The Art of Getting Stared At (14 page)

“I'll get right on it.” Stepping over a suitcase, I pitch my underwear into the basket and retrieve my duffle from the floor. “Everything will be cleaned up by dinner.” If it kills me.

“That's not what I'm talking about.” She gestures to my pillow. “I'm talking about that.”

I look past her shoulder and my blood stops. The sea foam pillow with the pretty lace trim is littered with hair.

Nine

T
he dark pit of panic, the one lodged permanently behind my breastbone, thumps good morning against my rib cage.

Remember?
it mocks.
Remember, remember?

As if I could forget. The duffle slides from my fingers and hits the floor with a soft plop.

The pale pillowslip is covered with curls and swirls of hair. It reminds me of a song Mom used to sing. Something about bows and flows of angel hair. And ice cream castles in the air. But this isn't a song. That's not angel hair. And I'm not a little girl dreaming of ice cream castles.

Don't look.
Tears well up behind my eyes. I avert my gaze. I'm not dreaming at all. Unfortunately.

Kim is studying me. Or, more specifically, she's staring at my hair. That's when I realize: I haven't brushed it. What if she sees a spot? My gaze bounces from my duffle to my suitcase to my overnight bag. Where's my brush?

“It's nothing.” I'm amazed I can speak around the lump in my throat. “Everybody loses hair, right?” I have a comb in my bag. I need to pull it out. I need Kim to leave.

And I need to call Mom. Her flight doesn't leave for over an hour. I'm sure she's still on the ground. I don't know what I'll tell her: Stay? Help? But I need to hear her voice again.

Kim steps towards me. She's so close I see the faint wrinkles radiating out from her eyes, a thin line of foundation that she didn't blend along her jaw. “My God, Sloane.” Before I can move away, she reaches out and touches the spot just above my ear. “Why are you pulling out your hair?”

“I'm not!” My voice sounds strange, like I'm speaking through a tin can. “It's not what you think, okay. It's
not
.”

“Then what is it?”

Is that concern in her green eyes? For a second I think so, and I'm tempted to tell her everything, but when she adds a sharp, “What's going on?” I snap back to reality. Kim is horrified and disgusted. As I expected.

Embarrassed, I turn away, only to come face to face with the pillow and all that hair. I squeeze my eyes shut. “I don't want to talk about it!”

“But—”

“Leave.” Hot tears snake down my cheeks. Furious, I wipe them away. “Please. Just leave me alone.”

I feel her staring at my back. I know she wants an answer but I'm not prepared to give it. Not now. Not to her.

“Fine. I'll leave. You can have a little time. Your dad and Ella will be out for most of the afternoon. But we're going to talk, Sloane. You and I. Before they come home.”

Forty minutes later, I'm in the middle of cleaning up when Kim knocks. “I made us some brunch,” she says through the
closed door. Unlike my mother, Kim is a surprisingly good cook.

I slide a blue shirt onto a hanger and put it in the closet. “I'm not hungry.” So what if Kim saw something? I don't owe her an explanation. I don't need to tell her anything.

And I won't.

She opens the door and steps into the room.

I whirl around. “Excuse me! That door was
shut.
In my house, we respect that.”

“And in future, I will.” Her gaze is as steady as her words. I scan her face for some kind of judgment but all I see is bland indifference under a pile of makeup. “Come and eat.”

“I'm not hungry,” I repeat.

I've showered, dressed, combed and sprayed my hair, even put on the new jeans and a pale blue sweater Lexi swore did wonderful things for my complexion. I still feel like a slob beside Kim. What else is new? I pick up another shirt and turn back to the cupboard. At least my room is partway under control.

“Fine. You don't have to eat. But I do. And I'd like you to join me.”

The last thing I want to do is sit across the table from Kim. I hang up the shirt.

“We need to talk,” she says. “If you're not in the kitchen in five minutes, I'll bring my meal in here.”

My stomach knots. If she does, I'll walk out. I'll leave the house if I have to. I'm not talking to Kim about my alopecia.

“I've spoken to your mother,” she adds as she turns on her heel and walks out the door. “I know everything.”

No freakin' way! Mom knew I wanted to keep this secret.

Like a madwoman, I dig through my purse for my cell
and punch out Mom's number. It goes straight to voice mail. Fingers shaking, I text her:
HOW COULD YOU?????

I wait two minutes, three minutes, four minutes. She doesn't answer. No doubt she's on board by now. She's probably turned her phone off. There's a dull ache in my chest. Mom has betrayed me. Twice. Once by leaving and now by telling Kim.

I hear her out in the kitchen. She must be deliberately banging pots because this new house is solid and well built; noise doesn't travel. If I don't join her, I know she will join me in here. I can leave the house but I can't run forever. If I don't talk to Kim now, she's likely to corner me in front of Dad and Ella. And that would be disastrous.

“I made a spinach and artichoke frittata,” she says when I walk into the kitchen. She's standing by the counter tossing salad with walnut oil and she's wearing a red apron shaped like a stick of lipstick. Across the top in white cursive are the words: “kiss and makeup.”

“Make sure you eat the greens,” she adds. “I've loaded them with nuts and goat cheese. The combo's great for your skin and hair.”

