Scars (11 page)

I paint her over and over, but I can’t seem to get it right; I can’t seem to capture that tenderness and vulnerability that sits in her eyes, behind all the toughness. Mrs. Archer smiles at my work when she passes by, and I know she thinks it’s good. But it’s not good enough for me. I want it to be perfect.

I put my work away reluctantly at the end of class. I don’t want to stop until I’ve got it right. Even in science and English, I’m still trying to get on paper that look Meghan gets in her eyes. I draw Meghan tender and sweet, strong and fierce. I draw her playful and happy, the way she’s been with me. And I write her name, over and over, next to mine.

I don’t want to stop thinking about her. Every time I stop, dark thoughts crowd me and prickle my mind—the footsteps, Dad losing his job, therapy ending—and I can’t go there, not without wanting to cut. So I just keep thinking about Meghan, and feel warm and good all over.

When the last bell rings, I head over to Meghan’s locker and wait. I silently rehearse what I want to say, trying for casual, spur of the moment. Lockers slam shut around me, and people call out good-byes to each other. The halls are emptying fast.

When I look up, Meghan’s heading toward me, Tyler attached to her like a leech. I ram my hands into my pockets.

“Hey,” Meghan says. “What’re you doing here?”

I can’t tell if she’s glad to see me or not. “I was just …”

Tyler’s looking at me like I’m a joke.

I stare at the floor, then up at Meghan again. Her eyes urge me on. I swallow. “You want to hang out this weekend?”

Tyler howls. “Told you she’s got the hots for you!”

My cheeks are hot as a slap. I wish I’d never said anything.

Meghan plucks Tyler’s arm off her waist and shoves him away. “Grow up, Tyler.” She turns back to me. “Sounds good. Saturday morning? First thing? I’ll call you.”

“Great!” Happiness spreads to my belly like warmth from a cup of hot chocolate. I race down the hall away from her before she can change her mind.

I leap down the stairs, three at a time, using the banister as a pole vault; it’s like I’m flying. I swing myself off the last few steps and slam right into a hard body—right into Mr. Blair.

I scramble away from him. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry!”

Mr. Blair smooths out his shirt. “Hey, that’s all right.” His face softens as he looks at me over the top of his glasses. “It’s good to see you having fun.”

I stand there, waiting for a reprimand. But Mr. Blair just pushes his glasses back up his nose, then leaves. I can’t tell if he really meant what he said, whether the warmth I saw in his eyes was real or not.

His hand gripping my wrist. His lips against my ear. “I will kill you if you tell.”

I stare at the space where Mr. Blair was, waiting for more shadows to wrap around me, but nothing comes.
Maybe he’s not the one.

I shrug and step out into the warmth of the afternoon, a soft breeze brushing against my face. I flash to Meghan and me on the hill, sitting in the sun.

I see her tomorrow!

Excitement fizzes through me, lifting me up until I want to run all the way home.

Mom’s not at the door to greet me.
Maybe she’s finally letting me be.

I walk in and climb the back stairs to the kitchen, expecting to smell oil paint and turpentine, but there’s a heaviness in the house instead. Mom’s sitting there, drinking chamomile tea, a pile of crumpled–up tissues on the table in front of her. She gets up abruptly when she hears me, her mug rocking against the table. “Kendra, I want to talk to you.”

I cross my arms over my chest and wait.

“Your father got a strange call at work this morning. From his friend, Terry Blair. Your math teacher.”

My hands grow cold.

“Your dad thought Terry was calling about their hunting trip, but instead, Terry was calling about you. He says you’ve been acting strange lately. Different. Maybe depressed. He’s worried about you.”

I’ll bet he is.
“I’m fine.”

“Mr. Blair didn’t seem to think so. He wants us to come in for a conference. He thinks something might be worrying you.”

“Nothing’s worrying me!”
Damn it, why is this happening?
“Believe me, I’m fine!”

Mom bites her lip, staining her teeth with lipstick. “He said he thought he saw something strange in your pocket— something that shouldn’t be there.”
Oh, God!
My chest aches with held-in air.
He can’t have seen the blade. He can’t have!

“Kendra,” Mom says, and she’s crying now, “you’re not thinking of suicide, are you?”

