Scars Like Wings

by Erin Stewart

  Under the gap of the stall door, I see Piper flop to the floor, rubbing her thigh like she’s kneading sore muscles.

  “Does it hurt?” I say.

  “I’m fine.”

  The bell rings, eliciting a sneaker squeak from the hall as kids hurry to class. Then it’s quiet. A sink drips deafeningly loud in the space between us. What would Dr. Layne do right now? What would Cora do?

  Then it hits me: What would Piper do?

  “ ‘She’s a phoenix in a flame,’ ” I say in half speech, half song.

  “Don’t you dare use my Fire Mix against me,” Piper growls through the door.

  I sing a little louder, pretending I don’t hear her.

  “ ‘A hellfire raging from within—’ ”

  Piper groans.

  “We are way beyond cheesy fire songs. So. Just. Stop.”

  I stand in the corner, my head titled back so my voice echoes through the bathroom.

  “ ‘Her story written on her skin.’ ”

  Piper pounds on the stall wall, shaking the whole row.

  “Stop singing! Stop pretending like everything is okay. Nothing is okay!”

  My voice smashes out of me. “ ‘Once broken, now she flies.’ ”

  While I sing, she screams.

  And screams.

  And when the scream runs out of air, she screams some more.

  “They hate you! They won’t even touch you! You’re a joke. We both are.”

  “ ‘Soaring—’ ”

  “Freddy Krueger!” Piper shrieks. “Roadkill!”

  “ ‘—above everything.’ ”

  I’m scream-singing now, too. My voice barrels into the space between us.

  “ ‘She conquered her demons’ ”—hot waves of silence billow from the stall as my voice bounces off the tiles—“ ‘and wore her scars like wings.’ ”

  I sing the oh-oh-ohhhs, and when I hit my last oh, a broken whisper—almost inaudible—comes from behind the door.

  “Your best friend tried to kill herself.”

  I lean my hand against the door, Piper’s words echoing louder than my song.

  “I know.”

  Piper’s voice almost isn’t there. “Don’t you get it? It’s never going to be okay.”

  “I never said it’s going to be okay. I said I’m not leaving.”

  Piper’s legs stretch into the next stall, reminding me of how I hid backstage on my first day, terrified of being seen. I half laugh despite myself.

  “Three months ago, I actually broke my skin trying so hard to fade away behind a curtain,” I say. “Because I thought I deserved to be alone. That no one could look at me, let alone love me. Then a girl with hot-pink appendages and seriously questionable taste in wigs showed up.”

  I try to turn the lock from the outside. I can’t.

  “Let me in, Piper. I needed that girl. I still need her. I’m not leaving here without her.”

  Piper doesn’t say anything, so I clear my throat and begin to sing another fire song even louder. “ ‘This girl is on fi—’ ”

  The door swings open.

  “You win! Just shut up!”

  On the floor, Piper leans back with a huff.

  “You’re the worst,” she says without looking at me.

  I sit next to her and shove her softly.

  “You love me.”

  Piper rests her head on the wall. A tear streaks from the corner of her eye, down her face, dissolving into the scars on her neck.

  “I didn’t want to die, you know,” she says. “Not really. I just didn’t want to live anymore.”

  More tears fill Piper’s heavy eyes, like she’s holding them in by sheer will.

  “I thought if I could just walk, things would be magically better. But I was still me. Still this.” She gestures to the burns visible on her legs behind her plastic braces. “And I was so tired of pretending to be stronger than I feel.”

  “Then don’t,” I say. “Not with me.”

  I put my arm around Piper and she folds into me, her scars against my second skin. Leaning on me, she deflates, letting out an echoing sob that reverberates in the small stall.

  I hold her shaking shoulders on that tiled bathroom floor as we both stop fighting the tears.

  After a few minutes, she sits up and wipes her eyes with her sleeve. I pull up my pant leg and unzip the bottom of my compression garments to reveal the bright-winged phoenix on my ankle. Piper sniffles and touches my skin.

