Cutting to the Chase

By Rose Phillips

How do you fix something you didn't break?

Lizzy certainly doesn't have the answer. All she knows is that she needs to survive senior year, then get as far away from her dysfunctional family as possible. In the meantime, when she can't take the pressure, she eases it with the sharp edge of a razor blade.

But, she's been cutting deeper and her thoughts are growing darker.

Until she meets Michael. With him she finds relief.

Now, maybe—just maybe—she can make it.

14+ due to sexuality, language, and adult situations

• Language: English
• Publisher: Evernight Teen
• Release date: Mar 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9781773391861

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Published by Evernight Teen ® at Smashwords

www.evernightteen.com

Copyright© 2017 Rose Phillips

ISBN: 978-1-77339-186-1

Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

Editor: Lisa Petrocelli

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

DEDICATION

To Keev, who taught me the meaning of unconditional love.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thank you Evernight Teen for giving me this opportunity, and for allowing me to keep it real. Thanks to my awesome editor, Lisa Petrocelli, for ironing the kinks out, and to Ru and Mel, talented authors who have supported me on this journey to publication. Most importantly, to the many teens who crossed my path throughout the years, thank you for trusting me enough to share your pain. Your strength to push through, to hang in and survive, inspired this story.

CUTTING TO THE CHASE

Rose Phillips

Copyright © 2017

Chapter One

The metal is cool against my leg. I want to put it away, shove it back in the cabinet out of sight, and forget it exists. But I can’t. Instead, I tip it and drag it across my skin, scraping slowly. Chills run down my spine, making me shiver. I spread my legs wider, allowing my hand to slip to my inner thigh, totally giving in to it, edging the corner of the razor blade in. It’s easy. Flesh is soft.

I hold my breath and wait. The first crimson drop hits the water. The silent splash echoes in the room, shouts in my mind—then it disappears into watery nothingness. The buzzing in my head softens Mom’s angry words to whispers. I can breathe now and my heart starts to thump normally. The sharp pain eases. I draw the blade in a straight path. I love how the skin folds away. Like pulling the strip on a Babybel. Except I’m the cheese inside out.

You’ve been in there thirty minutes!

I pull at the roll of toilet paper and press a clump of it against the cut. The little shit can wait.

I timed it. Thirty stinkin’ minutes. You don’t own the freakin’ washroom! The door reverberates from his banging.

Shut up. I wipe, but I’ve gone deeper this time and it keeps dripping. Crap! Grabbing more tissue, I manage to smear the blood, the mess looking a lot like my watercolor attempt last week. Mrs. Opal had described it as a sailor’s warning, whatever the hell that means.

He pounds the door again, obviously totally pissed. I mean it, Lizzy. Get out!

I pull up my panties, then wad some more tissue and hold it against my skin, carefully tugging my jeans with my free hand. Sucking in my stomach, I pull my hand out, leaving the padding there. My heart is pounding again, so loud in my head I can barely hear Midget muttering. I pull up the zipper and snap the jeans, looking around like there’s someone watching me or something. I don’t know why I’ve done it in here today. It’s not my usual spot. I rinse the blade, slip it into my front pocket, then turn and look at the bloodied mess bloating in the basin. Screw it.

Midget falls against me when I yank open the door, and I push him as he jumps back, his blue eyes popping out of his freckled face.

And screw you. I say it under my breath, but I mean it, then head down the hall.

I’m about to close the door, when I hear him. Ew, gross. Girls are just freakin’ gross!

****

I should have grabbed a warmer coat, but I flew out of the house without thinking about it. I’m more level now, balanced again, but another run-in with Mom this morning would have tipped me back into the freak zone. I need to get far away from her crap about college. It’s my life. Screw her. I’ll sign the damn applications myself when I turn eighteen. If I miss out cuz I have to wait until then, I’ll be super pissed. I wish I had the nerve to tell her to go to hell. Or to just sign her name.

Keeping my head down, I turn the corner and pull at the collar of my jacket. The walk to school in the spring is okay, but I can’t stand it in November. I step off the curb and a horn blares, making me look up. My pulse doesn’t even speed up at the close call. Stu, the derp, waves from the middle window where he always sits—the emergency exit, cuz, you know, you never know. Double—no scratch that—quadruple derp. I hate Stu right now more than I hate November. He lives only two doors down, but he gets to take the bus because he’s one hundred feet outside of the district’s walking zone. I flip him the finger, then jam my hand back into the warmth of the pocket.

