The Art of Getting Stared At (31 page)

A lump the size of a cable car jams my throat
. I've tried to help you because I care
. Kim is on my side. I don't know if she always has been, but she is right now. Lexi jiggles my arm. I manage a stab of laughter. It's the most miserable sound I've ever heard. Like an elephant dying.

I need to get out of here.

Mechanically I follow Lexi as she spins through the crowd. Laughter rises and falls around us, mocking, grating, slicing at my nerves. I can't look at the camera; I can't look at anyone. I stare out across the Bay. I want to jump off the end of the pier and sink to the inky black of the ocean floor.

Everybody knows. I'll never be able to leave the fucking house again.

I glance at my phone. Thirty seconds to go. I see Kim and Ella. Lexi and Miles. Matt who studies me with a question in his eyes. And Breanne who stares at me with judgment in hers.

There's Mandee, giggling with Mr. Promised Six Pack. And Isaac. The laughter catches in my throat. Still behind the camera. Still filming.

He knows. At least he'll stop flirting with me now. That'll be a relief. Only I don't feel relieved. I feel like I've eaten poisonous crab meat.

Or that I'd like to.

Ring, clock, ring.

I let my gaze hopscotch through the crowd as though the entire thing were planned. A joke to keep everybody laughing. I see the jocks, still goofing off. Another drama geek walking on his hands. The cheerleaders are playing with the clown nose now. Maybe they didn't see? Maybe not everybody did?

You won't know till you see the playback.
A sick, sinking feeling twists my gut. Like I want to watch it? Like I can? The footage could be ruined. For sure my life is.

After the longest minute in the history of civilization, the clock in the tower finally strikes eleven thirty.

Though I'm tempted to pull a Cinderella and run, I force myself to follow Lexi's lead, raise my finger, and give the signal to stop. And miraculously people do.

A few bystanders start to clap. A little boy yells, “Again.”

“I'm outta here,” I tell Lexi, gazing uneasily into the crowd. Kim is rounding up the girls. Isaac is packing up the camera. My stomach jackknifes. He's looking right at me. I grab Lexi's arm. “Let's go.”

“I want to find Miles,” she says. “Hold on.”

“No!” I see Isaac—walking towards me. “You go,” I drop her arm. “I'm leaving right now.”

I hurry over to Kim. “Can I get a ride with you guys?”

“Of course.” She straightens my hat, quickly tucking the fake hair into place. Tears press behind my lids. It's the kind of thing Mom would do. “Smile,” she whispers.

“Everybody
saw.
” My voice quivers. Behind us, the girls are in a huddle, no doubt discussing me. “They all
know.
”

“You don't know that.” She tucks my arm through hers. “Get a grip, Sloane. You can't afford to fall apart now.”

Kim's bluntness saves me. I've always hated it, always taken it as a personal attack, but her no-bullshit attitude is who she is. For the first time, I'm grateful. Pity would do me in. We start to walk. In spite of the heat, my body is like a block of ice; my movements are leaden.

“Sloane!” Isaac calls. “Wait up.”

I freeze. Kim presses a warning into my arm. “Keep moving. We're three minutes to the car.”

“I need to talk to you,” Isaac says.

I glance over my shoulder. “Not now.” I sorta, kinda smile. “I've gotta go.”

“But—”

“Not right now,” Kim repeats with a smile. “She'll catch you later.”

“I—” He stops, scratches his head, studies me for a minute. “Sure.” His smile is forced; it doesn't reach his eyes. “Later.”

My heart falls to Middle-earth. I turn away. I feel him staring after me, his gaze burning a hole through my jean jacket, through my T-shirt, through flesh and bone and sinew that protects my heart. I know that look. Pity and disgust. I'd recognize that particular combination anywhere.

“Quit surfing!” Lexi grabs my phone and shoves it down the side of the sectional where I can't reach it. Not that I need to. The images of me already on Facebook are burned into my brain.

“I wasn't surfing. I was reading my texts.” Text singular. From Miles. Telling me he got some fabulouso B footage. No mention of what I've dubbed my Gross Reveal.

“
And
surfing.”

We're sprawled in the TV room at Dad and Kim's. A dozen feet behind us is the formal dining room, and just beyond that is the kitchen. The fridge opens and closes; someone drops a piece of cutlery on the floor. Kim and the girls are assembling nachos. It's clearly Kim's consolation prize.
Reveal yourself as a freak and I will feed you junk.

My cell phone buzzes, signalling a text. “That might be Mom. I need to look.” I texted Mom the minute we got to Kim's car.

Lexi gives me a look of disbelief as she digs out the phone to check. “It's Isaac. He says:
Miles gave me the B footage. We need to do final edit before dubbing copies + we need to talk
.”

He's the last person I want to talk to. I hold out my hand. “Lemme have it.”

“No.”

“I need to answer him.”

Her chin juts out. “You are
not
getting this phone while I am in this house. Tell me what to say and I'll text him.”

“Tell him we'll do our own edits. Tell him to burn all the footage to a disc and leave it in my mailbox. Tomorrow is fine.” I can't watch the footage right now. “Give him this address too. I don't think he has it.”

While Lexi answers, I burrow deeper into the corner of
the sectional. Giggles come from the kitchen behind me. At least someone is still laughing.

And then it hits me. A lot of people are still laughing. For real this time, and at my expense.

