Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred (4 page)

When that happens, one of two things usually results: (1) He
makes some dismissive remark about how art is a waste of time in public school and how taxpayers' money should be put to better use,
like sports programs, or (2) he makes a comment about the actual
work or the subject matter. He never approves of what I choose to
draw or paint. "Why do you like such dark and depressing things?"
he'll ask me. "No wonder you're such a gloomy girl. Why don't you
paint something cheerful for a change?"

So I don't take my artwork home. And even when it comes to
the sketch pad in my room, which I rarely use, I always make sure
to keep it safely out of sight, usually under my mattress. Not that I
think my dad won't look there, but I just try to keep it out of sight if
he's around. It's just not worth the fuss.

"Do you usually ride the bus home?"

I turn around and look at him now. "Huh?"

"You know, after school. Do you ride the bus?"

I make a face. "Not if I can help it."

"You have a car?"

"No. I bum rides off Abby."

"But I thought I saw you getting on the bus yesterday."

I consider this. Like what is he, some kind of stalker or something? "Yeah," I admit. "I had to take the activities bus yesterday
since I stayed late to work on the yearbook."

"You're on the yearbook?"

I nod and return to my work. I really do want to get this done
in time for the art fair. Now I'm wondering if he's sabotaging me.
Is he purposely trying to slow me down so that his chances will be
even better?

"I was on yearbook staff at my old school."

I glance back up at him. And I am surprised to see that his
expression looks a little sad and slightly lost. And this gets to me. I
set my ink pen down on the paper towel and turn my attention fully to him. "Was it hard switching schools like that? I mean so close to
the end of the year?"

He nods. "Yeah. But there wasn't much I could do about it."

"Sorry"

Now he brightens some. "Anyway, what I was getting to was
that maybe I could give you a ride home tonight. I mean, since we're
both staying late to work on matting and stuff."

I nod then turn back to my drawing. "Sure," I tell him. "That'd
be great. Way better than the smelly activities bus."

"Okay then ... " he exhales loudly. "Guess I better let you get
back to your work."

And I do. But even as I do, I am wondering, Maybe Abby is right.
Maybe he does like me. And suddenly I want to turn around and
really check this guy out more carefully. I mean, so far I haven't
really given him the time of day. And now I'm wondering why.

After about ten minutes, I come up with the need to exchange
my dark inky water for something a bit clearer (which I normally
don't do often enough). I walk back to the sink, past where Glen is
sitting, now intently working on his pencil sketch, and I carefully
look him over from my position by the sink.

"What're you staring at?" asks Kelsey as she reaches past me to
get some paper towels.

"Nothing," I say quickly. "Just spacing, I guess."

She gives me a look that says she's not convinced. Then she
glances over to where I was staring, right where Glen is still sitting
hunched over his drawing. "Yeah, you and me both," she finally
says. "I'm feeling a little spacey myself." Then she laughs.

I make my face blank, as if I have absolutely no idea what she's
talking about, then go back to my table and immerse myself in
getting the lettering right on the crooked sign that's hanging over the old gas station. But what I'm seeing in my mind's eye is Glen
Collins.

I'm guessing he's a little taller than six feet and medium weight.
His hair is that kind of sandy brown color that gets lighter during
the summer. And his eyes are this clear shade of blue. But his profile
might just knock my socks off. He's got the straightest nose, a very
determined mouth, and a strong chin with just the slightest cleft. All
in all, this guy is not a bit hard on the eyes. Funny I hadn't noticed
earlier. I mean, he's not flashy. Not like, say, Byron Nash-the
"heartthrob of Sumner High." But then Byron's not really my type.
Too perfect. Besides, I'm sure he gets his teeth whitened, and I think
that's so phony. But the fact is that most of the girls in this school
are ga-ga over him. And in Byron's defense, he's actually a pretty
nice guy.

Suddenly I am hearing Kelsey talking rather loudly in the back
of the room. By the tone of her voice, I'd say she is trying to sweettalk someone. I wonder if she's working over poor Mr. Pollinni,
trying to get him to compliment her kitty-cat picture. But when I
turn to see, I realize that she's doting on Glen, lathering on praise
for his current piece of artwork.

To my disappointment, he seems to be enjoying the attention. But then who doesn't appreciate being admired from time to
time, even if by someone who thinks Elvis on velvet is a form of
artwork?

But I feel irritated too. It's not that I have anything against Kelsey
personally. And I even encouraged her to stick with art, not because
I thought she had any talent, but because I thought it would help
her grow as a person. See, Kelsey is part of the "popular" crowd. Not
that I care about that. But I suppose I sometimes envy those kids,
since they seem to have it so easy.

It's like they go around running the school with their smiles and
charm and witty remarks. Sometimes I honestly believe that their
biggest problems are things like "What should I wear today? Gucci
or Prada?" I mean, their skin, hair, teeth, clothes ... They all look
like what you see in fashion magazines or on TV shows like The OC
or Laguna Beach. And while my friends and I tell each other that
these kids are spoiled rotten and pretty superficial, I'm sure we all
experience a little jealousy from time to time-not that we would
ever admit to it. I certainly wouldn't.

So as I sit here, watching Kelsey leaning over Glen's table, her
thick blonde hair cascading like it belonged in a Pantene commercial, hearing her lightly amused laughter and her quirky compliments, I feel not only jealous but totally hopeless as well. Because,
as I quickly reassess Glen Collins, I realize that he looks like one of
them too. With Kelsey's attention, it's only a matter of time before he
gets pulled straight into her crowd. It figures.

