Breakable (30 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

Doc
is watching me again. His body too still. “You seem…moved,” he says softly.

I
huff a breath. “That’s one word for it.” I am trembling, shocked by the pain
that still echoes in my chest when I remember this. “I guess… I guess I feel
like I should be past this – past the surprise of it. Every time I think I’ve
gotten used to the memories, something comes back fresh and it just…it hurts
again.”

Doc
chews the inside of one cheek. I’m suddenly vulnerable. I thought this part
would soften him. Open him up. But he’s closed the shutters on his face and I’m
scrambling.

It’s
almost two and I
have
to get out of here!

“Doc,
I need to go. Please. I’m telling you the truth.” Most of it anyway.

He
doesn’t meet my eyes, flipping through his notes instead. “Given what you’ve
just shared, I can understand your anger towards your mother. And even why you
may have created an alternate self to cope with the pressures you were facing.”

I
nod, even though it kills me. I didn’t create her. I’m sure of that now. But if
he needs to think that to feel like he can let me go, I’m okay with that.

As
long as he does it in the next 45 minutes.

“What
I don’t understand,” he says and his eyes finally come up to meet mine, “is why,
if she’s gone, you’re still afraid of mirrors. Or at least, pretending to be.”

His
gaze bores into me. I can feel his suspicions squirming through my head, worms
on the trail of a good meal.

“Stacy?”

“It’s
because…because of what happened next,” I say, hoping he attributes my
breathlessness to what I’m about to tell him.

The
thing I don’t understand is how he knows. Because this is the worst part, and
he has to have seen it coming.

Why
doesn’t he believe me like everyone else?

A
few months ago, Mom hit a bump in the road and her windshield cracked. Nothing
major, just a tiny little line that started at the bottom of the glass.

She
drove home, parked the car in the garage and made an appointment to take it to
the shop the next day.

Except,
when we pulled the car out the next morning, that tiny line had turned into a
jagged crack a foot long. And as we drove, it moved, sliding further, branching
off, until a third of the glass was marred by the lines.

When
we got it to the mechanic, he whistled and said we were lucky to have made it.
He said that crack was under so much pressure, that the tiniest bump from the
wrong direction could have broken it into a million pieces and showered us with
shards of glass.

Well,
half an hour after Mom stormed out of my room, slamming the door, I felt like
that windshield.

Crack,
crack, crack.

I
sat on the carpet in front of my mirror, my entire body froze in place.

If
I tried to move, I’d shatter.

I
couldn’t even cry. My tears were gone, though my face looked like I’d gone two
rounds with an allergic reaction. What was I going to do
now
?

As
if she heard the thought, Older Me sighed. “You know, we could sit here for a
long time discussing just how crappy that was…Or…”

Crappy
didn’t cover it. Crappy didn’t even
start
to describe it. I was an
embarrassment to my own mother. I was the laughing stock of my school.

My
best friend would cross the street to avoid me…

Oh,
my…

Mark.

That
was the last straw. I remembered the letter, then I breathed too hard, then I
broke. All the pieces inside snapped apart and fell away, tinkling to the floor
of my life and leaving a yawning hole where my heart should have been.

I
sucked in a breath, but nothing came. It just seeped out through my holes and I
panicked.

“Stacy?”

“Can’t…”
Heave, “…breathe…”

“Stacy!
Stacy, listen to me–”

“Can’t.”
Black shimmered around my edges, turning my room into a tunnel. Tiny sparks
flared and snapped across my vision.

Wheeze.

“Stacy,
you have to relax. You have to breathe!”

I
shook my head. My fingers clawed into the carpet, twisting until the tiny
fibers caught beneath my nails. But my balance wavered.

“Look
at me. Stacy, look at me!”

I
swung my head drunkenly, gasping like a fish, certain I was about to suffocate
to death. My heart pounded against my ribs, reverberated through my skin, in
the lights in my eyes, throbbed in my ears.

I
felt like I was going to die. And frankly, that had a plus side.

Older
Me knelt right at the mirror, her eyes wide. She had a hand on its surface. Her
face earnest and desperate in a way I’d never seen before.

“They
aren’t going to beat you, do you hear me?” Then I realized she was crying.

For
me.

“But…”
And my own tears broke. My vision blurred, I coughed, and suddenly I could suck
in air again – if only to shove it back out on a sob.

“I’m
not leaving,” she cried. “I am here to help you.” She sucked in a breath. “I
love you. Do you hear me?”

“But–”

“They
aren’t going to win. They won’t. In just a few minutes you’re going to wipe
your face clean, stand up and do this. And you’ll prove them all wrong.”

“D-do
what?”

“Win.
You’re going to win, Stacy. Do you understand? You’re going to take the crap
they’re throwing at you and turn it into something good. Something beautiful.
And you’ll win.”

“How?
H-how?”

She
closed her eyes and dropped her head for a second. When she opened them again,
they were full of tears. “Look at it, Stacy. Really look at it.” Her gaze slid
over my shoulder then and I turned, wiping my eyes.

It
was the painting.

The
painting of me that was plain and empty and devoid of life. The one with hate
scrawled all over my face.

How
apt.

I
blinked.

It
was still there – a forced, two-dimensional image of me covered by sabotage in
bright pink.

I
saw
it.

