Breaking Read online

  This was a mistake. All it’s doing is reminding me of what I can’t have.

  “I just wanted you to know that I didn’t … not call because I didn’t want to.” Jack clears his throat again.

  “And now you’re with Chloe.” I only say it because it’s the meanest thing I can think of.

  Jack’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “My dad thought it might help me move on. Someone new and all that.”

  I try not to make a face. According to Ariel, Senator Jack H. Calhoun Sr. believes that exercise cures mental illness and a hard day’s work can take you anywhere. He’s the kind of man who grabs life by the tail and smiles at strangers. He doesn’t seem like a bad guy. He just doesn’t like dark, complicated things. And he never understood why his only son was dating someone like Ariel, who was both.

  “I bet your parents love Chloe,” I say. I fog the passenger window with my breath and play tic-tac-toe on the glass. Perfect, uncomplicated Chloe.

  “They haven’t met her yet,” Jack says. “They want me to bring her to dinner.”

  Dinner at the Calhoun house is serious. Ariel was only asked once, and she and Jack dated for over a year.

  “Lucky girl,” I say.

  We stop at another traffic light. Jack is silent, and I know that he’s watching me. I keep my eyes on the window so I won’t look at him. I trace an O in the condensation. And then an X. O. X.

  Jack leans toward me, his seat belt pulling against his chest. “You have something …”

  He touches my hair and everything inside me goes still. I feel my entire body shifting toward him, like a flower turning toward the sun. He pulls his hand away, his thumb grazing the curve of my ear, and I have to bite my lip to keep from gasping out loud. His skin is smooth and warm, and there’s a callus on his thumb because he holds his pen wrong.

  “Leaf,” he says, showing me the small brown leaf he plucked out of my hair. He opens his fingers, letting it flutter in the space between us.

  That night I place the leaf beneath my pillow, like a kid with a tooth. I heard somewhere that doing this affects your dreams, and I want to dream of Jack. Jack’s smile. Jack’s hands. Jack’s voice.

  But I dream of the woods again. Shadows and laughter and running. Searching for the two people I can never find.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mother insists that we meet for breakfast before my next shift at the Med Center. She’s already waiting in a booth near the back of the cafeteria when I walk in, nose wrinkling as she sips her coffee. The Med Center isn’t known for its culinary excellence.

  “Amelia had good things to say about you,” she says, placing her mug back on the table as I slide into the seat across from her. “She said you’ve been doing well at the clinic.”

  I stare down at the soggy veggie omelet she ordered for me. Mother never compliments me. I have no idea what to say in response.

  Finally, I come up with “Yeah.”

  Mother unfolds her paper and flips to a story near the middle. She’s reading the Underhill Daily, a fourteen-page newspaper that rarely covers anything more scandalous than a tag sale at the library. I stare at the back page.

  “Did you get bored with the Wall Street Journal?” I ask, nudging a red pepper with my fork to make it look like I’m eating.

  “She’s rarely so impressed,” Mother continues, ignoring me. She turns a page so quickly that it rips in half. “Apparently, you’re showing a lot of initiative.”

  I chew on the inside of my cheek. That’s two compliments in less than thirty seconds. A record. “Um, thank you?”

  Mother glances at me over the top of her paper. “Are you going to eat that or play with it?”

  That’s more like it. I stab the pepper with my fork and put it into my mouth.

  “You’re looking so thin,” Mother says, shaking her head. She takes another sip of coffee and turns back to her paper, completely ignoring her own fruit plate. “Your English teacher mentioned that you got an A on your latest essay,” she continues. “ ‘The Destructive Nature of Man, as Depicted in Brave New World.’ Interesting topic.”

  I’m so shocked by the news that I’m getting an A on something that it takes me a moment to process my mother’s third compliment of the morning. For a fraction of a fraction of a second, I’m the daughter she always wanted. “Did you read it?”

  “I skimmed the thesis statement,” Mother says, narrowing her eyes at something in her paper. For a long moment, she doesn’t say a word. I scoot forward in my seat, trying to catch a glimpse of what she’s reading. She turns the page. “Do you really think it’s the nature of genius to move toward its own destruction?”

