The Art of Getting Stared At (5 page)

“Hey, Sloane,” Mr. Fisher says when I walk into his classroom well before our eight o'clock meeting. He's clearly just arrived. “You're early.” He stashes his blue cycling helmet under his desk and shrugs out of his windbreaker.

“I need to talk to you about Isaac.”

He drinks from his stainless steel water bottle. “Sure, what's up?”

I take a breath. “I worked with Isaac last year for a socials project and, well ... I'd rather have someone who knows film. Who knows how to work a camera.”

Mr. Fisher puts his water bottle down. “Isaac did an extensive project for Urban Planning last year. He used a camera for that.”

Isaac took Urban Planning? I'm surprised. That class is restricted to academic students with a high GPA. I never pegged him for that type.

“Was there a problem in social studies?” His gaze is shrewd, a little too piercing. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

I flush. He thinks Isaac put a move on me. Or worse. “No, nothing like that. He was—” I hesitate.
An outrageous flirt who made me laugh. A flirt who took my number and promised to meet for coffee, but never showed up.
“He was fine, but I want to hire a freelance camera operator. This is a huge opportunity. The video is important. I want to make sure it's done right.”

“I'm afraid that's not allowed.”

My heart skips a beat. “What do you mean?”

“The demo tapes must be done by amateurs who are still in school. Hiring a crew or even a camera operator would automatically disqualify you.”

My shoulders slump. I hadn't realized.

“However, after you left yesterday, Breanne came in and said she'd changed her mind. She'd be happy to work with you and Isaac on a second video.”

Of course. Isaac being the operative word.

“She isn't interested in the scholarship,” Fisher adds. “She was clear on that. She said she wanted to help you out.”

Right. Like she “helped out” with Matt. “Having another person would be great but, to be honest, Breanne and I had issues on the shoe video”—
understatement of the millennium
—“and working with her is not my first choice.” I must sound like a bitch—first Isaac and now Breanne—but there are limits. I can't let Breanne hijack another video. This is too big an opportunity to blow.

Fisher frowns. “You can't do this alone. Not with the time constraints.”

“I'll work with Isaac then.”

“Good!” His frown dissolves. “And I'd urge you to reconsider Breanne's offer. If you do accept, I'll excuse her from class as well.”

I thank him, and then explain how I'd like to do the second video on Jade. “She's an amazing kid. A lot of them are, you know? They seem to take their illnesses in stride. Especially Jade. She's always laughing.”

“Who's always laughing?” says a familiar voice from the doorway.

Isaac? I look at the clock. Five minutes early? What's up with that?

He pulls up a chair as Fisher fills him in. His dreads are damp from the shower; he smells of fresh air and citrus. A small silver earring flashes in the sun when he turns his head. Suddenly self-conscious, I fiddle with my hair, making sure the spot facing him is covered.

“I remember you talking about her last spring,” Isaac says. “When you started the gig at the hospital.”

My breath hitches. He remembers?

“She sounds cool,” he adds.

I find myself softening, falling under the Isaac spell. “She is.”

Mr. Fisher brings me back to earth. “A topic like that demands time, Sloane. You'd need to show progression. Jade getting and dealing with treatment. You'd need to show some kind of outcome.”

“I could leave the ending nebulous.”

“You could.” He tents his fingers together. “But it wouldn't have the impact of something more specific. As I said yesterday, Clear Eye is moving to lighter topics. You may want to consider that.”

Isaac shifts, sending his long legs sprawling across the floor with an easy grace. “What about laughter itself?”

“Laughter?”

“Jade is always laughing, right?”

I nod.

“And you want to film her.” It's not a question; he knows.

I nod again.

“So we could do it on laughter and incorporate Jade and the other kids into it.”

It might work. As if to underscore Isaac's suggestion, a burst of laughter erupts in the hall; someone slams a locker. The school is starting to fill up.

“Laughter as a topic has a lot of scope,” Fisher says. “You could look at it from a physiological and psychological perspective.” I'm not surprised Fisher has made that leap; he teaches psychology. “You could also explore funny movie outtakes or whatever else you decide on.”

Isaac snaps his fingers. “We could tape people laughing at the monkeys at the zoo. A laughter yoga class.”

Laughter yoga? Monkeys at the zoo? I'm not feeling it. But laughter as part of human behaviour has potential. “Where would Jade fit in?”

“Laughter as part of the healing process,” Isaac says. “Because that's what it's all about for Jade, right? Healing?”

Is he feeding me a line? Saying what he thinks I want to hear? But sincerity shines from his face. I can't help myself. I am charmed. “That's right.”

Fisher pushes away from his desk, a spiral-bound daybook in his hand. “I need to see the secretary about a scheduling issue. You two work out the details. We'll talk more on Monday.”

I stand; Isaac does too. As we walk into the hall, I'm suddenly tongue-tied. Part of me is already preoccupied with the subject of laughter and what I might do with it, but mostly I'm consumed by the zap of electricity that races up my arm when Isaac accidentally brushes my elbow.

“We should get together this weekend,” he says.

It's a logical suggestion. Yet for some stupid reason, his comment makes me think “date” and that makes my nerves jangle. Besides, he did this to me last year, suggesting more than once we get together outside of school but he never followed through. “It's kind of a busy weekend. It's my half-sister's birthday.” I babble like a freakish fool and he just listens, smiling his crazy half smile and making me feel even more awkward and dumb.

“How 'bout at night? I'm DJing at The Ledge. Come down and we can talk on the break.”

I shrug. As night spots go, The Ledge has a great reputation, but I'm not crazy about clubs. Too much noise. Too many distractions. “I'll see. Maybe.”

“I'll leave you a couple of tickets at the door.”

