Breaking Beautiful (5 page)

I want to say more, but the teacher, Ms. Flores, walks in. She ignores Blake, but I’m not so lucky. She makes a big fuss about me being back in school and how everyone was so worried about me, and did I get the cards her seventh graders made? By the
time she gets to the lesson, my head is spinning. How did everything get so mixed up? I’m back in school. Trip is gone. And I’m defending Hannah George to Blake.

He frustrates me so much sometimes—like saying no one in this town has ever given him a chance. Okay, he may be right about that. Blake has been the center of small-town scandal since before he was born, because his mom, Phoebe, ran away with the high school drama teacher the night of graduation. When she came back, nearly two years later, she was a drug addict and pregnant with Blake. She left him with his grandma, but every few years her maternal instincts kick in and she reappears in his life long enough to mess it up again.

One of her motherly episodes earned Blake a criminal record when she swept him away to live with her and her new husband in Reno. Blake was there for about eighteen months—six months longer than his mother’s marriage. He got arrested for breaking and entering, and spent some time in juvie before his grandma brought him home. By the time he got back, my life had changed so much that we didn’t fit together anymore.

I wish I could blame his mom for what happened between me and Blake. But it was my fault.

With his hood pulled up gangsta-style and his flagrant disregard for Ms. Flores’s demonstration of pastels, Blake isn’t doing much to change his reputation.

But I remember a different Blake. Expert kite flyer. Always making grand plans. Excited over caves and rocks and seashells. And the summer I turned fifteen—awkward for both of us. My family had spent a few weeks in Pacific Cliffs every summer for as long as I can remember, but when I was twelve, Dad was
posted to Germany and we went with him. It was three summers before I saw Blake again. I knew how much my body had changed in that time. Worse, I knew Blake saw it, too. Andrew was sick most of that summer—getting over a scary bout with pneumonia—so it was just me and Blake.

Then there was the thing with Trip, the kitten, and the crab cage. After Trip left, Blake was fuming. He was so sure that Trip had trapped Sasha on purpose to get my attention. When I defended Trip, Blake sounded almost jealous. He stomped back to his house and left me standing in my doorway with a wet kitten wrapped in Trip’s T-shirt.

I didn’t see Blake again until the day we left. He showed up at my door and asked if I wanted to go to the beach.

For that afternoon, it was like no time had passed. We flew a kite and played in the waves—talked and laughed the way we had when we were little kids. Then we went to the cave that had been our hiding place for so many summers. The awkwardness crept back in when I sat on the ledge in the back and he scooted close to me. He put his arm over my shoulders. “Texas again, huh?”

“Yep.” I tugged the front of my shirt up higher, but I didn’t move away.

“How long?”

“I’m not sure.” I could feel him watching me, but I couldn’t look at him. I jerked a thread off the bottom of my cutoff shorts and rolled it between my fingers. “Dad only has a couple of years until he retires.”

“And then what?”

I kept rolling the thread between my fingers. “Here, I guess.
He promised Mom we’d live here when he got out of the Army.” I looked up and caught Blake staring at me, hard, intense. And I couldn’t look away.

“You guys here all the time would be cool.”

“Yeah. It would be.”

Then he kissed me. My first. Probably his, too, but it didn’t show—somewhere between a movie kiss and a quick peck. It was beautiful and amazing and perfect.

After we went to Texas, I waited for a phone call, or an e-mail, something. When I didn’t hear from Blake, I thought the kiss didn’t mean as much to him as it did to me. I didn’t know his mom had dragged him off to Reno until we came back the next summer.

Then Trip came along and I didn’t think I needed Blake anymore.

Big mistake.

If anyone at this school has a right to hate me, even more than Hannah George, it’s Blake.

Chapter
5

“Allie.”

I roll over, still half-asleep, and jump when I see his face
.

“
Open the window.”

I put my finger to my lips and listen in the direction of Mom’s room. Silence. I slip out of bed, make sure I miss the squeaky floorboard, and slide the window open just a crack. “Trip, you scared me to death.”

