The Reaping

by M. Leighton

  Shaking off the distraction of my hair, I inspected my face. I saw no injuries or scrapes and still no evidence of the abrasions that had been there the evening before. In fact, I was as good as new, the skin on my arm, hip and leg having healed as well.

  “What is going on?” I asked my reflection.

  Having no answers, I pushed the troubling thought aside and focused on the day ahead and skirting Dad’s questions about where my scratches had gone.

  After a quick shower, I dressed and went out to the garage, knowing Dad would already be out there. And he was. Still working on the exhaust, too.

  With an internal sigh of gratitude, I slipped into our routine. For once, it was welcome and comforting.

  After lunch, I was helping Dad with the Flowmaster mufflers, tightening up some bolts he had started for me while he held the muffler assembly in place. He had been grilling me about engine parts. Any time we worked on a project, he used the time to teach me everything there was to know about the subject and then quizzed me relentlessly about it until we were finished. Today was no exception.

  I had both hands on the wrench, straining to make the bolts as tight as I could when Dad threw me a curve ball.

  “So, Carson, is there something you’d like to tell me about your hair?”

  At first I was confused by his question then I remembered the lighter, more golden tint I’d noticed in the light that morning. I didn’t think anyone else would detect it.

  “No. Why?”

  “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

  Just the way he said it was enough to irritate me. “Notice what? I haven’t done anything.”

  “Carson Marie, you know better than to lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying. When have I had time to do anything to my hair?”

  He was thoughtful for a second before he answered. “Last night I guess.”

  “Well I didn’t. I think it’s just getting lighter.”

  “Overnight?”

  “I guess so, Dad. What’s the big deal?”

  My temper was escalating by the second.

  “No big deal. You know how I feel about that kind of thing. And you know I’d better not catch you in a lie, young lady.”

  “I’m not lying!” I was shouting, suddenly fuming.

  I was jerking at the wrench furiously when it slipped causing me to mash my fingers against the floor of the trunk. I dropped the wrench, barely able to hold back the string of obscenities that rushed to the tip of my tongue. I was positively livid; a reaction way out of proportion to what was happening, but not one that I seemed to have any control over.

  Within seconds I heard Dad yelp. When I looked down at him, he was shaking his fingers.

  “What did you do?”

  “I don’t know why, but that muffler got hot all of a sudden. Really hot!”

  I could see that it was beginning to take on a reddish glow like metal typically does when it is superheated. As quickly as it had come, my anger dissipated, eclipsed by concern for my dad.

  We rolled out from under the car, each examining our injuries. Neither was bad. I felt sure we’d live.

  “Maybe it’s time for a break. How about some lunch,” I suggested.

  As soon as we went inside, I poured myself a huge glass of water before I fixed us each a sandwich. I was suddenly parched.

  After that we ate in silence, neither of us willing to broach the subject of my irrational anger. As I nibbled my sandwich, more thirsty than hungry, I couldn’t help but wonder where all this temper was coming from. And the language! I never used bad language and was shocked that it had come so quickly to mind.

  When we were finished, we headed back out to finish the exhaust. When it was done, thankfully, Dad let me off the hook and said we’d start on the suspension Monday. I had a free night.

  I decided to go for a run before taking another shower. I changed into my running clothes and shoes and hit the pavement. I thought of my options for a free Saturday night. It only took about a half mile to realize that I had few and those weren’t very appealing. Homework, science fair project prep, call Leah or lock myself in my room.

  What a depressing thought! I shook off that funk, unwilling to let it ruin one of the few things I truly enjoyed. I redirected my thoughts and let my mind drift to the incident with Stephen Fitchco the previous evening. I wondered what he would be doing on a Saturday night. I doubted his options would be as boring as mine.

  All too soon, I was back at my mailbox with no better choices than when I’d left. Resigned, I decided to shower and spend the night locked in my room.

  The next morning I woke feeling like I hadn’t slept at all. I had fallen asleep before I had a shower and then dreamed the same dream about the bloody snow and the stranger. It took a lot of effort to drag myself from the comfort of my warm bed and make myself get into the shower.

  I spent a little extra time on my right shoulder, having seen a smudge of grease on it as I undressed. I scrubbed the spot with my loofa, knowing that would get it off. The rough sponge could remove anything, and I mean anything, including several layers of skin if I wasn’t careful.

  Spontaneously, I decided the rest of my skin could use a nice exfoliation, too, so I squirted some shower gel onto the sponge and went to work buffing the remainder of my body.

  I stepped out of the shower feeling soft and smooth from head to toe. Unable to see my reflection because of the steam, I took my lotion into the bedroom to complete my morning ritual.