  “Ms. I’m-Never-Intentionally-Scarring-My-Body got a tattoo? I don’t believe it.”

  “I don’t mind this scar,” I say. “It reminds me that you’re a part of me, now. That we’re stronger together.”

  I pull toilet paper out of the dispenser and hand a wad to Piper so she can blot the tears on her face.

  “Dr. Layne has me doing one-on-ones twice a week now,” she says. “I’ve graduated to big-girl therapy.”

  “Good.”

  She reaches out to wipe a tear dangling from my chin.

  “Are you sure you want to be part of this?” she says. “It’s not going to be pretty.”

  I point to my face.

  “Hello? That happens to be my expertise.”

  Piper laughs weakly. She blows her nose in the paper and then puts both hands in the air, shooting the wad into the small trash can on the wall. “So what do we do now?”

  “Well, for starters, we get out of the bathroom before people start to wonder about our digestive health.”

  Piper shakes her head.

  “Too late. I’m already the butt of every joke out there.”

  I stand and offer her my hand.

  “I’m kind of over what they think. Besides, we’ll go together. My best friend told me no one can face high school alone.”

  “She sounds smart.” Piper lets me help her to her feet, leaning on the wall and me for balance. “And hot.”

  “And outrageously humble.” I hook my arm through hers. “We can handle it. High school is no match for two bona fide phoenixes. Phoenexii?”

  “Phoenixens.”

  I push her walker contraption to her, and she struggles to make her legs line up beneath her. When she finally straightens out, she pumps one fist in the air.

  “I’m an inspiration!”

  “And unbelievably brave!” I say.

  “A living, breathing miracle,” Piper says, half laughing now.

  “The luckiest survivor that ever chuckled in the face of death.”

  Piper steadies herself on the walker, wincing as she pulls her feet up to it like she’s moving through wet concrete. She breathes heavily, and reaches out for my hand again.

  “I’m scared,” she whispers.

  I steady her with my arm around her waist. “Me too.”

  I open the door, and we walk out.

  Together.

  50

  That night, I stuff myself into my monstrosity of a Glinda dress while Cora reaches DEFCON 1 panic status.

  Glenn and I stay clear while she whirls around the house, making sure she has not only her phone but also her big-lens-for-momentous-occasions camera, her power cord, and a backup battery just in case there’s a citywide power outage during which she—and she alone—can memorialize the splendor of my high school musical.

  She used to do the same thing for Sara’s ballets, her purse bulging like she just robbed an audiovisual store. Glenn stands by the door per Cora’s strict instructions that we absolutely cannot be late. He holds the camera bag, trapped on the welcome mat with his boots while Cora zips my dress.

  “Been a long time since I helped a girl get gussied up for the stage,” she says, not even bothering to wipe away the tear that smudges her mascara.

 
“I look like a Pepto-Bismol commercial,” I say.

  “You look like your mother,” Glenn says.

  I smooth out the pink satin ruffles of my dress. They bounce back defiantly.

  “Yeah, right.”

  He steps off the mat, closing the space between us with two long strides.

  “You do,” he says. “The way she used to light up before your plays. Her eyes came alive watching you on the stage. Tonight, you have that same look—you look just like her.”

  Cora hugs Glenn and he puts his arm around me and we lean on each other, a trio of broken hearts huddled tight together—cowboy boots on the carpet and all.

  * * *

  In the packed auditorium, Cora and Glenn manage to snag a few seats halfway up on the left side unclaimed by jackets and purses. Cora reminds me to look for her and smile when I get onstage. She pats her bag, as if I could forget that she is armed with a plethora of memory-making devices.

  I scan the rows for Piper.

  “Save a seat for her,” I tell Cora, who obediently slings her camera bag onto an empty chair.

  “Are you sure she’s coming?”

