebrows waggled once. “I guess that’s a risk you’ll just have to take.”

Karyn
laughed. Finn and I locked eyes. It felt like he was a wall, sliding inexorably
closer. Right now, I could see it coming. But soon it would push into me, press
the breath out of my lungs, flatten me…

He
waved the paper at me once, then tucked it back into his pocket, eyes on me.
“Just keep that in mind.” Then he was striding up the hallway. Every so often
his laughter floated back to buffet my ears.

I
had to get that letter back. I
had
to.

When
Finn was gone, I wrenched my eyes from the spot where he’d disappeared and
forced myself to look at Karyn.

She
leaned back against her locker, surveying me through narrowed eyes. “He’s right
you know.
Finn’s cheating
sounds a little familiar, don’t you think?”

I
swallowed, unwilling to agree with her, but all too sure they were both
absolutely right. I could tell Mark anyway, make him believe. But the thought
of him reading that letter turned my stomach to stone.

Karyn’s
grin could have slid through my skin. She straightened from her locker and
turned to go. I grabbed her arm and she whirled on me.

 “Why
would you do this?” I asked. “Mark is
perfect
. And Finn’s so… Why would
you choose Finn over him?” I said, then cursed myself because my voice was too
soft to sound strong.

“I’m
not
choosing
Finn. Geez, you’re an idiot Stacy,” she snapped. Then,
yanking out of my grip, she started walking backwards towards the door, smiling
at me. “You’re right about Mark. He
is
perfect. And he’s mine, so you
can forget your little fantasy about him suddenly falling for you. He thinks
you’re crazy.”

She
turned then and threw her parting shot over her shoulder just before she pushed
through the door. “Finn is fun. I like having fun. If you weren’t such a loser,
you’d understand. Instead, you’ll just have to suck it up. Because no one would
believe you anyway.”

Then
she disappeared outside.

I
was left standing there, at the site of what should have been the turning
point. The place where everyone – Mark! – should have learned the truth about
who Finn and Karyn really were.

So
why was I the one left staring at the ground, wishing I’d done things
differently?

Chapter Ten

Mrs.
Callaghan made a very pointed look at the clock when I finally made it into the
art room, but said nothing.

Mark’s
eyebrows slid up as I slumped into the seat next to him. Luckily I could avoid his
questions because Mrs. C. was lecturing.

“…young
apprentices often spent years emulating their masters, trying to replicate the
exact images made famous by their heroes and mentors. An attempt to teach
themselves greatness through mimicry…”

Images
of Karyn and Finn plastered against each other danced in my head, taunting me.
Poor Mark. When he found out she was cheating – and with Finn! – he’d feel like
such a tool. Would he hate me for being the one to make him see the truth? Or
would he be grateful?

I
glanced at Mark. He doodled absently on the cover of his sketchbook, his long
fingers wrapped around the pencil, the tendons on the back of his hand standing
proud, pulling taut when he moved it in short, confident swipes. Slowly, a
stylized bird took shape under his hand.

“…later,
their best work often employed the
techniques
of the great artists, but
applied them in totally new way, or thus far unexplored medium. Take Cezanne
for instance…”

I
picked up a pencil and leaned across the desk so I could reach Mark’s
sketchbook. He looked at me, but didn’t say anything as I made broad strokes on
the space directly above his bird.

Our
hands swiped and cut across the paper in a duet that made my heart throb.

Unable
to resist, the round lines of what had I had intended to become a rugged hill
behind the bird were quickly exaggerated, given ears, flattened against an
angular skull, and wide, hateful eyes with dilated vertical pupils.

Teeth
and claws came next, jagged and bloodied.

My
demon cat pounced, caught in the split second before it drove his bird into the
dirt and devoured it.

I
grinned and looked at Mark. He rolled his eyes, but his smile hinted at
laughter.

Suddenly,
around us chairs screeched and voices rose. Everyone got to their feet,
comparing notes and ideas.

The
assignment. Right. Probably should have been listening for that.

“Okay,
you two.” Mrs. C. appeared at the other side of my table. Her eyes caught on
the drawing on Mark’s sketchbook and she shook her head. “Perhaps you should
try to use your powers for good next time, Stacy,” she said in a resigned tone.

I
shrugged. “We were just–”

Mrs.
C. held up her hand to stall me. “I want you two working on your portfolios. A
reworking of a classic is one of your requirements. If yours is already done,
move on to something else. We don’t have any time to waste.”

We
both nodded slowly. Did Mark feel the same chill of failure I did?

