Beautifully Ruined (5 page)

How had I never noticed this?

Maybe I ignored it.

Now everything is different. I’m not supposed to need him now. He’s not supposed to save me when things get tough. I’m supposed to save myself, I’m supposed to do that on my own. I tell myself I don’t need to
need
him but it’s getting harder to believe. Every second of every minute, it gets harder to lie to myself, to pass him in the halls, to see his window across the alley and his movements behind the drapes; it’s harder to act as if I don’t notice him when it’s all I do.

I pretend not to notice him look at me when he thinks he’s being discreet. I pretend not to notice anything he does—his movements, his actions. But it’s hard.

I look at her, finally hearing her, finally paying attention. “That’s what you were telling me months ago?” I say rhetorically, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah.” Alexia shrugs, a little nervous giggle leaving her lips before she continues. “I guess I always hated you because of Zephyr. I had a crush on him all through elementary school and when you showed up, he stopped hanging around with me at recess and started spending all of his free time with you.” She shakes out her hair, tucking it behind her ears. “I’ve always been a jealous girl, Joey. I know that’s no excuse—”

“It isn’t,” I interrupt quickly.

“—for anything I did to you.” Her eyes plead to me, sadness filling them. I nearly believe her. I have this need for people to understand me, to accept me, and she’s calling that need, poking at this emotion deep within me. I’m not sure if she’s poking at it because she’s genuinely apologetic, her feelings are true, or if this is another game of hers.

Whatever it is, I can’t take the chance that this is another thing for her to toy with. My emotions have been her putty for so long now; I’m not letting myself trust her.

I bark out a laugh, amazed at the girl—the Queen Bee—standing in front of me. She’s almost human. Almost…

“Look, I’m trying, Joey. I’m trying to apologize. I’m trying to right my wrong.”

“Alexia, there’s too much bad blood here—too many wrongs to right.” I tell her, motioning with my hands in the space between us. “I’m not sure what you could do that would, or even could; change everything that’s happened between us.”

She reaches a hand for me. “Just let me try,” she whispers, begging me. “
Please
.” Her eyes begin to water. One tear escaping, rolling down her blushed cheek, no mascara following its trail. She went waterproof, good choice.

“Try what?” Shrugging, I look around us. Of the students filtering through the doors, none notice us. If they had, they’d wonder what’s going on considering our vast hatred for each other. You can still see how much I despise this girl if you look close enough. I can’t read her well enough, though.

Looking at her, I fight the urge to tell her there isn’t anything, not a thing she can do. Not really. She’s already ruined whatever chance she had with me even to be considered an acquaintance.

“Being your friend.” Alexia steps closer to me, those big blue eyes begging for me. “If not that then something else. Anything else. I just… I need you to accept my apology.”

“Alexia,” I start, breathing deeply. “I graduate at the end of the year. After this, all of this, it doesn’t matter.” I shake my head, pulling my hand through my hair. I forgot to tie it back this morning, so it hangs down, past my shoulders—limp, the top hidden beneath a gray knit beanie. “I accept your apology. If you want my friendship then just show me kindness. Okay?”
Take the bait. Take it…

Alexia smiles. Relief floods through me. “I can do that.” She nods happily.

“Cool. I’m going to class now.” I mutter, stepping around her, happy when she doesn’t block my path to continue this pointless conversation again.

“I’ll see you later?” She sounds eager and hesitant at the same time.

“Yeah, later,” I call over my shoulder, heading to my first period classroom, passing other students in the hall. It’s a lie. I don’t want to see her
later
but better her hear that than follow me around the building like a lost puppy again. I always wondered about popularity, but this isn’t what I had in mind.

“I hear you’ve got a reputation around here?” Milo says as he slides into the seat next to mine. I ignore him as I finish the set of problems due in calculus on Monday. I’ve sped through my paper and lab—in a decent twenty minutes. I needed something else to do to pass the time. “You’re a bit crazy, they say.” I’m still ignoring him. “Well, are you going to deny it or shall I believe everything they tell me as true.” He places his head in his hand and smiles to me, waiting for an answer I don’t want to give.

“Believe whatever you want,” I tell him, tapping my pink pen on the table between us. “I don’t care.”

“Oh, but I believe you do,” Milo coos, leaning closer. “You don’t seem like the kind of girl likes a lie spread about her.” I shrug. I don’t really care. It’s happened too many times for me to be concerned. They’re always false, every story. Unless someone claims they’ve slept with me, it’s all old news. “But I could be wrong, it does happen on occasion.”

On occasion?
This from the dude who trusts the rumor mill.

Slamming down my pen, I ask, “What can I do for you, Milo?” My annoyance evident.

“A name,” he answers, oblivious to the limited amount of life he has if he won’t stop bothering me. I thought we discussed this—this
annoyance
thing? “You see, you know mine but I don’t know yours. How is that fair?” His smug grin grows wider.

