Girl on the Verge

by Pintip Dunn

  For a week now, she had been roaming the school during her fourth period study hall. It didn’t take long for her to learn that her teacher took attendance and then dozed off for the rest of class. A bomb could go off in the middle of the room, and he wouldn’t notice. So, Shelly took to slipping to the bathroom a couple minutes after class began—and never returning.

  She liked the locker rooms best. They were devoid of the orange and black decorations that covered every inch of the school’s walls. Besides, the girls’ locker room always had a ton of juicy finds. Why, just the other day, she’d found a key to the school’s concession stand and made a copy for herself. You never knew when such things might come in handy. The boys’ locker room was riskier but had even higher payoffs.

  Such as this morning.

  One of Ethan’s shirts was lying right on the bench. She hadn’t realized he had gym class this period, but she would’ve recognized the shirt anywhere—a tight black knit with silver stripes along the pocket.

  She’d swept the shirt off the bench and brought it to her nose. It smelled just like him, like cinnamon and sweat and . . . just plain Ethan.

  She had to have the shirt. It probably wasn’t smart—just like texting him wasn’t smart. She normally didn’t take anything—the concession stand key, for example, she had copied and put back—because it would just alert people to her presence. But she couldn’t help herself. She’d spent so much of her life yearning. Wanting what all the other girls had. Just once, she wanted a shirt that belonged to a boy. A shirt she could wear over her shoulders. One she could smell at night before she went to sleep.

  If she couldn’t have Ethan himself, the least she deserved was his shirt. Right?

  This would be the first step toward wrenching back control. There would be another, more definitive action.

  But for now, she was pleased with her find. Without another thought, she’d walked out of the boys’ locker room, the black shirt with the silver stripes clutched to her chest.

  Chapter 25

  I don’t see Shelly for the rest of the day or the next morning. Either I’m getting really good at avoiding her—or she’s steering clear of me, too. It’s now Friday, though, which means the weekend is approaching. We’ll have to face each other sometime.

  After the last bell, I hear footsteps flying around the corner. I look up, expecting to see Shelly. Instead, it’s Lanie, who comes to a halt right in front of my locker.

  “How did you get over here so fast?” she pants.

  I’m stuffing pink tulle in my sewing bag, as I’m heading straight to Miss Patsy’s. “What are you talking about? I came from my seventh period class in the next wing, like I always do.”

  “I saw you headed to the basketball stadium,” she says, her face tight. “Sneaking into the concession stand with Walt Peterson, of all people.”

  With an effort, she relaxes her jaw. I can tell she’s trying not to yell or call me a traitor. But the stiffness of her tone says it all.

  “It was someone else,” I say. “I haven’t been near the athletic field the entire day. And Walt Peterson’s the last person I’d go anywhere with.”

  She peers at me from beneath her straight-cut bangs. “You’re right,” she says finally. “I don’t know why I thought it was you. Maybe I’m just tired. Worried about Ash. She’s not eating again. Had two bites of an apple at lunch and said she was full. The last thing she needs is for one of her friends to hook up with the guy who’s made her life hell.”

  I freeze. I didn’t know either of those things: that Ash hasn’t been eating and that Walt’s been harassing her, too. I’ve been hiding out in an empty classroom during lunch all week, catching up on my sewing. The gang would’ve welcomed me back at our regular table, I’m sure. I just didn’t want to risk running into Shelly.

  Damn it. I’m a lousy friend. I was so caught up in my own drama I forgot to think of anyone else.

  I close my locker door, making a mental note to bring Ash some egg rolls tomorrow. Even when she was trying to fit into a homecoming dress two sizes too small, she’s never been able to resist Khun Yai’s egg rolls. “I would never do that.”

  “I know. None of us would. We’re friends till the end.” She gives me a sidelong glance. “Speaking of boys, though, I’ve been hearing rumors about you and a certain ballroom dancer. True or false?”

  I blush. “True.”

  “And his kisses, on a scale of one to ten?”