Lizzy, wait up.

Damn. It’s going to be a shit day. No doubt about it. First, Mom. Now Mags. Great.

Lizzy!

I can hear the pleasure in her voice and want to run. Instead, I slow down. Just enough to be kinda nice but fast enough to show I’m not looking for company. Not that Mags will catch that. We’ve been friends since kindergarten, and Mags doesn’t get that things have changed.

You ready for the trig test? She’s panting, moisture beading her brow despite the cold.

It’s so pathetic. I wouldn’t run to catch up with anyone, never mind work up a sweat over it. Of course, I’m not thirty pounds overweight either. Mags doesn’t seem to care. She’s smiling, cheeks dimpled and eyes bright with anticipation. Damn. It’s always like this. Mags is a freakin’ puppy ready to be kicked. And I just can’t do it.

Sorta. I mean, I looked it over. But numbers aren’t my thing. Not like you. You’ve always aced math.

She beams. It would be so easy. Kick, kick, kick.

You could be too, if you didn’t skip so many classes. Mags puffs, working to keep up with my slack stroll.

If someone could show me why I should give a shit about the hypotenuse of a triangle, I might try a little harder.

Mags laughs. Well, snorts really. She always sounds like my grandfather on Thanksgiving when he passes out on the couch, drunk on turkey, beer, and quality family time. It used to be funny.

You never know what you’ll need in life. You might be a great architect. Or a designer. She wipes at her nose with garish homemade mittens. A set designer for a famous TV show. Lizzy, imagine that. It could happen. You’ve got the talent for it.

I just want to get through the day. Get to school, get through school, and get home before anyone else. And dump Mags. As soon as possible. Mags smiles encouragingly. Like she thinks I care about any of her stupid far-fetched dreams. Kick. Kick. Kick.

Whatever. I put my head down and pick up the pace.

****

The dial on the lock spins too easily and I miss the mark. I’m grateful that I managed to ditch Mags at the door. Not because I’m a whiz at dumping, but because she was anxious to get to study hall and review her trig notes. I tug at the lock, but it doesn’t release. I start the number combination again. Ten. I pull and the thing doesn’t give. Again! I rest my head against the locker, fighting the urge to bang it repeatedly until my forehead bleeds. Instead, I take a deep breath and count to ten—the stupid number that isn’t working.

Hey, girlfriend. What’s up?

The metal is hard and cold against my temple when I turn my head. My eyes stay hidden behind my thick hair. I follow the long line of Becky’s legs to her impossibly tiny waist, to her disgustingly large breasts, finally landing on the bright smile. No one should look that good. It just isn’t fair.

Nothing. Nothing at all. I give the lock another futile yank.

Yeah, well, the day is young.

Becky is totally indifferent to my frustration. Not that that is unusual. Becky leans toward oblivion on anything that does not directly relate to Becky. Hooked on Goodreads quotes, she spouts one at every chance. It’s tiresome. I doubt she has ever read any of the books, but her mom is an author and they hang out on the site together. It’s their thing. The day is young. I’m tempted to snort Mags’s style.

Oh! Becky squeaks as Brad, coming from behind, wraps his arms around her and nuzzles her neck.

Great. Now, I’ve got freakin’ Ken and Barbie standing witness while I struggle with the locker. Ten! I shout it in my mind, not out loud, and just like that, it clicks. I wrench the door open and grab my stuff while they coo and murmur at one another.

Hey, Dude!

I turn in time to catch Brad’s high five to Michael. Michael is the total opposite of Brad in every way. He’s dark and mysterious, doesn’t say too much, always around but never in the spotlight. He looks at me and my heart takes off like a race car, heat rushing to my cheeks. I wish I could stop it but it’s always like that. Mom says it’s genetic, that the apple cheek syndrome comes from her side of the family. I got a lot of shit from Mom’s side of the family.

What about you, Lizzy? You want to come? Becky is waiting for an answer, but I’ve missed the conversation.

Um, I’m not sure… I know I’m a mumbling moron, but it’s hard to think and talk at the same time, and my brain’s trying to put together what they had said while I was busy blushing like an idiot.

Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. Way better than hanging around here all day. Mom left this morning for a conference. Won’t be back ’til Sunday. Might as well take advantage of it. Right, Brad? Becky raises her face and gets the kiss she’s aiming for.

