The Face (3 page)

“Is your mom okay?” I asked, squeezing the door handle.

Ivan swallowed hard. “I don't know. I heard her sobbing all night. Their bedroom is right next to mine.” He lowered his voice to keep it from cracking again. “Bad break for me, huh?”

I didn't know what to say. Ivan's parents had been battling for months. Adriana gave me reports almost daily. They fought and fought, but neither would move out.

No wonder Adriana and Ivan were so nervous and crazy.

I peered out the window at the dark trees and houses whirring past us. Whirring past so rapidly.

A blur of black shadows against blackness.

I realized Ivan was driving too fast.

“Ivan, please—” I started.

We bolted through the stop sign at Canyon Drive. He didn't seem to notice.

“Ivan—slow down!” I cried.

“I—I just can't take it anymore!” Ivan shrieked. His eyes were wild. He gripped the top of the wheel with both hands. “It's too much, Martha! Too much!”

“Ivan—no!”

I gasped in horror as he let out another cry.

And spun the wheel hard.

“I can't take it!” His words a wail of pain, shouted over the roar of the engine.

The car squealed, tires scraped as he floored the gas pedal.

Spun the wheel. Spun the car.

Spun us.

Spun us around.

And aimed.

Screaming the whole time. Screaming out the pain from deep inside him.

Screaming as we spun.

I covered my eyes as the enormous black trunk of a tree loomed in the headlights. Ivan was heading us toward it.

Ivan is trying to kill us.

My last thought. My last thought on earth.

“O
h!” My head hit the roof hard as we bounced over the curb. A shock of pain shuddered down my body.

We bounced again. And again.

And slowed to a stop.

I uncovered my eyes.

My hands shook. My whole body trembled.

I gasped for breath, trying to slow my pounding heart. I rubbed my head, still throbbing in pain.

“Ivan—”

“I' sorry, Martha!” he cried.

“We're alive,” I murmured. The words tumbled out. I wasn't thinking clearly. It was all still a blur. A dark, bouncing blur.

“We're alive, Ivan.”

“I'm so sorry.” A sob escaped his throat.

And without realizing it, I had turned. And I was holding him. Holding him in my arms. Feeling his body shake beneath his leather coat.

“We're alive.”

“I turned the wheel. I—I couldn't do it. I couldn't go through with it,” he stammered.

I held him tightly, pressing my cheek against his. “We're alive. We're alive.” I couldn't stop chanting it.

“I wasn't really going to do it,” Ivan murmured, his voice shaking. “Not really. I wouldn't do it.”

I could feel him start to calm down. If only my heart would slip down from
my
throat!

“I'm okay,” he said abruptly, almost coldly.

He pushed me away. “I'm okay now, Martha. Really.”

I slumped back into my seat and glanced out the window. We were in the middle of someone's front yard. A porchlight cast yellow light over the front door. But the house was dark.

“Ivan, maybe you shouldn't drive,” I managed to choke out.

“I'm okay now. Really. I'm fine. I'm fine.”

A hard, cold look tightened his handsome face. He narrowed his eyes. Stone-faced now. As if he were fighting away all feelings.

He slammed the car into Reverse, and we bounced back onto the street.

His face remained frozen in that cold stare as he drove me home.

He didn't say another word.

“Your brother is really messed up,” I told Adriana.

It was Saturday afternoon, and we were up in my room. A gray February afternoon. Dark clouds threatening snow.

I had the window open despite the cold. My room is always hot. The cool air felt good. A strong breeze fluttered the curtains.

“Huh?” Adriana sat at my dressing table, trying out blusher and lip gloss and other stuff from a new makeup kit my mom had given me. “This is too pale for me, don't you think?”

I cleared off my desk and set down a large drawing pad. I planned to sketch this afternoon. Some self-portraits maybe. Adriana's visit was a surprise.

She seemed bored. Kind of restless.

I kept saying things, but she only half-heard me. I wondered what was really on her mind. But I didn't really feel like asking her.