  Just to be sure I’d gotten the spot off my shoulder, I walked to the full length mirror on the back of my door and turned halfway around where I could see my back. Not only was the smudge not gone, it seemed to have gotten bigger and was turning a reddish orange color. It had a teardrop shape to it, fat on one end and dramatically tapered on the other. It reminded me of a flame, licking up toward my neck. Maybe I’d burned myself and not realized it. After all, Dad said the muffler had been hot.

  As I turned back to face the mirror, I noticed how the light shone on my skin, even without lotion. I walked over to the window and held my hands up. My skin looked different. Better. Luminous. I turned my hands over then held out my arms.

  My skin was practically flawless. It looked like a thin, peaches-‘n-cream veil covering a pool of shimmering liquid. I looked at my belly and legs and they, too, were covered with the same sheen. The tone and texture were absolutely perfect, looking airbrushed like I’d seen on models in magazines.

  I walked back to the mirror to put on lotion. As I massaged the scented cream into my skin, I noticed several other subtle, nearly imperceptible changes as well. My waist, it looked a little more trim that usual, my belly flat and taut. My hips flared out in a more womanly curve then tapered down to legs that had never looked leaner. And my boobs—they seemed fuller and were tipped with a perfect dusty rose.

  If I didn’t know my body so well, I might not have noticed. But I did. I don’t know how long I stood studying my reflection and all the differences I found there, but I was so immersed in my own thoughts, I jumped when Dad knocked at the door.

  “Hurry up, Carson. We’re going to be late,” he boomed.

  Pushing the bizarre thoughts out of my head, I hurried to the closet and pulled out a neat fitted dress in black that buttoned up the front. Church clothes were the one area in which Dad never fussed about me splurging and looking like a girl.

  I slipped on my shoes and went to stand in front of the mirror one last time before heading out the door. Sure enough, even my clothes fit a little differently, the material a little more snug around my hips and chest, looser around my waist. I shook out my hair, which looked even lighter against the black of my dress, and then rushed out to meet Dad.

  I hopped into the truck, which was already running, and Dad sped away. I saw him cast several sidelong glances in my direction, but, much to my relief, he didn’t say a word about my appearance. I hoped he wouldn’t notice anything but my hair. I doubted that would be the case
, however, because Dad is extremely observant.

  We walked into church just as the choir was starting to sing. There were no seats near the front so we had to walk all the way down the aisle to the back row where there were still a few empty spaces on the pews.

  As we passed, I saw several people who normally never paid me any attention looking at me and whispering. Some were girls, some were guys. I wondered what they saw. A freak, a weirdo, a pretty girl, something different they couldn’t quite put their finger on? It made me more than a little uncomfortable. I’d been a wallflower all my life, plainly not noteworthy. I’d wanted attention, yes, but in a good way. The good kind of attention. I didn’t know if I could stand the curiously repulsed attention that being a freak would get me.

  Appropriately, Mike, Dad’s pastor, taught in 2 Corinthians 12:6–8. I didn’t usually pay much attention, but this time I couldn’t help but see the parallels to my own life. Paul had some sort of affliction, one he called a “thorn in the flesh”. Three times he asked God to remove the thorn, but God didn’t.

  What a God, I thought bitterly. Paul was one of His best helpers and He wouldn’t even take away a simple “thorn”. I’d never really thrown in with Dad’s beliefs. And hearing lessons like this did nothing to convince me that I was missing out on much of anything. But Dad always made me go, though usually it wasn’t too bad. I mean I got to dress up to go sit and daydream for an hour. I’d definitely had worse hours in my life, that’s for sure.

  That night, my sleep was anything but restful; my dreams were plagued with the same images. Over and over, I’d find myself in the bloody snow, terrified by a dark stranger. And each time, at the same instant, I’d wake up in a near-panic, only to fall back asleep and dream it all over again.

  By the time Monday morning dawned, I was exhausted. I got ready in a daze, dressing in my usual jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt. After brushing my hair out straight, I had a quiet breakfast with Dad then walked up the street to meet Leah.

  She was waiting by her mailbox, as she always was. Dressed in a plaid skirt, red sweater and knee-high socks, she looked like a Catholic school girl, as she always did. A geeky Catholic school girl.

  She fell into step beside me, matching my rhythm. She had to take almost two steps for my every one, though, what with her shorter legs and all. But we moved together like a well-oiled machine. She started chattering instantly, telling me all about some book she’d read over the weekend. As usual, I tuned her out.

  Leah’s hand on my arm brought me back to the present. She stopped and faced me, fists on her hips. “So what’s the deal? Are you going to tell me about your makeover or what?”

  “Huh?” I was lost.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Come on, Carson. Spill,” she urged in a conspiratorial tone, pushing her tortoise-shell glasses up her pert nose.

  “There’s nothing to spill,” I said, turning to resume our walk to school.

