The Art of Getting Stared At (20 page)

By the time the bus pulls up, I've collected a series of texts from both Lexi and Isaac.

I
knew
Lexi would come after me. My runners squish as I drip my way to the back of the bus and take the last seat. I halfway consider pulling out my phone and googling WebMD but what's the point? It's not like I'll learn anything new.

I am losing my hair. All of it. I don't need the specialist to tell me that. I need her to tell me how to get it back.

I stare out the rain-splattered window. My watery, smudged reflection stares back. If I were directing myself in a movie, I would use this shot, I think dispassionately. It's the perfect combination of art and pathos. My round face framed by snaky tendrils of wet, limp hair. Flickering lashes. A droopy mouth.

My lashes. My stomach flips; I taste the lobster roll I ate for lunch. Oh my God. Will I lose those too? Some people do. I read that somewhere.

Lashes can be bought but can eyebrows? Needing a distraction, I stare beyond my face to the outside world. Across the street, a bus pulls up to the stop and disgorges half a dozen people. They flip up umbrellas: black, yellow, blue.

I probably won't need an umbrella if I'm bald. A hat's probably enough.

My cell phone buzzes, signalling a text.
I'm worried.
Lexi again.
Call me.

I text her instead.
I'm OK. Talk ltr.
I say the same thing to Isaac but add,
Sorry.
And then I text Mom:
I need to talk to you. ASAP.

When my phone rings less than a minute later, my heart flutters into my throat. “Mom!”

“Sorry, sunshine,” Isaac drawls. “It's me.”

Damn, I should have checked call display. “Sorry,” I blurt out again.

“Are you okay? Lexi says you're really sick.”

“I just need to go home. I'll be okay.” Empty words. I may never be okay again. The bus slows to a stop; the front doors slap open.

“You don't sound okay.” And then I hear Lexi in the background shouting, “If Midol doesn't work, try ibuprofen.”

Oh my
God.
They're
together
? Isaac knows I have cramps?

“My sister swears by warm tea and a heating pad,” Isaac adds.

My humiliation is complete. I shut my eyes, press my head against the cold window, and tell myself not to be a fool. What does it matter what Isaac thinks? It's a lie anyway. “Thanks,” I manage. “I, um, I'm sorry I can't be there for the juggler this afternoon. Just get some footage, okay? I'll figure out what to do later.”

“With this rain, I doubt he'll be outside anyway, so no biggie.”

“Oh, right. I guess, we'll, uh, do him later then.” Later, when? We only have a week until the scholarship deadline. But suddenly I don't care. The video, Clear Eye, what does it matter anyway? Maybe I should just give it up.

It's a crazy thought, a defeatist thought. The kind of thought I'd never considered myself capable of. Giving up the biggest dream of my life because I'm embarrassed by my looks? That's insane. And yet ...

“... fit him in somewhere,” Isaac is saying when I snap back to myself. “If not, we'll get someone else.” I hear Lexi mumble something. “Lexi wants to talk to you,” he adds.

I don't want to talk to Lexi. “You're fading out,” I tell him. “Tell her to text me.” And I disconnect.

I shove my phone into my pocket and turn back to the
window. Cars stream past the bus, their windshield wipers tick-tock back and forth like my thoughts.

Give up. Keep going. Give up.
I can't believe I'd walk away from a possible scholarship because I'm losing my hair. Because I'm afraid of what people will think. I pull my gaze from car wipers. My blurry, smudged reflection stares back.

I give my head a little shake. Wet tendrils of hair slap my cheeks. I don't recognize myself anymore. Not physically. And not mentally either.

I've never been this obsessive. And I've never been a quitter. Not ever.

Giving up my shot at Clear Eye would be like giving up a part of me. Another part. How can I do that? I can't. I won't. I may not be able to stop my hair from falling out, and I may not be able to stop thinking about it all the time, but I can work a lot harder to stop people from noticing.

And I know exactly where to start.

Kim's studio.

The driveway is empty when I reach Dad's house, but he and Kim park in the garage so that's no guarantee they're not home.

I open the door and step into the foyer, prepared with my excuse (cramps) if one of them is there. The door shuts with a soft click. I cock my head and listen. A yawning silence greets me. The telltale silence of an empty house.

I slide out of my wet runners and socks and do a quick walk-through anyway, checking the kitchen and den, poking my head through the door that connects the garage with the
living room. Satisfied that the house is empty, I ditch my knapsack and wet clothes in the bedroom before heading down the hall to Kim and Dad's room.

But when my fingers fasten around the doorknob, I hesitate.

What I'm about to do is a breach of privacy. And privacy is something I've been taught to respect. On the other hand, it's not like I've never been in Kim's room before. Hell, half the models in San Francisco have been in Kim's room. Or, more specifically, the studio attached to the bedroom. Only they've been invited in. And I haven't. Not today.

But still. The end—getting what I need without involving Kim—justifies the means.

I turn the knob and step inside.

Decorated in a quasi–French provincial theme with pale blue walls, cream furniture, and reams of curtains, the bedroom smells faintly of Kim's floral perfume. The thick cream carpet muffles my footsteps as I hurry past the bed and around the corner to the door that leads to her makeup studio.

I need new brows. If Lexi noticed they're thinner, it won't be long before other people notice too. Mandee for sure. Isaac probably.

You're beautiful.

Yeah, right. Beautiful without brows. It sounds like the lyrics to a bad song. I need to hide the evidence. Hide in plain sight, that's what I'm going to do. I plan to get my Ph.D. in it.

I flick the switch, flooding the room with intense, bright light. Unlike the bedroom, this room is black, white, and businesslike.

