Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred

by Melody Carlson

  To make matters worse, when I come back to earth and look down at my own table and artwork, I notice that my left thumbhole has come loose and my ugly wrist with red welts and nasty scars is in full view for all to see. I tug the sleeve back down, glancing around to make sure that no one has witnessed this. But my heart is racing with fear, and I realize that my fleeting fantasy of getting involved with someone like Glen Collins was nothing more than that-a fantasy. Well, that mixed up with a bit of temporary insanity What was I thinking?

  four

  MY LAST CLASS IS OVER, AND I HURRY BACK TO THE ART ROOM TO WORK ON matting my art. I'm not sure whether I expect Glen to be there or not. But I'm telling myself I don't care. Why should I care? I mean why would someone like Glen be interested in someone like mesomeone whose life is so messed up that she mutilates herself? What do I think-that Glen can't wait to go out with a girl whose arms resemble Frankenstein's?

  I mean, summer is here. How can I go around hiding my arms when all my friends are wearing tank tops, sundresses, swimsuits? What kind of freak goes around wearing long-sleeved shirts yearround?

  "Hey, Ruth," calls a voice from behind me.

  "Glen." I try to be casual, as if I wasn't just obsessing over the fact that I don't have a chance with this guy. "How's it going?"

  "Okay"

  "I mean, are you feeling a little more at home here?"

  "I guess it's going okay," he tells me as we go into the art room. "I'm actually kind of looking forward to this art fair."

  "I'll bet you are," I say in a teasing voice. "I can hardly wait to see what's in that portfolio. I'll bet you're going to win all the awards."

  "Oh, I doubt it." Then he pauses and looks at me. "Are you worried, Ruth? I mean I realize you're probably one of the most talented artists at Sumner. You don't think I'm competition, do you?"

  Now I'm fairly embarrassed. Does this guy read minds or what? "I don't know." Then I figure, why not just be honest? "Okay, I guess I'm a little concerned. I mean, you show up here out of nowhere and I've seen the drawing you're working on. It's really good, Glen. I wouldn't be surprised if you totally clean up at the art fair. And, hey, you've got every right to-"

  "Don't be so sure, Ruth. I've seen your work too, and I'm totally impressed. I think you're way more talented than I -"

  "Okay, okay. . . " I hold up my hands as in surrender. "Maybe we should just get this over with. I want to see what's in that portfolio and I want to see it now."

  Glen just laughs then takes me by the shoulders (thankfully not the arms) and gently pushes me to the back of the room. "Okay, Ruth. You asked for it." He plants me in front of a table then goes to get his stuff.

  I feel slightly breathless as I wait for him to open his portfolio, but I can't say whether that's due to anticipation or how good it felt when he touched me on the shoulders just now. But I stand in silence, imagining a drumroll, as he pulls out one piece after the next. And, here's what's weird, his art reminds me an awful lot of my own.

  "Wow," I finally say, then sigh deeply.

  "Relieved?"

  "No, no ... that's not it. I still think you're good. Really good."

  "What then?"

  "Well ... " I look up at his face, wondering if he has noticed what I'm noticing. "Have you seen very many of my pieces yet?"

  "Just a few. Like the one you're working on, the two on the wall. I know Mr. Pollinni thinks you're pretty hot stuff."

  I kind of smile. "Well, let me show you some more."

  I go to my locker and remove my own portfolio. I lay it on a nearby table and slowly open it. Now I have to admit that I never enjoy showing my work to anyone besides Mr. Pollinni, and sometimes Abby. Most people don't totally get it. And some people, like my dad, think it's depressing. But art's just like that for me. It's like it mirrors my life. If people can't respect that, then how can they respect me?

  I start removing the pieces, laying them off to the side, pausing for a few seconds, then removing another and laying it on top of the last one. On I go, waiting for Glen to say somethinganything-but he is just staring. Finally I lay the last piece on top. It's one of the last charcoals I did before I started cutting and found my long sleeves made things messy because they smeared the charcoal. The drawing is of a twisted old oak tree that's been hit by lightning and is still smoldering.

  "Very cool," says Glen in a voice that sounds almost reverent.

  "Seriously?"