“Ivan is not in good shape,” I repeated. “Yesterday afternoon—”

“Who
is
in good shape?” Adriana interrupted bitterly. She pulled out a handful of tissues and started wiping the blusher off her cheek. “I have such dark skin. This just doesn't work.”

I turned and studied her reflection in the mirror. “You look kind of tired,” I said.

“I still can't sleep.” She shook her head. Started to apply a shiny lip gloss onto her full lips. A gust of wind fluttered her dark, curly hair.

“Ivan said you went to a doctor,” I said, trying to sound casual. Adriana didn't like for people to pry. Even a good friend like me.

I think she was embarrassed about her family problems. Her parents' endless battles were humiliating to her. She gave me almost daily reports. But I never got the feeling she wanted me to question her about it. So I didn't.

She sighed, staring at herself in the mirror. “Her name is Dr. Corben. She's trying to teach me self-hypnosis. You know. To help me get to sleep. Sometimes I can do it. Sometimes it doesn't work.”

She yawned as she started to rub off the lip gloss. “I have to keep practicing.”

I watched her reach for another tube. Then I flipped through the blank pages of the drawing pad. I opened the desk drawer and pulled out a handful of charcoal pencils.

“Do you have the history notes?” Adriana asked, turning to face me.

“Excuse me?” I couldn't hide my surprise. “You want
my
notes?” Adriana was the straight-A student. Not me. She'd never asked for any notes of mine before.

Pink circles formed on her cheeks. She turned away. “I—I haven't been able to concentrate too well in class. You know. I've been so tired and everything. I missed some things.”

She seemed so embarrassed. So … troubled.

I pulled my history notebook from my backpack and handed it to her. “Here. No problem.”

“Hey, thanks.” She stood up to leave. I took a step back. She's so much taller than I am. I always feel like a ten-year-old next to her.

I followed her to the door, still troubled about Ivan. Still hoping to tell her how messed up he was.

“Ivan gave me a ride home yesterday,” I said. “Adriana, I think he needs some kind of help. He seemed really out of control. I mean—”

She turned at the bedroom door. “Martha, come on. You know what my brother's problem is.” She rolled her eyes.

“Huh?” I searched her face, trying to figure out what she meant.

“Ivan's problem is Laura,” Adriana explained.

“You mean—”

“Ever since Laura broke up with him, Ivan has been acting like a total jerk. Sometimes I just want to smash him!” She swung the history notebook as if batting someone.

I thought about what Adriana was saying.

Laura Winter is another friend of ours. With her sleek, black hair and shimmery blue-gray eyes and perfect cheekbones, she is the most beautiful girl at Shadyside High.

Laura is so beautiful, she's had some national modeling jobs. Everyone at school is convinced that someday Laura will move to New York and become an actress or a modeling superstar.

Ivan never could believe that Laura wanted to go out with him. And neither could we.

When they started going together, it was the talk of the whole school.

I always thought that Ivan was more serious about their relationship than Laura. Going out with Laura helped him forget about the ugly battles at home.

I was never sure why Laura decided to go with Ivan. Every guy at Shadyside High had the hots for her.

Then, sure enough, she dumped him last winter. She was pretty cold about it too. At least, that's what Adriana reported.

Ivan never talked about it with me.

“Ivan is still in shock,” Adriana said, pressing the history notebook against the front of her sweater. “Months later, and he still can't believe that Laura isn't crazy about him.”

“Has he called her?” I asked.

Adriana shook her head. “No way. He's so stuck up, I think he's waiting for
her
to call
him!”

Adriana laughed. Sort of an empty laugh.

I didn't join in. Ivan had nearly killed us both the day before. I knew that his problems were no laughing matter.

“Adriana, someone should talk to Ivan,” I said.

Her brown eyes flared.
“You
try to talk to him.” Her voice sounded angry. “He's impossible.
No one
can talk to him.”

“But, Adriana—” I protested.

Her expression softened. “Don't worry about him, Martha. Ivan can take care of himself. You're such a nice person. You worry about everyone but yourself.”

