Breaking Beautiful Read Online Free PDF

everyone is asking themselves the question I’ve thought of a million times. How could Trip ever choose me over Hannah?
    Hannah is beautiful—long black hair that hangs satiny and straight down her back, green eyes, and an olive complexion that makes her look perpetually tan. She’s taller than me, and athletic—star of track and basketball.
    The difference between us is glaringly obvious as we walk together. Not only do I look like a freak now, but I stumble along with my eyes on the floor. Hannah smiles and floats down the hall like the pageant queen she is—poised and confident. She won the Beachcomber’s Queen contest without blinking.
    I know who Trip would choose now.
    My whole life people have told me I’m beautiful. Way back when I was in fourth grade I remember my mom talking about me over the phone. She said, “Allie has a hard time in school. She’ll never be smart like her brother.” Then she laughed and said, “Yeah, at least she’s pretty.”
    Maybe before I was pretty. I had my hair—long and thick, and a honey-gold color that guys go for. I’ve always been decently thin with an okay chest—not eye-poppingly huge like Hannah’s,but okay. Some people even thought my freaky eye was cool. Because we moved around so much, I was always the new kid. Maybe that’s what Trip saw in me—something new.
    I go through the first half of the day without seeing Andrew. I’ve made it past the opening round of whispers, stares, and the sympathy that drips off everyone. The only bright spot today is that so far the teachers have excused the work I missed. So much for Blake’s valiant efforts. I haven’t seen him either, something that’s hard to do in a school the size of Pacific Cliffs, even if he’s a junior and I’m a senior.
    By the time I put my books in my locker to go to lunch, I’m exhausted. I wonder if Dad or Mom would come rescue me if I called. Doubt it. I’m tired of being the center of attention so I go to the special ed room to eat lunch with Andrew.
    He’s already at the table when I come in. He could eat in the commons with the other kids, but it embarrasses him to eat in front of people. He has one hand that works okay as long as he’s not excited or upset, but eating takes a lot of coordination between his hand, his head, and his mouth. The food doesn’t always reach its intended destination.
    The aide is busy on the other side of the room with another student, so I help Andrew pull on the vest that protects his clothes. I get his cup out of his backpack and pour “Thick-It”—a powder that thickens liquid so he doesn’t choke—into his apple juice.
    He picks up his spoon, weighted so he can get it to his mouth with less shaking, and smiles at me. Maybe he’s wondering if I’m still mad. “Th-th-thanks, Al.”
    I look away, almost dissolving into the tears I’ve fought all day, and slide a chair next to him.
    “No food?” he asks.
    I shake my head. “I’m not hungry.”
    He pushes his tray toward me, ground turkey, mashed potatoes, green beans, and applesauce. I make a face and he makes one back. “You … can … live on it—”
    “—but death might be better.” I finish the joke we’ve shared forever.
    I need to feel Andrew next to me, so I put my hand on his knee under the table. He pushes his feet against the footrest of his chair and his hands against the seat. He half stands with his shoulders pressing against the restraint holding him in and adjusts his position. His body is always in motion like that, even when he sleeps. Mom says it’s nerves and habit. Andrew says he does it to build up strength. On good days he can support his own weight long enough to get from his chair to the bed. When he was a little kid he got around by rolling and army crawling, but he’s gotten too tall and too old for that.
    I wonder what it would be like if things were different—if I had been the one born second and blue from lack of oxygen. Even with his twisted body,