  I open my mouth to respond and then realize—“Wait. Ms. Antoine hasn’t handed our essays back yet.”

  “She sent me an e-mail.”

  That brief flare of pride vanishes. “You’re e-mailing my teachers? You don’t trust me to hand in assignments now?”

  Mother lifts an eyebrow, not bothering to explain herself. I make a face that she doesn’t see.

  “My point is that you seem to be improving.” She selects a single grape from her salad and holds it between two fingers, inspecting it for a moment before popping it into her mouth. “I’m impressed. I wasn’t sure you were serious about bringing your grades up.”

  “Does that mean I can stay at Weston?” My voice sounds casual enough, but I can’t stop tapping my fork against my plate. I don’t even realize what I’m doing until I tap too hard, sending a rubbery mushroom skidding across the table.

  Mother folds down the top half of her paper and stares pointedly at my fork. I set it on the table next to my plate and fold my hands in my lap.

  “You still have a week before the anniversary ball. We’ll see,” she says. “I’m headed out of town for a few days. My plane leaves this afternoon.”

  “Today?”

  “Just after lunch,” she explains.

  I don’t know why she’s bothering to tell me this. Mother’s always jetting in and out of town, usually without a word to me. Just a month ago, she left for close to three weeks and never bothered to tell me where she was. It’s the main reason I live in the Weston dorms instead of her tiny, hospital-adjacent apartment.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  Tight smile. “The board needs my help. It appears we’ve misplaced an important asset, and I need to see if I can locate it. I’ll be back for the anniversary ball, but I may not see you again before then. I’ll forward you my itinerary when I’m back in my office.”

  I resist the urge to reach for my fork again, just to have something to do with my hands. “Why?”

  Mother shrugs. It’s a stiff, sudden movement that tries and fails to look casual. “In case there’s an emergency.”

  I press my lips together. Mother has always said that “emergency” was just another word for “poor planning.” “What kind of asset—”

  “It’s not important.” Mother folds her newspaper and places it on the table next to her coffee. She taps her fingers against the tabletop—index, middle, ring, thumb. It’s an old habit, leftover from her days playing the piano. Her instructor used to make her practice scales, even when she wasn’t sitting in front of her instrument. She still does it when she’s thinking. Or nervous.

  “I have to make a meeting,” she says. “I’ll call you when I get back to town.” She presses her napkin to her lips, somehow managing not to smudge her lipstick, and stands.

  She hovers next to my chair before leaving. “Do me a favor and stay on the Weston grounds for the next few days, when you aren’t at the Med Center.”

  “Sure,” I say, not really meaning it.

  “I’m serious,” Mother says. There’s an edge to her voice, and I’d call it fear if I didn’t know her so well. “I’m aware that you and your friends used to wander through the woods together, but it’s not safe now that you’re on your own.”

  I pick up my fork again and tap it against the side of my plate. Sh
e’s never worried about my safety in the woods before.

  “Charlotte,” Mother says. I nod, which isn’t technically a lie. I have to search the woods for Ariel’s clue. Nothing is stopping me from doing that.

  She gives me a look as she pulls her purse over her shoulder, and then sweeps out of the cafeteria without offering any further explanation.

  I slump in my booth. I have a few minutes before my shift starts, so I reach across the table for her cup of coffee. She only took a few sips—it’s practically fresh. My eyes wander to her discarded newspaper as I drink. I pull it toward me.

  The local papers occasionally run stories about the Med Center and the work it does for the community. But I scan the headlines, and there’s nothing in the paper about the hospital. The most interesting story is about some forest fire in the woods not far from here. I turn to the middle of the paper and scan the short story. Fire at a juvenile detention center … no known survivors … have yet to account for every offender …

  I stare at the black-and-white photograph next to the story, letting my eyes blur until I can’t tell which black blob is smoke and which is fire. My two best friends just committed suicide, and my mother’s worried that I’m going to be attacked by an escaped prisoner from a juvenile detention center three hours from here. Dean Rosenthal and everyone else in this school seems to think I’m about to off myself, too. But not my mother.