  I nod despite the sinking feeling in my stomach. Today was rough, but she has to come. I need her.

  “Ava!”

  Sage squeals and waves from the stage, grinning from ear to ear, dressed in Kenzie’s Dorothy costume down to her ruby-red slippers.

  “So you really did it?” I say as she runs down the aisle toward me. “You poisoned Kenzie in the greatest understudy long game of all time.”

  Sage laughs loudly and hugs me.

  “Better!” she says, looking over her shoulder to where Kenzie, costume-free in jeans and a T-shirt, walks down the aisle. “After what happened with Piper today, Kenzie told Tony she was the one who sent that picture of you. They met with Mr. D and decided Kenzie shouldn’t be in the play this year.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Kenzie shakes her head when she gets to us. “Nope.”

  “But you’re the lead.”

  Kenzie shrugs. “We both know I don’t deserve it. I was just so mad. You’d taken my place with Piper and then came into drama and—” She stops, breathing heavily. “It doesn’t matter. I should never have sent that picture. I should have been there for you like I should have been there for Piper. The way you were today. You were so inspir—”

  I hold my hands out.

  “I gotta stop you right there. Being burned doesn’t make me an inspiration.”

  “I meant the way you stood by Piper. I knew I had to make things right, too,” she says.

  Part of me wants to tell her it’s far too late and much too little, but Kenzie’s face, a softened version of the one who exposed me backstage months ago, stops me. After all, who am I to begrudge second chances?

  I shake my head and tell her the past is the past. “You’re here now.”

  Kenzie tells me I’m going to do great before she walks away, Sage at her side practically skipping the whole way.

  Before I go backstage, Cora takes roughly twenty pictures in a row until my cheeks hurt from smiling. She pauses and reaches out like she’s about to adjust my wig but seems to change her mind.

  “It’s perfect,” she says, and then hugs me so tight it almost hurts, but in a good way. Tony taps me on the shoulder, half bowing to Cora and Glenn, clearly trying not to have an opening-night coronary.

  “I know she’s your daughter, but tonight, she’s my Glinda, and I need her backstage prontissimo.”

  “Oh, no, these aren’t my—” I start to correct him, but stop midsentence. Cora’s camera is poised in midair with Glenn’s arm around her. “These are my people.”

  Before I go, I remind Cora to save Piper’s seat.

  “She’ll be here,” I say, more to myself than anyone.

  Complete mayhem reigns backstage. A half-dressed Tin Man barrels past me, yelling about face makeup. The Wicked Witch can’t find her broom, and Toto, our live prop, has run off after relieving himself on the Scarecrow.

  From behind the curtains, I peek out, my heart racing at the sight of the jam-packed theater. I run my fingers over the soft satin of my dress again, and then run them across the bumps of my face.

  Asad finds me there, gripping the black curtain.

  “Earth to Ava.” He waves his hand between my eyes and the audience. “You okay? You’ve got that ‘help, I’m drowning’ look going on.”

  His voice brings me slightly back into orbit. He’s black-clad from head to toe, including a black headset that screams CIA agent or employee of the month at the Gap. He holds a box with a big pink bow.

  “I’m kind of freaking out,” I say.

  “Well, this probably won’t help, but a certain tattoo artist with an atrocity of a man bun is here.”

  “He came?” I search the crowd. Cora spots me and holds up her camera, pointing to her smile. Piper’s seat sits vacant beside her. From the back row, Gabriel gives a half-wave.

  “Why, Ava Lee. You surprising little minx,” Asad says. “You totally invited him.”

  “What?” I try to say it nonchalantly despite Asad’s suggestive grin. “He was nice. He likes theater.”

  “Right.” Asad draws out the vowel until my cheeks get hot and my nerves go haywire again. I take another glance toward the room full of people. Am I really doing this?

  “Tell me the truth: This is crazy, right? Getting up on this stage, playing the part of a beautiful fairy.”