  He nods. "It feels very familiar, Ruth."

  I look into his eyes. "I know."

  "They say a picture's worth a thousand words," he says. "But I think we need to talk."

  So we work together, picking out mat-board colors, cutting mats, helping each other to make our work look as good as possible, talking the whole while. Talking and talking and talking. And I am amazed by what we have in common. Mostly in the area of clads, although to my amazement, his dad sounds way worse.

  "My mom finally got a restraining order on my dad," he tells me as he holds up a matted piece for my approval.

  I nod. "That's perfect."

  "But he still kept coming around. Finally my mom was really scared. She thought he might kill her before the police took the whole thing seriously"

  "That's so wrong."

  "I know. So she just pulled out a map and picked a place, and my grandma gave us enough money to move here." He glances over his shoulder now. "Don't tell anyone, but Collins isn't even our real name."

  "Really?"

  He nods as he slices a nice crisp edge into the black mat board. I can't help but stare at the blade of the mat cutter. It looks so sharp and efficient. I randomly wonder how it would feel against my skin. "Yeah. I probably shouldn't tell you my real name," he's saying. "Not that you'd tell, but-"

  "No," I say quickly "Don't tell me. I mean I totally understand. And, trust me, I won't repeat any of this to anyone."

  "Yeah, me too. Not that your family is nearly as twisted as mine."

  "At least your dad doesn't live with you anymore."

  "Yeah, that's worth something." He turns the mat to cut the other side. "Why do your parents stay together?"

  I haven't told him much about my mom yet. I'm not even sure where to begin. Plus, his morn sounds pretty cool. She has a job and a life and the confidence to stand up to her husband. "My morn is, uh ... well, she's Native American." I wait for his reaction.

  "Cool," he says. "So that's where you get those great eyes and that hair."

  I feel a warm rush and hope that my cheeks aren't flushed. "Well, my mom's had a hard time with my dad. I mean, he never hits her or us, but my mom has been pretty well heat-up by his words after all these years. She kind of cracked up last winter."

  His brow creases in concern. "Man, that must be tough, Ruth."

  His sympathy only causes a large lump to grow in my throat. "Yeah, it can get pretty depressing."

  "Good that you have your art." He overlays the mat on one of my drawings. "It's a good outlet for pain."

  I nod. "Yeah, I guess. But my dad thinks I should do happier subjects."

  Glen kind of laughs. "Well, tell your dad he should do the same."

  "Yeah, right."

  Finally I have to redirect the conversation. All this focus on family is making me feel stressed. I mean, I'm glad that Glen understands. But his life has settled down. He's finally experiencing some relief and stability. I'm happy for him and everything, but my life is still pretty much a mess. And, well, there's the whole cutting thing. No way am I going to tell him about that.

  It's almost six, and even though I already phoned home to leave a message about where I am and what I'm doing, I know it's time to get going. "Do you mind if we quit now?" I ask.

  He glances up at the clock. "Sure. I had no idea it was so late. I'll bet we can finish up these last few tomorrow."

  So we put stuff away, turn out the lights, and head out to the parking lot. I am surprised at how nice Glen's car is. Somehow after hearing the story of the abusive dad
, I imagined that he and his mom would be strapped. But here he is, driving a fairly new Honda Accord.

  "Nice car," I tell him as I get in.

  "Thanks." He starts the ignition. "My mom tried to talk me into trading it for something else-because my dad got it for me on my sixteenth birthday-but I was already kind of used to it. Besides, I think this has to be one of the most common cars in the country. I can't imagine my dad tracking us down based on the make of my car."

  "You wouldn't think so."

  "Yeah. My dad got me this car as kind of a payoff after he beat me up one night. No broken bones, but my mom took photos, and not long after that came the restraining order. But I refused to press charges."

  .Why,,

  He shrugs. "I don't know. It just didn't seem right. I mean, he's my dad. And then, of course, he got me the car, and ... well, I didn't know what to do."

  "Yeah, it gets pretty complicated."

  I give him directions to my house. "It's not a very impressive neighborhood," I tell him. I don't know why I even care, but after seeing his car, I'm guessing that he and his mom might live in a fairly nice house. And my friend Abby and most of my relatives live in better neighborhoods. So I guess insecurity lust comes with the territory.

