Breaking Dawn
DONNA SHELTON
This book is dedicated to my children Reese and Kylie – they are my inspiration for everything I do.
To my husband Rich and my parents Roy & Barbara Locke – thanks for putting up with me.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
About the Author
In the Same Series
Copyright
CHAPTER 1
I open my eyes to the sun shining brightly through my bedroom window. For a minute I am confused. Where am I? What day is it? One of those over-tired confusions that seem to come often lately. The warm sun on my face reminds me of summer; a sweet, warm day to walk barefoot in the grass. Then the boiler starts up with a rattle, reminding me of the snow still sitting on the ground and the cold that refuses to break for spring.
The way my pillow billows up softly around my head and my over-sized quilt rests heavily over my body should have brought me some comfort, like those times when I would get a cold and have to stay in bed, missing school and sleeping the day away. Nothing seems to comfort me any more. I don’t seem to feel much of anything any more. I am numb.
The numbers on my clock radio roll over to 6:00 am – the radio blares some new rock song through half-blown speakers. I close my eyes – I’m just not ready.
Footsteps shuffle down the hall, stopping abruptly at my door. A quick rap of knuckles against the wood then Mom pops her head in, and like every school day since infants she chimes, ‘Rise and shine, time for school!’ And like every time before, I lie in bed and wait for her to repeat this ritual at least three more times before I finally drag myself out of bed.
A familiar song grabs my attention. The strum of an electric guitar followed by an angelic orchestra and the soft voice of Paul Humphrey singing If You Leave. There’s a gentle tingling sensation in my head – a memory, Pretty In Pink with Molly Ringwald and Annie Potts, a 1986 classic teen movie. Perry and I must have watched that movie a hundred times. Although we were born in the 90s, we loved the 80s and everything about it.
Perry. Oh God, Perry…
‘That’s us in a few years,’ Perry says during the scene of Molly Ringwald and Annie Potts working in the record shop, listening to music and gabbing on the phone.
Perry hops into bed with me and puts his arm around my shoulders for a quick squeeze. ‘Working with my girl, listening to music, doing what we want and getting paid for it. That’s how I see us.’
Perry thinks that it would be cool to work at a music store. Sometimes I think that is his only ambition. Sure, it’s nice to fantasise about working together and having fun, and perhaps that would be a great job to have during the summer; but I have always wanted to go to college and make something of myself. I know Perry doesn’t have the options I have and I definitely know that with his grades he has no chance of winning a scholarship, so if working at a record store is his dream job, I just let that be.
Most parents would have a problem with their daughter having a boy stay the night. Especially when that boy spends the night in the same bed as their daughter. But my parents know that Perry is special. Since first grade, Perry and I bonded almost instantly. Perry isn’t like the other boys. He doesn’t like boy stuff. Perry comes from a broken home and at my house Perry is accepted for who he is. I think my parents mostly take pity on him because he really has nowhere else to go.
Perry’s mom is nice in those rare times when she’s sober, but his dad took off when he was barely out of nappies. His mom often brings men home, some are one-night stands, some stay for a week or so. But none are substitute parent material. Perry is always telling me that his mom would be better off without him. Since she never calls to check up on him or have him check in with her, I think maybe she thinks she’d be better off without him too.
When we met, Perry and me, I was this shy, skinny little twig of a rich girl with no friends and Perry was a feminine poor boy who would distance himself from others because he was afraid of what they would think of him. Most of the nice clothes in his wardrobe were given to him by me and my parents on birthdays and at Christmas. Our gifts are the only ones he ever receives. Perry is like my brother.
The song fades out and Mom pops her head in the door again. ‘Come on, Dawn. You can’t lie in bed all day.’
Can’t I?
I stretch my arm over to hit the button on the clock radio. I hate the song coming on next and the DJ is just too damn chipper. Why can’t they play Expose’s End of the World or Tiffany’s All This Time? Something to fit my mood.
I pull my covers away from my weary body and force my legs over the side of the bed. The cold wood floor barely tingles my bare feet. But like a robot, set on autopilot, I have a morning routine to suffer. My therapist says that with each passing day it will all get better. It’s been two weeks and the only thing that has changed is me running out of tears. I just can’t cry any more.
I randomly grab some clothes from my wardrobe, not even caring if they match, and get dressed. Now comes the tricky part – brushing my teeth and my hair without looking into the mirror. I still can’t face myself. With a brush, I stroke my hair back to the nape of my neck where I tie it back with a rubber band. Simple enough. I run the water for my toothbrush with a small dab of paste and stare down into the sink, watching the water swirl down the drain as I brush the morning breath out of my mouth.
Afterwards, I go to the kitchen, where Mom has breakfast on the table; a few eggs, pancakes and some toast. My stomach grumbles as I sit down in front of my plate. Normally I would clean my plate in a matter of minutes while gabbing away about my latest escapade with Perry. Normally.
‘Eat something, Dawn,’ Mom says. ‘You can’t afford to lose any more weight. You’ll disappear.’
