The Art of Getting Stared At (4 page)

The sun is setting in streaks of coppery orange forty minutes later when I stop in front of our three-storey Edwardian and dig for my house key.

Unlike Dad, who lives in the suburbs, Mom and I live in Nob Hill, one of the best neighbourhoods in San Francisco. Our house on Jackson, which originally belonged to my grandparents, is in a coveted location just off the Hyde Street cable car line. If I feel up to tackling the hills, I can walk to a pile of places: school or downtown, the beach, and even the more touristy destinations like Chinatown or Fisherman's Wharf.

Letting myself in, I drop my knapsack on the floor and head for the kitchen, carefully avoiding my reflection in the hall mirror. Button meows at my heels. As I scoop some seafood supreme into her dish, I notice the light flashing on our answering machine.

I lunge for the play button. Maybe Mom has found a specialist. But in that second before the voice spools out, I realize I'm being stupid. Mom deals with emergencies; the spot on my head doesn't qualify. At least not to her.

Lexi's voice fills the kitchen. “
Sloane, it's me. I called your cell but you didn't pick up. Call me back STAT
.” Lexi loves to use medical terms. “
I need deets
.”

Details. Clear Eye. Mom. My hair.

I catch my reflection in the microwave and immediately turn away. Then I'm staring into the small pink hand mirror Mom has propped on the shelf above the sink. In the dining room, I come face to face with the rectangular mirror over the sideboard. We have too many mirrors in this house. I go into the hall for my knapsack.

And I am pulled to the mirror like an addict to a fix.

My blue eyes have a marblelike sheen; my skin is pasty white. But it's my hair that draws me. I separate the dark strands, looking for more spots. What if I've lost more since I took the bus home? Crazy maybe, but this whole thing is crazy; nothing makes sense.

I search twice. Just to be sure. There are still only two.

I'm relieved, but faintly disgusted by my paranoia. As I dig for my cell, I promise myself I won't look in another mirror today. And I won't google symptoms either. Not until I see a doctor and have some answers. It's too easy to become obsessed. Lexi does it all the time. Quickly I tap out her number.

“Hello?”

There's a ton of noise in the background. “Where are you?”

“At the mall with Harper and a few of the others.” In the background, Harper yells out a hi. I hear a couple of other familiar voices too. Tannis, I think. Chloe maybe. The usual crowd. “We're getting some food and then catching a movie. Why don't you come down?”

“I've got stuff to do. I told you about the scholarship and—”

“I know! I can't believe it. A scholarship to Clear Eye.
Isaac A
? Really?”

“Really.” I grab a handful of crackers from the cupboard and a cheese string from the fridge. “It's the opportunity of a lifetime.” I repeat what Fisher told me. “But I can't work with Isaac. He knows nothing about film.”

“So?” Lexi says. I hear a nasally masculine voice in the background ordering a large pepperoni with double cheese. “He's hot, Sloane. Majorly.”

I almost choke on a piece of cracker. Yeah, smokin' hot. “Hot doesn't produce good videos. Besides, he's a flirt. I know his type.”

Lexi groans. “Like you knew Matt's type?”

“So Matt had hidden layers I didn't know about.” Ugly hidden layers. Besides, Lexi's in no position to offer me relationship advice. She and her boyfriend, Miles, have been on-again, off-again for over a year. The only way to keep up with their relationship is to watch Lexi's Facebook status, which sometimes changes three times in a day. “I can't work with Isaac. He might be cute, but he's a total slacker.”

“Judgments can bite you in the ass,” she adds. “I've told you that before.”

Yeah, yeah. Whatever. “I have other news. Mom's going to Sudan for eight weeks.”

“
Eight
weeks? That's terrible.”

I wedge off a chunk of cheese. “And she wants me to stay with Dad.”

“Oh no!”

“I know, right?”

“What'll I do with your mom in Sudan for two
months
?” Lexi wails. “I went to the doctor today and he thinks the only thing wrong with me is panic attacks, which is totally bogus because I have this lump on my knee!”

And I have a bald spot on my head. Two if you want to get specific. But I'm not ready to tell her yet.
“Lexi! Think about
me.
Living with Dad and
Kimberly
. In Sebastian Heights. For
eight
weeks. When I have this demo to do for
Clear Eye
.”

“Oh God, you're right. I'm so sorry. What can I do?”

“Help me convince Mom you and I can stay here alone for two months.”

There's a long, pregnant silence. “Your mom isn't the problem,” Lexi finally says. “Mine is.”

She's right. Lexi's mom is uber-protective. Disappointment weighs me down. “I hadn't thought of that.”

“Why don't you stay with us?” Lexi suggests.

“Could I?”

“I'll ask.”

I hear the clatter of cutlery on a tray, someone yelling, “Large Hawaiian with mushrooms.”

“Our food's up,” Lexi says. “I'll call you in a few minutes.”

And she is gone.

My vow not to google symptoms mocks me when I go upstairs and see my laptop sitting on the desk. Ignoring it, I go into the bathroom to check my hair care products. It occurs to me the spots might be an allergic reaction to my new Moroccan oil shampoo. My scalp has tingled in an itchyburny way since I started using it.

The front of the bottle proclaims it sulfate-phosphateparaben-free. Turning it around, I read the ingredients list. For a so-called natural product, there's nothing natural about the long list of chemicals.

I've been using this stuff for about a month. Lexi and I had been out shopping and she'd dragged me into the Sephora on Powell. Bored, I'd found myself in the hair care
section where a pretty turquoise bottle had called to me. It smelled like summer in the tropics and claimed to cure frizz. I was less concerned about my hair than shutting Lexi up. I wasn't about to buy makeup to appease her, but the shampoo appealed to me. I'd even picked up the matching conditioner.