  I glance around the hallway. Student council members are already beginning to set up for the spring carnival tomorrow, ripping down the streamers and flyers and replacing them with oversized arrows and placards with names of the carnival games.

  Ash, Izzy, Lanie, and I have been rating smooches ever since the sixth grade, when Ash had her first kiss with Tyler Beckham. I’ve contributed three ratings, all derived from parties at someone’s house: Lance, 4 (tongue flicking in and out like a lizard); Austin, 6 (bonus points for enthusiasm, negative points for braces); and Monty, 8 (the first time I understood why someone might actually enjoy kissing).

  I’m probably past the point of sharing—and definitely beyond the point of rating—but what the hell. For old times’ sake, and besides, I’m not actually confiding anything personal. “Eleven,” I whisper.

  She shrieks and spins me around in a little dance. I laugh as we trip over a few of the streamers that have fallen to the floor. And remember exactly why I’ve been friends with these girls for so long.

  After a euphoric minute or two, Lanie runs off to her cheerleading practice, and I continue down the hall and out of the building. The crowd’s thinning now, although a handful of students are rushing about, intent looks on their faces and carnival supplies in their hands. When I walk toward the parking lot, however, Ash herself crosses right in front of me, her head high and her stride long.

  “Hey, Ash,” I say. “You’ll never guess what Lanie said. . . .”

  But she doesn’t slow down, and she doesn’t stop walking. In fact, she keeps going as though she doesn’t see me at all.

  My steps falter, but only for a moment. Did Ash just give me the cold shoulder? Nah. Sure, I haven’t been as present in her life lately, but we did exchange a few texts the other night. She started out depressed about her mom, but pretty soon we were LOLing about celebrity fashion faux pas.

  “Ash, wait!” I call, running after her. She hears me, I know it. But if anything, she starts to walk faster.

  What the hell? Ash wouldn’t run from me. First of all, we’ve been friends too long, the incident with Walt notwithstanding. And second, she’s not six years old.

  I break into a jog and catch up to her. “Hold up, Ash! Why are you in such a hurry?”

  She wheels around, her eyes so hard they could shatter glass. “How could you, Kan? Did you know that asshole’s been telling the whole school that Brad prefers you over me because I’m a terrible lay?”

  My mouth goes dry. “Are you talking about Walt? I haven’t gone near him.”

  “Don’t play dumb with me,” she says fiercely. “I know you were in a lip lock with that disgusting pig. Come on. You’re like a sister to me. How could you betray me like that? It’s just gross.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” I say, my voice faint. A sense of déjà vu floats over me. I’ve had this conversation before, with Ethan, just a few days earlier. Once again, I’m accused of doing something I know nothing about.

  “Don’t.” Her face is a mask of hatred and rage. Even the tears in her eyes seem to freeze. “I saw you, Kan. I. SAW. YOU.”

  Before I can say anything else, she spins on her heel and sprints away.

  “Ash, wait. Wait! I promise I don’t know what you’re talking about. I promise this is all a big misunderstanding. . . .”

  But she’s out of earshot within moments, and a few seconds after that, she ducks behind the annexed buildings and disappears. I could run after her. But then what? Tackle her and sit on her until she hears me out?

  P
eople are beginning to stare. A group of girls from my physics class. The boys’ soccer team. Underclassmen I don’t know.

  I sink onto the sidewalk, my sewing bag spilling tutus and ribbons onto the concrete. What just happened? First Lanie mistook somebody else for me, now Ash. What’s going on? Is my ghostly twin walking around? Do my friends need to get their eyes checked? Or am I blanking out and losing whole swatches of time?

  Despite the sun beating down on my shoulders, I shiver. Rows of ants seem to march up my arms, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. I don’t know how long I sit there, cold and trembling, and then a shadow falls over me.

  I look up. And go perfectly still.

  It’s Shelly. Wearing my electric silver leggings and my plum-colored flannel shirt tied at her waist. A thousand silver bangles clink at her wrists. But that’s not all.

  Her hair has been dyed black. Straight, straight, straight as a board. A waterfall of silk from her scalp to her shoulders.

