The Art of Getting Stared At (25 page)

Forty minutes later, I'm signing the late sheet in the office when the secretary looks over the top of her neon green reading glasses and says, “Miss Kendrick? Mrs. Peterson would like to see you in her office.”

Her words chill me. There's no reason for the school counsellor to see me. Unless something has happened. Stomach churning, I hurry to Peterson's office, mentally flipping through the ugly possibilities:
Dad's plane has crashed; there's been a shooting in Mom's Sudanese village; Ella's been in an accident.

Mrs. Peterson's door is open. Her curly grey hair is bent over a stack of papers. When I knock, she looks up and smiles. “Sloane, hi. Come on in.” She gets up to shut the door. “Your mother called.”

My unease mushrooms. Mom wouldn't call the counsellor from Sudan unless something
was
seriously wrong. “My mother?”

“Yes.” She sits back down. “She told me about your issue with hats.”

It's a second before I realize she means Kim, not Mom.

“She explained about your illness and why you need to wear them in class.”

My heart slams to a halt. Kim has told
the counsellor
about my alopecia? The gratitude I feel towards her dissolves. What part of “it's a secret” doesn't she get?

“This must be difficult for you,” Mrs. Peterson says.

I clench my hands; my nails bite into my palms. Does Kim think going to the doctor's office and stopping at a wig store gives her the right to meddle in my life?

“If you'd like to talk or need a safe place to vent, I'm here,” she adds.

Kind and non-judgmental, Mrs. Peterson has been known to let kids sleep on her couch when they've had problems at home. She's as non-threatening as a kitten, and yet right now, she feels like the enemy.

“It's fine,” I lie.

“I've already informed your math teacher of the situation.”

Oh God! What if he says something to me in front of people?

“But since your mother just called a few minutes ago, I haven't gotten to the others yet. I'll do it at lunch and explain—”

“No!”

“But—”

“Math is the only class where I'm not allowed to wear a hat. The others are fine with it.”

“All right.”

And then I remember. “And maybe study hall.”

She frowns. “I don't see study hall on your rotation this term.”

“It's not. But I'm working on a video project for film studies and I've been doing some of the work in study hall.” Because the library is now a toxic waste dump of memories.

She scribbles something on a sheet of paper. “I'll talk to her then.”

“But I, um. I want to keep the reason for the hat thing quiet.” I stare at her. “I
really
don't want anyone to know about the—” I hesitate. “Illness.” It's the first time I've actually said that word aloud.

Her gaze is sympathetic. “I understand.”

She doesn't. She can't. No one can. “If you could stress that this is a
private
medical issue to those two teachers and that I don't want
anyone else
knowing, I'd appreciate it.”

“Of course.” She nods. “I'm sorry you're going through this, Sloane. I really am.”

Right back at ya, Mrs. P.

“If there's anything I can do to help, please just ask.”

“Thanks.” Other than putting a muzzle on Kim, there's nothing she can do.

The instant I leave Peterson's office, I text Kim.
DO NOT TELL ANYBODY ELSE.

She answers immediately.
U should be allowed 2 wear hats. Counsellor is discreet.

I respond:
This is a SECRET. NO ONE else.

My hands are shaking so much it takes me three tries to
open my locker. Please God, don't let anyone else find out. Tears burn behind my eyelids. I couldn't stand the stares. The whispers.

My wavy distorted self stares back from the tiny mirror on the back of my locker. I lean in to inspect my brows. Kim reapplied them at the wig store, muttering the whole time that her angles were off. And sure enough, the right one looks weird.

I slam my locker shut and head for the nearest bathroom. It's becoming a compulsion, this need to look at my reflection everywhere: subway cars, restaurant doors, puddles even.

But I can't help myself.

Inside the bathroom, I'm assaulted by the smell of pot and raucous laughter.

Oh God. Breanne and two members of the Bathroom Brigade. I turn around. I need to find some privacy.

“What?” Breanne drawls. “Scared of us?”

I turn back. They're leaning against the sinks, lined up like three badly dressed skanks in a chorus line. Breanne takes a toke from a joint before passing it to the girl on her left.

“She's not scared of anything,” says the girl with the kohl-rimmed eyes. “She's a Michael Moore wannabe, dontcha know?”

“Only, Moore dresses better.” The other girl sucks in some smoke. She's wearing a purple halter top the size of a rice cake. “And those boots with that hat?” Her eyes roll so far back in her head I actually see white. “That's, like, a serious whiff of badass ugly.”

More peals of laughter. If I leave, they'll never let me forget it, but I don't want to linger either. “I need to wash my hands.” A quick rinse and I'm out of here.

The three of them exchange glances. As if on cue, they double over in convulsions again. “I'm glad you find me entertaining.” I shove my way between Breanne and Rice Cake Girl. “Now excuse me.”

I turn on the water. While it heats up, I glance into the mirror. My heart picks up speed. The brows are too thick. And the one on the right has a strange arch thing going on. I look like a deranged serial killer.

Breanne straightens, takes another toke from the joint, passes it on. “The boots and the hat are bad enough, but check out those disgusting eyebrows.” She glances at me and smirks. “Can you spell tranny?”

