Authors: Aimee L. Salter
Breakable (35 page)
I
wasn’t sure that was entirely true, but I offered him a grateful smile because
it was easier to pretend it was.
“Thank
you. For saying that. And those other things… you were very kind. And mostly
right.”
I
was startled when he boomed a laugh in response. “
Mostly
right… oh dear,
you are a firecracker, aren’t you!”
“No!
No, I didn’t mean it that way.”
“It’s
fine–”
“No,
I meant–” I turned toward the wall, intending to tell him that I hadn’t thought
as deeply about Finn’s lips as he thought – that he’d given me too much praise.
But my eyes fell on the pink letters and that awful graffiti, and I stood
there, finally, frozen in its glare.
My
own face, haggard and sad, stared back at me, and for a moment it was as if
Older Me were here…
As
if I was
her
.
Because
I remembered the moment when I painted that expression. It was how I felt. So
hopeless and…heavy.
And
it occurred to me, as my eyes followed the lines of the letters, and my lips
silently formed their sounds, that I didn’t feel that way anymore.
“I
meant what I said, dear,” Jeremy murmured at my side. “I find your
courage…humbling.”
“I
don’t have courage.”
“Of
course you do, sweetheart. You just haven’t grown up enough yet to realize
courage isn’t fearless.” He patted my shoulder and turned. I thought he was
walking away. I thought our conversation was done. Part of me was glad. I
wanted to be alone with my picture. But part of me wondered whether he thought
I was good enough to go art school. And if he admired my stuff, why didn’t he–
“Here,”
Jeremy said. I looked back. He held out a slim, glossy pamphlet.
When
I took it my hands shook.
He
patted my shoulder again. “Unfortunately, Stacy, bullying doesn’t stop when you
grow up. It just looks a little different.” He wrinkled his patrician nose and
shook his head. “Don’t let the snooty buffoons who run this tell you that
you’re unfinished, or too green. Your work isn’t green. It’s honest. Raw.” He
cleared his throat, then met my eyes. “Vintner isn’t large. And it doesn’t have
quite such a prestigious name as the Institute, or CFA. But we won’t try to
turn you into someone else. And we won’t denigrate your work. We believe in
trial and error. And we believe in letting you tell us who
you
should
be.”
He
straightened his sash and pushed back his shoulders. “Just don’t let them make
you think you’re lacking. They’ll jump all over Mark because he’s so polished.
And they may give you a chance, too. But I hope you’ll consider us anyway.” He
flashed a wide smile. “With us, you can be proud of exactly who you are. Right
now. And I promise, you’ll
never
be mistaken for someone else.”
He
winked and I gasped. But before I could ask if he knew who I was all along, he
was already talking.
“And
stop sitting back as if you don’t deserve to be here. Even those Apes could see
that you do. It takes a lot out of an artist to show their plain face to the
world, like this.” He gestured towards my work again.
I
snort. “I didn’t have much choice,” I muttered, not really meaning it for a
reply.
“Oh,
you might be surprised, my dear.”
When
I looked at him, he offered a sad smile, but then he brightened and sprang to
his feet. “Well, I better go find the competition and steer them away from this
corner, all the better to keep you to myself. My phone number is on the back,”
He flapped his hand toward the pamphlet. “Call me anytime. Early acceptance is
next month!”
“I
know.” The words came out too soft. He was almost out of sight before I remembered
my manners and called after him. “Thank you!”
“Thank
me by telling the rest of them where to put their scholarships!” he called over
his vibrant shoulder. Then he was gone.
I
looked from the slick photographs in my hand to the horrific painting in front
of me. The sad face, the sickening pink. The words spewed all over the surface.
I looked into my own eyes and braced for recognition. For remembrance.
But
I couldn’t find it. So I sat down and waited. Waited to see if it would come.
“Stace?”
Mark’s low voice rose quietly behind me. I turned. He stood at the end of the
wall before mine, one shoulder against it, taking his weight. The rest of his
long frame was poised, ready to move. But his eyes were wide. His jaw firm.
There were lines in his brow. He didn’t know whether to come closer, or leave
me alone.
Warmth
throbbed in my chest. Gratitude that he could think of me even when he must
have so much good news of his own.
I
gestured for him to join me, then turned back to my paintings.
I
was still sitting at the bench. I’d been there all night.
Sometimes
I answered questions. Sometimes I let people talk around me, not realizing I
was there. It was fine. I’d been inside myself. Watching what was going on from
the outside. And it was almost over. There were still one or two people
wandering around, but I could tell it was getting late.
As
Mark settled next to me his arm slid around my waist. I smiled.
“How
did it go?”
Mark’s
eyes sparkled. “I have choices.”
“Congratulations!”
I put my arms around his waist and squeezed.
“Ditto.”
He squeezed me back. Then his face turned grim. “Dad won’t like it.”
I
sighed and sat up. “No, he won’t.” We were both silent. Then I picked up his
hand and squeezed it between mine. “But we can handle him.”
Mark
nodded, still staring into the half-distance.
A
minute later he blinked and turned to look at me, smiling. “How about you?”