“It’s plenty fair,” I answer, rolling my eyes. “And how did you find out my
seedy
dark past without learning my name?” I think someone would have told him my name eventually. Just common knowledge to be like,
oh, you mean Joey, the crazy girl?
Hell, I’d have said it if I was a nonbiased third party, someone in the halls he was asking about this
mysterious girl
.

“That is the joy of high school. I can learn pointless information
without
learning the important—like your name?” He tips his head in my direction, blonde hair falling before his eyes, but I don’t budge. I like my secrets. No one realizes that, I like to keep things to myself, but when you’re me in a tiny town, a secret can spread very quickly. So, I’m very much enjoying this, enjoying someone not knowing everything about me. “Is this one of those
if you know my name, you know too much
situations? An,
I could tell you that but then I’d have to kill you
type thing?” He wags his eyebrows. “If so, I can live with that. You can kill me as long as I can learn your name. What’s your name?”

“Sure,” I say.

“Sure?” he asks, confusion covering his face. “That’s a… unique name,” he finishes, smiling. “Is it short for something?”

I laugh quietly. “That’s not my name.”
Idiot
. I bite my tongue.

“Thank God, I thought your parents were weird for a moment.”

If only you knew…

“You meant—”

I interrupt, “Yup.”

“Great!” he announces with excitement. “So you’ll tell me your name?” he asks eagerly, leaning closer.

But I’m not budging.

“God, no.” I laugh, tucking my hair behind my ear. “But whatever you want to think, that’s the truth.”

I watch Milo’s face fall with disappointment. “You’re one tough cookie, you know that?” he tells me as he slumps back in his seat, tugging a textbook from his backpack and slapping it on the desk in front of him.

“You don’t seem like the
cookie
type,” I tell him, not really paying attention. He doesn’t respond. Ignoring him, I decide to focus my attention on my homework as I normally do.

The teacher walks through the door, his eyes turning toward me immediately. “Joey, the counselor wants to see you,” Mr. Cheney announces before his leather bag meets the cluttered top of his desk. “Take your things with you,” he instructs.

I sigh, gathering everything together and standing, ready to leave this conversation behind. I don’t really enjoy seeing the counselor but I’ll take anything to leave Milo behind.

But Milo smiles happily, excitedly, leaning back in his seat looking satisfied. “That was unexpected,” He finally mutters. I don’t follow.

Exhaling, I slap my hand down my thighs and flip my hair over my shoulder. “I know I’m going to regret this, but what? What was unexpected?”

“Nothing.” He chuckles, happy with himself. “I know your name now.”

And he does, thanks to Mr. Cheney.
Damn.
I didn’t even notice that.

Really, someone should have given that secret away a long time ago.

I shake my head, turning to head toward the door and leave him where he sits. I’m happy for the space but not so happy with the destination.

Stepping through the door leading to the hallway, I walk directly into Zephyr as he waves to someone down the hall. I bounce back, not expecting him to be there, and look to the floor.

“Sorry,” he blurts, the first word he’s said to me since he walks away from me. Since I
made
him walk away from me.

I step to move around him, the bell chiming above us loudly. He steps to move out of my way—moving with me. We step again, making a spectacle at the front of the room until his hands clamp onto my arms, stopping my movements.

“Sorry,” I tell the floor, praying he doesn’t move his hands. I close my eyes, remembering every time he touched me, every intimate moment we shared, every kiss, every caress, everything between us.

It won’t last long, this touch. What I believe to be minutes is only seconds before he releases me, moving from the door to let me through.

Before he walks to his seat across the room, before he leaves my side, he waits.

“I know,” he says, quietly so only I can hear him.

He knows.





Sitting in front of Mr. Stone’s desk, I wait patiently for him to start talking. But he keeps quiet. Lord knows I’m the last one to start any exchange between us especially when I don’t know why I’m here.

I know it can’t be good.

“So, Joey,” Mr. Stone rubs his palm against his forehead, smearing blue ink in a thick right above a wrinkle folded into his skin. “I hear you’ve lost your luster.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “Excuse me, Mr. Stone?”

He opens a folder on his desk, grabbing a sheet of paper from the top—must be my lovely file. “According to a few of your teachers, you seem a little…
blue
.”

A little blue? Is this
Sesame Street
?

I shrug, not sure where this is going.

“They’re worried about you, Joey,” he states, matter-of-factly.
Sweet baby Jesus
, I don’t really care. It’s not a teacher’s job to care about my
luster
; it’s their job to teach me. I’m here to learn, I’m not here to be observed and monitored like a lab rat. I haven’t done anything wrong except stop answering questions in class; I didn’t know that was such a big freaking deal. “We’re wondering if things are all right at home.”

Taking a deep breath to steady myself—because my anger is rising, I say, a bit harshly, “Everything is fine, Mr. Stone.” Annoyed, I grab my backpack, and shoulder it, ready to leave. “I’m fine, my aunt’s fine, my friends are fine. Nothing’s going on.” But the anger surges within me and I can’t stop myself from saying, “Quite frankly, I don’t appreciate my being pulled from a class just to talk about
my feelings
with the guidance counselor. If anything was or is wrong, I’ll come to you on my own or see my own shrink.”

