Scars (10 page)

In every class, I dread opening my backpack, but each time, there’s nothing new. I touch the blade in my pocket, needing to know it’s there. I just have to get through the
next two classes, and then Meghan will be with me, obliterating everything else.

Mr. Blair comes to stand beside me. He’s staring down at my math paper. I follow his gaze. I’ve drawn hands in the margins of the page.
His
hands—reaching, grabbing like claws.

I shove my math book on top of the drawing, covering it.

Mr. Blair makes a sound deep in his throat.

I stiffen. Is it
him
?

“I’d like to talk to you after class,” he says, quietly.

I nod, not looking at him. I just sit there. clutching my pencil until he moves away. Then I scribble over the hands so hard I tear holes right through the paper.

I watch Mr. Blair as he leans over to talk to other students, his dark hair close to their heads, his eyes hidden behind his glasses. He leans a little closer to the girls, like they’re flowers he wants to smell. My stomach clenches and unclenches.

I stare at his hands, trying to get a good look at them, but they’re too far away, and I can’t watch him long, in case he’s the one.

The bell rings. Everyone scrambles up from their desks, scraping back chairs and shoving books into bags. They head for the door in a crush of bodies, and I want to leave with them, walk out like I’ve forgotten he asked me to stay. But I stay frozen in my seat, because he’s a teacher. I stay because it might be
him
. And if there’s one thing I know
he
enjoys, it’s overpowering someone and watching them beg.

“Kendra.” Mr. Blair comes to stand next to me. When

I don’t look at him, he sits down at the desk beside me, his long legs splayed awkwardly beneath. His body odor fills my nostrils, making me want to gag.

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” he asks.

Nope.
I shake my head hard.

“Because if there is, I’m here to listen. Maybe I can even help.”

I look up at him quickly. “Who says I need help?”

His blue-grey eyes blink behind his glasses. “You seemed to be—blossoming—for a while,” he says, smoothing his hand over his mustache. “But recently you’ve grown more preoccupied. Withdrawn.”

His hot breath on my cheek. “I’ll kill you if you tell.”

Students from the next class are already filing into the room. Mr. Blair leans closer.

I shiver.

“If there’s anything I can help you with—anything,” he says, “I’d like to.” He pauses, like he’s waiting for me to answer him. But what am I supposed to say?
Gee, Mr. Blair, thanks so much for offering to let me confide in you, but I can’t because you might be the man who sexually abused me?

“I’d like you to consider seeing one of the guidance counselors,” he says.

I stand. “Don’t need to. I’ve got a therapist. Can I go now?”

He looks at me like he wants to say something else, but instead, he hands me a hall pass.

Lunch takes forever to come. I watch the minute hand of the wall clock tick its slow way around. Five minutes. Ten. A half hour. Then, finally, the bell rings and we’re released.

There’s no one at Meghan’s locker, and I wonder if she’s changed her mind. But then she’s there beside me, her smile so beautiful I don’t think I can paint it.

“Let’s go sit on the hill.”

That’s Meghan all over—defiantly staking out her space, not even caring that it faces the teachers’ parking lot.

We walk up together and sit under a tree. I love the feeling of being cut off from the rest of the school, with the back of the building separating us from the noise of the others. There are enough trees and grass on this little hill to make it feel like an oasis, except for the odd teacher who walks to a car or comes out to smoke.

Meghan pulls food out of her backpack: a bag of salt and vinegar chips, a pack of cupcakes, and a can of cola. It looks delicious—and totally unhealthy. My mom would freak.

“That’s your lunch?”

Meghan narrows her eyes. “Yeah. So? What’s yours?”

“Same thing my mom packs for me every day.” I roll my eyes. “A tempeh and alfalfa sprouts sandwich, an organic apple, carrot sticks, one super-healthy cookie, and a juice box.”

Meghan snorts. “Your mom packs your lunch?”

“It’s a real thing with her. Makes her feel like a good parent, I guess.”

“My mom hasn’t packed my lunch since I was six. I remember coming home crying—I was starving because she’d forgotten to give me anything—and she gave me a wallop across the face. Told me to grow up.”

“I’m sorry,” I say softly.

“Hey, I’m not tellin’ you so you’ll cry—I’m tellin’ you so you’ll shut up about my crapola lunch.” She laughs, her voice full of pain.