She gripped the notebook with both hands. Her eyes locked on mine. “We all just want for you to be okay. Don't worry about Ivan.”

She turned and disappeared down the stairs.

I started after her. “I
am
worried about Ivan. I don't think he can take care of himself. You don't realize how upset he is.”

That's what I
wanted
to say to Adriana.

But I stopped in the hallway with a sigh. Adriana didn't want to discuss Ivan. She didn't want me interfering in her family life.

I stepped back into my room. The clouds outside the window had darkened to a deep charcoal color. The wind gusted, making the curtains flap against the wall.

It's freezing in here, I realized. I shut the window and straightened the curtains, pushing them back into place. Then I made my way across the room to my desk and sat down in front of my fresh, clean drawing pad.

I pulled back the cover and tucked it behind the pad. Then I sifted through the pile of charcoal pencils till I found the narrow point I wanted.

I always find a brand-new drawing pad kind of exciting. I mean, there it is. Empty and clean. Waiting to be filled up with something that's never been seen before.

I'm pretty talented as an artist. I have a good eye for drawing. And my line is pretty clean.

I take special art classes at the state college in Waynesbridge. My teachers all think my talent can be developed.

I'm trying to put a portfolio together. Mostly portraits. I need it to apply to the special summer art program at the college.

I rolled my desk chair away and slid it against the wall. I like to draw standing up.

I shut my eyes and tried to clear my mind. Tried to clear all thoughts about Ivan and Adriana from my mind. Tried to clear
all thoughts
from my mind.

Then I gazed down toward the desktop at the drawing pad, at the fresh, white sheet. Raised the pencil. And started to draw.

A face, I decided. I'll draw my face.

The pencil scratched against the surface of the paper. I started with eyes. I always start with eyes.

Whoa. Not my eyes.

The eyes I drew were oval. My eyes are kind of round.

Leaning over the desk, I gazed down at the eyes. They seemed to stare up at me.

I filled in the pupils. Dark pupils. Serious eyes.

I swept the pencil over the pad, creating a light outline of the head. The basic shape.

Not my head, I saw.

A slender face. With those dark, serious eyes.

“Hey—what's happening?” I murmured out loud. “Who are you?”

My hand moved quickly now, filling in details.

Wait. No.

What was happening?

The charcoal tip scratched the paper. It seemed to be moving on its own.

Out of my control.

My hand—it curled over the paper, moved in short circles, dipped and rose up. As if drawing by itself.

As if drawing without me.

As if guided by a ghostly hand, I continued to draw. Staring down in amazement—in fear—I let my hand finish the drawing.

I knew I couldn't stop it.

I
was breathing hard by the time I finished the portrait. My hands were sweaty, my fingers cramped.

I don't know how long it took. But I knew that I'd never drawn anything that fast in all my life.

Resting both hands on the desktop, I leaned over the pad and stared down at the face I had drawn.

A boy's face.

Not someone I knew.

Not someone I recognized.

He had wavy, dark hair. One tangle of it fell over his narrow forehead.

He had those dark, serious eyes. Gloomy eyes. Deep, troubled eyes.

The nose didn't go with the eyes. It was too small and kind of turned up.

I lowered my gaze and discovered that I had drawn him smiling. The smile didn't go at all with the gloomy eyes. He had a pleasant smile. Thin lips. A small cleft in his chin.

“Wow,” I murmured.

Was this someone I had seen before?

He didn't look at all familiar.

Was it just a made-up face? Not the face of a real person? Just a creation of my imagination?

I studied it closely, still breathing hard. Still feeling the pull of the invisible force that guided my hand.

The portrait had so many details. The face seemed like such a real face. Such a
specific
face.

I studied the dark strand of hair falling so casually over the forehead. My eyes scanned lower. I had drawn a dark, round mole on the boy's right cheek.

A mole?

I had never drawn a mole before on any of the portraits I had done, imaginary or real.

Never.