Half a dozen members of the Bathroom Brigade turn the corner towards us. When they spot Isaac, they all slow. In sequence. Like they've rehearsed. It's a perfect movie shot; all that's missing is the music. One straightens her sweater; another smoothes her hair. Collectively, they smile at Isaac. He smiles back. “Hey.”

In terms of being attractive, I'm about average, right down the middle. It's not a bad place to be. People form opinions of me for things that matter, like how I behave or what I say—I glance at a girl flaunting her summer boob job in a low-cut pink tank—not for how I look.

“You can always call my cell,” Isaac says after they pass.

I pull my gaze back to him. “Pardon?”

“My cell. If you can't make it to The Ledge, call me. My number hasn't changed from last year.”

How does he know I kept it?

Behind me, a familiar voice calls out. “Isaac!” My guts turn to cement.
Oh crap. Breanne.

“I'm glad I caught you,” she says. I may as well be invisible; she doesn't even look at me. Instead she stares at Isaac like he's some kind of god. “I heard about the video we're working on.” She touches his arm. Her black and grey nails look like bugs. “I can't wait to get started.”

Isaac shoots me a look. “We're working in a group?”

“No.” I stare at Breanne until she has no choice but to acknowledge me. Her lips are frozen in a fake smile. She is so much like Kim, pretending to like me when I know she doesn't. I cannot believe Matt dumped me for someone this shallow. “Isaac and I are working alone. Not in a group.”

She drops her hand from Isaac's arm. “But—”

“I just talked to Fisher. We're clear on that.” Breanne can play games and so can I. Impulsively I step closer to Isaac and lower my voice enough to imply intimacy. “I'll call you this weekend.”

Isaac says something as I spin on my heel but it doesn't register. I'm too busy gloating at the look of fury on Breanne's face.

I wake up Saturday morning tired from a brutal nightmare.

I was on a plane with Ella. We were flying to Sudan and Dad was piloting. Mom and Kim were flight attendants. Isaac was there and so was Breanne. Then Breanne yanked Isaac's dreads out and they floated through the plane like chunks of brown twine. Ella screamed and screamed and I tried to hide her eyes, but then Ella turned into Jade who laughed and laughed. Until the tiger came and lunged at both of us. That's when I woke up.

I hadn't fallen back to sleep until almost dawn.

Eventually, I stumble out of bed and head for the shower, a small knot of unease lodged behind my breastbone. I'm worried about Ella's birthday breakfast. About my hair. About Breanne. The video.

The hot water is soothing as it sluices down my back. I lather and rinse, letting the heat and steam and smell of lavender soap erase my nighttime fears. When it's time to do my hair, I use Mom's shampoo, pouring a dime-sized circle of the clear gold liquid into my palm. I work it in gently before
rinsing and applying conditioner. But when I wash out the conditioner, I'm left with
a lot
of hair in my hand.

A tangle of the stuff. I stare at it. More of a clump than yesterday.

I lean against the cold tiles and try to make sense of things. But I can't. I can hardly breathe, never mind think. After a minute, I slip into autopilot: stand up, rinse, dry off.

I dress quickly, wrap my hair in a towel, and hurry to the bedroom. Kicking my door shut, I race to the vanity, sit down, and stare at myself in the mirror. Fear twists my stomach. I want to take the towel off but I'm scared to. Something tells me this won't be good.

Holding my breath, I pull the towel from my head. I lean into the mirror. My hair looks like it did yesterday. Exactly. I start to breathe again. “The average person loses about a hundred hairs a day,” I say out loud.

It's something like that, I know it is. But then I wonder,
How many were in that clump?
It's in the bathroom trash. I could go back and dig it out. I could count.

Don't be stupid. Don't pull a Lexi.

Gently, I finger comb my hair into place, taking special care on the right to arrange more strands than usual over the bald spot. Then I start on the left side.

And freeze.

The spot feels bigger. A
lot
bigger.

I twist sideways to see my reflection. “Oh my God.” The knot of unease behind my breastbone morphs into flat-out panic. The spot is twice as big as it was yesterday. As noticeable as the spot on the right. Maybe even more.

I fly down the hall and burst into Mom's room. She's
tucked and rolled into her blankets like a human sausage. “Mom!” I shake her shoulder. “Wake up!”

She bolts to a sitting position; the covers go flying. “What?” Her eyes are wide with terror. “What's wrong?”

“The other spot. It's way bigger. Probably bigger than the first one. And a pile of hair came out when I showered. I'm guessing a hundred hairs at least and I'm pretty sure that's what you're supposed to lose in an entire day, only I lost that much in
one shower.
It's in the trash if you want to see it and—”

“Slow down, babe, slow down.” Mom wiggles onto her elbows. She's wearing a psychedelic orange and green Grateful Dead T-shirt. The left side of her face has a creasedroad-map-going-nowhere look. “Now give this to me again.”

I sink onto the edge of her bed and repeat myself, ending with, “You have to call somebody else. Today.” Mom called three specialists yesterday. Two were booked solid for three months; the third hasn't called back.

She glances at the clock on her nightstand. “It's not even eight o'clock, Sloane. And it's Saturday. I doubt if I'll be able to find a specialist on the weekend.”

Sweat blooms on my palms. I wipe them on my pants. “You have to find somebody. You leave in a week!”

“I will, darling, I will. Right after we see Ella.”

I freeze. Ella's birthday breakfast. “I can't go out like
this
.” My vision blurs; I'm about to lose it. “I can't let anybody see me.” I can't let
Kim
see me. She thinks the entire world and all the people in it should be as perfect as a magazine spread.

“You have to go.” Mom tosses back the covers and reaches for her robe. “Nobody will see. Not if you wear a hat.”