I can’t remember the last time I ate. My therapist tells me that if I eat, I’ll have more energy to recover. I pick up a slice of buttered toast to take a small bite. The texture is foreign in my mouth and when I swallow, it hits the bottom of my empty stomach like a rock. I want to vomit. I take a glass of water and sip on it. I should at least keep my body hydrated. Mom sits down across from me with her own breakfast, and every now and then I catch her glancing across the table at me. I nibble on the toast a little more, more for her sake than my own.
A horn sounds outside the house. The bus is early today. I am in a hurry to get away from the food and Mom’s sad eyes. I grab my parka off the chair and my bag from the floor and head for the door, juggling my bag as I slip on my parka. Before Mom can catch up with me, I step out the door into the cold and make my way down the freshly shovelled pavement to the kerb.
The bus opens its doors. The driver looks at me indifferently as I clamber up the stairs, freezing in the aisle as the other kids stare and quieten down. Dozens of eyes are on me, watching me, judging me. I want to turn and run back down the stairs. I want off this bus. And as if the driver could read my mind, the door slams shut. I am trapped. The bus jumps to a start. Nearly every seat is taken as I work my way down the narrow aisle, feet clearing the way, bags being moved into open spots next to the passengers to maintain a single occupancy of a seat. I walk past Brian Kane, averting my eyes as he moves his bag aside to make room for me. I walk on past him. Brian is on the bus early this morning. Normally he is one of the last stops made before school, unless he has spent the night with his friend Gary.
Behind me the whispers rise. I hear my name, but I don’t react. I hear Perry’s name and I keep wa
lking to the back of the bus, as far as I can get from the occupied seats. I just want to sit alone.
I slump down onto the cold, vinyl seat. I can still feel eyes on me. I don’t want to be here. Oh God, I just don’t want to be here. I’m not ready to go back to school and just continue with my life.
I want to disappear. Stop looking at me. Everyone just stop looking at me!
I stare out of the windows, concentrating on the world passing by one block at a time, watching the short lines on the road become one long continuous yellow line. I don’t want to think about Perry – I just want a distraction from the prying eyes.
But Perry is rarely out of my thoughts. Perry was always among the first group of kids to be picked up in the morning and he would always save me a seat. We would talk, laugh and joke; we had our own language for our own little world. No one else mattered but us. Perry made me feel alive, special and pretty. I felt like a somebody when we were together. How did things get so awful?
It’s the week we returned back to school after the Thanksgiving holiday; there is Perry waiting for me on the bus, all excited and all smiles.
‘Guess what I heard?’ Perry grabs my arm to pull me close and whisper in my ear. ‘Brian and Gary were talking about you in the locker room yesterday.’
I can feel myself blushing. I’d had a crush on Brian Kane since fifth grade, but I never thought he knew I existed.
‘Is this good or bad?’
Perry smiles and whispers again, ‘Brian was talking about asking you to the Christmas dance.’
‘And you knew this yesterday and didn’t tell me?’
I playfully punch him in the arm. Perry laughs and points out the window as the bus is coming to a stop. Brian is on the kerb waiting to board the bus. Brian Kane is beautiful. Tall, blond and handsomely built, and a soccer player. The best player on the team as far as I am concerned; and the best looking. I can count a dozen girls who would kill to date him. Popular and pretty girls. I never thought I had a chance. Let’s face it; I am a twig with barely any breasts and long stringy hair. Not exactly a great catch. But Perry always tells me I am the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.
I watch Brian as he boards the bus and walks down the narrow aisle, smiling and nodding. He seems to know everyone. Perry deliberately busies himself with his bag as Brian approaches, then the bus jumps to a start and Brian loses his footing and stumbles into me. I’m startled and I look up at him, inches from my face, and stare into his perfect blue eyes savouring the moment. Smiling and blushing, Brian apologises in his soft, caressing voice. Then he gathers himself and moves on past to sit with Gary three seats behind us.
Perry leans towards me and whispers, ‘He just fell for you.’
I push him away and laugh at our private joke, then I risk a look back at Brian. He catches my glance and smiles. Seems a lifetime ago.
The bus comes to a stop in front of the school. I wait as the other kids collect themselves and scuffle down the narrow aisle. I follow the last of the kids, keeping my distance, and take my time following them off the bus.
As I stand in front of my school, which looks more like a medieval castle than a place of learning, for the first time in years I feel totally alienated. I’ve only been away for two weeks, but I feel like a new kid transferring in from another school. It’s like I don’t belong, like I’m an outsider.
I stand at the base of the concrete steps until the first bell rings and all the kids start hurrying through the doors. I can only stand, numb and transfixed, as the pavement is abandoned. I am simply too afraid to go inside.
The Head, Mr Dubois, opens the door and scans the school grounds for late or stray students. I just watch him, this middle-aged man in his tweed jacket and brown elbow patches; Perry and I call him Sean Connery. When his eyes stop on me, he forces an awkward smile and comes out to greet me. I meet him halfway up the stairs.
‘It’s so nice to see you, Dawn,’ he says. ‘Your mom said you would be returning today.’ He touches my shoulder to encourage me to continue up the stairs toward the entrance. ‘How have you been bearing up?’