  Chapter 26

  My heart stops, hanging in the air between beats. Ash and Lanie are right, after all. There really are two of me.

  She has my hair. She’s wearing my clothes. Our builds are similar enough that at a glance, she could be me.

  My jaw drops, but nothing comes out. No words, at least. Nauseated, I slap a hand over my mouth. Is this some kind of sick joke?

  “There you are!” Shelly exclaims, oblivious to my distress. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You would think we didn’t live in the same house. I’ve been dying to show you my new hair.”

  She twirls around, and her hair flies into the air in a slow circle. Just like mine does.

  The acid climbs up my esophagus.

  “Well?” she demands. “What do you think? Khun Yai gave me the name of your salon. Of course, it didn’t take them eight hours to straighten my hair, the way yours did. I guess my chemical bonds just aren’t as stubborn.”

  “You, uh, dyed your hair, too.” I gulp the air.

  She beams. “I’ve always dreamed of having black hair, ever since I was a little girl. So when the stylist suggested it, I thought, why not? I have a new life now. A new family. Might as well have a new look to match.”

  She is so excited, so earnest. It just makes my rage flame higher.

  “Your hair looks just like mine. From the back, we could be twins,” I bite out. I pull my vibrating hands through my hair, wishing I could still the shaking in my heart as easily.

  Her lips tremble. “Are you mad?”

  Yes. I want to rip your goddamn head off. But that’s not going to get me the proof I need to convince Mae to get rid of you.

  I roll my shoulders and try to relax. “It’s not like I own this hairstyle. I’m just . . . surprised, that’s all.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I thought you would be pleased. I admire you so much. You know what they say. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

  Once upon a time, I might’ve fallen for the innocent, injured act. Not anymore.

  And then, I catch a glimpse of her eyes. And what she did to them. Moving closer, I grab her chin and tilt her face toward the sunlight.

  “You have on makeup,” I say flatly.

  “Oh, yes. Didn’t you say I should wear more makeup? I put a bunch of concealer and foundation on my scar. Looks better, don’t you think?”

  It’s less noticeable, at least, although she can’t cover the jagged edges and discoloration altogether. “I never thought your scar looked bad,” I say. “But that’s not what I’m talking about. It’s your eyes. You look . . . Asian.”

  Shelly’s eye makeup is not your typical soft brown applied above the lash. Instead, her eyeliner is dramatic and black, and she’s extended the line past the corners, flipping it at the end to form a perfect cat’s eye. The makeup changes the shape of her eyes. Making them appear tapered at the corners. When they’re not. Making her look Asian. When she’s not.

  The prickles are back full force, and this time, I don’t feel like it’s a line of ants marching up my skin. I feel the entire battalion.

  “Don’t you see, Shelly?” I ask, trying to stay calm, trying to explain it to her. “People are mistaking you for me.”

  “Are they?” She laughs delightedly. “That’s wonderful. That’s the best compliment I’ve ever received.”

  “It’s not wonderful, and it’s not a compliment,” I snap. “Ash is so mad she won’t even talk to me. And why are you making out with Walt Peterson? I thought you couldn’t stand the guy.”

  Her smile turns sly. “I did it for you, Kan.”

  “What are you talking about? What does you kissing Walt have to do with me? He’s been nothing but nasty to me since you kicked him in the jaw.”

  “Exactly.” She lifts her chin. Her tone is cool now. Controlled. “Someone had to teach him a lesson, and since you were too scared, I did it for you.”

  A faint alarm begins ringing inside me. “What did you do, Shelly?”

  She checks her watch and smiles. “It’s just about time.” She inclines her head toward the basketball gymnasium across from the school, the motion long and elegant. “Come along and see for yourself.”

  Reluctantly, I fall into step beside her, and we cross the parking lot to the athletic field. Clumps of students are beginning to cluster in anticipation of the upcoming game. A bus from the opposing school is parked at the lower end of the lot, and the tall, overhead lights have switched on. I accept a pennant from someone dressed as our school’s mascot, a wily orange fox, even though the last thing I feel like is cheering. Each crunch of the gravel seems to settle at the bottom of my stomach.