My
painting – with their words – had become more real, more representative of
Me
,
than anything I’d managed on my own.

It
told the story – the Me that didn’t look special. That didn’t have depth.
Nothing to appeal. And their words, their spite, their
hate,
scrawled
across it.

It
was what I’d been looking for all along.

How
could that possibly be?

Then
I looked at Older Me’s face and realized why she wasn’t talking. She wasn’t
worried, or afraid. She was…remembering.

“Oh
my–” I cut myself off.

Older
Me took a shuddering breath. 

When
she met my gaze, I knew.

“This
happened to you too…” I breathed.

Tears
welled in her eyes. She dashed them away with an impatient knuckle. But then
she laughed through the tears. “Yes,” was all she said.

I
swallowed. Awed. Angered. What else had I missed? But there was no time.

“The
p-painting. If I use it…”

“Yes.”
She nodded.

“Can
I do it?” My voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Yes,”
she said vehemently. “Absolutely. You can.” She swallowed. “Right now.”

“But–”

“Now,
Stacy. Don’t think. You know this will work. And…and it’s the way it has to
be.”

I
stared, but no matter what else had happened, I knew she was right. I nodded
and scrambled to my feet, holding onto the closet door until I felt like I
wasn’t going to fall over anymore. Then I turned for the painting, but stopped
myself. Turned back.

Older
Me still knelt on the ground, a world of pain and determination on her face.

“Older
Me–”

She
shook her head. “I’m okay, Stacy. I’ve already been through this, okay? I know
how it will end. Trust me.”

An
overwhelming urge to hug her took hold. But that was impossible. And besides,
if I was really going to do this, there wasn’t time. The deadline was today.
Mrs. Callaghan had to approve our submissions after school.

Ignoring
the tightness in my chest that was at complete odds with the sense of emptiness
in my stomach, I grabbed the painting and my bag and hustled through the house,
dodging furniture and walls with the still-wet painting.

There
was only one option left. Only one chance. It meant I’d have to face my
monsters. But there was no other choice.

I
had to get to New York.

Anger
kept me moving until I reached campus. Then the heat sputtered out and fear
returned.

Classes
were still in. Chances were, people would see me crossing the quad. Someone who
hated me would hear that I was here.

But
there was no other choice.

My
hands shook and I stumbled twice jogging across the quad, head down, skin
crawling because of the eyes I could feel on my back.

I
had to get to the art room. I had to get my portfolio together. I had to get
out of this town.

So
I ran.

And
when I reached the outside entrance to the art room, I didn’t slow down. I
didn’t flinch. I just opened the door and stepped inside.

Empty.

Shaking
with relief, I started across the room, then yelped as I ran into Mrs. C.
rushing out of the storage cupboard.

“Stacy!”
she panted, hand on her ample bosom. “I didn’t know you were here…”

She
trailed off as her eyes fell on the painting in my hand. Her jaw dropped
slightly.

I
was about to speak. To forestall her. I couldn’t talk about it.

But
when her gaze cut back up to meet mine, her face was soft. She swallowed. “Are
you here to work?”

I
nodded, gratitude and relief bringing tears to my eyes. Cursing, I wiped my
face on my sleeve, ready to tell her I didn’t need to talk. I needed to draw.

But
if there was one thing Mrs. C. didn’t question, it was the creative outlet as
therapy. She stared at me a second, then pushed her lips together and nodded.

“The
easel room still has the mirror in it,” she said quietly. “I’ll leave the back
door unlocked until the bell. But I have to make a decision then, Stacy. I’m
sorry.”

“It’s
fine. I know. Thank you.”

She
stared again and I thought she might say something nice. I didn’t want her to
because I didn’t want to start crying again. But she must have seen the fear in
my eyes because she nodded again and turned back to the cupboard.

Grabbing
my paints and brushes, I ducked into the easel room.

I
took the top easel from the stack with shaking hands. At first I headed for my
usual corner, but something tugged at me. Halfway across the room I stopped
and, leaving my back to the door, I set the easel up facing the light from the
window, like Mark always did. I pulled the mirror along the wall until it
loomed just a couple feet to my left.

Ignoring
my thumping heart, I picked up a random paintbrush so I had something to do
with my hands and stared at the awful painting, trying to see it as someone
else might.

But
all I could see was that I had I put myself out there for the world to see and
got a penis drawn on my face.

I
sighed. Now that I was over the shock, there was a strange kind of relief in
looking at the painting and knowing the letter was out. Horrific as the fall
out would be, they’d done their worst.

I
was alone now. But I wasn’t giving up. There was still one door I could walk
through. One worthwhile version of my future still waiting for me.

With
a deep breath, I picked up a different brush.

And
there, in the middle of the dark, yawning hole inside me, a tiny ball of hope
sprang to life.

The
clock said two-thirty-two. Still another half hour until the bell. Mrs.
Callaghan would come back. I had to get my painting on the boards so I could
show it as part of the bigger work.

I
stacked the three big portfolio boards on easels next to each other, then took
my still-drying painting and gently tacked it onto the space I’d left on the
middle board.

When
I stepped back to look at the overall effect, two things hit me. First, there
was still a big hole where the Mark picture was supposed to go on the left.
Secondly, my eyes were sucked to the self-portrait, just like I’d wanted. It
stood out, stark against the black and demanded attention. It screamed.