The Art of Breaking Things, page 29
“I was very wasted,” I say. “And I sort of threw myself at you?”
Ben looks down. “It was a rough night.”
I disentangle my hand from his and turn to face him more fully in the small confines of the car.
“Then I told you that our promise meant nothing.” I wait to gauge his reaction.
“Like I said—rough night.”
“I spent the next four weeks assuming that you were disgusted by me and that our friendship was over.”
“Not disgusted.”
I rub my hands on my thighs.
He touches me on the shoulder. “Skye.”
I look at Ben.
“Not ever disgusted.” His eyes are earnest.
Mine jump away, unable to hold his gaze.
“And also, you didn’t break our promise.”
“Wait, how do you know that?” I turn back to look at him and catch a smile forming on his lips.
“You don’t remember what you said after that.”
I frown a question at him.
“You put your jacket back on, stomped your feet, and said something along the lines of ‘Fine, I’ll keep our stupid fucking promise.’ And then you walked off.”
I smile back and then my eyes drop to my lap. “At your welcome back party, you acted like you didn’t remember.”
“I wasn’t sure you were ready to go there.”
“But you seemed like you didn’t want to have anything to do with me.”
“I was freaked. I’d been in rehab for four weeks. Not talking to you—or anyone—and then I show up and there’s a keg and Jell-O shots and weed and . . . I couldn’t stay. It wasn’t you.”
“But it was. I planned most of that party. I thought you’d want all those things.”
“I get that you thought that. Things are just a little different now. But I’m still me.”
He’s still Ben, but he’s not. Then again, I’m still Skye, but I’m not. Telling my mom, making sure she believed me after all this time, has changed me. Like maybe I don’t need that Teflon coating anymore. But it’s not like everything is perfect now just because I spoke the truth.
“I can’t be your fantasy girl.”
“I’m not looking for a fantasy.”
“I still have a lot to figure out,” I say.
“Me too,” he says.
* * *
—
When I get back, Mom and I talk again. She needs to speak to Dan and wonders if I want to say anything to him. Speaking my truth to Mom was what I needed, so I tell her no, I don’t want to see him again. When she returns, she looks tired, but she’s not crying.
“Did you talk to him?” I ask.
She nods.
“What did he say?”
She looks at me and there is sadness in her eyes. “He denied everything.”
“But—”
Mom hugs me to her. “I believe you, Skye,” she says, “and it was good that we met in a public place because I’m not sure what I would have done to him if we were in private.”
I want to say I’m sorry, but finally I don’t have anything to be sorry for. This happened to me. I didn’t cause it. Even though it’s so many years later, it feels good to hear Mom stand up for me. That’s what I needed all along.
“We’ll get through it,” I say.
“We will because the Murray girls are strong.”
“Yeah, we are.”
I hug Mom one more time and then I let go.
* * *
—
On Monday, we’re all back in school. With everything that’s happened, I feel like my whole world is different, but for everyone else, it’s just another Monday after another weekend. The main difference is that this time when Ben and I walk into school together, we’re holding hands. Somehow, it doesn’t cause the earthquake that I expect. Except for Luisa. She starts cheering by the lockers.
That afternoon, I stop in to see Mr. M. “Do you have a minute?”
“Sure.” Mr. M gestures for me to come into his office.
“That lady you introduced me to the other night? She runs a nonprofit?”
“Yes, the Mural Arts Initiative.”
“I think I might want to volunteer.”
“Oh?”
I nod. “I’m thinking of taking a gap year and working at a nonprofit doing public art.”
“That’s a big decision. Have you talked it over with your family?”
I tell Mr. M that I have. The three of us spent the whole weekend together. Emma tried to cheer up Mom and me by playing old movies and singing the soundtracks as loud as she could. Mom and I did our best, but she was devastated over what happened and I was still raw from the telling.
Mom helped me put my art workspace back together and she’d asked again about the deposit. I’d told her that as much as I wanted to go to MICA, I thought I needed to be home a little longer. It was Mom who mentioned the idea that I look into deferring. I’d e-mailed MICA in the morning to ask about deferral and what would happen with my scholarship. They’d let me know to still put down the deposit and that deferral was definitely an option, as long as I could show that I was doing something that would offer significant impact to me and/or to the world around me. If I could show that, they’d keep my scholarship intact. I’d thought of the mural arts program right away.
Mr. M says that he’ll call Ms. Grugan on my behalf and let me know what happens. When I leave Mr. M’s office, I feel lighter than I have in months.
42
Falling Is Sort of Like Flying
A MONTH AFTER the wedding that wasn’t, I call Ben. It’s a blue-sky Saturday and I want to spend it with him. I want to spend most days with Ben, and ever since the drive and our talk, that’s what we do. He’s finished recording, but he’s decided to stay clean. A day at a time, he says. I’m still not so sure if that’s the right path for me, but Mom is keeping me on a short leash. What happened with Dan doesn’t excuse taking Emma to a party and being unable to drive her home.
