Girl on the Verge

by Pintip Dunn

  So instead of listening to Dr. Som’s words, she stared at the girl. God, Kan was put-together, with her casual but elegant clothes and the confident tilt of her shoulders. Nice, too. She’d been a little stiff when Shelly first entered the room, but as soon as she heard about Sheila Ambrose’s death, her lips softened. She stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on Shelly’s arm and didn’t stare at her scar at all. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah,” Shelly said, struggling to find the right tone, one that was appropriately mournful and not too pathetic. “I’m sorry, too.”

  She stuck her hands in her pockets, stroking the paper she always carried with her. As soft and wrinkled as a used tissue, it was one of the notes she’d received in the sixth grade.

  You would’ve thought she’d been the most popular girl in school, judging from the number of triangular notes tucked into her desk on a daily basis.

  That is, until you opened them.

  The boys were awfully creative, she had to give them that. Each note featured the same stick figure with her bucktoothed grin and the lightning bolt scar on her face. And in each drawing, she was killed in a different way. Blown up by dynamite. Punctured by thousands of rounds from a machine gun. Carved by a knife all over her body, little zigzag scars decorating her arms, legs, and torso. But as varied as the drawings were, the lines written underneath were always the same.

  You’re too ugly to live. Please die now.

  It was the please that killed her. The word that turned the cruel taunt of a bully into a polite request from society. If she died, the school, the town, the world would be better off.

  Please do not trespass. Please refrain from littering. Please die now.

  She never told the teachers about these notes. She never told anyone. She was too ashamed.

  “Come on.” Kan put her arm around Shelly’s shoulders and guided her to the table. “Khun Yai made a special Thai meal for you. It’s kind of an acquired taste, so don’t worry if you don’t like it. We can make you a steak. Or I’ll sneak you a peanut butter chocolate chip granola bar. They’re my favorite. I’ve got a stash in my room.”

  Shelly let herself be led. Why wouldn’t she like it? You could serve her silkworm larvae and she’d happily scarf it down if it had been prepared for her. She didn’t think anyone had cooked a meal especially for her, ever. Certainly not her mother.

  Kan made a big fuss over getting her seated and asking her how she liked her water. She radiated kindness. She was the kind of girl Shelly normally hated because such generosity was never directed at her.

  Until now.

  “Khun Yai doesn’t approve of ice,” Kan whispered. “She thinks it messes with your system. But if you like cold water, the way most people do, I get you some. Khun Yai doesn’t have her glasses on. She’ll never notice.”

  Shelly couldn’t believe she was being asked to express a preference in her drinking water, of all things. It was . . . nice. As though someone actually cared.

  She’d been so alone since Sheila Ambrose had died. When she was a kid, and she could hear moans coming from the room her mother shared with her latest boyfriend, she would wish for aloneness. Her wish had finally come true—but it hadn’t turned out like she had expected.

  This aloneness didn’t silence the screams inside her, the ones caused by a series of floating heads—the sneering sixth-grade boys, her vividly imagined but absentee father, and the man who said it wouldn’t hurt even as he picked up a blade and sliced a lightning bolt into her skin. Why? For no reason other than he was high—both he and her mom, who had lounged on the couch and laughed while her boyfriend mutilated her daughter.

  This aloneness didn’t bring the peace she craved.

  Instead, it was sharp and pointy. It hurt as much as the knife that carved up her cheek. It woke her in the middle of the night and made her wrap her arms around her knees, not only to still their trembling, but also because it was the only time anyone, anywhere, would hug her.

  Kan’s arm around her shoulders might’ve been a reflex. The casualness with which she catered to her might’ve been instinct. But to Shelly, this girl’s behavior was more than simple courtesy.

  It meant hope. It meant everything.

  Chapter 4

  “Can you tell me about your name? Is it . . . a nickname?” Shelly’s tone creeps into the room and looks both ways, as though she expects to be slapped down any moment.