I want to hug her, but I don’t dare.

Meghan looks at my lunch again, almost like she envies it.

“Wanna trade?” I say.

“Naw. You wouldn’t like this shit.”

“You kidding?” I laugh. “I
love
junk food.”

We switch lunches, tearing into the food like we haven’t eaten for days. Sugar buzzes through me, making me feel excited, happy. I lick the chocolate off my fingers, then wash it all down with the cola. “We should do this again.”

“Fine by me.” Meghan stretches out on the grass, her suntanned legs long beneath her shorts, her chest gently rising and falling.

Meghan squints up at me. “Whatcha looking at?”

“Nothing.”

“You were so! Tell me!” She wrestles me to the grass. We tickle each other, laughing and screeching until we’re tired.

I lie back against the prickly grass, and she moves closer, then leans her head against my shoulder. I wait for her to realize she’s leaning on me, wait for her to move away, but she stays there, her hair close to my nose. I can smell her, a scent of flowers and amber and cigarettes.

Her head feels so good next to mine. I close my eyes and breathe her in. The sun is warm on my face, on my whole body, making me sleepy. Meghan’s arm falls heavily across my stomach; I feel it rise and fall with my breath. I want this moment to stretch on and on. I think I’m starting to love her.

I snap my eyes open, stare up at the bright sky until it hurts. I can’t fall in love with Meghan. She likes boys. I’ll just get my heart broken—again. But I can’t shut down how happy I feel around her.

I don’t dare move; I hardly dare to breathe. I love her lying on me like this, so trusting. I want to protect her, to keep her from getting hurt. The feeling’s so strong, I almost clutch her to me.

I wonder if this is what all survivors do—fall in love with someone they can’t have. But Carolyn’s got someone she loves, so there goes that theory.

“What’re you thinking?” Meghan asks, lifting her head to look at me.

“Nothing.”

“Come on, tell me.” Meghan swats me.

I laugh, holding up my hands.

“You lezzies getting at it again?” a voice says. A guy’s voice.

Meghan springs upright. “F-off, Tyler.”

I sit up, heat washing over me like a sickness. It was so beautiful before Tyler came and ruined it. But of course it couldn’t last. Nothing good ever does.

“What do you want?” Meghan asks him.

I can’t look at her—can’t bear to, so I look at him instead: curly black hair, full mouth, muscled arms. Meghan always picks good-looking guys. And all of them fall for her, just the way I have.

“I need you, Meghan,” Tyler says.

Meghan sighs. “Again? What is it with you guys?”

“Come on, Meggie,” Tyler says. “You know you’re the only one I want.”

I have to shut down how I feel about her. I can’t believe I let it go this far.

Meghan touches my arm, and I feel her warmth right through my sleeve. “Catch you later, okay?”

“Sure.” I smile hard.

Meghan looks at me, her eyes intense. But I can’t read what they say.

I watch Meghan go, pulling Tyler after her. She seemed to be looking for something from me, but I don’t know what it was, whether she wanted a reaction or a reason to stay. I laugh at myself, but still I wonder.

Loneliness wraps around me. Then the footsteps come rushing back, echoing through me again. My thoughts jump between the man who raped me and Meghan, between what I don’t want and what I can’t have. It’s like the one hurt brings up the other, each making the other worse, until I want to scream.

The bell rings. I trudge down the hill and into the school. Next period is art, but I can’t make myself care. People rush past, knocking into me, and I let them. It’s not like paint can fix this. My feet drag along the floor like my thoughts—my abuser, Meghan, my abuser, Meghan. And now Mrs. Archer is in my head, too. Mrs. Archer, who saw me freak out; Mrs. Archer, who saw the drawing I never should have made. I’m afraid to face her, afraid to look into her eyes and see the pity I know will be there.

She won’t see me as a talented student any more, as a
kid she likes; now she’ll see me as a messed–up, damaged student who happens to like art. I’ll be a student she has to be careful around. A student she pities.

The halls are empty. I touch the warm blade in my pocket and pinch the edge against my skin. There’s hardly anyone left in the halls. I step up my pace.

The classroom door’s already closed. I inch it open and slink in. Everyone turns to look, and I want to duck back out. Mrs. Archer pauses, nods at me, then goes back to telling the class the assignment. I creep over to my workbench and shrug off my backpack. Then I plunk myself down, slamming my backpack down beside me.

