The Art of Getting Stared At (33 page)

“But we're not a tattoo family.”

Mom's definition of family has always been us two. Even Ella, as much as Mom loves her, is outside our unit. I'm not sure the unit of two works for me anymore. “You may not be a tattoo
person
, Mom, or a makeup person, but I might be.” My voice is thick with tears. “And I can still be your daughter.”

“Sloanie, of course you're my daughter. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry. You know I love you. I wish I were there to give you a hug. We'll talk more when I get home, okay? Only four more weeks to go, and we can be together and hash things out and get a plan.”

“Sure.” But I already have a plan. And it's a plan Mom won't like. After saying goodbye, I go into the bathroom to
splash water on my face. As I'm towelling off, I'm struck by a thought that makes me freeze.

Mom is judgmental.
She likes me to think she's all accepting and open-minded but she's as judgmental as anyone else. I should know. Because for a long time, her judgments were mine.

Lexi comes over for dinner later that night. After eating roast chicken with Dad, Ella, and Kim, we help ourselves to warm apple crisp (hers with ice cream, mine without) and retreat to my bedroom. I'm booting up the computer to show her the final cut of the video when she says, “You heard about Georgina, right?”

“No. What about her?”

She pulls up the vanity stool and sits down. “It's all over Facebook.”

Facebook, ugh. “I haven't been on there since Friday.” And I don't plan to be anytime soon. I open the menu.

“She got ripped and puked all over the table at this pizza joint last night,” Lexi says around a mouthful of crunchy oats. “Somebody took a picture and it's gone viral.”

“It sucks to be her.” I click on the video file.

“At least they're not talking about you.”

Not today. But when I show up at school, they'll be all over me like a bad rash. Just the thought makes me queasy. I boost the volume. “Watch.”

My narrative spools out into the bedroom. Having seen it a billion times, I watch almost impassively although the sight of Jade gives me a little heart clutch. When the laughter flash
mob appears and I lose my hat, Lexi's eyes widen but she doesn't say anything. After the music fades, she turns to me, brown eyes shining and says, “It's brilliant! I was shocked to see you kept it, but it works.”

It more than works. It takes the video to a whole new level.

“Very impressive.” Her open admiration makes me want to squirm. Instead I manage to smile and say, “Thanks.”

“I can't believe you kept it.”

“Yeah, well. Serve the film, right? And the film needed it. I couldn't do a half-assed job. I want that scholarship way too much for that.” Besides, it's way easier showing my bald self to strangers than friends. And maybe it'll give me courage for step two—going back to school.
Maybe.
“Just don't tell anyone, okay? I've asked Fisher to keep quiet about the content too.”

“For sure.” She dips her spoon into the apple crisp. “I think it's better than the shoe video.”

I almost choke on a chunk of apple. “I hope so.”

“Bet it was easier doing this one without Breanne's input.”

“And without Isaac too. I am so relieved Fisher insisted we each do our own.” I poke at the crunchy topping. “There's no way in hell I could've sat down with him after—after what happened.”

“He called me,” Lexi says.

My breath seizes. Which is totally and completely lame. “How did he get your number?”

“He Facebooked me first. When I didn't answer, he called a pile of other people.” She licks ice cream from her spoon. “Eventually he called Miles who gave it to him.”

I shove an overly large chunk of dessert into my mouth.

“He wants to talk to you but you won't return his calls or his texts and he's frustrated.”

Chew. Swallow. Breathe. Don't think of
his
footage.
Seeing myself through Isaac's eyes gave me the courage I needed for the video, but it also left me incredibly uneasy. “I'm sorry but I don't want to talk to him.”

“All he wants is five minutes.”

I wouldn't know what to say. Right now I don't even know what to
think
of that footage. Ignoring her, I set my bowl down and reach for the large envelope with Mr. Fisher's name on the outside. “Everything's in here. The video, the completed application form, my letter. Fisher needs it by noon tomorrow.”

“I'll get it to him first thing,” Lexi promises.

I've done the best I can.
I put the envelope in her open hand. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” I feel lighter already. “Now all I have to do is get through the next two weeks until they announce the scholarship winners.”

“What about the camera? Shouldn't I return that too?”

Unease ripples down my spine. Earlier today, Leslie called with an update on Jade. I need to go to the hospital and see her. “I need to do something with it first. I'll see if I can get Kim to drop it off when I'm done.” My relationship with Kim feels different now. Since the Gross Reveal at the laughter flash mob when she stood by me and turned her hat sideways and walked me out with my arm through hers, things are somehow easier between us. Or maybe it's me. Maybe I feel easier and freer because Kim felt like a real mom to me that day, supportive and strong.

Lexi tucks the envelope under her arm. “I hope you get the scholarship, Sloane. I really, really do.”

“I hope so too.” It'll give me something positive to focus on. It'll remind me of who I am on the inside. What I value most. “If I don't get it, I'll try again. I don't care what my parents say. One way or another, I'm going to film school.”

She turns to go. “I hope you do. Maybe then you'll stop being so down on yourself.”

“For that, I need my hair,” I joke. I don't know if it's true. Mostly I'm just trying to be funny.

I expect her to fire back a smart-ass remark, but instead she says, “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Irritation prickles the back of my neck. “What's that supposed to mean?”