  We’re in my bedroom after dinner, and if it were anyone else, I might bristle. I might wonder what, exactly, was implied. But since it’s Shelly, since she ate every last bite of the nam phrik ka pi, since she holds her shoulders in a way that makes me want to scoop her up and keep her safe, I laugh. “Ugly, isn’t it? No one could pronounce my name, so my dad chopped it off when I started kindergarten, not realizing how weird it sounded. I guess it just kinda stuck.”

  “It’s not ugly at all. I think it’s unique.” She sits on my bed and looks around, her eyes devouring the brightly patterned squares of fabric, my collection of chandelier earrings, the formfitting jeans I pair with blouses of my own design. “What’s your real name?”

  “Kanchana.”

  “So pretty. Just like you.”

  I blink. She thinks I’m pretty? Nobody thinks I’m pretty, except maybe Ash. But she’s my best friend. She has to think that. My other friends’ compliments always come qualified in some way—like Lanie’s comment about my hair.

  “You’re pretty, too,” I say.

  Shelly shakes her head in such a way that the hair falls perfectly over her cheek, hiding her scar. Clearly, she must’ve practiced the movement. “You don’t have to say that. I know it’s not true. I do like pretty things, though.” She reaches out, her hand hovering over a fabric square on which I painted several images of the Eiffel Tower. “Can I touch it?”

  “Of course.” I tie the fabric around her neck, making sure one of the towers is on full display. “Gorgeous.”

  She studies herself in the mirror, her fingers grazing over the fabric as if she can’t believe it’s real. Not once, however, does she look at the reflection of her own face, with the scar on her cheek. Her eyes fix on the scarf, as if that’s the only object worth seeing.

  My heart cracks. Once upon a time, I looked into a mirror that way, too, when a gold necklace was draped around my neck. I’m not sure what Shelly’s story is, other than the tragic death of her mother. But something about this girl makes me want to protect her. To banish whatever demons lurk in her past.

  “You know, I’ve always wanted to go to France,” she murmurs. “Ever since I saw The Phantom of the Opera. It’s my dream that someday, I’ll sit at a little café on the Champs-Élysées.”

  I stare. “That’s my dream, too,” I blurt out. Not a single one of my friends has this same fantasy. They don’t even understand why I have this wish. “I’ll go to Paris Fashion Week, and then I’ll relax at that café and eat a croissant—”

  “And sip espresso from one of those tiny white cups—”

  “And watch the people walk by,” I finish.

  We grin at each other. “You know I don’t even like espresso?” Shelly laughs. “It’s way too bitter. It just sounds so sophisticated.”

  “Me, either! I also don’t like wine, but I’ve heard that in France, wine is cheaper than soda.”

  “Maybe by the time we get there, we’ll have developed a taste for both those things,” she says wistfully.

  “Probably. I mean, look at the way you scarfed down the nam phrik ka pi.” I reach out and pick up her hand, wondering if I should continue. Oh, what the hell. I’ve spent too much of my life keeping my thoughts to myself. Might as well tell them to someone who might actually understand. “I think we’re going to be great friends, Shelly. I’m so sorry for your loss, but I’m happy . . . I’m happy I got to meet you.”

  “I’m so glad,” Shelly says, giving me a beautiful smile. “You don’t know how glad that makes me.”

  * * *

 
But in the morning, I’m not so sure my family shares my feelings. My mom calls the high school in order to register Shelly, but Khun Yai barely says a word to her. She kisses me on the cheek, but when Shelly says hello, she just grunts.

  I almost drop my spoon. My elegant, gracious Khun Yai, grunting at a guest? I thought I’d sooner see elephants fly.

  But when Shelly sits at the table in front of her bowl of rice porridge and runny egg, Khun Yai stands abruptly and leaves the room.

  “What’s wrong with her?” I ask my mom, who has just hung up the phone.

  Mae pinches her nose. I can see the blue veins underneath her skin. “We had an argument. She doesn’t . . . agree . . . with all my decisions.”

  “What decisions?”

  She clamps her mouth shut but darts a look at Shelly, who’s shoveling jok into her mouth as though it’s her last meal. Does that mean she doesn’t want to talk in front of Shelly? Or that the disagreement concerns . . . Shelly herself?

  I tense. What if Khun Yai convinces Mae to kick Shelly out?

