Breakable (33 page)

I
remember this part vividly, the realization that the only way to get him off is
to hurt him. Quickly followed by the recognition of how close he pinned my
hands to his own most vulnerable anatomy.

I
remember stretching to reach, finding the soft spot, hoping it’s enough.

And
even though I know it is, it’s a relief to see his eyes widen, to watch him
fold in half like he’s been stabbed. I can’t help it, I clap.

He
totally deserved that.

But
then he shoves her and she tumbles out of view, into the wall the mirror is
leaning against and her head takes the brunt of the impact.

I
remember that too. It hurt like hell.

When
she slides to the floor and folds forward to hold her head, I can see her
again.

And
that’s when the second voice I’ve been waiting for arrives.

“What
the–?!”

My
heart sings. She needs to look up. She needs to see this! “Look up, Stacy. It’s
happening. It’s finally happening!”

“What
is going on?”

Finn
and Stacy both jump to convince Mark the other is the problem. But I can’t see
him yet. I bite my lip and taste blood.

Come
in. Come closer. Take him down.

Stacy
stumbles to her feet, takes a step toward Mark. “No, he hit me…” she’s pointing
at Finn.

Nothing
happens for a moment, then my heart soars. Mark flies into the frame, taking
Finn out at the waist. They thunk to the floor, struggling, lashing out,
punching…

“You
hit a girl?! You’re such a coward!” Mark is red in the face, his shoulders
rippling as he vents on Finn. I find I’m dancing on my toes.

“Stacy?”
My Mark’s voice finally cuts through and I realize he’s standing off to my
right. I look at him, pray this will work, and pull him over to stand next to
me.

“Just
wait,” I say quietly, squeezing his arm when he tries to move away. “Please.
Just…just do this for me and then I’ll do whatever you want.

There’s
a bang and clash from the other side of the mirror as the guys run into a stack
of easels and they tumble to the floor.

“What…?”
My Mark makes a strange noise in his throat. “How…?”

I
turn.

Mark’s
staring at the mirror.

His
jaw has dropped until it almost rests on his chest. He keeps trying to close
it, to speak, but he can’t. It drops open again.

I
look at the mirror, has it happened already? But no, the boys are still
fighting. Stacy’s still trying to get past them, holding her head, wavering.

“How
are you doing this?” Mark’s voice is hoarse.

I
turn. Could he be seeing…? No, that’s impossible. But…

“Stacy,”
he croaks. “How did you do this?”

“You
can see that?!” I gasp.

Chapter Forty-One

I
watch, fascinated, as my Mark – my older, wiser, skeptical Mark – gapes at the
mirror, horrified.

“Stop!”
Stacy screams, pulling my attention back to her.

Her
Mark freezes, one arm cocked around Finn’s neck. His head snaps up to Stacy,
but his eyes catch on us and he does a double take.

My
stomach twists into a thousand knots.

Finn
slumps to the floor as her Mark lets him go, straightens, staring at us. “How…?
What…?”

Mark
grabs my hand and I gasp because he’s watching. He can see! He’s fixed on the
image of his younger self, eyes so wide the white shows all the way around.

Then
his hand comes up. “That’s us… that day…”

Yes!
I can’t make my throat work, it’s
closing, pinching, pushing out tears. So I nod frantically instead.

“That’s
me,” both Marks whisper at the same time.

My
Mark turns, his face a mask of terror. “How did you do this?”

My
tears turn cold. I grab his arms as he tries to step back. “No. No I didn’t…
this is real, Mark. You have to be believe me–”

“Y-you’re
trying to make me think…how did you do this? Is that doctor in on it?” He’s
pawing at my hands, trying to push them off.

“No!
Mark, please! You have to–”

In
my peripheral vision I see Finn rise behind the Mark in the mirror, tackle him.
He’s left bleeding.

Mine
has seen it too. He’s frozen, aghast. I raise a hand to the scar at the side of
his lip.

“Remember?”
I breathe, praying,
pleading
with God to let him see that it’s real.

Mark’s
eyes finally slip to meet mine. I can see the uncertainty. The fear. And the
tiniest spark of belief.

My
tears return and I nod at the same time my younger self yells.