  Whatever Shelly’s done, it can’t be good.

  “You’d think he’d know not to trust someone like me,” she says conversationally as we pass Lanie and the entire cheerleading squad practicing a pyramid formation on the lawn. “I assaulted him, for god’s sake. What other warning does he need? But boys only think with their dicks. All I had to do was press my breasts against his arm and tell him I wanted to make it up to him, and he would’ve followed me anywhere. When I took him into the concession stand, I flashed him my thong, and he couldn’t take his clothes off fast enough.”

  The ringing inside me turns into a full-fledged siren. I grip Shelly’s arm. “What did you do to him?”

  She shakes off my hand as though it were a stray hair. “Oh, you don’t have to worry, dear Kan. My virtue is perfectly intact. I didn’t have to compromise my morals.”

  She stops in front of the concession stand. Rolling counter shutters seal off the front, and the side door is locked with an enormous padlock. Even as we watch, however, a girl with a ponytail threaded through her visor approaches the stand and wrestles with the lock.

  “Perfect timing,” Shelly murmurs.

  Perfect for what? I don’t have long to wait. The visored girl dispenses with the lock. The door flies open, and a very flustered and very naked Walt Peterson bursts out.

  I gape. His face is red, and his bare, hairy chest and belly jiggle as he turns first left and then right. An empty Twizzlers box is clamped firmly over his private parts.

  He spots us and snarls, advancing a few threatening steps. But a knot of students forms almost instantaneously around us. Excited buzzing fills the air, and cell phone cameras flash on top of one another like lightning in a summer storm.

  Walt freezes. With one last growl in our direction, he turns and takes off toward the parking lot, his butt cheeks winking with every step.

  Laughter ricochets in the air. The cell phones continue to flash, memorializing what will be the most shared photo on social media tonight.

  I stumble away from the concession stand and put my hands on my knees, gasping for air. Shelly follows me, looking smug. Her breathing is hardly ruffled, but no matter. I’m gulping enough air for both of us.

  “Shelly, this is bad,” I wheeze. “Really bad. This isn’t teaching him a lesson. It’s sexual harassment.”

  “It�
��s no worse than what he did to you,” she says, her eyes sparkling with rage or delight. Maybe both. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to get in trouble. No one else knows it was me, and Walt’s certainly not going to admit it.”

  “It’s not just about whether you get in trouble.” I want to shake her to make her understand. “You took his clothes, Shelly. You exposed him to all those cameras. He’ll be completely humiliated, not only by the people here, but everyone online, too. Don’t you see? He won’t be able to live this down. It will stay on the Internet forever.”

  Instead of sobering her, my words make her eyes glow brighter. “Exactly as I said. I did this for you, Kan. All of this—for you.”

  Chapter 27

  Shelly twirled in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom, looking at herself from every angle. Her hair spun out like a veil, as though she were in a shampoo commercial, before it settled back against her cheek, hiding her scar. Never in her life did she think she could look like this. Her hair was no longer stringy and straggly. No longer blond, no longer brown, boring, mousy, and dowdy. No longer the color of straw forgotten in the sun, of dirt on the trampled ground.

  Now, her hair was black. Jet black, so black it punched a hole through the white walls. So dark it sucked everything else into its core. She felt mysterious, wonderful . . . and exotic.

  She knew Kan didn’t like being called exotic. Kan thought this meant she was other; she thought it meant she was different. But that feeling was the luxury of someone who hadn’t been ignored her entire life.

  Kan didn’t know what it was like to be invisible. To be plain, average, and unnoticed. Sure, Kan said she felt ugly as a kid. She felt the boys didn’t even consider her to be a girl. They thought she was an alien from another planet.

  But that was then, and this was now. The second their hormones kicked in, she got plenty of attention. Some of it may have been unwanted, like the boys with their nudie magazine, but in Shelly’s eyes, some attention—any attention—was better than none.