  I tighten my grip on the paper, and it crinkles beneath my fingers. This is just like her. To focus on some unlikely, problem far away and completely ignore what’s happening right in front of her nose.

  I drop the paper on the sticky table and take another sip of her coffee.

  I push aside the plastic curtain separating an empty cot from the rest of the clinic. There’s usually a line of patients with broken limbs and deep cuts and bad burns trooping through the clinic but today it’s quiet. A nurse named Gene gives an older woman stitches on a bed next to the door. Our only other patient is the anonymous burn victim lying in the cot next to the windows. Amelia is transferring him to long-term care tomorrow.

  I check the cupboard next to the empty cot to see if there are enough sheets and pillowcases, and make a note of what I need on the tiny pad of paper I carry in my back pocket.

  A voice drifts in from the hallway. “… but what if we did some sort of memorial? Everyone could wear a white rose to the bonfire.”

  “I still think it’s tacky. She was Kyle’s ex-girlfriend. He’s probably devastated. Think about it, Viv. Wouldn’t you be devastated?”

  Footsteps approach. I look up as Molly and Vivian walk into the room. They’re both in navy-blue scrubs, like me, and Vivian carries a stack of pillows and sheets. They look strange without Chloe sandwiched between them. Like a puzzle missing its final piece. I have a sudden, crazy impulse to pull the privacy curtain in front of me and hide until they go away, but I don’t move quickly enough. Molly spots me and her eyes widen.

  “Charlotte. Hi.” She speaks slowly, like she’s talking to a toddler. Her eyes flick to Vivian, widen even further, and then move back to me. I resist the urge to groan. Does she think I can’t see her? “How are you doing?”

  “Fine,” I say. “Who died?”

  “Mary Anne Simmons,” Vivian cuts in, itching her nose ring. The tiny gold loop in her left nostril is the only thing that gives her an edge over Chloe and Molly. “It happened, like, three weeks ago. There was some freak accident at this place she was volunteering. She was a senior last year. I don’t think you knew her.”

  “Yeah, your crew didn’t really hang with Mary Anne,” Molly adds. Her face reddens as she realizes that “my crew” is also dead and no one’s wearing white roses at the bonfire for them. She glances at Vivian for help.

  “She hung with Kyle Gibbons and Cecily Monroe and those guys.” Vivian twists the nose ring, and I try not to cringe. I don’t think she realizes she’s doing it. “Jocks, mostly. Ariel thought they were dull.”

  “Right,” I say. I vaguely remember Kyle following Ariel around at some party last year. Whenever his back was turned, she caught my eye and yawned dramatically.

  Vivian pulls open a cupboard and starts stacking pillows, her back to me as she works. Molly flashes me the kind of awkward smile usually reserved for distant relatives at family reunions. Polite but strained. I guess that means our conversation is over. I grab my notebook and double-check to make sure I’ve noted everything I need.

  “Are you coming tomorrow night?” Molly asks. I figure she’s talking to Vivian, so I don’t answer. After a second, Molly clears her throat. “Um, Charlotte? Are you coming tomorrow night?”

  I lift my head. “What?”

  “To the senior bonfire?” Molly shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Chloe said you were thinking about it. It’s tomorrow at nightfall. I was just wondering if you’d decided yet.”

  I glance at Vivian and notice that she’s stopped putting away pillows. Vivian and I used to hang together at parties when everyone else was getting drunk and stupid. Ariel and Dev were good at a great many things, but holding their liquor was not one of them. After they passed out, Viv and I would make food runs and persuade the boys to let us play Mario Kart. We’d take bets on who Chloe would end up sucking face with.

  But she never called after what happened to Ariel. None of them did.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say. Molly flashes me a wide smile and pulls a crumpled yellow flyer out of her pocket.

  “Here,” she says, thrusting it at me. “In case you didn’t get one the other day.”

  I take the flyer, my eyes traveling over the thick black letters. SENIOR BONFIRE! FRIDAY! AFTER DARK! The exclamation points promise a night of gleeful firelit fun.