I
turn, releasing Mark. It’s reflex.

It
all happens too fast.

Stacy’s
holding her head, the guys tumbling around on the floor. But before I can take
a step, they crash into her.

She
screams.

“I’m
here!” It slips out of my throat, shrill and desperate. But my legs won’t move
fast enough.

Her
arms are out as she falls, her eyes holding mine, terrified.

I
try to catch her, wish for it,
need
it.

But
I’m too far away, and Mark screams, pulls at me.

The
mirror shatters, and even from four feet away I feel the tiny slices in my
head. I remember the tear and burn.

She’s
coming.

Then
she’s here.

Glass
patters to the floor first. Then Stacy lands, splayed, her hands barely
catching her weight before her nose reaches the carpet.

I
throw myself to the floor beside her, reach for her.

Her
head comes up. She stares at me through a mask of blood and pain.

“Yes!”
The word tears out of my throat.

The
Mark with me and one with her are both yelling – screaming our name.

I
reach for her and her horrified eyes watch my shaking hands approach.

“It’s
going to be okay,” I gasp, trying to believe it myself because there’s
so
much blood.
“They’ve seen us now,” I say. “You’re free.” My words are
barely more than breath.

But
as her body goes into shock and she begins to quiver, she looks over my
shoulder and gives a jerky nod. “S-so are y-you,” she pushes from between teeth
clenched in pain.

I
turn, catch sight of Mark’s stunned face staring at her and an impossible laugh
erupts from the only place left in me that isn’t dying.

But
when I turn back to give her my smile and tell her she’s right, it’s too late.

She’s
gone.

Chapter Forty-Two

Six
months later, in Little Stacy’s life

I
pressed the soft bills through the little window in the cabby’s bullet-proof
screen and waited for my change. Outside the car window a wide sidewalk was
littered in tiny pieces of color from people’s lives. A steady stream of bodies
flowed by, but none of their eyes turned towards the six shining glass doors at
the top of the stairs behind them.

The
gallery.

Posters
hugged both ends of the building, proclaiming “National Young Artist of the
Year!”

Mrs.
C. told me one of the half-dozen posters they printed this year featured my
portrait of Finn. I hope she’s wrong. None of these were mine.

“Hey,
kid!” The cabby was turned awkwardly to thrust a few coins at me. “I gotta go.
Get movin’.”

I
took the coins, opened the door and tried to pretend I was ready to do this.

The
second my feet hit the pavement, a wave of fear washed down my spine – like
cold water running off my hair.

The
thick, woolen jacket I wore covered me from neck to knees, hiding my dress and
my scars. I was tempted to keep it on all night. But the non-existent hairs on
my legs prickled, reaching for the sky. I needed to find warmth or become yet
another tragic New York headline. I took a reluctant step forward.

Six
months after the “accident” I could move a lot easier – though I still had to
be careful about twisting. So it was little trouble to trot along the pavement
and around the corner to the side door I’d been told to use. As an
exhibitionist I had to be there early, before the doors opened to the public.

There
were fewer people on the side street – and less light, too. As the late
afternoon sun dropped behind the massive face of the city, part of me wanted to
walk right past the dark little door on my right and find a cute,
hole-in-the-wall donut shop instead. But just as my steps faltered the door
came into view. I set my teeth and grabbed the handle.

It
felt like the building swallowed me as I stepped inside the black space of the
doorway, into a dark, narrow hallway lined with pipes and electrical cords. Two
minutes later, a door at the end of the damp hall opened to a dark corner of
the lobby. The bathroom doors were in a discreet alcove to my right. The dim
space of the service desk and cloak room to my left. Straight ahead, the lobby
opened up. Natural light from those glass doors brightened the broad space. But
between the red carpeting and the wood paneled walls, it kind of looked like an
old-fashioned movie theatre.

A
cute guy with trying-too-hard-hair emerged from the den of cubbyholes and
coats. “Do you have your ID?”

Oh,
right. I tugged the large, plastic card on a lanyard around my neck until it
popped out of the neck of my jacket.

The
guy scanned it and smiled. “Can I take your coat, Stacy?”

