Scars (6 page)

Behind me, kids are whispering and talking. The period has already started. I shift my weight onto one foot, then the other.

“Goodness! I shouldn’t have kept you talking so long!” Mrs. Archer says. She scribbles out a late pass and hands it to me. “My apologies to your teacher.”

She turns around and claps her hands. “All right, class! Enough chatter.”

The rest of the classes flash by, teachers’ voices just background noise. When the last bell rings, I head over to the community center, the folded sheet of directions in my hand. I pass rooms 410, 411, 412, and stop outside 415. And that’s when I see her, sitting in the hallway. An electric charge runs through me.

“Meghan,” I say.

She turns around and looks up at me, a wide smile slicing through the boredom on her face. “Hey. What’re you in for?”

“In for?” I sit down next to her, our legs almost touching.

“Yeah. The court ordered me here; it’s either take art therapy or do some time, just for burning a lousy locker. Can you believe that?” She lights a cigarette and takes a drag. “You here because you wanna be?”

I shrug. “I like art.”

“Good, ‘cause you’re gonna get a whole lot of it stuffed down your throat.”

“Whatever they do, it can’t be as bad as my mom.”

“She into art museums and all that crap?” Meghan blows her smoke away from me.

I try not to cough. “She’s an artist.”

“Oh.” Meghan jiggles her foot. “So you must be really talented and all, with your mom an artist and everything.”

“My mom doesn’t think so. She says my art is too raw—that no one will ever want to buy it.”

“Do they have to?” Meghan says. “I mean, that’s not the point, is it?”

“No, I guess not. Not unless you want to make a living from it, the way my mom does.”

“Yeah? What’s she paint?”

“Landscapes. Scenery. Pretty pictures of cows in meadows with buttercups.”

Meghan snorts. “Like we need more lies telling us how perfect life is. I tell ya, what we need to see is the real stuff, stuff that shows what people usually hide. Maybe if somebody painted that, then we wouldn’t all feel so alone.”

Her voice drifts off, like she’s not sure she should’ve said what she did.

I want to tell her that she can trust me, but that sounds like too much, too fast. So I just sit there, biting down on my lip, using the pain to keep myself quiet.

Meghan crushes the cigarette out on the bottom of her shoe, then pockets the stub.

Say something, idiot!
But everything I can think of sounds stupid.

I look away from her and check out the hallway. It’s like I never left school; the chairs lined up against the wall are an uncomfortable plastic orange like the ones in the cafeteria, and the speckled floor and cream-painted brick walls are just like the ones at school, impersonal and ugly. The building must’ve been designed by the same architect.

I glance at Meghan. I’m so aware of her shoulder almost touching mine, of the flowery smell of her shampoo, of how pretty she is. And how nervous. She’s picking at the skin around her nails, the same way I do.

I touch her arm. “I like what you said.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Whew.” Meghan nudges me with her shoulder. “Thought I’d struck something there.”

I shake my head. “I just—I know that feeling. Like I’m alone, even though there’re people all around me.”

“Yeah,” she says softly.

“Did you get my note?” I ask.

“You left me a note? What’d it say?” Meghan’s eyebrows go up, her eyes bright.

“Uh—not much—I was just thanking you for standing up for me the other day.”

Meghan laughs. “It was worth getting busted just to see that look on Danny’s face. He deserved to get taken down.” She touches my hand. “And it was worth it to help you. Definitely worth it.”

We sit there, grinning at each other, and I feel that closeness again, that connection. I want to show her what I hide from others—want to show her my art. I unzip my backpack and feel around—and my hand closes on something small and hard. Something unfamiliar.

I pull it out of my bag, dreading what I’ll see. It’s a red flash MP3 player. And it’s definitely not mine.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

I look closer. There’s a printed label on the drive, but I can’t get my eyes to focus. I blink, then blink again.

Meghan takes the MP3 player from me, rotating it in her fingers. “Nice. You don’t have to worry if you lose it. You had it long?”

“No.” My voice cracks.

Meghan hands it back to me. I stuff one ear-bud into my ear, press play. “You will learn to be silent,” a deep, computer-generated voice intones.

I yank the ear-bud out, throw the player against the wall. The air is so stuffy and close I feel like I can’t breathe.

