by Alex Flinn
BREAKING POINT
ALEX FLINN
DEDICATION
For my family:
Katie, my muse
Meredith, my good-luck charm
and Gene, who let me find my way
CONTENTS
COVER
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
EXCERPT FROM BEWITCHING
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
BACK ADS
BOOKS BY ALEX FLINN
CREDITS
COPYRIGHT
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
PROLOGUE
Happy birthday to me.
The metal door slams behind me. I am on the outside. Mom starts to hug me but draws back when the guard shoves my release paperwork across the desk for me to sign. Two years ago, Mom filled everything out for me. But now I am an adult—at least in the eyes of the law. Old enough to be held fully accountable for my actions.
Some people say age doesn’t matter. I should have paid more for what I did, even though I was only fifteen.
Maybe they’re right. But they don’t know what I’ve paid—inside my head, where it matters.
And doing the right thing isn’t always easy. Maybe it’s just been too long since they were in high school. Maybe they don’t remember what it was like.
Or maybe they didn’t go to school with someone like Charlie Good.
CHAPTER ONE
Two Years Earlier
I was a misfit. If you’d asked me, I’d have guessed school uniforms were a good idea. Like camouflage. I’d have been kidding myself. On registration day, in my blue regulation crested polo and khakis that cleared my ankle despite fitting the week before, I knew I’d never fit in at Gate-Brickell Christian, my new school, in Miami, my new town.
I stood in the registration line, squeaking the vinylized wood gym floor against my Top-Siders. (The student handbook mandated “conservative” shoes. Also, “traditional” haircuts and “no piercings, except females, who may have one hole per ear only.”) I tried to look shorter. At fifteen, I was already six one, skinny, and my dark head stuck out above the swarms of mostly blond ones. They greeted one another passionately after a long summer or, more likely, a long night. I watched them—the girls especially—trying to pretend I wasn’t. A blond with glasses cornered a redhead.
“What’d you do this summer?”
The second girl, who managed to have breasts even in the hideous plaid jumpers the girls wore, shrugged. “Didn’t do jack. Just vegged in Europe, then vegged here while the ’rents busted on me for wasting my youth.”
The blond rolled her eyes. “I hear you.”
A guy approached the blond. “Vamp ’do, Kirby.”
An insult, from her reaction. Hard to tell. Their English was foreign, and I struggled to understand. Suddenly, I had the feeling I wasn’t alone.
“You look confused.” Someone behind me.
She meant me. I turned but said nothing.
Her hair was the best thing about her. From the rear, she could have been beautiful. Dark ringlets hung down her shoulders, gypsyish. The hair was a waste. The face, downright ugly, a screwed-up little face with eyes like raisins sunk in rice pudding, all hidden behind enormous glasses. She stared me down. She was skinny and almost as tall as I was. I realized she’d been watching me awhile. “Can you talk?” she demanded. “I mean, are you physically able to speak? I’m not being sarcastic, just curious.”
I glanced around to see if anyone was listening. No one was. “I’m not confused.”
“It speaks.” She smiled, sort of a Mona Lisa thing she was trying for. Apparently, word hadn’t reached her that she wasn’t a supermodel. “You look confused. Around here, looking confused is as bad as being confused. Worse, maybe. Any sign of weakness, they eat you alive.”
“Oh.” Was talking to her a sign of weakness?
“I’m Binky Lopez-Nande.” She stuck out her hand, sort of a weird thing to do.
I took it. “Paul Richmond.” Her ridiculous name sunk in. “Binky?”
“Short for Belinda. Couldn’t pronounce it when I was little, so my parents called me Binky. It’s the bane of my existence.”
I doubted that.
“What are you confused about, Richmond?”
“Nothing. I’m just figuring out a schedule.”
“You’re new here? We don’t take well to newcomers unless you’re someone important. Are you?” Her raisin eyes said I didn’t look it.
“No. I mean, I’m going here because my mother works here.” Hoping maybe that would end the conversation. Two guys my age had gotten in line behind us.
“Best reason I’ve heard for coming here.”
“I’m trying to decide between Spanish and art.” A few steps sideways, away from her, leaving only a toe in line.
“Depends. Are you college bound or running out the clock until some big trust fund kicks in?”
“Well, there’s no trust fund.”
“Didn’t think so.” A few steps toward me. “What sort of classes did you take at your old school?”
I shuffled, considering my answer, not wanting to reveal, even to her, that there was no old school. I’d been home-schooled and felt younger than the other sophomores, despite my height. I mumbled something about moving a lot because Dad was in the army. That was true, at least. I glanced back at the two guys. They paid me no attention. Why should they? They were part of things, normal. I tried to listen in. The bigger guy, who looked like a refugee from World Wrestling Federation, with arms threatening to bulge through the bands of his uniform polo, had said something to insult his friend.