Mrs.
C. tapped on the desk, then fluttered away to help someone. Mark and I grabbed
our things and headed to the easel room.

Mark
set up immediately, right at the front of the room, his easel tipped to pick up
the natural light from the one, massive window that took up almost an entire
wall.

I’d
always admired his fearlessness. When I was just starting a piece (and probably
getting it wrong), I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else watching,
evaluating,
judging
. I always kept my easels facing the back of the room
– preferably a corner, so no one could see what I was doing.

Today,
this had the added advantage of giving me a clear view of Mark at
his
easel,
backlit by the light filtering through the window.

He
sat on a stool, one foot to the floor, the other curled up to rest on the
crossbar. His shoulder twitched and rolled as he ran a pencil across the canvas
in front of him, offering the sense of strength restrained. Contained. Put to
use carefully.

There
should have been something weird about a guy in a letterman’s jacket, sitting
in front of a canvas. Yet, I’d always been amazed by the way Mark could be so
consumed by art without losing what made him a guy. Somehow he gave painting
the same focus and masculine punch he gave basketball. And everything else.

For
a second I was reminded of Mark’s situation with his father – how Mark
had
to
use that strength to protect himself.

No
one should have to do that.

And
Mark shouldn’t have to deal with a fickle, cheating girlfriend, either. He had
enough on his plate.

But
if he was just using her to forget, like he said… would he care? If she’d been a
past girlfriend I’d have thought not. But there was something different this
time.

And
would he be mad at me for breaking them up if I told him? For that matter,
would he believe me? It wasn’t like I had any proof. And if I told him, without
any way to back it up, and Finn showed him the letter, wouldn’t he just think I
was trying to break them up because I wanted him?

Inwardly,
I groaned. I wanted to protect Mark. But if he dumped me because he thought I
was manipulating him, what was the point?

Unaware
of my staring, Mark sat up, rolled his shoulders, and frowned at the canvas.

My
breath came out in a long, slow huff. When he read that letter…

At
the sound of my sigh, Mark turned to look at me, curious. When he caught my
stare, he smiled. “What?”

I
swallowed. “Nothing. I was looking at the light shining behind you and thinking
about how to draw… that.”

“Huh.
Good luck. Did you see that study of light piece I did last semester?” He
snorted and returned to the canvas.

Yeah.
I remembered. We’d been required to take a photograph featuring light and
reproduce it on canvas. Mine had come out okay. Mark’s was incredible.

“What?
No snarky come-back?” he said without looking at me.

When
I didn’t reply immediately, Mark sighed and shook his head. “What is it with girls
and your stupid moods?”

I’d
heard that tone before. “Trouble in paradise? Already?” I tried for a grin, but
it kind of faltered and fell off my face. All I could see in my head was Karyn,
leaning into Finn. And both their smiles when they realized no one would
believe me if I told.

Mark
shrugged. “Not really. It’s just …” He sat up again and turned on his stool to
face me, gesturing with his brush. “You’re pissy with me because I offered to
help you with my friends. Karyn’s annoyed because I want to help you even
though you don’t want it. And Mom’s mad because I didn’t tell her about Karyn
before I asked her out… But you all smile and tell me everything’s fine. What
is it with you? Why are you mad all the time and pretending you aren’t?”

I
swallowed. “I don’t know about your Mom, but Karyn’s probably acting weird
because she’s afraid I’m going to try and break you guys up.” I bit my lip to
stop myself saying more on
that
. “And I was just tired on Saturday. I’m
not mad.” The image of myself, sitting in a circle with Mark and all his
friends turned my stomach – their sideways glances and whispered conversations,
laughing at me.

But
then… then…

Then
in my head I saw Karyn, sidling off into a corner with Finn when Mark didn’t
notice. And I
knew
he wouldn’t notice. He just assumed she wouldn’t hurt
him. The idiot.

“Uh,
actually... I’ve been thinking about what you said. I decided maybe it’s not
such a bad idea.”
Mainly because it gives me an opportunity to show you what
a cow your girlfriend is.

Mark
stared at the wall. “You guys are – wait, what?” He jerked to look at me. He
wasn’t smiling.

I
shrugged, uncomfortable. Had he changed his mind? “I thought about what you
said. About how I should talk to your friends more… I thought maybe it’s worth
a try.” I dropped my eyes to dig through my pencil case for a soft-leaded
pencil I could use to sketch. “It’s no biggie. I wasn’t sure, I just–”

“No,
no! I’m glad you changed your mind…” But he was staring at the wall again.
Definitely not smiling. “You said Karyn thinks
you’ll
break us up?” He
looked half-worried, half-amused. “Did I just walk into a soap-opera, or
something?” He raised his eyebrows and scanned the room, eyes wide with mock
fear.