  Not that we live in the slums or the projects. Its not that bad. And, as my dad will point out to any of us, at least we own our house. He'll also point out that he works hard managing the tire store, and that "unlike some of your mom's low-life relatives who live off of the government, I pay my own way. I put food on the table and a roof over your heads!" How many times have I heard that little speech?

  But as Glen pulls his car into the asphalt driveway of our yellow ranch-style house with three bedrooms and two baths, I still feel embarrassed. "Well, this is it," I say unceremoniously. "Thanks for the lift."

  "No problem. And thanks for the help with the matting today." He smiles a totally endearing smile. "And thanks for listening. It is totally cool to meet someone who really gets me."

  I nod and smile. "Yeah."

  "See you tomorrow."

  I close the car door and walk slowly toward my house. I'm hoping that Glen will drive away before I make it to the door. I don't want to risk having my dad make a sudden appearance and doing something that will thoroughly embarrass me. Thankfully, I make it quietly into the house.

  But that's where the quiet ends.

  five

  "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?" MY DAD DEMANDS WHEN I'M BARELY THROUGH the front door.

  "I told you this morning that I planned to stay late after school. And I left a phone message."

  "Why did you have to stay late?" He blocks my way to the kitchen. "Were you in trouble?"

  "I was working in the art room. Getting things ready for the art fair tomorrow." Although I'm exasperated, I try to keep my voice even. I don't want to be accused of "sassing" him.

  "Who brought you home?"

  I look down at the floor and consider lying and saying it was Abby, and that she was using someone else's car, but this whole thing could get blown totally out of proportion if he figures it out. "Glen."

  "Glen? Glen WHO? I don't know anyone named Glen."

  "Glen Collins. He's a new kid at school. He was getting some of his stuff ready for the show too. He offered me a ride."

  "A new kid in school? So you hardly know this kid and you let him drive you home?"

  "He seems nice and responsible. And his car was nice."

  "So you think that just because someone has a nice car means that he's a nice person? Ruth Anne Wallace, don't be so naive! Next thing you know you'll be riding off with some serial killer, saying, `He seemed so nice."'

  "Sorry." I glance into the kitchen. "Want me to start some dinner?" I offer in the hope that my interrogation is over.

  "Where's your brother?"

  I look up, slightly worried. Caleb is usually home by now. "I don't know. Isn't he here?"

  "If he was here, would I be asking you where he is?" My dad swears. Not a really bad word, but it's a sure sign that he's losing it. "You kids are so selfish. You think you can just take off and run around, doing your own thing, without a thought or concern for anyone else who lives in this house." He usually starts moving around once he starts to rant. As a result, I'm able to slip past him into the kitchen.

  "Sorry, Dad," I say, hoping I sound more sincere than I am, "but I haven't seen Caleb since this morning."

  My dad stops and scowls at me. Then he moves closer and looks at me with a distrustful expression. "And you really don't know where he is, Ruth?"

  I shake my head.

  "I can hear your brains rattling, Ruth. Are you saying you don't know where your brother is? Or are you just trying to cover for him?"

  "I really don't know. Maybe you should call Andy's house."

  "1 told him to stay away from Andy just last week. I saw that kid hanging outside of the 7-Eleven, and he was smoking."

  Of course, I don't reveal that Caleb smokes too. I've warned him that Dad will totally freak if he ever catches on. But I guess smoking is just Caleb's small way of rebelling. My dad launches into a lecture on how stupid it is for teens to start smoking. On and on he goes, like he thinks someone is listening.

  Just as he's getting onto tobacco companies and how they're plotting to take over the world, my unfortunate brother comes home. And, man, does that set off a whole new bunch of fireworks. Dad switches subjects midsentence, lashing into Caleb about responsibility and maturity and how Caleb is such a "sorry excuse of a son." Regular stuff like that.

  The weird thing is that Caleb's acting like he doesn't even care. And he's got this strange look in his eyes. Like he's up to something or has some kind of an escape plan. I don't know, but I can tell something's up with him. Something's different.