  Mae smiles warmly at Shelly. “You’re all set for school. Kan will take you by the front office before first period to pick up your schedule.” She drapes her coat over her arm and drops a kiss on my head. After a moment’s hesitation, she does the same to Shelly. “Bye now. You girls have fun today, okay?”

  “She’s nice,” Shelly says, after we hear the garage door close.

  “My mom? Yeah. Everyone loves her, especially her patients.” I fiddle with my spoon. “Sometimes, though, I wish she’d spend a little less time helping everyone else. And a little more time with me.”

  Holy crap, did I say that out loud? I’ve felt this way for months, maybe even years, but I’ve never told anybody, not even Ash.

  I brace myself for Shelly’s scorn, waiting for her to tell me that at least my mom doesn’t drink or curse or hit. Instead, she just squeezes my hand like she knows exactly what I mean. We exchange a smile, and then she excuses herself to get dressed.

  Five minutes pass. And then ten. At the fifteen-minute mark, I knock on the guest bedroom door and push it open. She’s sitting on the bed, still wearing her nightgown.

  I walk inside. “Shelly, what’s wrong?”

  She bites her lip. “I only have the clothes I came in last night. Your mom put them in the wash, but they’re not dry yet. I checked.”

  Shocked, I stare at her battered suitcase in the corner, the one I thought was going to burst at any moment. “What’s in there, if it’s not clothes?”

  “Oh.” She hops off the bed and lifts the top of the suitcase. I see a bunch of ugly rocks. No, not rocks. Porcelain paperweights shaped like rocks. Painted different colors. Ugly colors. The colors nobody wants. They remind me of the artwork that little kids try to sell at garage sales.

  “They were my mother’s,” she says. “She wasn’t an artist—but she wanted to be. Every weekend, she would lug these damn things to craft fairs all over the state. Every once in a while, she’d actually sell one. Pity buys, probably. I mean, look at them. Would you want one on your desk?”

  There’s no way to be tactful. “Nope.”

  “Exactly.” Her lips curve, even as they tremble. “I thought for sure she’d get better over time. But she never did.” She nods toward the suitcase. “Go ahead. Pick one up. You’ve got to see for yourself how heavy these suckers are.”

  I reach for a paperweight. She’s right. I can’t imagine carrying one of these for more than a few minutes. An entire suitcase of them must be backbreaking. Idly, I run my finger along the edge. It is jagged and decorated with a splash of brilliant red.

  “They held an estate sale of all our stuff and sold everything. If I hadn’t grabbed these paperweights, they would have gone in a Dumpster somewhere.” She moves her shoulders. “Maybe that’s where this junk belongs, but I can’t bear to part with a single piece. It’s been months since she died, and I still think about her every hour. Every minute.”

  Her face crumples, and so does my heart. I step forward and fold her into my arms. She presses her wet eyes into my shoulder, and still, I can’t wrap my mind around how much she must’ve loved her late mother. “Are you saying you packed your mom’s paperweights instead of your personal belongings?”

  She sniffs. “Yeah. I can always buy new clothes. This was my last chance to preserve my memories.”

  “That’s lovely, Shelly.”

  “Yeah, well, a lot of good that sentiment does us now,” she says. “My clothes have to dry for another twenty minutes.”

  “Easy.” I take her hand and lead her across the hall to my bedroom, to my closet. Nothing could feel more natural.

  I gesture to the clothes hanging inside. “Help yourself.”

  Her mouth drops. “Are you sure? But these are yours. They’re part of who you are.”

  If she only knew. They aren’t just part of my identity; they are my identity. The only time I don’t feel pressure to be one thing or another is when I’m making my clothes. It’s the only time I can truly be me.

  And yet, as her face comes alive while she fingers my favorite skirt, I wonder if this must be how it feels to have a sister. Sharing clothes, sharing laughter, sharing lives. This must be how it feels not to have to face the world alone.

  “Sure thing.” I grin. “It’ll be fun to fight over that skirt.”

  Chapter 5

  Later, as we walk into the sprawling brick high school and toward the gymnasium for the pep rally, Shelly sticks to me like chewed-up gum. Her head is bent forward so that her hair hides her scar. I don’t blame her. I’ve never been the New Girl, but I’ve always been the Foreign Girl. I know how it feels to be looked at and scrutinized.