Heat races into my cheeks.
Leave. Go.
But I am rooted to the spot. Humiliation has burned me into place.

“Trannies are male.”

“No, they're not,” says Kohl Girl. “How 'bout Chaz Bono?”

“Bono isn't a tranny,” Breanne clarifies, “he's transgendered.” In her stoned drawl, it comes out as
traaaaaansgenderrred
.

“What
eeeever
,” Kohl Girl says. “It wouldn't surprise me if
she
graduated and
he
came back to our first reunion.”

Their words slam me like a body blow.

More peals of laughter. Rice Cake Girl chokes on her smoke. Breanne slaps her on the back.

That's it. I switch off the water. I'm outta here.

The door swings open. “I smell pot.” Mandee Lingworth clomps into the bathroom. “That's illegal.”

“That's
illegal
,” Breanne repeats in a singsong voice.

Kohl Girl giggles. “
You're
illegal.”

“So is your sweater,” Rice Cake Girl adds.

Mandee flushes. Her turquoise sweater has a brown
coffee dribble. “I'm not illegal. I'm allowed to be here. My period started.”

Snorts of laughter. “Ewww,” Breanne says. “TMI.”

Mandee digs in her pocket for change. “It's true. And that's what I told Mrs. Perez when she stopped me in the hall.” She plugs a quarter into the dispenser on the wall.

Kohl Girl blanches. “Perez is down the hall?”

“Shit, shit, shit.” Breanne bolts for the stall and throws the joint away. “I'm on my third warning. I can't afford another one.” She flushes the toilet. “Let's go.”

Tranny.
I stare at my reflection. Really?
They're stoned
, I tell myself as they giggle their way out the door. Higher than kites.

Except. What if somebody else thinks the same thing? What if Isaac does?

Mandee's gaze meets mine in the mirror. “Did your period start too, Sloane?”

“That's personal, Mandee. But no, it didn't.”

“Cause you look sick.”

Something inside me shrivels and dies. “What do you mean I look sick?”

“Sick like you're on your period.” She removes a small blue packet from the dispenser and sticks it in her pocket before turning around. “Like me.” She gestures to our side-by-side reflections. “See.”

I've got two inches on Mandee; she's got thirty pounds on me. Her hair sticks up on one side; most of mine is hidden under my fedora.

“You're the colour of mashed potatoes,” she says matter-of-factly. “So am I.”

At least she doesn't think I look like a tranny. But still.

“I never have any colour when I have my period either, probably 'cause I'm bleeding it all away.”

Before I can react with the kind of revulsion that comment deserves, Mandee pulls a lipstick from her pocket and offers it to me. “Here,” she says. “You can use this just like blush.”

I don't need blush. I need a new set of eyebrows. A full head of hair. A friend. I need Lexi. But I'd be crazy to tell her. Certifiable. “I'm good, Mandee. Thanks.”

“You're not good.” She unrolls the tube and smears a blob of pinky purple across her cheek. “You look like you're going to throw up.”

I feel like it too. One thing about Lexi, she never lies. She'd tell me if I looked like a tranny.

Except I'm not sure I want to know.

Brow tattoos can be beautiful
. Kim is in my head.
You can't tell the difference.
Getting my eyebrows back would be a step in the right direction. A move away from Freaktown.

But I can't get tattooed by myself.

You need support.
I hear Dr. Paxton's words now. And then Mom:
Your friends will love you no matter what.

No way. Lexi would be totally grossed out.
I'm
totally grossed out.

Maybe I should go home. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Kim would understand. Except I have another math quiz this afternoon, and since I failed the last one, I can't afford to miss this one.

Tranny.

I have to make myself look better. I rub at the arch in my brow. Better, but not perfect. As I dig through my bag for Kim's brow pencil, my gaze lands on my cell.

Tranny.

I need help. I need my best friend. Before I can overthink it, I punch out a message.
Can you meet me outside the band wing? Asap?

“Here.” Mandee presses the lipstick into my palm. “I look better now and you can too.”

I dab a few spots of colour on my cheeks but only to make Mandee happy. Being pale is the least of my worries.

Tranny.

I'm way more worried about Breanne's comment. That and how I'll tell my best friend I'm going bald.

Sixteen

“W
hat happened to your cheeks?” Lexi demands when “ we meet outside ten minutes later. Her hair is up in a sloppy topknot; turquoise chandelier earrings dangle from her earlobes. “You look like you got attacked by a purple pencil crayon.”

I didn't think it looked that bad. Maybe when you start going bald, your standards slip. More likely I never had any standards in the first place. “It's a long story.” I rub at the offending lipstick.

By unspoken agreement, we cross the student parking lot, walk across the street to the bank, and turn the corner to the coffee shop. The smell of dark roast hits me like a welcome slap.

“So what's going on?” Lexi pulls her slouchy grey sweater tight and wraps her arms around her waist.

I don't know where to start. I can't stop thinking about what Breanne said about my eyebrows. How I'll look on tape at the laughter flash mob. What Isaac will say.

“So?” she prompts.

“Do I look like a tranny?”

She gapes at me. “A
what
?”

“Sssh. Don't
yell
!” I tug her past the florist. “A transvestite?” I murmur when the guy arranging the buckets of flowers is behind us. “Do I look like one?”