  Asad lifts the headset off his ear and pushes it back on his head, but I hear the person on the other end going off about a burned-out light bulb backstage.

  “Life is not a musical, Ava, but it is your life. No one can cast you in a role unless you let them.” He catches my eyes with his. “So what part do you want to play?”

  In the audience, Cora chatters to Glenn as she rechecks all her camera equipment.

  “It’s not like I can back out now. Cora is so excited. And Tony has worked—”

  Asad snaps the curtain shut.

  “Forget them. What do you want?”

  His eyes reflect me as I consider this question. In his black irises, I see the shape of me—not the scars—just me. What do I want? And even though part of me wants to run from this, the real answer bubbles up in me strong and sure.

  “I want to sing.”

  Asad adjusts his headpiece back in place.

  “So what are we still talking about?” Then, like he’s just remembered he’s holding it, he holds up the box in his hand. “I almost forgot, this is from Piper.”

  I tug the pink ribbon to release the lid, and pull a light brown wig from the bottom of the box. Underneath, a note:

  This one seems a little more you. Break a leg tonight. (Not a spine.)

  “She was here?” I ask. “Is she coming back?”

  He shrugs. “Dropped it off earlier on her way to get her head shrunk. Her words, not mine.” The earpiece voice rises as Asad puts the set back on his ear. He points two fingers to his eyes, and then turns his fingertips toward me. “Remember, it’s just you on the stage and me in the booth, making lighting magic. Forget all these other people.”

  In the mirror backstage, I swap out my pink hair for the new wig. The strands are almost the color mine used to be, coming to a slight curl right above my star scar. In the glass, a girl with a bulbous nose, no ear and countless scars, but her eyes are a familiar blue.

  As the houselights start to dim, I peek out one more time, trying to memorize where Cora and Glenn are in the cavernous space.

  The last thing I see before the lights go out is the empty chair beside them.

  * * *

  Before I know it, Tony is telling me to get on my mark. Through the crack in the curtain, I see only the faces of the first few rows, then head-shaped silhouett
es back to the wall. I can’t see Cora and Glenn in the darkness, but I imagine them like I used to picture Mom and Dad, their unseen strength helping me face the crowd.

  “Glinda, go!” a crew member shout-whispers to me.

  As I step onto the stage, Asad’s massive spotlight finds me, and when it does, an instant gasp surges through the audience.

  And then, silence.

  Standing in the beam of light, I feel every eye on me, the light revealing every inch, every burn, every scar.

  My neck itches white-hot as I eke out a single, shaky note. But fear chokes off my voice. I look to the right, trying to find where Cora and Glenn should be. And Piper.

  A whispering from the darkness crescendos. I close my eyes, trying to shut out the people, the eyes. I try to envision my parents and Sara, lifting me up from the darkness. But fear flicks my eyelids back open.

  I seriously consider darting offstage, when suddenly, like someone flipped a switch, the spotlight goes out.

  Black.

  Through the darkness, all I can see is Asad, backlit by a flickering fluorescent ceiling light in his booth, giving me a thumbs-up.

  He’s taken away the crowd.

  Just me and him.

  And then, to the right, a single, small beam of light pierces the darkness. A voice splits the air.

  “Keep flying, Ava!”

  Piper.

  I turn toward the light that looks like a cell phone. Two other lights flick on beside her, and I imagine Glenn and Cora holding their phones high in the air. Bright stars cutting through the darkness.

  Pinpricks tingle my skin. Air fills my lungs.

  A new strength courses through my body, which as sure as I’m alive is part of who I am.

  But as I cling to those three stars, I am more than my body.

  More than my scars.

  One by one, more lights blink on, like a smartphone Milky Way punching through the black, reaching the part of me the fire couldn’t touch.

  I breathe deep.

  My voice finds the words.

  Through the darkness, buoyed by the glow of countless tiny lights, I sing.

  Acknowledgments