“Hey.” Meghan gets up, grabs the player. “Don’t you want this any more?”

Weight presses down on me, heavy like his body, pushing out my breath. “You can have it,” I choke out. I close my eyes.
It’s from him—I’m sure of it.
I swallow down bile at the thought.

I hear the tinny, robotic voice faintly. I jerk my eyes open. Meghan’s got the buds in her ears.

I tear the MP3 player out of her hands.

Meghan looks at me, her eyes all serious and worried. “Someone threatening you?”

“No. Just a joke,” I say, trying to smile.

Meghan looks at me uncertainly. “Some joke.”

I shrug.

She hands me the MP3 player, but I shove it back at her. “Keep it. Really.”

“All right.” Meghan drops it in her backpack, then hesitates, looking at me. “Seriously—is someone bothering you?”

“No!” I shake my head so hard I can almost feel my brain rocking around inside my skull. “I’m fine, okay?” I force the tears back.

“Okay,” Meghan says, “I’ve forgotten it.” Her voice is soft, almost hurt.

I want to tell her that she’s not the one I don’t trust; it’s
him
. I’m scared he’ll find out somehow. But the words stay lodged inside me like pebbles, cramping my stomach.

Meghan flips her hair over her shoulder, and I catch a glimpse of purple yellow brown, the colors so startling there on the back of her neck.

“Who did that to you?”

Meghan’s gaze snaps to mine. “Nobody,” she says, trying to cover the bruise. “It’s nothing, all right? She doesn’t always know what she’s doing.”

“Who doesn’t?” But I already know: the booze-drinking mother. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s no big deal.” Meghan’s eyes are wary. “Don’t say anything, okay? Promise you won’t.” She grabs my hand. “I know what it’s like in foster homes. It can be a helluva lot worse than what I have now. I’m just waiting, saving up money till I can get out. So don’t blow it for me, ’kay?”

I nod slowly. I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do, but I think of how she let the MP3 slide, think of how I’d feel if she knew about
him
, and I nod again.

Meghan releases my hand, and I’m almost sorry she’s let go. She rocks her chair back against the wall and sighs loudly. “God, when are they going to start this thing? It’s worse than the first day of school.”

Footsteps click-clack down the hall. I look up to see Mrs. Archer appear around the corner. “Hi, Kendra; hi, Meghan.”

Mrs. Archer?
I sit up straighter, my heart racing.

Meghan sets her chair down with a thud. “What are
you
doing here?”

“I’m training to be an art therapist,” Mrs. Archer says, her smile faltering.

Meghan crosses her arms. “Oh, great. Now I have school
after
school, too.”

“I didn’t realize you’d both be here. If it makes either of you uncomfortable, I can talk to the instructor and get reassigned.”

“It’s okay with me,” I say. “I’m just glad it’s you and not Mr. Blair.”

“Yeah,” Meghan says. “Sorry, Mrs. A. It was just the shock—seeing a teacher and all.”

Mrs. Archer laughs. “Not too big a shock, I hope.” She looks around. “Where are the others?”

“The others?”

“There should be six of you.”

“I’ve been waiting here since three, and there haven’t been any others,” Meghan says.

“That’s strange.” Mrs. Archer purses her lips.

I get this sinking feeling in my stomach.
What if we’re in the wrong place or everybody’s gone in already?
“Maybe there’s another entrance?” Meghan and I look at each other. I know neither of us wants to walk in there—not with everybody staring.

But at least we won’t be alone. There are three of us now: me, Meghan, and Mrs. Archer.

Everyone turns to look at us when we enter the art therapy room. Four kids our age and the therapist, all sitting around a long wooden table. One boy leans back, looking bored with us all, but I can see his leg moving like a jackhammer under the table. Another is short and stout, with more pimples than skin covering his sullen face. The girl closest to me is chewing her gum open-mouthed, the sound so loud it almost sounds like she’s talking. The other girl’s face is bowed so low that all I can see is the top of her head.

The only one who looks the least bit friendly is the therapist. She’s a tall, thin woman with long grey-black hair, dressed in the clothes of a working-artist: a T-shirt, paint-stained jeans, and sandals. She beams at us, then says, “Ah, good. There you are. Welcome. I’m Julie.” She motions toward Mrs. Archer. “And this is Eileen. She’ll be joining us every week and helping me out as a part of her training. I hope you’ll be nice to her. Now, if the two of you would take a seat, we’ll begin.”