I never imagined that I could have fun with Ben and not be high or drunk, but maybe that’s because we’d never tried. Now, we’re taking things slowly. If he’s been impatient with me for not jumping in with the physical stuff, he’s never let on. We hold hands a lot and he puts his arm around me sometimes. But never in my back pocket. Ben picks up on the second ring.
“Ready?” I ask.
“I will be,” he says. “Lu coming?”
“She’s already in the car.”
“Cool. See you soon.”
I pick up Ben and we all drive to my new project. Well, it’s not mine exactly, but it feels like mine. Ms. Grugan was enthusiastic about me volunteering with her organization, and after talking through our ideas, we both figured we might as well get started sooner rather than later. She especially liked that I came with a built-in team. We are working on the wall of a building not far from Sal’s on Pennswood Pike. This time, we’re working mostly with paint, which I’ve found is much less likely to cut me than mosaic pieces. On the other hand, most of my clothes are paint-colored now. Not long after we arrive, Keith joins us. I can’t tell if he’s found a sudden love of art or if he’s crushing on Luisa, but it’s great to have extra hands.
Lu and I thought of the design for this one, and Ms. Grugan was on board all the way. She liked the idea of merging media. We’d finished transferring the design to the wall last night and I can’t wait to add color and bring the whole idea to life. I pull supplies from the back of Lucy while Keith sets up ladders. Luisa and I stand back to check the drawing I’ve made before we start painting.
“It’s going to be spectabulous,” Lu says.
I look at the images of girls and women, each one different from the next, holding hands and encircling a huge mosaic mirror. Beneath the mirror, painted on a tile are the words I AM, and surrounding those two words are pieces of an old school chalkboard where people can fill in what they are that day: amazing, sad, ambitious, loved, beautiful, broken, passionate, worried, hopeful, and so on forever.
“Spectabulous for sure.”
* * *
—
Hours later when we’re all tired, we start to pack up. Keith offers Luisa a ride home, so she and I hug good-bye while Ben loads Lucy with our supplies.
“Quarry?” I say to Ben when we are buckled into Lucy.
“Of course,” he says, but there’s no way that he knows what I have planned. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.
I drive to our new spot, the one that doesn’t hold old memories for either of us. He pulls a blanket and a picnic basket from the back of Lucy. We walk down a bit and Ben stops, but I keep walking.
“Farther?” Ben asks.
“I want to be completely private.”
He follows me down a neglected path until I duck beneath willow branches into a secluded area near the water.
“This place is like a secret,” Ben says.
“Our secret,” I say.
“I made dinner,” Ben says as he starts pulling items from a bag.
I laugh when I see the array of store-bought foods. Sour Cream & Onion potato chips. Brown Sugar Pop-Tarts. A few clementines. And two root beers.
“Okay, you know all my favorite things. But the root beers?”
He twists the top off one and hands it to me. “If you can’t have the real thing . . .”
“Got it.”
After we finish the gourmet meal, Ben pulls his guitar from the case and starts strumming.
“You have your sketchbook?” he says, like he knows the answer.
“Always.”
He smiles at me. “Want to play?”
“I do,” I say, pulling out my pastels. I already have an idea.
“No charcoal today?”
“It’s time for a change.”
Ben starts strumming.
“Is that new?” I ask as my hand moves across the page, grabbing one color and then the next to put on paper what I want to convey.
“Yeah,” he says, still playing. “Something I was messing around with in rehab.”
“It’s beautiful. I like that chord change.”
“You do?”
I hear the smile in his voice even though I’m not looking at him. Sitting there on an itchy blanket with the sun winking through green leaves, I think back to Mr. M telling me to follow my instincts. I’d thought that they’d always gotten me into trouble, but I see that was just fear pushing me toward whatever would numb me.
Now, even though I feel nervous, I also feel ready. I finish my sketch and hand it to Ben without speaking.
“I kept your curls in this one,” I say eventually. “I miss them.”
He holds the sketch like he’s inhaling it, and I feel my face warming. I wait, watching Ben.
“You miss my curls, huh?” He grins and lets the paper float to the ground. He grabs my fingers in his and runs his thumb across my palm, sending a current up my wrist and to every nerve in my entire body. I squeeze his fingers in response.
“So . . . this is happening?”
“This is happening,” I whisper.
“In that case, I need both hands.”
I can’t help but giggle even though the butterflies in my belly are doing nosedives. Ben sets his guitar down and then he’s on both knees facing me. We are so close that I see the flecks of gold in his smiling eyes. His hands hover around my face, like he’s not sure if it’s okay to touch me. His eyes drop to my mouth and then up to my eyes again.
“I won’t break,” I say.
I’m choosing this. Being with Ben is a step toward believing that I’m allowed to take up space in this world, not for the pleasure of others, but for myself. It’s a step toward believing that maybe, just maybe, I can turn the damaged parts of me into something new.
I press his hand to my cheek and then turn my face to kiss his palm. Then I bite it, just to let him know that I’m still me.
