Beautifully Ruined

by Nessa Morgan

  “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, l
ooking 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?”

  “You. Shall. Not—”

  “If you even think about quoting Lord of the Rings, I will knee you so hard in the jewels, you’ll be singing high C until the end of time.”

  Milo nods. “Fair enough.” Worry covers his face.

  I made him worry. I feel good now, albeit briefly.

  “Are you going to answer my question?” he asks, politely.

  I take another step. “You know, I don’t really like you.” That should be an obvious answer to his previous question. I even smile to drive the point home.

  “How is that an issue right now?”

  “It’s an issue because you seem to be taking quite a liking to me, right now, and that’s not kosher. I don’t like that.” I tuck my hair behind my ears. “Now, if you please, move out of my way.” I place my hands on my hips, straighten my posture to make myself seem taller, and stare him in the eyes. I can be pretty intimidating when I try. Normally, I don’t, but this is getting ridiculous and I’d really appreciate it if he’d stop.

  Milo, ever the gentleman, takes a step to the side, and lets me pass so I can go into the library. I jump straight into my favorite chair and resume my reading from Catch-22, ignoring all that just happened. I’m alone today. Kennie had a trip with the cheer squad and Harley’s too busy with Avery to notice me anymore.

  I could always go downstairs and sit at an actual lunch table, maybe break some bread with Zephyr and try to pretend like we’re still friends—but that’d be a little difficult after my Zephyr-cleanse the other night.

  So I read. I pretend like Catch-22 is my favorite book and I don’t want to be bothered when I’m secretly hoping someone, anyone, even Milo Simms—so help me—just walks to the back of the library and takes the open recliner next to me.

  It’s a silly wish.

  But that’s a wish that goes unanswered.

    

  After school, without Quiz Team practice, I start my way toward the bus stop at the end of the drive. My headphones scream Slipknot into my ears—‘But no one else can see the preservation of the moderate me’—as I make my trek, dodging drive-happy teens with access to their parent’s beamers. ‘Psychosocial.’ I don’t think they’d mind turning a peer into a dent on their parents’ cars. I try not to figure out on my own.

  While waiting at the stop next to someone smoking a cigarette that doesn’t smell like one, a car stops in front of me.

  I expect it to be a friend of the smoke, because they seem to flock in packs these days, but the boy calls to me.

  I tug the bud from my ear.

  “Joey, let me give you a ride,” Milo says. He is leaning over far enough that I can see. “Please.”

  I nearly ask my companion for a hit. Anything to numb me from this.

  “Mama always told me to never get into the car with a stranger,” I say instead, faking a southern accent.

  “Joey, come on.” Milo is near begging. “Do you really want to take a bus with a bunch of crazies?”

  I snort, barking out a laugh. “And getting into a car with you will be any different?”

  “Okay, fair point,” he reasons, leaning closer—as close as his seat belt will allow. “I’ll agree that I’ve been a little weird lately.”

  I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t know what’s weird for you, Milo,” I tell him, averting my eyes to the passing traffic. “My impression of you is jackass and stalker. Right now, I’m adding potential kidnapper to the list.” Lifting my hand, my music streams from the headphones. “Just letting you know.” Motioning my hand, I mean for him to move his car. “Just start driving and don’t stop ‘til you hit Texas, ‘kay?” I pop the bud back in my ear and drown him out.

  But he does the opposite—damn him. Milo parks the car and hops out, slamming the door before he walks around the car to stand in front of me, that familiar smug grin I’ve learned to hate in the two days I’ve known him tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “What does it look like?” he asks smugly, grinning to me.

  “It looks like an idiot leaning against a car.”

  “Touché,” he mutters, nodding to me. He flips his hair as we descend into silence.

  Dude, I’d like a hit please.

  An engine slows near the intersection. I turn, spotting the bus. The bus I’m currently waiting for. The bus that will need to pull into the area Milo has parked his car. And, of course, he isn’t moving his car.

  “You should move your car,” I say, staring at the bus.

  “Not moving.”

  I point. “The bus is right there.”

  “Then they can wait.” His hand pulls through his hair. “But keep in mind they’ll be waiting for you.”

  I really hate this asshat right now. Rolling my eyes, I sigh.

  “You can’t trick me into getting into your car.”

  “I know.”

