In loving memory of my mother, Franke,
who believed in this story from the very first page—and who believed in me, always.
Copyright © 2018 Ingrid Palmer
Cover and internal design by Simon Stahl
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Creston Books, LLC.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
CIP data for this book is available from the Library of Congress.
Published by Creston Books, LLC
www.crestonbooks.co
Type set in Garamond and Plantagenet Cherokee
ISBN 978-1-939547-48-4
Source of Production: 1010 Printing
Printed and bound in Hong Kong
5 4 3 2 1
All Out
of Pretty
Ingrid Palmer
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 1
Now
The great poet John Keats once wrote, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” Keats never knew my mother.
I glance down at my watch again. Three hours. That’s how long it’s been since Ayla left me in the car with a distracted wave and a promise to “be right back with some munchies.” Right. I’ll bet she bummed dinner off some guy at the bar and didn’t bother to get anything for me. Now she’s probably passed out somewhere. Or hooking up. Or maybe she can’t remember where the hell she parked.
I never should have let Ayla go off on her own. I should know better than to trust a woman who can’t even remember to pay the rent.
For about a millisecond, I consider hunting her down and dragging her drunk ass back here. Forcing her to deal with the cold, and the lack of food, and me. But when we first rolled into this tiny town, Ayla insisted on doing a drive-by of the local bars and I saw the bouncers standing outside. There’s no way I can pass for twenty-one. Most people don’t even believe I’m sixteen until I produce my driver’s license.
I drag my fingers through my long, dark hair. It feels greasy. So does my face, which I haven’t washed properly in days. But when I lean forward and peer into the car’s rearview mirror, the girl staring back at me somehow still looks pretty. I scowl at her. Then I grab a pen and start scribbling in my notebook, the ink making deep indents on the page to match the ones on my forehead.
The truth is, I used to like being pretty. I used to feel proud when girls at school wished out loud for my pale blue eyes, when boys stared as I walked past. It felt good, in the same way that spring grass tickles your toes or pearls feel fanciful looped around your neck. Even Gram would sometimes stand behind me, looking at our reflection in the hallway mirror, and say, “You’re stunning, Andrea—inside and out.” Then she’d beam at me like a proud mama bear, crinkling her nose until we both collapsed into giggles.
I can’t remember the last time I giggled. I don’t even smile anymore. If I feel my lips twitching, I push the smile down, kick it into the dirt. I hide—not just my smile, but everything.
The problem with being pretty is people tend to notice you. And these days, being noticed is the last thing I want.
My fingers ache from gripping the pen so tight. I stare down at my messy handwriting in the soft circle of light emanating from the roof of Gram’s car, knowing I won’t ever share the words I’ve written. They’re just a rant. I’ve already finished the essay I will turn in to my English teacher when spring break is over. It’s written in neat, vertical letters and it’s full of the fun things I did on vacation, like going to the waterpark and exploring the science museum. I call it my Rough Draft of Lies. I hate lying. But I can’t write honestly about the places I’ve been this week—or this year. It’s remarkable, really, how many secrets I’ve accumulated in such a short stretch of time.
A dull thudding starts in my temples and I begin to feel lightheaded from not having eaten in thirty-seven hours, from the worry that’s plagued me ever since we got evicted. Gathering our few blankets, I coil up in the backseat and rest my cheek against my dark green backpack. I lift my head slightly and punch the bag, trying to make the bumpy spots flat. If I can’t have food, then I’d like a good night’s sleep. In a real bed. Not in the back of Gram’s Buick, with its stiff leather seats that remind me too much of her hands the day I found her.
Inhale. Exhale.
It’s so quiet that the smallest sounds are amplified. Like my breathing. And the lone moth repeatedly throwing itself against the windshield, attracted to the red glow of the dashboard security light. The thwp-thwp of its wings beating against the glass makes my own limbs ache in sympathy. Maybe I should shoo it away—or put it out of its misery. The frost will claim it tonight anyway. But that would mean unknotting myself from my own fragile cocoon, and I’m not that selfless.
As time ticks by, the only thing keeping me remotely warm is my increasing anger. The bars must be closing, so where the hell is Ayla? My stomach rumbles and I press my fingers against its hollowness. I stare out the window at the ink-blotted sky, where the moon hangs like a sentry between heaven and earth. Even if Ayla keeps pretending, I know we’re in trouble. Just like I know the sixteen cents in my pocket will buy me exactly nothing at the 24-hour gas station across the road. I also know there’s a dumpster on the other side of this lot. My eyes flick toward it.
Before the thought has a chance to warp into an actual plan, bright lights blind me, a sharp wind whips into the car, and pointy-nailed fingers poke my shoulder. I shield my eyes, hoping it’s not a cop. Instead, I see Ayla’s gorgeous, flushed face blocking out the moon.