Lexi glances at the thin paisley scarf I'm wearing before looking into my eyes. “You were down on yourself before you lost your hair, Sloane. You never think you're good enough. That's why you're running from Isaac. That's why you ended up dating a loser like Matt. I kinda doubt if getting your hair back will make any difference.”

Lexi's words eat at me. Tuesday morning, she texts to say she handed the envelope to Fisher; I text a simple thanks back. She asks how I'm doing but I don't answer.

How
dare
she say what she said? I'm not
running
from anyone. I'm
choosing
not to see Isaac. And confidence? I have plenty of confidence. Or I did until I lost my hair. At least that's what I tell myself. Besides, how would Lexi feel if she lost
her
hair? She might feel strong when she's by herself but still find it hard to face other people too. That afternoon,
when I go to the hospital and take the elevator up to Jade's floor, I'm still obsessing over her words.

In the lounge, three nurses stand by the coffee machine helping themselves to fresh cups. After saying hi, I stash my jacket, scarf, and video camera in the locker and pull out my gear, shuffling through the stack of books while they add sugar and cream to their coffee.

I am dawdling. I don't want to take off my hat in front of them. I don't want them to see.

Pretending I have a lash in my eye (the irony doesn't escape me; my lashes are thinning at an alarming rate), I lean into the mirror and check out my new brows. The scabs are gone; the colour is fading slightly. They look good. Normal, almost.

Finally, the nurses leave. I pick up my Miss Cookie wig and take off my hat. My reflection stares back—beautiful brows; sad eyes; a patchy, disgusting mess of pink skin and dark hair.

Every day I lose more hair. Panic squeezes my gut with each lost strand, and I find them everywhere: on my pillow, in the shower, clinging to my hoodie. I should be used to seeing them by now. But I am not. I am not used to any of this. I wonder if I ever will be.

Carefully, as if being gentle will make a difference, I twist up my remaining strands and tuck them under the wig cap. Of course I'd feel better if my hair came back. At the thought of Lexi's words, my anger flares to life.
Of course
I would!

But underneath my anger, a small, hard kernel of truth pokes into my soul and won't leave me alone.

In one way, Lexi is right.

I straighten the wig, adjust one of the fake cookies, and reach for my tube of lip gloss. Until I started losing my hair, I thought I was confident. More than confident. In a lot of ways, I felt I was better than other people. Certainly better than Breanne and her crowd. Better than Kim for sure. Sometimes better than Lexi with her obsession about clothes. Colour floods my cheeks. And often better than Mandee because Mandee is slow and I never am.

But it was false confidence. I was judging others and finding them wanting so I could cover my own fear of not measuring up. And I put a lot of the blame on Kim. The colour spreads to the tips of my ears, races down my neck. What an ugly way to be.

For the next hour, I read to the children who have asked for stories; I tell jokes, and laugh when jokes are told to me. After I put the books away and retrieve the video camera, I check in with Leslie at the nurses' station.

“She knows you're coming,” she tells me, her normally cheerful face solemn. “But don't stay long; she doesn't have the energy.”

Jade is failing. As I walk down the hall to her room, my stomach falls a little more with each step. Though Leslie didn't come right out and say so, the fact that she called me yesterday is enough. I know they don't expect her to make it.

When I pause in Jade's doorway, my heart does a nasty tango. I've never been around someone who is dying; I don't know what to expect.

The lights are low. Soft music plays from an unseen radio. A purple and pink balloon bouquet floats high in the far corner where Jade can see it. Her parents are there; one sits on the bed, the other on a chair. They aren't crying or
anything, just talking softly. My heart slows. Maybe this won't be so bad. Denver looks up and beckons me forward.

“Look who's here to see you,” Latanna says when I reach the foot of the bed.

Jade's eyes flutter open, two huge ebony discs in a sharp, gaunt face. “Miss Cookie! I wanted to see your video.” Her voice is a barely-there whisper; her words are slurred.

“I know!” My voice, in contrast, almost booms into the room. I dial back my enthusiasm. “Nurse Leslie called so I brought in the camera and we can watch it together.” I lift the camera to show her.

“I wanted to be there,” Jade says as her mother moves her pillow and rearranges her IV before shifting her to a sitting position. “But I fell asleep.”

The drugs make her pronounce it
assheeep
. “Well, Miss Jade, the next time I do a flash mob, you aren't allowed to fall asleep, and you have to be there, okay?”

“'K.” Her hospital gown shifts, revealing razor-sharp collar bones.
Oh man.
If Jade loses any more weight, she'll disappear. Averting my gaze, I fiddle with the camera. “Here you go,” I say after a minute. “Watch.”

Other than a slight smile when the guy walks on his hands, Jade has almost no reaction.
She's only five,
I remind myself. Even if she were healthy and not medicated, she probably wouldn't understand much of what I'm saying. When it ends, she's silent. Her eyelids are so low I wonder if she's dozed off, but then she whispers, “Where's the bad guy?”

Denver and Latanna share a look; Latanna's eyes fill with tears. Oh crap. What have I done? “The bad guy?” I ask.

“Everybody has a bad guy. Every movie has to have a bad guy too.”