He
couldn’t have been much older than me. I shook my head and pulled my jacket
closer, like I was cold. Though, I suspected I’d be sweating before too long.
The room seemed almost stifling after the chill outside.

When
the guy opened his mouth again, I turned on my heel and pushed through the
nearest bathroom door. It smelled bright and clean. But the fluorescent
lighting in these places was never flattering, so I didn’t stop. I was through
the large, sliding door of the handicapped stall before I could think.

Old
habits die hard.

Sure
enough, the stall sported its own sink, and a small, square mirror directly
above it. I had to stoop to see my face, but I figured it was good a time as
any to check my make-up.

With
trembling hands, I wiped non-existent mascara smears off my cheek, and tried
not to think about Older Me.

Every
time I was alone in front of a mirror, the pangs started in my chest because I knew
she wouldn’t show up.

And
I also knew she was real.

I
missed her.

That
moment when I went through the glass, when she came for me… for a split second
I thought we were going to be together. But then she was gone. And she’s never
come back.

I’m
alone in the mirror now. After all the years sharing my reflection, it’s a
strange feeling.

I
took two more deep breaths, closed my eyes and turned away from the mirror.

It
was time.

A
few seconds later I dropped my coat at the service desk. The guy who took it was
the same guy who’d offered a minute earlier. I made a joke about changing my
mind, then ignored the way his eyes widened when my arms were revealed.

Luckily,
with the exception of my inside forearms, and the jagged line that started
between my breasts and ended under my right ear, the dress covered the worst of
my scars. It had taken three days and twelve different stores to find one that
was cut just right. But I did. And it was red – my favorite color.

So,
as the guy back-pedaled, the flirtatious smile dissolving like I’d insulted his
mother, I held my chin high and gritted my teeth.

Tonight
I was here to enjoy a measure of success. And no one was going to take that
from me.

Sending
up a silent prayer of thanks for Mrs. C. and her initiative in sending my
not-quite-finished portfolio to the judges without my knowledge, I walked into
the gallery to meet my future.

I
passed the first wall of the exhibition and kept moving. Then I passed the
next, and the next. I passed black and whites, pencil sketches, two sculptures
and an abstract oil painting taking up an entire panel.

I
passed a landscape artist, a horse-lover and someone who enjoyed creating
strange, fantastic silhouettes.

Everywhere
I turned there were new colors and new techniques, and for a second I was
transported away from my fear and into this amazing world of people far more
talented than me. I wandered aimlessly, taking it all in.

Then
I turned a corner and I was looking at myself.

I
froze. Nailed to the floor. I couldn’t speak or breathe because there was a
picture of me on the wall.

But
I didn’t paint it.

My
first thought was that someone was playing a joke on me – that after all these
months my tormentors were back, and had somehow infected even this place.

But
then I took in the pictures around the image and I
knew
.

Oh,
gawd, I knew.

A
handful of people huddled in a group, some pointing at the wall, talking, some
nodding, listening. I pushed past them.

Sure
enough, all three panels were familiar, covered in pieces I’d seen before – pictures
of light and movement that I’d envied at every step of their development.
Mark’s ability to imply the things on his canvases were real always astounded
me.

But
the one in the middle? I’d never seen it before. It was nothing short of
breathtaking. And it was
me
.

On
a clear background, I was depicted from the front. In stark, black lines, my
face tipped down until my chin almost met my chest. My hair (lush and flowing
in a way real life never delivered) fell over my shoulders – over my breasts,
because there were no clothes indicated in the stark lines.

There
one of my shoulders peeked through my hair. There my waist slid out of the
frame. There my eyes were downcast, but my lips curled into a smile.

I
was gentle, womanly, beautiful in a way I’d always wanted to be.

I
sucked in a shuddering breath, took a step back.

“Gorgeous!”
a female voice breathed to my right. “That’s stunning. How can he do that with
nothing but lines?”

“I
don’t know.” The answer left my lips without my permission.

The
girl turned with the hesitant smile of strangers stuck in the same space. She
peered out from behind thick, black-rimmed glasses, and a crocheted hat
pressing her hair against her cheeks. “Hi, I’m Shelley. Another finalist,” she
said nervously, flapping the ID card at her chest and rolling her eyes.

“Hi,
Shelley.”