“Ow!” he says, snatching his hand away. “I’ll get you for that.”
He tackles me and we tumble down to the blanket, both of us laughing. I place both hands on his cheeks.
“I knew this would be fun with you,” I say.
“You thought about this?”
“You know I did.”
“I just like to hear you admit it.”
My eyes seek out his for a fraction of eternity before we lean in. Our lips brush against each other feather soft. Then they melt together. Gently at first and then with more urgency. He takes my lower lip between both of his. I lick his upper lip. I imagine how I’d sketch us: The World’s First Kiss because that’s how it feels to me, like I’ve never kissed another boy ever. Not like this.
We adjust so that we are lying on the blanket facing each other. He brushes my hair from my face and his lips wander from my temple to the corner of my mouth. His hand skims down my shoulder and then back up, cupping my face. I slide my hand beneath his shirt and delight in the feel of his skin on my palm.
“Can you take this off?” I ask, tugging at his T-shirt.
He sits up and pulls it over his head, tossing it to the side. He lies on his back, one arm behind his head, watching me as my hands explore the planes of his body.
“I can’t tell if you want to kiss me or draw me,” he says.
I giggle. “Both?” I lean down and kiss his chest while my fingers walk toward his belly button, where I trace circles. He groans.
“Skye . . .”
“What?” I say, leaving a path of kisses up his neck and landing on his lips. I’m not doing this to avoid my feelings or because I think that’s all I’m good for. This is me connecting with Ben in a way that I truly want.
“I’m trying to act cool, but I’m pretty much dying right now.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No, but . . .”
I lean over him and look him in the eyes.
“I want this,” I say. “Do you want this?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” I kiss him on the mouth and his arms pull me closer. His hand finds its way beneath my tank top and his fingers raise goose bumps as they move up my back until he reaches my bra clasp. His hand stills.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
“I’m sure.” Those words seem to give him the permission he needs. He unclasps my bra, not like it’s a sport, but like he’s opening a gift. He explores my body like I explored his until I’m the one dying. I help him put on a condom and then I lie back, looking up at him bracing himself over me.
“I hope no one wanders down here just now.” He grins.
“No one will find us here.”
I close my eyes as he slides in, and it’s electric blueredyellowsilver fireworks in a star-studded sky and it’s the feeling of finding your way home after a long, black night.
Later, Ben looks at me like he’s just discovered something remarkable. He’s been looking at me like that a lot lately. I hope that I get used to it. He kisses me at the corner of my mouth.
“I’ve wanted to kiss you there for about twenty-seven months.” His eyes crinkle with a smile. “Since the time we drew Disco Elephant. The first time I noticed your dimple.”
I smile back and kiss his neck, just below his ear. “You’ve waited a long time.”
“I have. And to make up for lost time, I’d like to kiss your dimple often, with your permission, of course.”
“You have my permission.” I tuck myself into him and close my eyes.
I wake a little while later to someone rubbing my back. I freeze and then I remind myself that the hands on me are Ben’s hands. I hug him closer, relishing the full length of his body so close to mine. My mind whispers warnings that I’m still a little broken and that no guy—not even Ben—can fix me. It’s an inside job. I sense myself falling and tumbling. But this time I’m not ripping down the world with me. This time I’m falling because that’s the only way to test my wings.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is the book of my heart, a story that I was reluctant to write because it would make me feel too vulnerable and yet that demanded to be written. While the book is a work of fiction, it is inspired by truth. The man who mistreated me has been dead for many years. For me, it was after his death that I was able to face head-on what happened and start the hard, but important work of healing. I wrote this book, in part, to give a voice to what happened to me, but also to offer a story to girls who don’t yet have a voice, so that they might have hope.
My road to publishing has been a long one and this particular book would not be in your hands if it weren’t for the encouragement, support, and work of many people. Roughly in order of how it happened, I extend my deepest thanks and gratitude to the people who contributed in making this particular dream come true:
First and foremost, my husband Tom who has always believed in me. He encouraged me to pursue my dream of writing early on, buying me my first laptop when I wasn’t even sure that I had a story to tell. The way that he tackles life inspires me every single day.
My first writing group, the Wonder Women Writers: Carolyn Kuehn, Kath Hubbard, Laura Brennan, Laura Kuhn, and Angela Small for helping me start a regular writing practice. Your critiques and book suggestions, not to mention your wit, kept me motivated. Extra thanks to Kath Hubbard, my very first writing teacher and the person who wrote my recommendation to VCFA. Also, a special thanks to Angela Small who read this book and helped me in my revision.
Vermont College of Fine Arts where I found my people and where I learned how to revise so that when I received my first editorial letter, I was fully prepared. Specifically, I’d like to thank my advisors during my time there: Sharon Darrow, Susan Fletcher, Amanda Jenkins, and Martine Leavitt. My class, the Secret Gardeners, is full of generous, compassionate writers who made my time at VCFA even more spectacular than it would have been.