  Vivian flashes me a smile that almost looks genuine and starts toward the door. “See you tomorrow, Charlotte. Or not. Whatever.”

  I spend the rest of the day going over every place on my list again. I check inside every drawer and closet and wardrobe at the Med Center. I head back to Devon’s dorm, but her parents have finally collected her things. The door hangs open, the room empty.

  The only place I haven’t managed to search is the woods. It’s always been off-limits, and the school increased security a few weeks before Devon’s suicide because of the forest fires. Burly rent-a-cops prowl the grounds during the day, and their flashlights flicker through the trees after nightfall.

  I’m pretty sure I can sneak past them. Devon did, and I know every path and tree in the woods, same as her. We’ve been wandering around in its darkness with Ariel since sophomore year. But I’m too nervous. Being caught out of bounds means automatic expulsion and, for the first time, I’m wondering if coming back to Weston wasn’t such a terrible idea. I’m starting to get used to being at the school without Ariel and Devon.

  I get an A on a physics assignment, my first A. I stare at the red-scrawled letter for nearly a minute, trying to remember what I did differently this time. I usually read the chapters twice, and then work out the problem sets at the end. But this time I just scanned the chapter, and the information stuck in my head. It was easy. I fold the worksheet and tuck it inside the back cover of my textbook instead of throwing it away.

  Chloe invites me to sit at her table during lunch. She makes Vivian and Molly scoot over so I can sit next to her, and she compliments my hair, saying I look “chic, like a French girl.”

  That afternoon, I answer three questions correctly during history, more than any other student in the class.

  I have fencing again on Friday morning. Genie Wilson hurt her ankle and has to sit out, so I get paired with her old partner, Kay Marsh. Zoe goes back to sparring with Coach Lammly.

  Kay is taller than almost every other girl in class. I’m closing in on six feet, so that puts her only an inch or two shorter than me. Strands of sandy-blond hair peek out from beneath her helmet. She whips her saber in front of her body and drops into on-guard position. I mirror her and, for once, I don’t feel awkward or c
lumsy. I sit low in my lunge, my legs strong beneath me.

  Coach Lammly blows her whistle.

  Kay advances, her sword a blur. I parry, blocking a thrust to my right, and then sweep my saber across my chest to block a second blow. I flick my wrist and riposte, tapping the flat of my blade against Kay’s helmet. Point me.

  Kay recovers and hits me with two quick thrusts. The tip of her blade slaps my arm, and then jabs into my chest before I manage to recover. Two points to Kay. Damn. I slow down, watching the way she moves. She isn’t as good as Zoe. She’s all attack and no strategy. If I keep her reacting, she’s bound to make a mistake.

  I fall into retreat. Kay advances, pushing me back toward the end of the piste. She thrusts, and I parry-tierce, then riposte, tapping her shoulder with my blade. We’re two to two now. She lunges and I parry-seconde, moving my blade down and out. I throw my arm up, and she dances back into retreat. I think I hear her swear, her helmet muffling the sound. She lifts her arm to thrust, and I catch her in the ribs. Point me. Three to two.

  Kay thrusts once, twice. I block both, then shuffle forward with a feint. Kay parries, and I catch her on her exposed left side. Four to two. One more point and I win.

  Kay lunges, catching me on the chest with the tip of her blade. She pulls back too quickly, and I bring the flat of my blade down against her shoulder. Five points. I win.

  I’ve never won before.

  “Looking good out there, Gruen,” Coach Lammly calls. “If you keep improving like this, you might actually get to compete this year.”

  My mouth quirks, then stretches into a full smile. I haven’t smiled like this since before Ariel died. It feels … strange. My lips pull tight at the corners, like they might crack. Competition is something my mother understands. I can almost picture her sitting in the stands, not cheering—probably not even watching too closely. But there.

  The thought follows me back to my dorm. I move through my routine on autopilot, still replaying my win as I drop my bag onto the bed, and tug off my shirt, then grab my plastic caddy full of shower supplies. I think of the final swipe of my saber, the winning point. I walk into the bathroom and kick the door closed behind me.