“You’re a bastard, Meat,” the friend said. “Know that?”
“Watch your language,” the big guy—Meat—said.
His friend, even taller than me, but not clumsy, let fly a string of obscenities that would have offended a rap group. Meat took a swing. I thought they were kidding around, but next thing I knew, they were on the floor, hurtling into my knees, and I was a human missile. My nonskid shoes didn’t help. My legs flew past my head, my butt hit ground. They stood, laughing, leaving me where I’d fallen. I sat a second. When I was pretty sure they’d forgotten me, I stood, edged back into line. I ignored Binky’s averted eyes.
“Apologize!” A voice from nowhere.
I froze. Did he mean me? “What?”
“Not you,” said the voice. I dimly recognized there was a person connected to it. Whitish hair, white chinos, white
polo. He turned toward the guys, and I understood he was their leader. “Apologize to the kid.”
“Aww, Charlie, we don’t have to,” Meat said.
The better-looking one nodded. “Not like geek-boy’s going to do anything.”
“Boys, boys.” Charlie folded his arms. He was much shorter than his friends, but he didn’t look up. Rather, they backed off to make eye contact with him. “When we crash into people, custom calls for an apology. No matter who they are.” He nodded at each of them. “Meat? St. John?”
And the subject was closed. Their unison apology sounded more like a curse. They walked away, heads down.
Charlie turned to me, and I, like his friends, found myself backing to meet his eyes. They were brown, which seemed just right with his light hair. Short though he was, Charlie wasn’t fat or fragile or childish like short guys usually are. Rather, he was just this small person, as if everyone else was a waste of materials. He wore sneakers—forbidden by the handbook—and his polo was nonuniform. It said WIMBLEDON TENNIS CHAMPIONSHIPS.
“Charlie Good.” He didn’t extend his hand. “No E, just plain Good.”
He expected a response. “Paul Richmond.”
“Word of advice, Paul. Be aware of your surroundings. You’re not from around here, are you?”
I shook my head.
“Well, this can be a dangerous place. Very, very dangerous.”
He smiled and walked away. Did the crowds part for him? Must have been my imagination. I turned to Binky.
“Who was that?” I asked, feeling more confused than ever.
She pulled me forward, took a card for the Spanish class and handed me one. “That’s trouble.”
CHAPTER TWO
Mom broke the silence in our car. “So, how was registration?”
I grunted. I didn’t want to upset her. I didn’t want to lie either.
“That’s not an answer, Paul.” Mom yanked a blond hair from her head.
I tried not to notice. I stared out the window, at the strip malls, gas stations, and convenience stores. The car’s air conditioner was broken, and the humidity through the open windows pushed the air from my lungs. I felt Mom watching me. Finally I said, “The kids were sort of rich. They had Rolexes and stuff.”
And she said what I’d known she’d say. “We have to try not to think about money.”
She said it as we reached the parking lot for our building, a graphic reminder of the money we weren’t thinking about. We parked and walked through the peeling-painted breezeways to the elevator. A sign on the bulletin board advertised FREE KITTENS, but someone had crossed out kittens and substituted a synonym. Mom looked away. I ripped the sign down. Mom said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to be like this.” She pulled another hair and sighed. “I suppose everything happens for a reason, sweetheart.”
“I know that.” The reason is, my father’s sleeping with his secretary. But I didn’t say that, didn’t even say anything about her calling me “sweetheart,” which she’d promised to stop.
We reached our landing and walked in silence, me closing my eyes and praying, Please, God. Please let us get through this one day without her crying.
She pushed open the door. We stood there, looking at the rented beige sofa, generic table, and every stupid figurine my parents had bought during their marriage. Dad hadn’t wanted mementos. He’d just wanted out. Through the still-open door, I heard a car backfiring, rap music, an argument down the hall. Mom’s hand strayed to my shoulder. I backed off.
“I’ll go put my books away.”
She nodded, and I retreated to my room. But seconds later, as I fitted my books into the milk crates we’d decided would work for shelves, I heard her crying.
So much for prayer.
I did what I’d been thinking about doing for a while. I walked to the phone and dialed my father’s number. He hadn’t called since the divorce. I didn’t even know what I’d say. It rang once. Twice. Three times. Then, Dad’s voice on the answering machine, “You’ve reached the residence of Lieutenant Colonel Glenn Richmond.” I hung up.