Mr. Stone’s eyes grow wide, both worry and concern clear on his face. It wasn’t that long ago I sat in this chair as he told me I’d be graduating early. This—my outburst—shocks him. “Joey, I didn’t mean to offend you, I think—”

“I know it’s your job to care and all that, but everything’s fine.”

If I say it enough, force my lips around the words enough, maybe
I
will start to believe it myself.

I turn to him, prepared to explain myself and my actions calmly. “My grades aren’t suffering, my social life is the same”—nonexistent, but the same—“my home life is great. Nothing is wrong.”
Just believe it, believe it, believe it
.

“You’re sure?” he asks, his brow creased and his hands folded in front of him.

“I think I’d be the one to know,” I snap, losing my resolve. Stopping before I lunge over the desk to throttle the counselor, I take a deep breath and will my clenched fists to loosen. “I apologize, but I’m fine.” He doesn’t look convinced. I wouldn’t either. But I know the truth. “I promise,” I lie.

“And you’re still seeing the therapist; uh…” he trails as he checks the file full of my disturbingly private information. “Dr. Jett?”

“Every single month.”

“Good.” Mr. Stone forces a smile. “That’s great to hear. I guess we’re done here.”
Thank God
. “Have a good rest of your day, then, Joey.”

“You, too,” I say to the hall as I walk through the door. I’m not sure how I should be feeling; I’m not feeling well about the situation. I hate speaking to those who counsel or discuss feelings and the fact that my teachers felt it appropriate to send me to Mr. Stone, well, that’s enough to both anger and depress me. I head directly toward the nearest girl’s room, in need to be alone.

Passing the sinks and mirrors, ignoring the reflections of my near-teary face, I lock myself in a surprisingly clean stall and lean against the pale pink wall, burying my face in my hands, breathing slowly and deeply. My body shudders as I hold in a sob, as I hold my life—the recent moments in my life—in my lungs and hands.

I feel so fragile—like porcelain. A porcelain doll waiting. One false move, one drop, and I’ll shatter irreparably. People try to fix the broken things; all the toys as children, favorite mementos as they get older. They try to fix the leg of a chair, the loose knob of a cupboard, the hinge on the door, but some broken things need so much more than just love and tenderness.

But the things that can’t be repaired; friendships, relationships, lives, people—well, what do they need.

More than glue and duct tape, more than a corrected word or a new font.

Things fall, things damage, things break. You lose the instructions to repair them and you just throw them away.

All because they’re fragile.

No amount of emotion and attention can fix it—can fix me.

And this—this brings tears to my eyes.

I have never been this girl—the girl to cry when sent to the office to
discuss
her
home life
. I have never been the girl to need that discussion. I have never been the girl to cry over anything but movies where cute pets die—primarily dogs. I slide down the wall, making sure not to touch the floor, and breathe slowly. It’s relaxing not to hear any one talk, not to be near anyone, and I just wait it out—enjoying the brief moment of solitude until I need to go to class.

No one enters as I take up the best stall. Silence fills the room, calming me slowly and steadily. My tears dry and I can breathe. I let the air fill my lungs, loving the feeling—loving the feel of cool air passing my lips and filling me.

By the time the final bell rings, I feel halfway ready to face the world—eh, not really the world, but high school. High school is a much scarier place when you’re not prepared; it’s terrifying when you wander through trying to find yourself and who you’re meant to be. And if you’re me, if you fake most emotions, most feelings, most normal things a teenage girl is supposed to love and feel, it’s going to be hell.

Bounding up the stairs toward the library after Chemistry, ready to suffer through another lonely lunch filled with homework and reading, a familiar blonde form blocks my path. His ice blue eyes stare down at me and I roll my hazel ones in return. He’s everywhere.

“You’re in my way, dude,” I tell him, trying to dodge around him but the space is too narrow for me to pass. Milo doesn’t move, just crosses his arms and looks down at me. “Come on, I have places to be, things to do, and this little moment between us isn’t even on the to-do list.” He chuckles to himself. I cross my arms. “Move.” He doesn’t. “Can I help you with something?” I finally ask.

Milo tilts his head as if he’s examining me. “You’re from Texas.” It isn’t a question. He states it as fact. Which it is. It’s a fact I don’t want him knowing.

“Where’d you hear that?” I ask nervously, looking anywhere but the boy in front of me.

“After finally learning your name—hi,
Joey
—it was easier to hear more things about you without having to describe you in excruciatingly accurate detail.” Milo chuckles, flipping his hair from his eyes. This dude is more California than Texas if you ask me. Especially in the skater clothes. But that’s my way of avoiding the current conversation. “Where in Texas?”

“I don’t even remember, it was so long ago,” I lie, trying to duck around him but he cuts me off, mirroring every step I make before jutting out an arm and completely cutting off my advancement forward. “Are you going to let me pass?”