“Of course not!” I force a laugh. “That’s absurd.”

“Even so—I need to check your pockets. I need to know … . ”

I can’t breathe properly, can’t suck in air. I drop my backpack to the floor, lick my lips. “Mom—” I try to smile, but I know I’m grimacing. “This is all a mistake. I was a little down today; I admit it. I probably flunked my history test. That must have been what Mr. Blair was picking up on.”
One little lie isn’t so bad.
“But I’m not suicidal. I haven’t thought about it for months.”
Not since I’ve been seeing Carolyn.

“And what he thought he saw in my pocket—”
Is still there—
“was something I borrowed from the art room, to cut some matting. I meant to return it today and forgot.”
Okay, two little lies.

I reach for my blade and pull it out, trying to look nonchalant. I’m glad I always clean it off after I cut, glad there’s nothing to give away what I use it for, except a slight discoloration.

“But a blade, Kendra? Why would you have a blade in your pocket? And one without a handle?”

“It made it easier to carry. And I just forgot about it. I’ll return it on Monday, I promise.”
I don’t know if I’m making sense. I don’t even care; I just want her to believe me.

“But that’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be carrying it around like that.”

“I know how to handle mat knives, Mom. I respect them, believe me.” I tuck it back into my pocket.

Mom’s looking at me like she’s not sure what to think.

Sweat trickles down my sides. “Come on, Mom…. Has Carolyn called you? Have you heard any worried reports from her?”

“No, but—”

“Mr. Blair doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I tell Carolyn everything. There’s nothing wrong, okay?” I hug her fast.

Mom clings to me. “Your dad and I were so worried about you.”

“Well, there’s nothing to worry about.”

Mom pulls back and looks me deep in the eyes. “You’re telling me the truth?”

“Yes, I’m telling you the truth,” I say.
And I am. Cutting isn’t anything to worry about. Now, the footsteps and the man coming after me—that’s something else again.

The kettle screams, and Mom switches the burner off. “Your dad thinks we should set up a session with Carolyn, to find out what you haven’t been telling us.”

“You can’t do that. My sessions are private!”

“How else are we supposed to find out what’s going on? You never talk to us.”

“I’m not supposed to!” I want to rip my arm open and
let the blood gush out. “That’s what teenagers do; they grow away from their parents!”

“Not like this. We’re worried about you, Kendra. You’re so unhappy. And if you won’t talk to us, we’ll have to find some other way of getting the information. We have the right to know what’s going on. Carolyn said as much to me.”

And you pay the bills. I can’t believe this is happening. But money talks. I just didn’t think Carolyn would be like that.

I want to slash my arm as hard and as fast as I can. But I can’t give in; I can’t risk Mom finding out.

I shove my hand into my pocket, touch the sharp edge of the blade, then the smooth warmth of the stone. I won’t let myself panic. Not until I talk to Carolyn and find out what’s going on. Because Mom doesn’t always tell the truth.

I shut the door to my room, take out my cell, and punch the speed dial button for Carolyn.

Her voicemail switches on.

I throw my phone onto my bed, pace over to my window, then come back again. The light on my alarm clock blinks at me like a warning signal. I yank out the plug.

I can’t keep the blade in my pocket any more—not now that Mom’s seen it—but I have to have it on me.
Need
to have it. I pull the blade out, pressing it into the tips of my fingers. I don’t draw blood; but just knowing I can helps me breathe.

Then I roll up my pant leg and tug open my sock. The blade slides in easily and lies against my skin, flat and warm. I snap the sock against my leg. Then I roll my jeans back down. Perfect.

I try Carolyn again. No answer, still.
Calm. I must stay calm.
The blade calls to me, screaming for me to use it, but I can’t risk Mom barging in on me.

I sit down at my desk, getting out my paints and paper
with shaking hands. Watercolor this time, not gouache. I don’t know what I’m going to paint until Meghan’s face starts to appear beneath my brush. I lose myself in the act of stroking paint onto paper, letting the pigments spread beneath the bristles.

It’s only when I dab the last detail onto her face, add the brightness of her eyes, that I lean back and look at what I’ve created. It’s Meghan laughing, golden sunlight all around her like an aura. Flowers sprout from her skin, and butterflies rest on her head and shoulders. There are no shadows, no hidden corners of pain—just happiness and light.