What a question. How do I respond to that? If I tell him the truth, he’ll have me in his office along with every counsellor in school. They’ll try to force me to talk about my feelings. They might even want me to analyse ink blots. Or they might try to talk my parents into medicating me. I already have a therapist, thanks to Mom. I don’t want to talk any more about how I’m feeling.
‘I’m okay.’
We walk into the school together and he walks with me. ‘If you need anything, I’m here for you.’
I force out a smile, more to appease him and to thank him insincerely, so that I can go on my way.
My locker is on the second floor so I have to make my way up the stairs against the current of down-coming kids, and slowly make my way to my locker. As soon as I lay my hand on the lock, I realise that I have forgotten the combination. Typical of me. I am terrible at remembering numbers. Perry has the good memory. He writes the combination down in notes for me. Sometimes I lose the notes. Perry taught me a trick though. What is it? Brian’s soccer number – 15; my golden birthday – seven; and how many frogs died in biology last year – 28. I try the numbers in that order and with a click, the lock opens.
I open the locker, vaguely aware of the second bell sounding and a few kids hurrying down the hall late for class. Inside, along with the clutter of paper and books, Perry’s brown leather bomber jacket still hangs from the hook. I panic as I almost look into the mirror hanging inside the narrow door. I tear it down, tossing it to the bottom of the locker.
I drop my bag to the floor, slip out of my parka and hang it in the locker next to the bomber jacket. For a moment I stand there looking at the jacket, imagining that Perry is at school. My heart flutters with that thought. That lapse of thought. What’s wrong with me? He’s gone. Dead. Not coming back.
I search for a select number of books and folders, cram everything else inside the locker and shut the door, snap the lock back into place and give the dial a curt twist. I am late for class but I don’t care. I’m in no rush to get there.
I’m thinking of cutting class when Mr Dubois appears at the end of the hall. With my first class being on the third floor on the opposite side of the building, Mr Dubois takes it upon himself to escort me to my class. It’s like he’s read my mind.
It’s a painful five-minute walk with him rambling on and on about psychology, and how I need to feel, and how I need to heal. During the entire walk to class I wonder whether I should turn around and run away, or scream at him to shut up for the love of God! But when we reach my class, I just momble a thank you and open the door. Social studies.
Mr Valentine stops in the middle of his speech to acknowledge me with a smile, and from behind me Mr Dubois says, ‘She was with me.’
Mr Valentine nods and continues on with his talk as I walk around the cluster of desks and students to sit in the back row, next to Carla Driver. I always get stuck sitting next to Carla Driver.
I would never consider Carla a friend, but occasionally we exchange a few words. Carla is a scrawnier, nerdier version of me. Her long, brown curly hair is always dirty and her glasses are way too big for her freckled face. She always seems to have an odour coming from her clothes. Perry and I have this game where we try to guess what it is. It seems like a combination of marijuana and cat urine.
Once I settle into my seat, I open my text book and pretend to follow along. Carla passes a note onto my desk. Without looking over to her, I open it.
‘Glad to have you back,’ it says.
I write a simple ‘Thanks,’ and return the note.
A minute later she passes the note to me again. ‘Want to have lunch together?’
Do I want to have lunch? With Carla Driver? Even if my appetite returns, I’ll lose it sitting with her and smelling her. Maybe she is just trying to be nice. I’m tired of people being nice, treating me like some delicate Faberge egg. Do I h
ave HANDLE WITH CARE stickers pasted all over me? I write back: ‘No’. Hopefully that will be the end of it.
Mr Valentine pulls down the white projection screen and turns off the lights. He has a movie to show us. The movies are the best part of class. I can daydream or fall asleep and no one will notice. Soon after the lights go out, I do indeed begin to doze off.
I think about the jacket in my locker and I can almost feel Perry here in this room…
During a movie in social studies, Perry passes a note back to me while Mr Valentine is busy preparing papers for a quiz on the film.
‘Brian wants to talk with you before gym,’ the note says.
Brian is a nice guy, perfect in every way, I think. My dream boyfriend. Perry’s too, come to that. Brian seems to be talking to Perry more often lately, mostly in the boys’ locker room. According to Perry, Brian has been asking a lot of questions about me.
‘About the dance?’ I write back.
‘I think so. Would you go with him? Because if you won’t, I will.’
I laugh quietly to myself. That’s one of the things we have in common; we both have a secret crush on Brian Kane. Still, I think I have more of a shot with him than Perry does. But I will never tell Perry that. I’ll never crush his fantasy. No one knows about Perry’s sexual preference. If anyone in school ever finds out, Perry will definitely be forced out of the boys’ locker room at the very least. Perry knows this, so he keeps his cool with the other boys and acts as masculine as he can.
‘I’m sure you would. At least you get to see him in the shower everyday,’ I reply.
That is always the highlight of Perry’s day; catching glimpses of the boys in the shower without getting caught. If only I could be so lucky.
After class, we walk down to the gym. Brian is waiting off to the side by the gym doors. Perry nudges me forward saying, ‘Show-time,’ as he continues on into the boys’ locker room to change for gym class.
Breaking Dawn Page 1
