Perhaps it’s me I can’t figure out.
“That’s the most fun I’ve had in English in, like, ages!” Juliet said when our usual crowd gathered at our usual table in the cafeteria for lunch. “I thought the Perkelator was going to cardiac arrest.”
“I wish he wouldn’t drag me into his beef with L.J. I don’t need more trouble in my life,” I said. “I don’t need more enemies.” I give away much too much energy to the ones I already have.
“Poor Lukey!” Juliet gave my arm a consoling squeeze, pulling me against her side and against the softness of her breast. Accidental? Somehow I don’t think so. I know she likes me, wants me to ask her out. But my life is complicated enough. And anyway, I don’t think she does it for me.
“Why’d you think she did it, though? Sloane, I mean, sticking it to Perkel like that?” Keith asked the question that was puzzling me.
“She wasn’t sticking it to Perkel. She was sticking up for L.J.” said Juliet.
“But why though?” Exactly. “They’re not friends.”
“Like attracts like, so freaks gotta stick together.”
Everyone in the group laughed, except Keith. And me.
“So, movies and pizza on Friday night, after the game?” Tyrone asked Juliet.
“Sure, let’s all go. You coming, Luke?” Juliet asked.
“I’ll have to take a rain check. I’ve got training on Friday night. A coach from Loyola is coming to give us some pointers.”
“Come after you’re done, then.”
“I’ll be wasted after that.”
Also, I’ll need to head home as soon as I can. Dad leaves for a conference on Thursday morning and won’t be back until Sunday night, and mom shouldn’t be home alone.
“You have no social life at all, Luke! Like, my parents have a better social life than you,” said Juliet, looking put out.
Tyrone, on the other hand, looked kind of pleased. He laughed and said, “You’re sad, man, sad.”
Truth.
11
Rogue thoughts
Both L.J. and I are given a detention for Friday afternoon, which was when I’d planned to go out and take photographs for the L.O. project. My only consolation is that we must have derailed Perkel’s plans, too, since he personally supervises our detention, making sure we sit on opposite sides of the otherwise empty classroom and have no opportunity to exchange a word. Maybe he’s afraid that if we get together, we may form a dissident anti-Perkel society. Maybe he’s not wrong.
When Perkel’s back is turned for a minute, L.J. waves to get my attention and then flings something at me. I catch it. It’s a stick of “Red-Hot Cinnamon” flavored gum. I grin at him and mouth my thanks, but when I start chewing, it’s like eating fire. It’s a lucky thing I like spicy. Still, Perkel notices my watering eyes and asks if I’m okay in a tone that tells me he thinks I’m crying because I’m in detention.
“Maybe if I could just go dry my eyes in the restroom?” I ask.
I get a pass from Perkel, and two thumbs-up from L.J.
When I get home, I compulsively scan the news websites and find a new article for my wall of pain. This can be a tricky business. Some of the articles are more likely to trigger a flash of memory or a sudden surge of fear and panic than the relief I want, so I skim through the headlines quickly until I find one so different to my own inner headline, that it’s safe to read. “Gator Attack: ‘Call 911, my arm is gone’.” Perfect. That definitely kicks a red scar to the curb.
Saturday morning starts off with my weekly therapy session. Eileen starts with her usual assessment.
“Flashbacks?”
“Not too many.”
“Nightmares?”
“Not really.”
“Appetite?”
“I’m eating, sleeping, pooping. All systems are go. I’m ready for take-off.”
Eileen smiles and asks me about my week. She listens carefully and I can tell she’s proud of me for facing everyone, scar and all.
“You did really well! And it wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”
“We-ell …”
“Well?”
“Yes and no.”
I tell her about how most people, after the first shocked look, have reacted by studiously not staring at my scar, but how the pack of pretty girls has taken to calling me names. I mention, in a casual, general sort of way, how one boy seems really repulsed by my face, but I can tell she thinks I’m being overly sensitive and so I don’t push it. Eileen has keen eyes and even sharper ears, and I’m not ready for her to know how much Luke’s attitude has affected me.
The truth is, I’m half-obsessed with him. The delicious infatuation I felt for him before has come back full-force. Only now it’s worse, because I see him every day, and can feed my addiction.