Two images have hit Facebook so far—one of me just after the cap flew off my head (looking like I'd been electrocuted) and the other with my cap back on but a sideways fringe of hair where it's not supposed to be (looking like my BFF just died).

And then there are the wall posts, many of them courtesy of the Bathroom Brigade:

Bad hair day 4 Kendrick.

LOL!! When you can't keep ur hat on!!

No, when you can't keep ur
hair
on!!

Hair of the dog: woof woof.

???? Let yr hair down or whaaa?????

Talk about humiliating. I will never live this down.

“Done.” Lexi shoves the phone back down the side of the couch.

“This day was a total disaster. I'll never be able to leave the house again.”

“You have to stop thinking about it, Sloane. Seriously!” She sounds matter-of-fact but sympathy flashes in her dark brown eyes. “Yeah, it sucks and some people are being ass-hats but your video is due at Clear Eye in a couple of days. You need to focus on that. You can't afford to be preoccupied.”

I lower my voice so the others can't hear. “I'm not even sure I want to do it anymore.” It's not that I don't
want
to. It's that I don't think I
can.
“I can't watch that footage.” I'd be living it all over again.

Lexi scoots close. “You have to watch it. You have to do the video.” Her voice is low and urgent. “I can't believe you'd give up your dream.”

Tears cloud my vision. I'm not giving up my dream. Film school is still on the top of my list, but maybe I should forget the Clear Eye scholarship for this year. Maybe I should try next year. Maybe by then, I'll have my hair back.

“You've wanted to go to film school since grade five. That's not going to change. Whether you have hair or not. Whether you grow a third arm or a second head.”

Blinking back my tears, I manage a tiny snicker. “Do I get hair on my second head?”

“I'm serious, Sloane.” But she smiles just a little. “You've never been a quitter. Don't start now.”

She's right. Miserable and bald is bad. Miserable, bald, and a quitter is worse.

“What was it you told me when you were doing the final edit on the shoe video? That you needed to box up your feelings and serve the film?”

“That was different. Breanne was being a douche.”

“It's not so different. She still is. So box up your feelings and serve this film. When you see yourself, pretend you're watching somebody else.”

I don't know if I can do that. But I can edit and splice and write narrative. I'm good at that. And right now I need something I'm good at. I need to focus on film school. I need a reminder that I am more than the hair on my head. “Fine, I'll do it. But I'd like you to hand it in for me. There's no way I'm going back to school.”

Ella materializes in front of us, her two friends trailing behind. “Why not?” she asks.

Kim steps into view. “Here are your nachos, girls.” She places a long, wooden tray onto the ottoman in front of us. Five plates are piled with nacho chips, onions, salsa, and browned cheese. Real cheese, it looks like. My mouth starts to water; it smells so good.

“You can eat them here or in your bedroom.” Kim points to a stack of napkins on the edge of the tray. “Just make sure you use those.”

“Why aren't you going back to school?” Ella demands. She picks up a plate and almost dumps the nachos onto her lap when she tries to sit down.

Kim grabs the plate just in time. “Sit first,” she says. Once she's settled, Kim gives her the plate along with some napkins.

I glance at Lexi.
Bedroom
, I mouth. She nods.

“Why not?” Ella demands.

“I don't need the hassle,” I say.

“Because of your baldness, right?”

Felicity lets out a nervous giggle. Beth glares at her.

But Ella is undeterred. “Right?” She stuffs a handful of cheese-crusted chips into her mouth.

Totally.
“Maybe in part.” Felicity and Beth are taking their time choosing their plates; Lexi and I have no choice but to wait.

“So what if people think you're bald? You always say appearances don't matter.”

I clench my teeth. Busted by a ten-year-old. “Yeah, well, I lied. I guess they do.”

“So it's okay to be dumb as long as you look good?” Ella asks as Felicity chooses her plate.

“No! That's not what I meant.”

Ella looks truly perplexed. “Then what
did
you mean?”

Beth finally chooses her nachos. Lexi and I grab the remaining two plates. Kim says, “Sloane was confusing appearance with beauty, girls.”

I almost drop my plate of nachos. I was?

Lexi hands me some napkins.

“Appearance is superficial but beauty goes deep,” Kim says. “Beauty is the way we live our life, how we dress, even how we do our jobs. Beauty is an art. And with so much ugliness in the world, beauty is never wrong.”

Even when we feel rotten? Isn't it hypocritical to put on our best face with tattooed brows and makeup and hats?

“Beauty,” Kim adds, staring right at me, “is doing the best we can with whatever situation we find ourselves in.”

Even a bad situation, she means. I avert my gaze. Once upon a time I pretended I didn't care what I looked like. When people judged me for it, I made it their problem. I slide another look at her. Or I got angry. But I was such a fake. Covering up my sense of lack with defensiveness.

“Thanks for the nachos,” Lexi says as she turns to go.

A sick, sinking feeling swamps me. “Yeah, thanks.” I'm not defensive anymore. And the only person I'm angry with is me. Now I know what it's really like to care about my looks. And to truly not measure up.

When the doorbell rings later that night, I almost slosh root beer onto my lap. I know it's him. So strong is his presence, he may as well be standing in the TV room with me. “I'm not home,” I hiss at Dad. Thank goodness you can't see into the house from the front door.

“It's probably the Girl Scouts selling cookies.” Dad stands and arches his back. “I'll go see.”