I'm reading the ingredients list on the conditioner when Lexi calls back.

“Good news and bad news,” she says as I perch on the edge of the bathtub.

“You're cutting out.”

“... walking ... through ... mall.”

I toe the edge of our black bathmat. “What did your mom say?”

“Stay ... us ... second month ... not ... first. She needs ... guestroom.”

Lexi's mom is an agent who reps writers from the Philippines. She often has authors staying with her when they tour the US.

“And I can stay with you ... the first month.”

I jump up so fast I bang my arm on the shower surround. “Really? You can stay with me the whole first month?

“On the weekends,” Lexi says. “Not during ... week.”

My excitement fizzles. “Oh.”

“Ask,” Lexi orders. “Maybe your mom will go for it.”

She doesn't.

“We've gone over this three times, Sloane. You're not staying here alone during the week.” Mom is sprawled in her favourite leather armchair cradling a mug of Lemon Zinger
tea. “Lexi coming on weekends isn't enough. You'll go to your father's for the first month.”

“But this is an old house. Anything could happen.” Button's claws are digging into my jeans. I shift her sideways; she meows in displeasure. “Remember when we went away and the pipe in the basement blew? It's safer with someone living here.”

“Mrs. Abernathy is next door. She'll look after Button and watch the place.” Her eyes look tired over the rim of her mug. “I don't understand, Sloane. You've stayed with Dad and Kimberly before.”

“When they lived in the city.” Until a year ago, Dad and Kim lived in Cow Hollow but the commute south to the airport had been too much for Dad. They've moved to a new suburb in San Mateo County. Better schools, Kim says, and much easier for Dad to get to work.

“Sebastian Heights is only twenty minutes from town.”

“
If
there's no traffic. And I need to be here. You won't believe what's happened. That crazy shoe video we did got six hundred thousand hits on YouTube!”

“Sloane, that's amazing!”

“I know!” As Mom drinks her tea, I fill her in on the Clear Eye invitation and explain how Fisher is excusing me from class to work on the video. “Can you believe it?
Inviting
me to apply? It's a huge compliment.”

“You're right. It is.”

Mom doesn't seem all that excited. Maybe because she's tired. “Wouldn't it be amazing if I got in?”

She grimaces. “You know how your dad and I feel about this, Sloane. We're not sure film school is the place for you.

Besides, you're only a junior. You have another year of high school, and then college. You need to explore your options.”

I bite my lip. I don't need to explore my options. I know what I want to do with my life, but arguing with Mom, especially when she's tired, won't get me anywhere. “I don't have to enrol right away,” I placate her. “But if my video is good enough and I get a scholarship, Mr. Fisher says they might hold a place for me. It doesn't hurt to try, Mom, but it means extra work. And I can't be out in Sebastian Heights. I need to be in the city to do it.”

“Oh come on, Sloane, there are lots of options for transiting in.”

She's right. I can take BART, the bus, a streetcar even. But it's slower and less convenient than living at home. “I guess, but you know how weird Dad gets about me taking rapid transit at night.”

She nods. “Then he can drive you in. Or Kim can.”

“I'd rather eat spiders than share a car with Kim,” I mutter.

Mom rolls her eyes. “Oh, for heaven's sake. I know you and Kim clash sometimes but she's your father's partner and we need to be tolerant. Besides, it's only a month. Not a life sentence.”

Easy for her to say. She's never lived with Kim. The woman is so critical. And so obsessed with looks. “I need to be closer, Mom.”

Sighing, she puts her tea on the coffee table. “Sloane, this is not negotiable. You're staying with your father. I'm not making alternate arrangements based on an offer I'm not crazy about.”

My stomach sinks. With that attitude, there's no point in asking her to finance a freelance camera operator. Maybe Dad will advance my allowance. And give me a little extra.

“Make the video if you want. But you're staying at your father's. We'll talk more about it Saturday at Ella's birthday breakfast.”

Startled, I jerk upright. Button jumps from my knee in disgust. “At the breakfast?” Mom's not supposed to be going to Ella's birthday celebration. Her and Kim together? Disastrous. “But I didn't think ...” My voice trails away.

Mom pins me with a look. “That I was going?”

I flush. Crap.

“Ella called and invited me.” She shakes her head. “Frankly, Sloane, I'm disappointed that you tried to orchestrate things so I was out of the loop. I expect more from you.”

The heat spreads down my neck. “Sorry.”

“If Ella wants me, I'm happy to go. You should know that.”

“Yeah, I know.” It's true. Mom will do whatever it takes to make my half-sister happy. We all will. “Don't say anything to Dad about me staying there yet okay? Maybe I can stay with someone else for the first month.”

“I've already talked to your father.” Mom unfolds her legs to the floor. “And I'm sure he's already discussed it with Kimberly.”

“This is not a done deal,” I tell Mom. “I'll stay with Lexi the second month and find someone else to stay with the first month. Harper maybe.”

“Ella won't be happy.”

“Ella doesn't need to know.” I stand. “Did you—?”

“Call on the specialist?” Mom interjects.

I nod.

“Not yet.” She stifles a yawn. “I'll call tomorrow. First thing.”

Three

M
om is gone before I get up Friday morning. There's a note by the toaster:
Called in early, short staffed. See you tonight
.

Worried that someone at school will notice my spots, I root around the bathroom for hairspray or gel. All I find is an orange aerosol can of mousse that's about a thousand years old; half the writing has been rubbed off the label. Still, it pumps out a wad of white foam so I work a handful through my hair, ignoring a stab of alarm when a pile of strands comes off in my fingers. It's normal to lose hair after showering.
Normal.
I spend half an hour drying my long hair into place, making sure both spots are covered by the hair around them, and praying the mousse still has some holding power.