“Wake up, wake up!” Her voice is giddy and high-pitched. She definitely scored dinner or she’d be growling and swearing at me. “Come on, Bones, we got a place to stay.” Bones. This is what she calls me instead of Andrea—the name Gram chose when I was born. I wish I could say Ayla’s nickname for me is a term of endearment, but I know better.
Tugging off the blankets, I sit up and squint into the cold darkness. My lungs protest the frigid air, making me cough. A rainbow halo is smeared around the one lit parking lamp near the street. There’s a man under it, smoking a
cigarette. He’s tall and strong-looking, not the cleanest sort. He doesn’t look at me. Just at Ayla in her tight black skirt and shimmery top.
“That’s Judd.” Ayla smirks, like he’s some knight in shining armor. “We’re going to crash at his place.”
She leans in to gather her belongings, which are strewn across the front seat of the car. I steal another glance at Judd, and he smiles. It’s uneven and awkward, an expression I can tell he avoids. Huh, I think. We have something in common.
In the hazy lamplight I see that Judd’s hair is dirt brown where it’s not receding from his forehead. His face is long and fierce, like the skin has been stretched too tight. He might have been decent-looking at some point, but he’s at least ten years older than Ayla and he seems…haggard. I don’t bother pointing this out. I know Ayla’s giddiness is a ruse. She’s playing Judd, using him for what we need. She’s a parasite. And so am I, by default.
Yes, I used to like being pretty. But if it means ending up like Ayla, I think I’ll pass.
Chapter 2
Then
I was worried about a boy, of all things. Not my upcoming exams or the math algorithms I hadn’t nailed down. Nope, nosiree. It was nine o’clock on a Wednesday night and I was curled up in our living room chair, stewing about the fact that while plenty of guys at school flirted with me, Ben Stankowski looked away every time I glanced at him. Every time! Even Delaney was stumped. At lunch she’d pointed out that Ben was in all my AP classes, on the yearbook committee, and in student council with me. Clearly, we were perfect for each other. He just didn’t seem to know it. Delaney thought I should take charge and ask him out, but how could I make the first move when I couldn’t even make eye contact?
So that’s what I was thinking (okay, obsessing) about when Gram walked slowly into the living room and proceeded to stare at our just-bought Christmas tree. She had this nostalgic look on her face as she touched two fingers to her lips and inhaled the tree’s sharp, piney smell. Like she was inhaling a memory.
“Who was on the phone?” I asked, doodling Ben’s name in the margin of my composition pad.
Gram opened her mouth and then closed it, like she was searching for the right words and couldn’t find them. Which is why I knew what was coming. I scribbled harder in my notebook, sorry I’d asked.
“It was Ayla,” Gram finally said, sinking onto the couch across from me. “She might be coming home soon.”
“You mean she might be coming for a visit? She doesn’t live here,” I corrected.
“No matter what, she’s still part of our—” Gram began, then fell into a ragged coughing jag. I frowned. She’d kicked the habit a few months ago, but thirty years of smoking had taken its toll. “Can we please discuss Ayla politely for once?” she said after catching her breath.
My frown deepened. Though I hated disappointing Gram, I was so not in the mood to hear one more horror story about my mother.
“Actually, I can’t discuss anything,” I said. “I have a history paper due tomorrow.” This statement was one hundred percent true. I just omitted the fact that the paper was already written and tucked neatly in the “completed” side of my homework folder.
But Gram knew I’d never wait until the night before a paper was due to finish it, and her skeptical gaze warmed my face. I felt myself getting angry. Why was she pushing me to talk about Ayla now, when she knew how heavy my workload was, when she knew I had exams coming up…when she knew how much it bothered me?
She also knew I usually gave in.
But not this time. At some point, I wrote to myself in the notebook, you have to take a stand. Refusing to discuss my mother, while kind of pitiful, was my stand that night.
Still. It was rare that Gram and I were at odds, and the whole thing turned me sour. Leave it to Ayla to cause problems without even being around, I thought bitterly. It hadn’t always been this way. When I was little and Gram talked about Ayla, I listened so hard, I swear my ears ached afterwards. I hung onto Gram’s words, sifting through them for any detail that would link me to my mother. Back then, the stories were sweet fairytales—about a teenage girl with soulful eyes and the poise of a ballerina, flying off to have adventures.
It wasn’t until I got older that I saw the truth: those soulful eyes were usually bloodshot, the ballerina pose was actually Ayla retching in the bushes, and the adventures…well, they weren’t appropriate bedtime stories. I’d heard enough.
As if reading my mind, Gram pressed her lips together. “People change, Andrea. She wasn’t always like this. It’s important that you remember that.”