Does she think she's going to
cure me
? I stare at the back of her head. I want her to glance over so I can give her the withering look she deserves but she keeps on tossing the salad. Eventually, she puts the rustic pottery bowl on the table and gestures to the counter. “There's fresh coffee too.” She sits down, shakes out a teal napkin, and lays it in her lap.

I dump my cold coffee and help myself to fresh. “What's the point of coffee without cream?” I know I sound like a petulant child but I can't help myself.

“We don't drink cream.”

“
I
do.”

Normally Kim would lecture me on the dangers of high-fat dairy but today she is silent. She helps herself to salad before slicing into the frittata. I take the chair beside her. When she picks up her fork and begins to eat, she gazes mutely out the window at the cluster of teak loungers on the deck. My face fills with colour. Nice. She won't even look at me.

I'm dying to know what she and Mom talked about but I don't want to speak first. Childish maybe, but this whole situation is awkward with a capital
A
. Plus, the coffee is too strong without cream to temper it, and I lied when I said I wasn't hungry, so after a minute I dish out some food and begin to eat.

The frittata is rich with cheese, the way I like it, and even the salad greens aren't bad with the walnut oil. At home, I'd already be eying a second portion but I want to get this over with.
How long,
I wonder as I chew a chunk of artichoke,
will this take?

Finally Kim looks at me. And it's not disgust I see in her eyes but pity. “We need a plan.”

We?
I inhale so quickly a chunk of egg sticks in my throat. I don't want her pity and I don't need her kind of help. “I don't think so. This is my issue, not yours.”

She continues like I haven't spoken. “I know a good naturopath. We'll go Monday. He'll know what supplements you'll need. I'm thinking essential fatty acids and probably Vitamin D. There's a lot of research being done on D these days.” She is pushing the same piece of frittata around and around the plate with her fork. “And he'll want to discuss
your diet too. Obviously you'll need to avoid sweets but he may tell you to lay off wheat and dairy and maybe even meat. We'll wait until we talk to him and—”

“No, we won't.”

Kim recoils like I've slapped her. “But—”

“I don't need a naturopath or anything else. I'm seeing a specialist in a month.”

Her fork clatters as she drops it to the plate. “Yes, your mom told me. But that doesn't preclude you seeing someone else.”

“I don't want to see anyone else. Besides, I'm reading at the hospital after school Monday.”

“I'll make the appointment for Tuesday then.”

“No.”

“But—”

“I'm not Ella. I'm not ten. I don't need your help!”

“Stay calm.” She glances nervously at my hair. “Stress will only aggravate things.”

Her pseudo-soothing voice and fake concern infuriate me. “Don't tell
me
what will aggravate things. You've only known about this for five minutes. I've been dealing with it for a week. And this is a secret. Didn't Mom tell you? I'm not telling anybody. I can handle this myself.”

“Your mom thinks you need support.”

I need
Mom's
support, not Kim's. Kim is the last person on earth I'd choose to share this with. The tears are back, pushing against my lids. My whole damn body is beyond my control. I'm losing my hair. I can't stop crying.

I bolt for the sink. “This coffee sucks without cream.” I pour it down the drain, blinking furiously to stop the tears from falling. I will not cry in front of Kim. I will
not.
I take
a glass from the cupboard, help myself to water, take a few deep breaths, and sit back down.

“People are going to stare. They'll think you're sick.” A tiny frown puckers the bridge of her nose. “I have clients coming to the house all the time.” She worries the corner of her lip. “They don't always use the outside entrance to my studio. Sometimes they come through the house.”

With Kim, it's always about appearances. “Don't worry. Your studio's in the back of the house. I'll stay out of your way.”

“There are things you can get. Hair extensions. Wigs. I know someone who can help us.”

This isn't about
us.
“I'm
not
getting a wig. I have a new hat.”

“You'll need more than one. And something lighter than that fedora you wore yesterday. Your hair needs to breathe.”

My hair doesn't need to breathe. It just needs to stay on my head. “I only have four spots. I may not get any more.” An image of that pillow and all that hair flashes through my mind. The average person loses between one and two hundred hairs a day. I was right about that. This morning's hair loss was less than one hundred. I counted.

Kim's critical gaze sweeps my hair before settling on my face. “This is a chance to do something with your appearance, Sloane.”

She's told me this before.
You have every opportunity to do something with your appearance and yet you don't. I just don't get it.
I brace myself for the rest of it but instead she says, “I can help with makeup. Get you in to see that naturopath,” she says again. “My wig person.”

I jump up from my chair so suddenly the cutlery rattles with my movement. “I don't need makeup or a wig or an
appointment with a naturopath.” I head for the door. “All I need is coffee cream.”

And my hair.

The fridge is still a cream-free zone when I head into the kitchen Sunday morning. Through the glass door, I see Dad lounging on the deck wearing grey sweats and unlaced Nikes. He catches my eye and raises his mug in that universal “I need more” gesture.

I pour myself a mug, add two heaping spoons of sugar, and carry the carafe out to the deck. The sun is shining but the air is cool with a slight, salty kick. I'm glad I threw on jeans and a sweater.

After rearranging the pillow on the lounger beside him, I sit down. “Where is everybody?”