  There's nothing I can do to help Caleb. Who knows, maybe he doesn't need any help. So I slink off to my room. But as I go, I notice the door to my parents' bedroom is open a few inches, like maybe she's been standing there listening to this whole thing. Then the door silently closes. I don't even hear the latch click.

  I imagine my mom standing behind it, probably still in her faded green bathrobe, her graying hair drooping around her dull eyes. The face that I used to think was pretty is probably just expressionless now. Maybe she's clutching that ugly old afghan, wrapping it around her despite the warmth of the afternoon.

  And suddenly I'm furious. Why does she have to be like this? Why can't she say something? Do something? Stand up for her children? Sometimes I really, really hate that woman.

  Okay, I know that's not fair. And, really, I do love my mom and I do feel sorry for her, but sometimes her weakness totally disgusts me. I've heard that you dislike the same thing about others that you can't stand in yourself. Maybe that's my problem. Maybe I'm just like her. I mean, it's not like I'm standing up for my brother, either. But like I said, he doesn't seem to need me tonight. Somehow I think he's getting the upper hand. But how? What's he doing differently? Maybe he's just learned not to care. I plan to ask him. Later, when things cool down. Maybe I'll make him a sandwich and go into his room and we can have a real talk.

  I hear a loud smack, like the sound of a piece of wood breaking, and the chaos of our lives takes on a whole new twist. I hear Caleb yelling and cussing. I run out to see what's going on, and from the hallway I can see that Caleb's nose is bleeding. He looks both shocked and furious.

  "Don't you ever use that kind of language around me again!" my dad yells. I peek a bit farther around the corner until I can see my dad. And I can tell that he is shocked too. I mean, he never hits us. At least not until now.

  "You're evil!" Caleb yells at my dad. "Totally evil. And I'm not taking it anymore." Then Caleb turns and walks right out the front door. Just like that. I mean he's only fourteen. Where's he going? And what's he going to do? And what will happen when he wants to come back? Poor Caleb.

  I quietly retreat to my room, thankful that Dad didn't see me watching. I can hear him stormin
g around in the kitchen, probably fixing himself something to eat. And after about twenty minutes he is gone.

  First I pace in my bedroom. So far, despite all the stress I'm feeling, I have somehow resisted the urge to cut myself. Maybe getting to know Glen, hearing a story that's similar to mine, has given me this speck of hope. Maybe that's what makes me want to handle my life differently. To quit cutting.

  Or maybe the shock of my dad crossing that line is what holds me back. I still can't believe he actually hit Caleb. Hit him hard, it looked like. What happens after this? Where do we go from here?

  I can't take it anymore. I march down the hallway and knock on my mom's door. Someone has to start being the grown-up in this house.

  After what seems to be a very long time, the door finally opens about six inches wide, and I can see her thin face peering at me. "What?" Her voice is small, like it's from a child who's been punished.

  "We need to talk," I say, pushing open the door. I walk right in. I'm not even sure why I feel so bold. I usually avoid going into this room at all. And I can tell she's surprised, but she says nothing, just sits in her glider, sinking down as if it's a struggle to stand.

  "Mom," I begin in a pleading voice, almost like I used to talk to her before she had her breakdown. "This is all wrong. I can't stand the way we live. I mean, Dad actually hit Caleb tonight. Did you know that? Caleb's nose was actually bleeding. And then Caleb took off. And who can blame him? I don't even know where he went, or if he's coming back." I pause and just look at my mom, and her face is so blank that you'd think the woman was deaf and dumb. "Can you hear a single word I'm saying?" I demand loudly, disrespectfully. I'm afraid I sound just like my dad.

  Her eyes dart to the door, fearful, as if she can hear Dad in my voice too. But still she says nothing. Just sits there. Good grief, this woman can't even help herself. How can I expect her to help Caleb or me?

  "Fine." I turn around in anger. "Whatever!"

  According to the little digital clock that I put in the bathroom to keep Caleb moving, it is exactly 7:23 p.m. when I start running water down the sink. I quickly find my hidden razor blade and at 7:27 I carefully slice into my right arm. About halfway up this time. It's my second cut today. At this rate, I don't think I'll ever be able to stop.