“My grades are important, too. Way more important than Ayla,” I snapped, then felt bad when Gram flinched. After all, it wasn’t her fault her daughter was a mess. Gram had raised her the same as me. But Ayla was an addict and I was headed for the Ivy League…hopefully. Ayla’s shenanigans had shadowed my life long enough. “I’m sorry, Gram, but I can’t just drop everything. Not for her,” I added in a softer tone.
After a short silence, Gram reconsidered. “Then we’ll talk tomorrow after school. No excuses, okay?”
“Okay,” I agreed reluctantly, gathering my books. “I’m going to finish this in my room. G’night.” I mustered a small smile.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
As I skirted past, I couldn’t help noticing how tired Gram looked. She was only in her late fifties, but her slender shoulders had carried too much heartache over the years. On nights like this, her whole body sagged with it.
In the back of the house, I paused outside my bedroom door, feeling guilty for ducking away. Gram was always available whenever I wanted to talk. I peeked back around the corner and saw a worn blue photo album lying open on Gram’s lap. I watched her gaze at the childhood pictures of my mother, her hand gliding down the page like she was stroking the fragile wings of a tiny bird.
My heart hitched, then hardened. Gram would never stop hoping to save Ayla, but as guilty as it made me feel, I had no time for wounded birds.
The next day at school, I barely had time to eat lunch. Christmas break was a week away and I had a million tests and projects to do. My own fault, I knew. At the beginning of the semester, both Gram and my guidance counselor had urged me to take a lighter course load so as not to burn out, but this was how I liked it. Mach 10. Warp speed. Basically, no time to dwell on things like mothers snorting cocaine off your Hello Kitty plate and grandmothers calling addiction centers for advice on how to help said mothers.
“Earth to Andrea…” Delaney plopped her lunch tray onto the table next to my books and papers.
“Hey!” I watched my math notes go flying. “I need those.”
Delaney scooped them off the cafeteria floor but refused to hand them over. “Stop studying for two seconds and listen. I have news.” She blew out an exasperated breath that made her thick bangs flutter and fall crooked against her forehead.
I felt exasperated too, but I knew from experience that the fastest way out of this was through it. “Fine, I’m listening. What’s up?”
Settling into her seat, Delaney smiled. She loved the limelight—even if she had to demand it. “Okay, my news first. Last night at rehearsal, the dance teacher chose me to do the solo at our competition in Chicago this weekend!”
“Congrats, Dee, that’s awesome,” I gushed. Irish dancing was to Delaney what academics were to me. She lived it, breathed it, and her passion showed in every step. I wasn’t surprised Delaney was picked. She was hardcore. Which is probably why we were friends.
“Yeah, I’m kind of a big deal now,” she joked, pounding her toes against the floor in an excited little jig.
Glancing at the clock, I asked, “What’s the other news?”
Delaney peeled open her yogurt cup, grinning. “I infiltrated Ben Stankowski’s inner circle.”
“What? How?”
She laughed, delighted by my
reaction. “I cornered his sister—nerdy little freshman—and she spilled the goods on Benny boy.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be happy or horrified. “And?” I asked.
“Well, he doesn’t have a girlfriend. Has never had a girlfriend. He wants to go to MIT, so he’s always studying or building rockets in his backyard. Oh, and big surprise—he’s painfully shy.”
I nodded, confirming that his profile made sense. In fact, I probably could have guessed it all. But what Delaney didn’t know about Ben was the way his lips pursed when he was thinking, the way his whole face came alive when he engaged in a classroom debate, the way his dark brown eyes watched things—saw things—so intently. Things that weren’t me, anyway.
Delaney continued, “He sounds painfully boring if you ask me, Andrea. But he’s perfect for you.”
I wondered if I should be offended. “Are you calling me boring?”
“No. You’re too adorable to be boring. I call you other things…Dedicated. Driven. Diva.”
“Diva?” Now I was offended.
Delaney’s freckles spread across her cheeks as her smile widened. “Oh wait, that’s me.”
“Yeah,” I agreed with a laugh. “So why won’t Ben talk to me, oh wise diva?”
“You’ve tried all your usual moves?”
I nodded, though I wouldn’t call them moves. Typically, all it took to get a boy interested was a cute outfit and a flirty smile. From there, a conversation began. But not with Ben.
“I have a new theory,” Delaney said. “Maybe he doesn’t want to get too close to the competition. For class valedictorian?”
I blinked. Hadn’t thought of that. “Yeah, maybe,” I said. There were a few other contenders, but I was Ben’s biggest rival academically. Speaking of academics, my eyes skipped to my math papers laying on the table, and Delaney sighed. When she pulled out her phone I knew she was about to text her dance friends—her best friends—who didn’t go to our school.
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