Her
eyes darted to the picture, then back to me. Her mouth dropped open.
“Ohmigosh…is…is that… It’s you! Did you do that?” she gasped. “Because,
seriously, I think this is the best thing here. Like, I’m not joking–”

“No!”
I jump to interrupt her because… oh, man. I can see it now. Everyone’s going to
think this is my board. Everyone’s going to think this gorgeous piece is my
self-portrait. Then when they see my real stuff it will be a disappointment. My
stomach sinks to my toes and I wish for my coat to hide my arms.

Shelley
is looking back and forth between me and the picture, frowning. “I would have
sworn–”

“She
didn’t paint it. But it is her.”

His
voice came out of nowhere, from right behind me. My hair shivered and I was
pretty sure it was his breath. I couldn’t move.

Shelley
glanced at him, then at me. Her lips shifted from confused frown, to smile of
delight.

“Beautiful,”
she said. Then waved and was gone, sinking through the small crowd lingering in
front of Mark’s work.

With
a sigh, I turned. Then almost jerked back. Mark was
right
behind me.

He’d
dressed formally for the occasion, and I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit he looked
amazing. The suit framed his flat shoulders and trim waist to perfection. His
chest was broad under the glimmering grey shirt and lavender tie. I ached to
touch him, caught myself before I swayed into his arms.

“You’re
late,” he said quietly, his eyes twinkling.

“Yes.”
I raised a hand toward the picture. “Mark… this is…”

The
smile slid off his face. “Do you like it?”

“Like
it?!” I squeaked, drawing the eyes of the people around us. I had to clear my
throat so I could whisper. “It’s amazing. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He
shrugged, the light back in his eyes. “I wanted to surprise you. I did it the
day after the prom. After…
you know
. It’s what I wanted to talk to you
about that Saturday.” He looked away for a second, chuckling. “But we ended up
fighting. Then…then everything else. Anyway, by the time I could have shown
you, it was gone. When everything worked out, I figured it would be a nice
surprise.”

I
turned to look at the picture again and wanted to weep. It was so beautiful. It
made
me
look beautiful.

“It’s
stunning,” I murmured. “But it isn’t me.”

“Yes.
It is,” he breathed against my skin.

Mark
pressed a kiss to my neck, just below my ear, heedless of the ugly scar that
ended less than an inch away.

Tingling
and goose-bumped from neck to wrist, I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it
again. My entire back felt warm because he was there. As his hands snaked
around my waist and pulled me closer, it seemed nothing short of thankless for
me to insist that he’d done the truth a disservice in painting me so
beautifully.

“Are
you okay?” he asked quietly, true concern in his tone.

I
nodded, let myself relax back into him. Let his arms hold me close.

“This
is strange,” I said after a minute. “I didn’t think I’d be here.”

“But
you are,” he said, his deep voice rumbling against my back. “And so’s your
painting.”

Trust
Mark to get right to the bottom of what was eating me up inside.

As
soon as the words were out of his mouth, I tensed.

His
arms squeezed me closer, and I felt him tense, ready to stop me bodily from
running, if need be.

“Stacy–”
he started.

I
shook my head. “I don’t think I can.”

“Of
course you can. It’s just a painting.”

I
snorted so loud the woman three feet away jumped. I gave her an apologetic look
and returned my attention to his wall, trying to pretend I wasn’t imprisoned by
my boyfriend’s arms in public.

“It
isn’t just a painting,” I ground out between gritted teeth. “It’s… it’s the
picture of
me
.”

“It’s
a picture of the old you.”

“With
swearing,” I added.

Mark
chuckled. “C’mon,” he said, releasing me from the hug, but keeping one of my
hands firmly grasped in both of his. “I’m going with you.”

“No,
I–”

“Stacy,
you know you’ve got to do it at some point. Might as well be now when there’s
only fifty people here, instead of five hundred.”

He
had a point there. But I hadn’t been kidding when I told him I didn’t think I
could.

“Mr.
Gray!”

Mark
sighed and turned – not letting go of my hand – as an officious looking man
with a sash on over his suit and thin metal glasses balancing on the end of his
nose, approached. One of the judges. And he had a couple less formal, but
equally arrogant men following him.