I
thought about it for a second. Then I told him.
I’d
spent most of the night staring at my painting, not really seeing it. Instead
of studying brush strokes, or intentions, I examined my life.
Things
were about to change. I could feel it. I hoped they would change for the
better. But there were so many pains to work through, so many fears to
overcome, sometimes it seemed impossible.
The
pamphlet Jeremy gave me, and the hope it represented, was warm and damp in my
sweaty hand. I was afraid to let it go. Afraid to lose it. So it stayed with
me, waiting the night out. It wasn’t until an hour earlier I’d realized I felt
afraid because I still had holes. Even with Mark loving me. Even with an art
school dean asking me to choose their scholarship.
But
twenty minutes ago, I realized something else: As long as I kept looking for
answers, kept looking for
real
love, then there would always be a chance
my holes would get filled up.
They
would only become inevitable when I stopped believing they could be filled.
Because that’s when I’d sit back and let life pile on the crap.
As
long as I had hope, the good things would stay good.
So,
no, I’d never be a kick-ass movie heroine. I’d never be the star of my own
story.
But
I was real. And loveable.
And
I would never have believed
that
back when this story started.
IT TAKES A VILLAGE…
This
book is a work of fiction. But if there is one part of the journey Stacy and I
share, it is that we entered our twenties with an awareness of the holes
inside; the wounds (self-inflicted, or otherwise) that never completely heal.
I am
unable to give enough of myself, my work, or my life to adequately say thank
you, Jesus, for moving in to fill those gaps and heal my wounds. Your work in
my heart is nothing short of miraculous. I hope you find some measure of
delight in what I have delivered here.
While
it only takes one author to write a book, it takes a village to cover the
housekeeping, childcare, financial management, and everything else while they
do it. My village is named “Alan” and he’s a renaissance man: corporate businessman,
hobby farmer, sometimes house-husband, Fun Dad, and the rock of my world. Thank
you, darling. You have superior husbanding skills.
I also
have to ask my parents, Ernie and Ricki, to take a bow. I was a creative,
irresponsible, irrepressible child who grew up in a home that, no matter what,
always included the words "I love you." Thank you for believing I'm
capable of something special. And thank you, thank you, thank you for being
nothing like Stacy's parents!
Heather,
you are what a sister should be – in the most hilarious way possible. Thank you
for always loving me, for being excited with me, for always believing I can do
it. And for understanding why sentences like "You forgotta open the door.
The door. The door..." are funny. If I ever get invited to a red carpet, I
promise you'll be my plus-one. (We'll go incognito).
To the
most important redhead in my life, thank you for sharing me when you didn't get
a choice. I hope one day you'll believe in yourself as much as I believe in
you. Never question that God will be the one to fuel your dreams and bring them
to life. (But if Marvel calls, tell them your publisher is named
"Mum" and she can make your life miserable, so they're out of luck).
To Nyria
Ratana and Raewyn Hewitt, my honorary sisters and the founding members of the
world’s best writer’s group: There are three couches and a warm fire in heaven
where you will be rewarded for your endless support, and Jesus will join us in
the next movie giggle-fest. (He already knows everyone's pin numbers, so we'll
make him responsible for the McDonald's run).
Kelly
Geister, thank you for that incredible cover. You're the most talented person I
know. And you have the best smile. Thank you for never needing an apology,
always laughing at my jokes, that mug, and for understanding why inappropriate
sketches have value. A piece of me is always with you, friend.
Without
my former agent Brittany Howard, and author Cora Carmack, I honestly doubt
Breakable would be a book. You entered my life at a time when I wondered if I needed
to give up on this writing jag. So I guess it’s your fault I didn’t. Thank you.
Whether the rest of the world thanks you remains to be seen.
To my
"editor", author Vanitha Sankaran, thank you for never saying no, and
for offering wise advice on both fiction, and the world of writers who create
it. I promise to always pronounce your name correctly and to punch anyone else
who doesn’t.
Thank
you, authors Melody Valadez, Mary Elizabeth Summer, Sharon Johnston, Mikaela
Gray, Cally Jackson; and reader-extraordinaires Ana McCarron and Emily Heisler
(AKA: The Amazing Conversationalist) for your time, your friendship, and
believing in me and my book. You’re a gift.
Thank
you, author J.R. Lankford and all the writers at NovelPro (one of the world's best
critique groups) for giving so much time to an overly enthusiastic novice, and
effectively teaching me how to write.
Thank
you, authors Katja Millay, Cora Carmack, Tammara Webber, Julie Anne Long, Julia
Quinn, Sarah MacLean, and John Green for writing completely different stuff
than I do and creating worlds for me to escape to when I’m convinced my own
worlds are a mess.
Finally,
to you, dear reader. I've dreamed of meeting you for years. Please join me on
www.facebook.com/AimeeLSalter, or tweet @AimeeLSalter so we can chat. Thank you
for taking Stacy’s journey with me. Seriously. Without you, there's no point in
thanking the rest of them.
And
because I mean that, stop by the “For Readers” link on
www.aimeelsalter.com
– you can choose what I write next!