He slips his hand through the crack and opens the window up farther. A breath of cold ocean air blows in my room. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all day.” His face is in the shadow, so I can’t read his expression.

I cross my arms over my chest, feeling exposed with no makeup, an oversized T-shirt, and no bra. “I was helping Mom clear out Grandma’s house.”

“You should have told me where you were going.” His voice echoes through the quiet of my room, but I don’t dare shush him. “What took you so long? Who else was there?”

“No one.” I should be flattered by his concern, but something in his tone makes me nervous.

“I need to know where you are.” He pushes the window open all the way, so hard that it bangs against the frame. I glance at my door, wondering what would happen if Mom caught Trip in my room. He doesn’t climb inside. Instead he pushes something smooth and black across the windowsill. “I got you something.”

I take it from him. “A phone?
”

“
I got it this afternoon. I added you to my plan
.”

“
Thanks, I
—”

“—
my number is speed dial two. Try not to lose it.”

“Allie.”

I sit up in bed, not sure if the voice was part of my dream or if it was real. I try to focus in the dark, and strain my ears.

“Allie.” It’s a guy’s voice. Not Dad. The rumble of an old truck, like Trip’s, passes in front of my house.

Electric prickles run down my spine.

“Trip?” I whisper toward the window, my heart racing. Then I remember. That’s not possible.

My clock says 12:38. The last thing I remember is lying on my bed after school. I’m still wearing the clothes I put on this morning. No one woke me for supper.

I’ve almost convinced myself that the voice was my imagination when it comes again. “Allie.” But it’s a different voice, a little girl, or maybe a boy. A long pause. A woman answers, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. My whole body is shaking. I am going crazy. For a minute I think about how old this house is, or who might have lived here before. But I don’t believe in ghosts.

The kid’s voice is back. I swing my legs off the bed and look
out my window again, expecting or maybe hoping to see someone passing by, but all I see is misty rain under the porch light and a deserted street, no sign of the truck I heard before.

“Allie,” the child says. My hair stands on end at the base of my neck and around my scar.

The stone is still in my pocket, pressing against my thigh. I touch it and stand up, following the voice past the ghostly image reflected in my mirror, down the hall. Listen again. Nothing. I creep closer to Andrew’s door and lean my ear against it.

“Allie.” It is Trip’s voice.

I throw the door open. Andrew isn’t in his bed. There’s a light in the corner, on top of his desk. He’s there, hunched over his computer.

“Andrew,” I whisper loudly. He jumps and nearly slides out of his chair. He’s in sweats, and not strapped in, which means he got himself out of bed after Dad put him there. “What are you doing?”

“Did … I … ?” he begins.

I cross the room. “Wake me up? Scare the hell out of me?” I move closer to see what he has on the desk in front of him. It’s flat and black and electronic looking, about the size of a notebook or a small laptop.

He slides his hand across the screen and the voice I heard before says, “Sorry.” Up close the voice sounds electronic and not as much like Trip, but it still sends a chill through my whole body.

He changes the screen a couple of times, traces down, touches the screen again, and “sorry” comes out in the little boy’s voice.

The tension gets to me and I laugh. “What is that?” My voice sounds too loud in the quiet room.

He pushes the board toward me. It says DynaVox, the company that makes the augmented communications device Andrew has been wanting.

“A communicator? You got it?” I slide my finger down the smooth side. The communicator has a touch screen with a bunch of pictures and a menu of voices.

His whole face lights up with excitement. He reaches for the device and I push it back to him. “This … one?” He moves his finger down the screen and then touches it with his finger. “Allie,” it says in the voice so close to Trip’s.

Icy fingers slide down my spine. I shake my head.

His smile fades. His hand shakes as he moves his finger down the menu. The screen changes to letters. He touches T … R … I reach over and cover his hand with mine to stop him. I can’t stand to hear the voice say Trip’s name. Andrew sighs and bobs his head. He changes the menu so I can see a list of different voices. I touch “young woman.” Andrew presses another part of the screen. “Sorry” comes out in a high-pitched woman’s voice.