Mrs. Archer didn’t frown at me, didn’t warn me not to be late, didn’t even ask me for a pass. Already, she’s treating me different from the others. And now I’ve got to sit through two whole periods with her.

I hook my legs under my stool and pick at the gouged wooden table. I knew it would mess things up being in art therapy with her. I should have said something, but I wanted to reassure her, wanted her to keep liking me—and now I’ve lost even that. I miss the connection between us, the warmth we used to have.

Mrs. Archer hovers behind me. “Kendra, get your supplies out, please. Let’s get to work.”

I slouch over to the counter without looking at her, then grab paint, brushes, and paper, not even caring what I take. I plunk them back down at my place, open a tube, and smear burnt umber and olive green over my paper. I push it around without watering it down; it’s all muddy and dark, just like I feel inside.

People are laughing and talking while they work. I don’t usually hear them; normally, everything disappears when I paint. But I hear them now. I want to yell at them to shut up.

Mrs. Archer comes up beside me again. “Kendra—is something wrong?”

“Why would anything be wrong?” I smile like a hyena.

“Well, if you’re sure.” Mrs.Archer looks at me, hesitating.

“I’m sure.”

She leaves and I breathe easier. But I still can’t paint. Nothing’s coming. I’m afraid to let anything out on the paper, afraid to let her see the pain, the terror, the shadows that grip me.

Thirty minutes tick by—and all I’ve got is a ruined piece of watercolor paper.

Mrs. Archer comes back again and sits down beside me. “Kendra,” she says quietly, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, all right?” I say it too loud. People turn to look.

“Back to work, everyone. Class is almost over.” Mrs. Archer leans closer. “Is this about the … group that we’re both in? On Thursdays? Because if that’s what’s upsetting you, I’ll leave it.”

My eyes burn. I look up at her. She’s watching me in that kind way she does. Like she actually cares what I think— what I feel. “That’s okay,” I say. “You don’t have to do that.”

“But I will, if it makes you uncomfortable. I don’t want to encroach on your space there.”

I twist the lid on the paint tube, on and off, on and off. I have to ask. “Do you see me differently now?”

“Differently? What do you mean?” Mrs. Archer’s forehead wrinkles.

“Messed up. A head case. A total screw-up.”

Mrs. Archer stares at me, her mouth opening. “No, Kendra. I see you as strong. Courageous. An example for others.” She presses her hand flat against the workbench, her eyes bright like she’s holding in tears. “You stood up for someone else. And you faced things that hurt you. That shows me your strength—and your courage even more.”

“But don’t you even—I mean, you didn’t know someone had—hurt me … until that group.”

Mrs. Archer looks down at her hands. She folds them, then unfolds them. She looks back at me. “Kendra—I knew from your art. It’s so intense. And I knew from your behavior that you’d been through something painful, something that hurt you deeply. That’s why I encourage you so much—besides your being the most talented student I’ve ever had. I think you’ve got to get out whatever’s hurting you through your art, so it doesn’t twist you up inside.”

She looks at me like she’s trying to see if I’m listening. “And if my being in the art therapy group stops you from expressing yourself, I’ll leave. I care more about you than about my training; I can get that any time.”

I want to cry—and to laugh. Mrs. Archer still likes me!

“Don’t leave,” I say. “I want you there.” I smile at her, as much as I
can
smile. I’m ashamed of how I acted—but I feel closer to her, too. And if I hadn’t said anything, I’d never have known that things are all right between us. I’d never have known that it was
my
shame and fear I was seeing, not hers.

“I’m so glad,” Mrs. Archer says as she stands. “You’re a delight to work with.” I wonder how I could ever have thought she was judging me. She’s so much better than that.

She dismisses the class. I carry my sketchbook up to the front. When I’m sure no one is looking, I pull out the X-acto knife and slip it back onto the table, behind the paintbrushes. I look around fast, but Mrs. Archer is still talking with a student and everybody else is busy gathering their stuff and leaving.

I let out my breath. I didn’t feel right with a knife that wasn’t mine. Especially one from Mrs. Archer’s room.

Now that I’ve put it back, I can focus on art class. I choose my paints and paper carefully, humming under my breath. I know what I want to paint: Meghan.