I sit as far away from the others as I can, realizing even as I do it that it sets me apart, but I can’t seem to stop myself.
Already I’m stiffening up inside, preparing for the isolation I’ve created—but then Meghan plops down in the chair beside me and I relax.

I take a deep breath and look around. The walls are the same ugly cream in here. And the supplies are so meager. All we have are large pieces of manila paper spread out on the table, along with jugs of crayons and big, flat paintbrushes with rough synthetic bristles that come off while you paint. Bottles of cheap tempera and cans of water sit in the center. Next to them are chunks of Styrofoam and wood, empty spools, cardboard tubes, glue, and wire. It’s like what you’d give to a bunch of kindergartners. I slump in my seat.

“I know some of you are artists,” Julie says, “and I’m sorry we don’t have anything better to use. My supplier went bankrupt and didn’t bother to tell me. I should have some better materials for you by next week.”

She looks around at all of us. “Some of you are probably nervous, wondering how this works. Let me tell you right now that no one’s art will be judged here—not by me and not by anyone else. The goal isn’t to create something artistically pleasing, but rather to express yourself. I don’t want you to think about how it looks. Instead, I want you to paint what you feel.”

I shift uneasily in my seat. She’s telling us the opposite of everything I’ve learned about technique. How a painting looks is what communicates the feeling. And aren’t we supposed to be expressing feelings?

Julie looks at me like she knows what I’m thinking, and I duck my head, avoiding her eyes.

“Any questions?” she asks.

“What are we supposed to draw?” the pimple-faced boy asks.

“Anything you like, Peter. It just has to come from inside you.”

“Gee, maybe I’ll draw my blood and guts,” Meghan mutters.

Giggles bubble up inside me, frothy and chaotic. I press my hand against my lips, holding back my laughter.

“If you’d like more direction, then draw how you see yourself right at this moment,” Julie says. “Eileen and I will be walking around the table to talk with each of you. Meanwhile, go ahead and get started.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. I don’t even know if I should be here. If he can get into my backpack without my seeing him, he can probably get hold of the art I do here. I’ll just have to make sure I don’t let stuff out in my artwork—make sure there’s nothing to show him what’s started coming back to me.

Meghan grabs one of the big brushes and starts spreading thick, dark streaks of blue over her paper. She doesn’t seem to care what her strokes will show. I pull out a crayon and roll it between my fingers. The scent of crisp paper and colored wax tugs at some sadness locked inside me.

I touch the crayon to the soft yellow paper. The deep color of the wax is rich and full, and I wonder why people think crayons are only for children. I long to draw, to let the crayon bring out the texture of the paper beneath it.

No. I can’t.
I set the crayon firmly down.

Julie’s walking slowly around the room, stopping to comment here, encourage there. When she reaches me, she
stands there for a long moment. She leans her hand against the table. “Having trouble?” she asks softly.

“I’m just considering my options,” I say, picking my crayon back up, and tapping it against my lips like I’m thinking.

“I’d prefer you not plan it out,” Julie says. “For art therapy, it’s better to come right from your gut. I know you have some training in art, so it must be hard for you to let go of that, but I’d like you to try.”

My ears heat up. I don’t have any trouble creating art with feeling! I’m
not
my mom. I grip the crayon, wanting to show her. If I’m careful, if I keep
him
out of it, what can it hurt?

I make a light mark against the paper, then another, giving in to the longing. A girl’s face appears, her mouth sewn shut with zigzags of black thread. In one hand is the needle, and in the other is a stitch ripper, its point jagged and sharp.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m aware that Julie’s moved away, but I hardly care. I keep drawing, pulling out the story from the paper. Blood speckles the tip of the stitch ripper, and one thread hangs loose from the girl’s mouth.

I sketch in stormy skies behind the girl, and trees bending in the wind—though if I was following technique, I should have drawn those in first. I press the crayon so hard against the paper, it snaps. I can hear my mom, chiding me to be more careful. I draw even faster; and at the corner of the page, almost entirely out of the drawing, a man’s hand appears, reaching for the girl.