  “I love your shirt.” She eyes my wrap-around blouse. “You look so tall and elegant. I wish I could pull something like that off. It might make it easier to walk into a new school.”

  “Of course you could pull it off. You just have to be confident,” I say, taking a line from Ash. She tells me this at least once a week.

  Shelly looks at me doubtfully. She’s borrowed a pair of my old, baggy jeans and one of my ratty athletic T-shirts. I urged her to choose something nicer—the shirt has holes along the collar, for god’s sake—but she refused. I thought it was because she didn’t want to take advantage of my hospitality, but now, I wonder if the stylish clothes themselves make her uncomfortable.

  I give her a reassuring smile. I know it’s not easy. I know she’s self-conscious about her scar, which isn’t nearly as big or hideous as she thinks. But she’s not alone. She has me, and I can’t wait to introduce her to all my friends—and anyone else we come across.

  Especially Ethan Thorne. This might be the perfect excuse to talk to him.

  Surreptitiously, I scan the hallways, looking for his signature black shirt, the one with the silver stripes along the pocket. He must have half a dozen of the same shirt, as his physics partner gleefully reported to the rest of us after she snuck a look in his closet.

  And then, I remember Ethan wouldn’t be in the halls, since the pep rally is featuring a special performance by the college ballroom dance team.

  We enter the gym, and I scan the bleachers, looking for my friends. Lanie pops up, waving her hands like she’s signaling the Coast Guard. “Kan! Over here! We saved you a seat.”

  Shelly and I make our way up the bleachers, passing a group of guys, mostly from the basketball team. They’re huddled over a magazine.

  It’s got to be one of those men’s magazines, judging from the way they’re snickering, making obscene gestures . . . and sneaking peeks at me.

  Heat rushes to my face. What? Why are they looking at me? Unless they’re not. Unless I’m just being overly sensitive again. Yeah, that must be it. I’m the last person you would associate with those kinds of pictures.

  But then, Walt Peterson jumps out of the group and makes a jerking motion with his hand. He’s not directly in our path, but his eyes track us as we walk by.

  Gross.
I grip the straps of my backpack tighter and walk faster. Clearly, their behavior has nothing to do with us, but I don’t want this to be Shelly’s first impression of Foxville High.

  “Let’s pretend we didn’t see that, okay?” I mutter to her. “Oh, look! Here are my friends now.” We join Izzy, Lanie, and Ash. “Hey, gang, I want you to meet Shelly. She’s going to be staying with us for a while.”

  They give her warm smiles and say enthusiastic hellos. I’m not surprised. They’ve practically appointed themselves the unofficial welcoming committee at Foxville High. When Melissa Finch moved here last spring, they walked her to class with such regularity, I was afraid she was going to put in a restraining order.

  A piercing whistle shatters the air, and the girls around us start clapping and whooping. Startled, I glance around and realize that Ethan and the rest of the ballroom team have just descended upon the gym floor.

  Mesmerized, I stare. Man, they’re good. The girls’ costumes are sequined and skimpy. The boys’ outfits are less showy, but each flash of their muscular arms more than makes up for the lack of sparkle. The dozen or so couples move together, fluidly and perfectly in sync. It’s better than So You Think You Can Dance. I don’t think there’s a single one of my friends who doesn’t wish she could be down there right now, moving in the arms of a sexy dance partner.

  Such as Ethan.

  His movements are as fluid as water, and his hips rotate in ways I didn’t know hips could rotate. He’s wearing a tight black shirt, a shinier version of his regular uniform, and his small, secret smile feels like it’s directed right at me.

  The show is over way too soon, and at least half of the audience are on their feet, stomping and clapping. Ethan blows kisses up to the stands and runs off the dance floor.

  Around us, the crowd begins to dissipate, but my friends linger. Izzy fixes her lip gloss, Lanie frantically flips through her chemistry notes, and Ash is talking to Shelly, a crease between her brows. Weird. Ash only gets that crease when she’s concerned about something.