Andrew rolls his eyes and shakes his head. He slides his finger down the menu and chooses “elderly woman,” then pushes a box that says “Allie,” in a voice that reminds me of Grandma.

“Definitely you.”

Andrew grins. He shakes his head and starts to giggle like a little kid. I reach for the board. He tries to keep it away from me, but he’s laughing so much that he loses his balance. The screen falls onto his lap and slides down his legs and onto the floor. He reaches for it and starts slipping out of his chair. I grab his shoulder to keep him from falling out but he’s too big for me. We both end up in a heap on the floor.

Andrew’s laugh consumes his whole body. I laugh, too, but the sound is hollow, like an electronic laugh from the communicator. I lean my head against his chest. We used to lie on the floor all the time when we were kids. I would tickle him, and he would giggle until his whole body shook.

He reaches up and touches my hair. “Okay … now … Al?”

“Trying.” I close my eyes.

“Sorry,” he says in his own halting voice. His fingers brush the scar on the back of my head. His leg twitches. He pulls his hand away with a jerk, and he catches my hair between his fingers.

“Ouch,” I say, but I don’t move. I can feel his breath and the quick thump of his heart under my cheek. It feels so nice that even when my legs go numb, I don’t want to move. Instead of going back to my room I pull a couple of blankets off Andrew’s bed. I cover him with one and then curl up next to him.

“Missed ya, sis,” he says softly. We’ve never been apart our whole lives, but I understand. With Trip around, I spent less and less time with Andrew.

“Missed ya, too,” I whisper back. With his heart thumping under my ear, I fall asleep.

Chapter
6

I sit with Hannah and her crowd every day at lunch. Not really by choice. Hannah walks me from class to the lunchroom so I’m stuck. From the outside it might look like I’m part of their group now, but they don’t voluntarily include me in their conversation and I don’t speak up. I’m more of an extra chair at the table.

I pretty much tune out what they’re saying anyway—gossip about the school and sometimes the town. The people they talk about are familiar, but they might as well be talking about aliens. I’m so disconnected, have always been so disconnected, from the normal part of the Pacific Cliffs combined school, that none of it matters to me.

I thought it would be different. I was a stranger during my summer visits, but I had hoped that once we really lived here, I would be accepted. I dreamed about being part of a crowd—
any crowd. Trying out for cheerleader, or sports, or the school play. Maybe even doing the Beachcomber’s Queen contest. Mom talked about high school a lot, about what it was like to know everyone in town, to have a bunch of friends, and how cool it was when she won the pageant.

Before we moved here, Pacific Cliffs was my haven—the “home” that would always be there no matter how many times we moved. I used to calculate how old I would be when we lived in Pacific Cliffs for real. Being the “new girl” all the time made the idea of living where everyone knew you seem like a dream.

I didn’t know how bad it could be.

“… so gorgeous,” Hannah says, “makes me want to speed past the billboard on Willow Street just so he’ll pull me over.”

“Who?” My interest is piqued, thinking about what Dad said about the special investigator. Hannah stares at me—the vacant chair speaks—maybe she forgot I was here.

Megan shakes her head. “Detective Weeks, the new cop.” She looks at Hannah. “She has a ‘thing’ for him.” Hannah blushes, something I didn’t think she was capable of.

“But he’s totally old,” Angie throws in. “Like thirty or something.”

“Twenty-seven.” Hannah even has a pretty blush. “Not that old.”

“He is hot.” Megan points her fork at Hannah. “I’ll give you that.”

“But old.” Angie rolls her eyes.

“Not that old,” Hannah says again, and flips her hair over her shoulder.

“He probably won’t be around very long anyway. He’s just here because …” Megan looks at me and then takes a bite of her hamburger instead of finishing her sentence.

“He said he likes it here,” Hannah huffs.

“You talked to him?” I shouldn’t ask, but I’m curious.

Hannah shrugs casually, but smiles at the same time. “I sat by him during a town meeting. Something I had to do for Beachcomber’s. He’s nice.”

“Oh, yes, very nice.” Megan fans herself.

“She did more than talk to him.” Angie leans in. “She followed him to Westport so she could watch him surf.”