  “So your hair just got lighter all by itself?” She was teasing. I could see that by her mischievous grin, but it was poking my increasingly ever-ready temper.

  “I guess so,” I snapped.

  “And I guess you didn’t get contacts either, right?”

  That got my attention. “What do you mean?”

  “Your eyes. They’re really, really green. I guess that happened overnight, too?”

  I hadn’t paid much attention to my reflection this morning, although it seems that I should have.

  “And I suppose the teeth bleaching fairy paid you a visit as well?” She giggled, really having fun with this. Even so, it was all I could do not to slap her silly. “Does she work with the Tooth Fairy or does the Tooth Fairy just moonlight?”

  “Leah, I’m really not in a very good mood today. Can we have this conversation later?”

  If my tone wasn’t enough to warn her off, my expression must’ve been. “Sorry,” she said quietly, instantly contrite. Poor Leah, I was ruining her rare bit of fun all because I suddenly couldn’t handle a little good natured teasing.

  I sighed, feeling guilty, but rather than apologizing for my prickliness and inciting more questions (thereby furthering the conversation), I chose to ignore her altogether and remain silent the rest of the way to school.

  When we arrived, it became apparent just how obvious the changes actually were and who was to be the most affected by them—males.

  From the courtyard that led to the front doors, down every hall on the way to my locker and inside every classroom, guys and girls alike ogled me. I saw them stop and stare, mouths agape. I saw them whisper to one another as they watched me walk by. From the guys, I got catcalls and explicit comments, as well as pledges of undying affection and promises of carnal delight. I’d never seen this side of them before, mainly because I’d never made it onto their radars. But suddenly I was noteworthy. Suddenly I was interesting. Suddenly, judging by their comments, I was beautiful.

  Things took a turn for the worse in gym class. I kept noticing the other girls looking at me and whispering to one another. Then, as we were changing back into our school clothes, I heard some girls talking at their lockers the row behind mine.

  “I guess she thought no one would notice, but come on! She looks totally different.”

  “Yeah, she could at least try not to be so desperate. I mean, anybody can see she’s trying to look like Brianna Clark. Maybe she thinks she’ll have a chance with Stephen Fitchco now that they broke up. Because, like, everybody knows she has a crush on him.”

  “I know. She stares at him all the time.”

  I could feel my cheeks burn with embarrassment. I didn’t think anyone ever noticed the surreptitious glances that I gave Stephen, but apparently I was wrong. Very wrong.

  I heard giggles then another voice chimed in.

  “Some people will do anything to be popular, but it doesn’t mean that anybody will actually like them.”

  I dressed as quickly as I could, unable to bear any more of their torment.

  By the time I got to the lunch room, I was debating the merit of leaving school completely—until I saw Stephen Fitchco crossing the lunchroom, making a beeline for me.

  Seniors were allowed to leave for lunch and Stephen and his throng of followers usually took advantage of that privilege. And yet, on this day, here he was, carrying his lunch tray to my table where I sat in the area not-so-fondly dubbed Lose-Air, the upper echelon’s attempt at wit, combining loser and Bel-Air. They were the pride of our school no doubt.

  “Hey, Carson,” Stephen said, interrupting my internal musings and treating me to his award-winning smile. With no effort whatsoever, I provided the expected response by nearly swooning and quickly losing the aptitude for intelligent speech. He was like a surfer Greek god, all blond and muscular, and the prototypical jock, with his jeans and letterman’s jacket, all rolled into one. And right now his highly-coveted attentions were focused on me. And it felt great!

  I’d never really had a crush until I’d seen him my second day of school here. I’d admired him from afar all this time, never daring to even try to get close to him. Until Friday, that is, when he almost killed me.

  “You look good,” he said. “Feeling better?” He tossed first one leg then the other across the seat of the lunch table. His blue, blue eyes twinkled with something I had only seen in movies bar scenes where drunkards doled out cheesy come-ons like breath mints.

  “I’m fine,” I said, anxious yet suspicious.

  “I can see that,” he said, leering at me. Unfortunately, I’d already seen that same look several times today.

  “H-how are you?”

  “Feeling bad about what happened.”

  “Don’t. It was an accident, nothing to worry about.”

  “Well I’d like to make it up to you anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’d like to do something with you.” That’s what his mouth said, but his eyes said what he really meant was he’d like to do something to me.

&
nbsp; Baffled by the difference between the guy sitting in front of me and the one that had given me a ride home on Friday, I wondered if perhaps I was reading more into our exchange than was accurate.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “How about I show you a better way to spend time on your back?”

  Much to my dismay, my assessment of Stephen’s intent was correct. There was no mistaking the meaning behind those words. I couldn’t stop the keen disappointment that flooded me. I was crushed to discover that the guy who’d inhabited so many of my daydreams and fantasies was just a run-of-the-mill jerk.