I
threw a pencil at him and he ducked, laughing.

“Mock
me all you want. Girls get jealous. And the kind of girls
you
date won’t
believe we’re just friends.”

Mark
stared at me for a second, the exaggerated expressions fading. “Why wouldn’t
they believe we’re just friends?”

I
opened my mouth to respond, but he kept going.

“Are
they afraid my evil twin is about to be revealed? And you’re secretly a
neurosurgeon who freed us from–”

“Mark,
would you please shut up.”

“No,
no, hear me out. I think I have a future in television: See, you’re actually
the mad Doctor Danya, former CIA agent and–”

I
threw an eraser at Mark that he was only able to duck by virtue of being a
great athlete. But he overbalanced and his stool tipped. He was forced to slide
off it, arms windmilling, to keep himself from hitting the floor in a heap.

“Oh,
Mark!” I said sweetly, as he caught himself – and the stool. “You’re such a
paragon of grace.”

He
shot me a look as he righted the stool, but the smile he stifled made it to his
eyes. My heart kicked when he ran a hand through his hair and sat back down,
muttering, pretending to be angry. It hurt to look at him, so I turned back to
my easel.

This
whole situation just stank.

I
started half-heartedly sketching Mark’s silhouette, trying to capture the lines
of his shoulders and jaw with the light pulling their edges into sharp relief.
After a couple minutes I’d gotten so absorbed in the image in front of me, I’d
forgotten the conversation we had.

“What
did you mean by the “kind” of girls I date?” Mark asked quietly a few minutes
later.

I
blinked, shrugged, had to rewind the past few minutes in my head. There was
something uncomfortable in his tone. “I guess I just meant… the girls you date
are pretty popular. They’re used to being someone guys want to be with. Not
just a friend. And that’s how they look at guys, too. I think they don’t really
believe we can hang out without… you know…”

Mark
frowned. “But–”

“C’mon,
you know I’m right. Remember Fiona?”

Mark
had dated Fiona for three months the year before. She went to a different
school. They’d broken up partly because she kept irritating him with questions
about me. Questions, and barely veiled implications of cheating, or threats to
leave him when he did.

Mark’s
lips twisted. That break up had been particularly bitter. He never said
anything, but he acted weird – kind of stiff and uncertain – with me for weeks.
I always suspected she accused him of having feelings for me.

“Bad
example,” he said. “Fiona was insecure about
everything
…”

He’d
mentioned this before, about her and other girlfriends too. I didn’t see it.
From where I sat, the girls he dated walked around like they owned the place,
ordered any lesser mortals to do their bidding, and generally convinced
everyone they were perfect.

Sometimes
I wondered exactly how Mark defined insecure.

“…but
I know what you mean. Sometimes I think they’re right.” He stared at the canvas
in front of him, tone absent.

“Right
about what?”

“About
how guys and girls can’t ever
really
be just friends. I mean, how many times
do I make friends with girls just to see if I do want to date them? To kind
of…grease the wheels? ”

And
how many times did I wish Mark saw me as a wheel to grease? “Then I guess you
can’t blame Karyn for getting upset,” I said uncertainly. His words placed a
strange mix of hope and panic in my chest.

Mark
blinked, then turned to look at me. “Except for you,” he said, hastily. “I
mean, I wasn’t just…it’s never been–”

“I
know,” I said, rolling my eyes. “That wasn’t what I meant.” And while I
applauded myself for keeping my voice light and casual as I explained to him
that girls made that assumption about
me
because they knew guys thought
that way about
them
, inwardly I recoiled from the conversation. Because
finally I was facing an uncomfortable truth:

I
had become such a
friend
to Mark, he didn’t even see me as a
girl
anymore.

We
dropped into silence again and I attacked the sketch in front of me with
renewed vigor. It was official. I had
to final in this competition. I
had
to get to New York. It was my only ticket out of here, and away from
watching Mark choose someone else.

And
with that thought, a cold kind of comfort settled into the easy quiet between
us.

He
might not be mine. Not the way I wanted. But I was going to make sure he didn’t
belong to Karyn, either. Maybe I couldn’t tell Mark what I’d seen – yet – but
either I’d get that letter back, or I’d stick so close I’d be there when Karyn
and Finn screwed up. And I would make certain Mark saw it for himself. If Finn
showed Mark the letter, I’d say goodbye to him because I had to. But at least
when all was said and done, Mark would know who his
real
friends were.