  I look at the bus again, spying the angry driver behind the wheel. Soon, a horn will be screeching through the air, all because Milo has parked his car where he shouldn’t have. Crap.

  “Why are you doing this, anyway?”

  His hands reach out, gripping my shoulders. My body tenses but Milo ignores it as he leans closer. “It’s your eyes. There’s something about your eyes. I couldn’t place it earlier because of your glasses—and they are adorable glasses—but your eyes, they’re so familiar. It’s like I’ve been staring at them for my entire life and I can’t even place it.” He’s immobilized me with his words, something I hate to admit, but he’s done it. “There’s so much about you I know just from your eyes but I don’t know what I know.” He shakes his head, his blonde locks falling into his eyes. “I can’t explain it, it’s all jumbled inside my head, but I don’t want to hurt you, I just want to know you, please let me have that chance. The chance to get to know you.”

  “Let go of me, Milo,” I whisper painfully before he releases his grip, stepping away from him. Looking at him, he’s completely harmless—like a hamster. I know that. I’m not sure why I’m comparing him to a hamster but it’s helping me with my decision. I will admit that he’s annoying—very annoying, but so am I. “After the third stoplight, take a right and keep driving until I say turn right again.” I climb into his car, against my better judgment. A part of me is screaming that it’s stupid to get into the car with this boy, I don’t know him from a hole in the wall, but an even bigger part of me trusts him.

  I’m listening to the bigger part.

  So I buckle up and tuck my back between my legs as he starts his car, merging back into traffic before the bus pulls up behind him.

  So, Joey,” he starts, disrupting the silence growing between us. “Is that short for anything?”

  My eyes train out the window, watching the world blur by in greens and browns. He really only wants to get to know me? I find that hard to believe but I doubt he knows Alexia well enough for her to pay him to do anything to me to traumatize me.

  “Josephine.”

  “Now, there’s a name I haven’t heard outside of history,” he says. “Is it a family name or something special?”

  I bite my lip. “Is this your way of getting to know me?” I ask, not really a fan of small talk. “I’m in your car. What now?”

  “Well, don’t think this is some big romantic gesture. My giving you a ride home.” That’s great to
hear, Romeo, just open your damn mouth, would you. “You seem like a sweet girl and all that, but I don’t really—”

  “Well, that’s the biggest load of shit I’ve ever heard.” I bark out a laugh. “You want me to answer questions and all that, start speaking honestly and maybe that’ll get you somewhere with me.”

  “Fine. You’re a bitch,” Milo tells me, smiling. “A grade-A bitch, and I’d love to leave your ass at that bus stop, but like I said, there’s something about you. Something I can’t even begin to explain.”

  I did ask for honesty.

  “For one, I’m not normally a bitch.” Not completely honest, but I somewhat try for civility. “You’re just an ass.”

  “Yeah, I am,” he instantly agrees.

  Ha! Now we’re getting somewhere.

  But that leaves us in silence as we ponder—both of us.

  The easiest thing for me to do is be nice and answer his questions. It’s the easiest and the nicest.

  “I’m named after the dancer,” I tell him.

  “What?” Milo looks over to me as he stops at a stop sign. He looks alarmed, then surprised that I’m complying and answering his question.

  “My mother was a dancer,” I explain. “She named me after her role model growing up, Josephine Baker.” It’s what he was looking for, I hope. “She idolized her. She even wanted to move to France one day.” A dream that died too soon.

  “Was?”

  He caught that, did he?

  “She’s dead,” I whisper, the words catching in my throat. The more I say it, the harder it gets to say.

  If he didn’t already know that from his intel, he’s a crappy detective and needs to work on his snooping skills.

  “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I bet she was a beautiful woman.” I look to my hands in my lap. Listening to him try and cover his slip, it’s not what I need right now. “Because you’re really not that bad.”

  I snort. “Thanks,” I say, smiling. That lifted my spirits slight. It was enough to make me smile.

  After I direct him to my house, I pop from his car, ready to slam the door in his face when he calls out, “Do you need a ride to school tomorrow?”

  I think for a moment, lingering with my hand on the door. I can always call Kennie and tell her I’m good to go on my own in the morning. Of course, she’ll want to know why I’m changing my plans. And yes, I’ll have to tell her. She’s a nosy girl with a way to get what she wants: gossip.