As much as I’d like to blow off school, there’s the trig test today. If I don’t get good grades, I won’t get into college. I’ve heard that enough since the beginning of the semester. No, I think—

Aw, Lizzy, for me… Michael is staring at me, and I just know my neck is all mottled now too. You don’t want to leave me by my lonesome with these two, now do you?

His lip quirks just a bit, not quite a smile, but my stomach flips at the sight of it anyway. I can’t believe he’s asking me to ditch and go with him. I really should stay and do the trig test. College and all. He’s still looking at me. Waiting. Oh, screw it! I toss my notes back in the locker and slam it shut, popping the lock back into place as Becky squeals her pleasure.

With one arm still firmly around Brad, Becky wraps the other around my waist and spins our little trio toward the door. Michael walks quietly beside me while Becky chatters. I want to look at him to see if he’s honestly happy that I am coming, but I don’t want to be too obvious or seem too interested. So I pretend I’m listening to Becky. When we pass the glass walls of the library, I can see Mags, nose to book. A bubble of guilt clogs my throat and I forget myself and glance at Michael. He smiles, actually fully smiles at me. I swallow my doubt and give him my best smile in return. It looks like it’s going to be a good day after all.

****

The apartment is a couple of blocks from the school. I’ve never been there. I met Becky in art class when she had been blown away by my awesome talent. It seemed a little over the top at the time, but it was flattering. New to the school, she hung out with me for the first week or so. But she had squad goals. So she worked to herd a few other princesses together, and now she’s usually busy leading them around by their pert little noses.

Not that I’m not cool, but I’m not top tier either. And I’m no Barbie. Becky didn’t discard me altogether. She just didn’t hang as much. I’m fine with that. I don’t need anyone. Too bad Mags can’t get that through her thick head.

Apparently, today is my turn to be graced with Becky’s presence. She keeps her arm firmly wrapped around my waist while Brad drifts back, falling into step behind us with Michael.

Becky leans in conspiratorially. It’s about time, don’t you think?

What is?

Michael, silly. You’ve been throwing him looks in art class.

That frustrating heat warms my cheeks again. It’s true. Michael sits at the table in front of me. I love how his bangs hang over his eyes, and how he sweeps the hair up, holding it on top of his head while he analyzes his work, tilting his head one way, then the other like a pigeon at the park. I didn’t know I’d been that obvious.

Today’s the day, girl. All good things come to those who wait. She giggles, tossing a smile over her shoulder at the guys.

There is no doorman. It isn’t a high-end building, but it isn’t the slums or anything either. The lobby is plain with bland vanilla walls and tiles that look a lot like the ones at school. The only bright spot is the fake fern. It sits beside the elevator button. Someone has stuck a plastic ladybug on it. Bright red with black spots, it stands out on the green leaf. Becky had finally released me to open the main door, and now she’s standing, tapping her foot, impatient for the elevator. The guys are quiet, looking around.

Patience is not the ability to wait, but how you act while you’re waiting. Look at me! I nailed two patience quotes in one morning. Becky giggles and sidles into Brad, kissing his neck. See, I know how to act while waiting.

Brad grins and puts his arms around her. Michael raises an eyebrow at me but says nothing. My stomach flip-flops, and I focus on the button until the ding signals the arrival of the elevator. Michael stands close. Even without touching, heat tingles up and down my side.

The apartment is as lifeless as the lobby. Beige carpet, beige couch, white blinds. The only splash of color is a large pink sippy cup sitting amongst the strewn papers on the table near the window. There are stacks of books and an open thesaurus.

Becky tosses her keys and iPhone on the clutter. You want something to drink?

She steps into the kitchen while I stand in the middle of the room, suddenly feeling stupid, wondering why I thought this was a good idea. Michael is behind me and I am too nervous to turn around and look at him. Becky returns with a bottle of vodka in one hand and something amber in the other. The label is turned the other way, so I can’t tell what it is. Rye maybe? My parents tend to stick to wine, so I don’t know a lot about liquor bottles.

It’s still morning. I try to sound bored, but in truth, I’m surprised. I thought Becky was more of a color within the lines kinda princess. Besides, this isn’t my thing.

You are only young once, right? She looks at Brad who kisses her and grabs the amber bottle. He unscrews the lid and swallows a mouthful. Becky unscrews the vodka and does the same, holding it toward me afterward. Seize the day!

I shake my head, hoping it releases the pressure that is beginning to build there. It was