Two black director's chairs sit in front of the makeup stations. A four-tier, stainless-steel shelf unit rests between
them, holding trays of shadows and brushes and pots. Framed images from Kim's portfolio line the wall. The eyes of a dozen models follow me as I move quickly past the airbrush station and the outside door that allows clients independent access, to the built-in shelves where Kim keeps her supplies.

I scan the jumble of boxes and baskets, plastic totes, suitcases. Some are labelled. Others aren't. And I don't know where to start. But I do know what I want. False eyelashes for sure. A dark brow pencil. Some foundation and blush. Maybe a shadow or two.

If you buy a hat and the rest of you looks shitty, people will stare for all the wrong reasons
, Lexi had said.

And if I only get brows, people will stare at the rest of my face and see all the flaws.

The lights are freakishly hot. A bead of sweat trickles down my spine as I pull down a tote labelled “FX.” Peering inside, I see liquid latex, fake blood, hairpieces, and wigs. It takes me a minute to make the connection. FX for special
effects
. As my mind spins with possibilities, I pick out a hairpiece close to my own hair colour. Who knows? Maybe I can do something with it.

I go through two more totes, selecting a couple of lipsticks, a foundation, and some powder before I open a small, white cardboard box and find them.

False eyelashes.

I stare at the jumble of black and brown and fuchsia and turquoise. The range of colours and shapes amazes me. Thick strips. Individual wisps. Half lashes. Every possible combination and some I've never even thought of. Lashes that look like feathers and some that are decorated with glitter. They feel like silk sliding through my fingers.

They're frivolous. Verging on ridiculous. But they make me smile. For some reason, I think of Jade. She would love them.

I dig for something that matches my colouring, eventually selecting a couple of strip lashes, a sleeve of half lashes, and a handful of uber-curly individual lashes I figure I can cut down. Impulsively I pick out a set of feathery turquoise and gold lashes for Jade too. After retrieving a white tube of eyelash adhesive, I fasten the lid on the box and reach up to put it away. All I need now is some shadow and a brow pencil and I'm good to go.

“What are you doing?”

I gasp. Kim! The box slips from my fingers. The lid pops off. Lashes, adhesive, and tweezers scatter across the black and white tiled floor.

Heat floods my cheeks; I turn.

Kim stands, hands on hips, wearing her faux fur vest and leggings with her favourite thigh-high boots. She scowls at the stash I've accumulated at my feet: the hairpiece, the lipsticks, the various pots and tubes. “Why are you taking my stuff?”

“I—Um.” I'm tempted to lie—lately I'm quite skilled at it—but of all my family, Kim is the most suspicious and the most perceptive. I'm rarely able to fool her.

As I'm about to blurt out the truth, she drops her hands from her hips and says, “We have boundaries in this house, young lady. You, of all people, should know that.”

I glance away, shutting her out. I don't have the energy for this. “Whatever.”

She begins gathering up the things on the floor. “If you want something, all you have to do is ask.” Her voice is soft,
kind almost. Tears jam the back of my throat. It'd be easier if she screamed at me. Called me more names. I could hate her then. And right now, I want to hate her.

“You've never been a coward, Sloane. Don't start now.” She shoves the random collection of lashes and tubes and wigs into my hand. “Sometimes the most courageous thing we can do is ask for help.”

Kim is wrong, I think, as I bolt for the privacy of my bedroom. Sometimes the most courageous thing we can do is pretend to be something we're not.

Thirteen

“S
loane, Sloane!”

I'm in water. Swimming and diving with Isaac. My hair flows out long and thick behind me. But Isaac doesn't care about my hair. He's looking at the rest of me, pulling me close. Then the pool is shaking. The entire world is shaking.

“Sloane!”

I surface from the edge of dreaming. The
bed
is shaking. Earthquake?

“
Come on,
Sloane. Wake up!”

It's not an earthquake. It's Ella, pounding on my shoulder. I peer at her through sleep-crusted eyes. “What?”

She laughs, and her pink braces gleam. “Mom says I can go to Hannah's sleepover now!” She throws her arms around my neck. The scent of her citrus soap nudges me closer to consciousness. “Thank you, thank you,
thank you
.”

I suspect Dad had more to do with that than me. “You're welcome.” She's hugging me so hard I'm sure she'll do ligament damage. Pulling away, I search the bedside table for
my cell. It's still dark outside but I smell coffee. And Ella is already dressed. “What time is it?”

“Six fifteen,” she chirps in a wide-awake voice. “We have a field trip today. I have to be at school early.”

I groan. It's practically the middle of the night. “Go away.” I burrow down and yank the covers back up. “I still have fifteen minutes.”

She nudges my hip. “Don't be lazy. Mom's making waffles. The real kind. Not the toaster shit kind.”

“Ella!” I pop my head out of my cozy hole and glare at her. “Watch your language!”

She giggles. “Why? That's what Mom said.”

Knowing my chances for sleep are nil, I wiggle up and prop a pillow behind my shoulders. At least there's cream for my coffee. Sometime in the last couple of days, a small carton magically appeared in the fridge. “Well, it's not very nice.” But I give her a tiny smile.

Hands resting on her jean-clad legs, she studies me for a minute. “Why do you have no eyebrows?”

Oh God. Don't tell me—

Her gaze shifts higher. Her blue eyes widen. “And bald spots on your head?” Panic skitters across her face. “You
are
sick, aren't you?”

I swallow and lick my lips. “No.” I don't want Ella to know. I don't want anyone to know. That's the only way I can cope. “I'm not sick.”

Slowly she eases herself backwards off the bed, never taking her eyes from mine. “Then what's wrong?”

I want to reach up and touch my brows. Are they
all
gone or the same as yesterday? But the look of fear on Ella's face
stops me. “They aren't exactly sure, but it could be a disease call—”