To make matters worse, when I come back to earth and look
down at my own table and artwork, I notice that my left thumbhole
has come loose and my ugly wrist with red welts and nasty scars
is in full view for all to see. I tug the sleeve back down, glancing
around to make sure that no one has witnessed this. But my heart
is racing with fear, and I realize that my fleeting fantasy of getting
involved with someone like Glen Collins was nothing more than
that-a fantasy. Well, that mixed up with a bit of temporary insanity What was I thinking?

MY LAST CLASS IS OVER, AND I HURRY BACK TO THE ART ROOM TO WORK ON
matting my art. I'm not sure whether I expect Glen to be there or
not. But I'm telling myself I don't care. Why should I care? I mean
why would someone like Glen be interested in someone like mesomeone whose life is so messed up that she mutilates herself? What
do I think-that Glen can't wait to go out with a girl whose arms
resemble Frankenstein's?

I mean, summer is here. How can I go around hiding my arms
when all my friends are wearing tank tops, sundresses, swimsuits?
What kind of freak goes around wearing long-sleeved shirts yearround?

"Hey, Ruth," calls a voice from behind me.

"Glen." I try to be casual, as if I wasn't just obsessing over the
fact that I don't have a chance with this guy. "How's it going?"

"Okay"

"I mean, are you feeling a little more at home here?"

"I guess it's going okay," he tells me as we go into the art room.
"I'm actually kind of looking forward to this art fair."

"I'll bet you are," I say in a teasing voice. "I can hardly wait to see
what's in that portfolio. I'll bet you're going to win all the awards."

"Oh, I doubt it." Then he pauses and looks at me. "Are you worried, Ruth? I mean I realize you're probably one of the most
talented artists at Sumner. You don't think I'm competition, do
you?"

Now I'm fairly embarrassed. Does this guy read minds or what?
"I don't know." Then I figure, why not just be honest? "Okay, I guess
I'm a little concerned. I mean, you show up here out of nowhere
and I've seen the drawing you're working on. It's really good, Glen. I
wouldn't be surprised if you totally clean up at the art fair. And, hey,
you've got every right to-"

"Don't be so sure, Ruth. I've seen your work too, and I'm totally
impressed. I think you're way more talented than I -"

"Okay, okay. . . " I hold up my hands as in surrender. "Maybe
we should just get this over with. I want to see what's in that portfolio and I want to see it now."

Glen just laughs then takes me by the shoulders (thankfully
not the arms) and gently pushes me to the back of the room. "Okay,
Ruth. You asked for it." He plants me in front of a table then goes
to get his stuff.

I feel slightly breathless as I wait for him to open his portfolio,
but I can't say whether that's due to anticipation or how good it
felt when he touched me on the shoulders just now. But I stand in
silence, imagining a drumroll, as he pulls out one piece after the
next. And, here's what's weird, his art reminds me an awful lot of
my own.

"Wow," I finally say, then sigh deeply.

"Relieved?"

"No, no ... that's not it. I still think you're good. Really good."

"What then?"

"Well ... " I look up at his face, wondering if he has noticed
what I'm noticing. "Have you seen very many of my pieces yet?"

"Just a few. Like the one you're working on, the two on the wall.
I know Mr. Pollinni thinks you're pretty hot stuff."

I kind of smile. "Well, let me show you some more."

I go to my locker and remove my own portfolio. I lay it on a
nearby table and slowly open it. Now I have to admit that I never
enjoy showing my work to anyone besides Mr. Pollinni, and sometimes Abby. Most people don't totally get it. And some people, like
my dad, think it's depressing. But art's just like that for me. It's like
it mirrors my life. If people can't respect that, then how can they
respect me?

I start removing the pieces, laying them off to the side, pausing for a few seconds, then removing another and laying it on
top of the last one. On I go, waiting for Glen to say somethinganything-but he is just staring. Finally I lay the last piece on top.
It's one of the last charcoals I did before I started cutting and found
my long sleeves made things messy because they smeared the charcoal. The drawing is of a twisted old oak tree that's been hit by lightning and is still smoldering.

"Very cool," says Glen in a voice that sounds almost reverent.

"Seriously?"

He nods. "It feels very familiar, Ruth."

I look into his eyes. "I know."

"They say a picture's worth a thousand words," he says. "But I
think we need to talk."

So we work together, picking out mat-board colors, cutting
mats, helping each other to make our work look as good as possible,
talking the whole while. Talking and talking and talking. And I am
amazed by what we have in common. Mostly in the area of clads,
although to my amazement, his dad sounds way worse.

"My mom finally got a restraining order on my dad," he tells me as he holds up a matted piece for my approval.

I nod. "That's perfect."

"But he still kept coming around. Finally my mom was really
scared. She thought he might kill her before the police took the
whole thing seriously"

"That's so wrong."

"I know. So she just pulled out a map and picked a place, and
my grandma gave us enough money to move here." He glances over
his shoulder now. "Don't tell anyone, but Collins isn't even our real
name."

"Really?"

He nods as he slices a nice crisp edge into the black mat board.
I can't help but stare at the blade of the mat cutter. It looks so sharp
and efficient. I randomly wonder how it would feel against my skin.
"Yeah. I probably shouldn't tell you my real name," he's saying. "Not
that you'd tell, but-"

"No," I say quickly "Don't tell me. I mean I totally understand.
And, trust me, I won't repeat any of this to anyone."

"Yeah, me too. Not that your family is nearly as twisted as
mine."

"At least your dad doesn't live with you anymore."

"Yeah, that's worth something." He turns the mat to cut the
other side. "Why do your parents stay together?"

I haven't told him much about my mom yet. I'm not even sure
where to begin. Plus, his morn sounds pretty cool. She has a job and
a life and the confidence to stand up to her husband. "My morn is,
uh ... well, she's Native American." I wait for his reaction.

"Cool," he says. "So that's where you get those great eyes and
that hair."