I flopped onto my bed. Mom was still crying. I wanted to go on-line, but in our tiny apartment, Mom would hear the modem, then grill me about what I’d been doing. So I lay there, breathing deeply, drowning her out from inside my head. Dad’s voice was still in there too.
I couldn’t pinpoint the day Dad had stopped loving us. But if I had to guess, I’d say it began when we’d moved to Kentucky and Mom started homeschooling me.
We’d moved a lot. Between kindergarten and second grade, I’d attended four schools, always transferring midyear, always the new kid being sized up by everyone. I learned to be shy. Mom was a pro at it already. By our third move, she stopped joining Bible-study groups, stopped doing volunteer work or signing me up for sports teams. I couldn’t catch a ball anyway. Mom spent her days cleaning our spotless house, waiting for me to get home so we could do homework together, then curl up on the sofa and watch cartoons until Dad came home for dinner. When Dad came home for dinner.
My second-grade year, we lived in Washington. State, I think. At least, it rained a lot. Dad got home early one night, smile plastered to his face. I knew what was coming.
“Guess what?” Dad said over dinner.
“We’re moving again,” Mom guessed.
“Don’t look so happy. I got a promotion. I’ll finally be a major, and we’re going to Kentucky.” He grinned wider and tousled my hair. “Home of the Derby, son.”
“Can I have a horse?” I asked.
“Sure.” He patted my shoulder.
But Mom stood, her face a confusion of fear, fury, and despair. “Don’t do that. Don’t promise him things, get his hopes up like that.”
“Would you calm down? It will be fun—a new adventure.”
“For you, it’s an adventure. For Paul and me, it’s just another move, another new school, another grocery store to figure out, then move as soon as I know where the cereal is.”
“The cereal?” Dad’s smile disappeared like always. “This is what army families do, Laura.”
“Well, I’m sick of it. We’re sick of it.”
“Can I still have a horse?” I asked.
I got sent to my room. But I heard them fighting, into the night. In the morning, I came downstairs to find that, as all warring armies eventually do, my parents had reached a treaty.
Mom patted the seat beside her. “Paul, how would you like to stay home with me? No new school, no new kids to deal with. Just you and me—together.”
She’d made chocolate-chip pancakes. She always did when arguing with Dad. I loved them, though they made me sick to my stomach later. I nodded. I didn’t like school anyway. But mostly, I wanted Mom and Dad to stop fighting. I wanted Mom to be happy because maybe, if Mom was happy, Dad would be happy. Maybe he’d come home more.
“Paul!” Now Mom was knocking on my bedroom door.
I jumped up. “Yeah?” It had become dark as I’d lain there.
Mom came in. She wore her ratty bathrobe, though it was still hours to bed. She shrugged. “No sense staying dressed for just the two of us.” She pulled a hair.
Stop that! I wanted to scream. Just stop it! I didn’t know whether I meant the hair-pulling or the way she’d just given up on everything. Was she doing it to torture me? And how could I keep from being a loser when she was so content to be one? I was through being a loser. I’d been one long enough.
She sat at the edge of the bed and motioned for me to sit too. I shook my head, but did her the favor of meeting her eyes. On the verge of tears, as usual. I knew I should feel guilty, but I didn’t. I knew she was lonely. I knew she was depressed. I knew all that. But she’d been this way as long as I could remember. Too long.
But I switched on the light and sat beside her. “It will be okay,” I said.
“Oh, sweetheart, I hope so.” Then she was crying again. She scooted closer, wrapping her arms around my neck, reaching to stroke my hair. “I didn’t wan
t it to be like this.”
“Yeah, I know.” I stayed there a second, then pulled back, stood. I gestured toward the books. “I want to put this stuff away before dinner.”
Over the years, the cooking had fallen to me. But today, I hadn’t even started. Mom sniffled a few more times, then forced a smile. “I’ll make a salad, okay?”
She didn’t close the door when she left. I flopped back onto my bed, staring at the ceiling.
At first, I’d liked staying home with Mom. We’d had time for reading, going to the park, playing games, doing nothing. We went to museums and saw other kids, groups on school field trips. They formed human arm chains that tangled around the statues or Civil War relics. Instead of examining the muskets, I watched the spitball-shooting boys, giggling girls, weary moms, like they were a study I was doing.
And if it hadn’t been for the Internet, the people I met in the safe anonymity of chat rooms, I’d never have known anything except what Mom thought, what she believed in. I spent more and more time on-line.
I looked at my computer again. I ached to log on now, to see who was on from my buddy list and how their first day of school had been, wherever they were. I’d have settled for a round of Tomb Raider. Anything to get myself out of my head. But the door was open. Mom was listening. The computer cut into “family time,” which was why I liked it and why Mom hated it.