I sit back. I don’t think I’ve ever painted something without the pain leaking through; it feels good.

The painting is almost as beautiful as Meghan—one of the best I’ve ever done. But would she like it if I gave it to her? Or was she just being polite at the Java Cup? The mistakes I’ve made start to jump out at me: the brush strokes that are too heavy, the clumsiness of the flowers, the way her smile doesn’t look quite right.

“Kendra? Can I come in?”

I turn to see Mom in my doorway.

What am I supposed to say? No?
“Yeah, sure.” I shove my painting on top of the filing cabinet beneath my desk, and cover my brushes under some papers.

Mom sits down on the edge of my bed. “I found these in your bag,” she says, holding out some notes ripped from my binder. No, not notes. The sketches of Meghan I did in my classes.

“You went through my stuff?”

“I was worried about you.”

“Well, don’t be. My friendship with Meghan is a good thing. You don’t have to try to fix it.”
Or ruin it.

“I don’t want to fix it, I just—”

“You what?”
I can’t believe you think you can go through my stuff.

“I just wondered if you’ve really thought this through. You’re obsessed with this—” She looks at the sketches, “This Meghan girl—but what you decide now could affect your entire life. I know you’re still struggling with what that man did to you—”

“What he did to me has nothing to do with this!”

Mom squeezes her hands together. “Maybe you don’t think so now, but in a few years—”

“No, Mom. Not ever.” Nothing as beautiful as Meghan and me could ever come from something as awful as abuse.

“Well, if it’s not the sexual abuse that made you this way, then what is it? Help me; I’m trying to understand.”

“I never asked you to.”
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.

Sadness creases Mom’s face. “I know you didn’t. You didn’t even tell me about her.”

Because I didn’t think you’d be able to hear it. Didn’t think you could be happy for me.
Guilt presses against my heart: Did I misjudge her? “I love her, Mom. She makes me happy.”

“The way Sarah made you happy? And then so unhappy that you wanted to die?”

I stare at her, my eyes stretching wide.
You knew. You
must have known all along, and you never said anything. Not about the pills. And not about Sarah.
“That wasn’t about Sarah. That was about the memories I was having.”
It was about the pain I couldn’t hold.

“Whatever it was, I’m sure this homosexuality didn’t make it any easier. All I’m saying is, maybe you can talk to Carolyn about this. Make sure you aren’t becoming a homosexual because of the abuse.”

Homosexual.
The way she says the word feels like a fist in my mouth, like it’s something hurtful, something disgusting. She never talked about even the abuse like this.

“Did you even listen to me, Mom? Did you hear what I said?”

“Of course I did.”

“She makes me feel
good
. She makes me feel happy.”

Mom twists her ring around her finger. “This is all my fault. If only I’d spent more time with you when you were little. If only I didn’t ask Sandy to look after you—”

“Sandy didn’t make me a lesbian!” I clench my teeth. “How can you be so hypocritical? Sandy’s your friend— and you don’t try to change
him!
”

“He’s not my daughter!”

But I am. Great. I can see where this is going, now.
“I don’t want to change, Mom. I don’t need to.”

She bows her head and goes silent.

I lean forward. “Please—can’t you just try to understand? You say I never talk to you. But how can I, if you won’t even accept who I am? I need you to do that, Mom. I need you to accept me.”

Mom nods and looks at me, her eyes shiny with tears.

“I think I’ll need some time. But you’re right, Kendra; you don’t need to change. And you shouldn’t. Not for me and not for anyone else. That’s something I’ve always admired about you—your passion for things you care about. I wish I could be more like that.”

“I—thank you.” Sometimes she surprises me.

“I’m not saying I understand, yet. But I’ll try. Sandy’s a good man and a good friend, and once I got past him being gay, I could see that. People will see that in you, too.”

Okay… at least she’s trying.

Mom gets up. “You’re my daughter, Kendra, and I love you. I know you sometimes find that hard to believe, but I do. And I want you to be happy. So if you feel this strongly about Meghan, then I’ll support you.”

She reaches out to hug me. I hug her back. For the first time in a long time, I feel like Mom loves me. Or at least she’s trying to.