I listen to what he says in class and put a check in the block next to “intelligent” on my growing mental list of his attractive attributes. I overhear a conversation between him and his friends and check the box for “funny”. I see him training hard every morning and I monitor his times on Sink-or-Swim, and my respect grows. Committed? Check. Determined? Check. Talented? You bet. And he’s friendly to everyone except me. In fact, he’s such an all-round nice guy that his serious aversion to facial deformities stands out oddly. It puzzles me because it doesn’t seem to fit with the rest of his character.
Plus, there’s a new mystery about him which keeps me watching and brooding. I’ve noticed that at times he seems to tune out from what’s happening around him and his features settle into an expression of sadness. And his rare tweets also don’t exactly radiate happiness either. There was one this morning. It had a picture of the floodlit pool with a lone swimmer mid-length, and the caption: My Friday Night Lights. No smiley face or ironic hashtag. It struck me as being kind of grim. But what has he got to be sad about? He’s smart, talented, popular, and really, really hot. All the guys want to be him and all the girls want to be with him.
I’m no exception.
I scan for him in every class, decide where to sit based on where he sits (behind and away from him, wherever possible), and sneak glances at him in the hallways and cafeteria. Luke, by contrast, completely ignores me now. He has not directed a look (filthy or otherwise) my way since that strangely piercing look he gave me during my exchange with Perkel. It’s like I don’t exist.
I’ve been swimming before school – why should I avoid the pool because of him? But when he arrives with the rest of the swim team, he always gets into the pool on the other side of where I’m swimming. I’ve had a little fun with this, changing lanes every day and watching him follow suit. It’s like we’re playing a game – the opposite of tag.
“Sloane?” Eileen’s voice disturbs my thoughts.
There – I’ve been thinking about him again! I must have fallen silent because she’s looking at me curiously. I’m not sure exactly why I don’t want to tell her about Luke, just that it is too tender to talk about. Thinking about him is like probing the gap from a lost tooth with your tongue – irresistible, but also painful.
“Hmm?”
“What are you thinking?” This is The Shrink’s second-favorite question. Top-of-the-pops is, “What are you feeling?”
“Um … So, I got into trouble with a teacher.”
“What happened?”
I tell her the story of my altercation with Perkel in all its detail. I know it’s to distract her, and also so I don’t accidentally let slip what’s really bothering me. I expect her to advise me that it’s not wise to get on the wrong side of a teacher, especially in the first week at a new school, but she surprises me.
“I’m glad you stood up to him. Bullies thrive when people stay silent.”
Yeah, I know all about this. One of these days I’m going to have to stand up to Luke.
I’m doing so well, Eileen says, that she’s happy to see me only every second week. I am on therapy parole and though I’m surprised, I’m also pleased at the vote of confidence.
<
br /> I spend the rest of the day wandering around town taking photographs for the L.O. project. Ed drops me off at West Lake which, despite its name, is more of a large duck pond. It’s also the only lake in town, but I guess calling a lake just “The Lake” would be too stupid, so West Lake it is. I start out by snapping off photographs of some obvious displays of visual pollution: a pile of litter just a few feet from a trash can; an illegible graffiti tag-name spray-painted in luminous greens and yellows on the white wall of a food stand; some scummy foam floating on the water’s edge, along with a water bottle and what might be a deflated pink balloon – or something way more disgusting.
After a while, though, I figure it’s time to get more creative and I start looking, really looking, at the people and sights around me. What spoils what we see? What defaces beauty and ruins the appearance of something? I take a few shots of a woman sunbed-tanned to the rich orange of a Halloween pumpkin, and then some more of other people in the park. Eileen would be so proud of me – my eyeballs are squarely back in their sockets and looking out at the world. I’m actually having fun when a rogue thought intrudes: what will Luke think of my pics? Suddenly, it’s a good time to head home. I get Ed to stop a couple of times en route so I can capture a few more images, and also to get a large pepperoni pizza which we share on the way home after I’ve cleaned my hands with a wet-wipe. (It’s always good to keep Ed’s mouth full; that way he can’t nag me about learning to drive.)
That evening, I make myself a big mug of coffee and use it to down a handful of vitamins while I upload the images from my camera onto my computer. I look through them carefully, picking out the ones which might be good – and there are some which I think are kind of clever – and deleting the bum ones. I don’t tinker with them, though, Photo-shopping feels too much like cheating to me. Though if I could photo-shop my face, I’d do it faster than Luke can swim a length of Butterfly. Which is in under fifteen seconds – I know this because I’ve surreptitiously timed him at the swim team’s morning training sessions.
I print out the photos I like and then, before I log off, I do a quick check of email. Okay, if I’m honest – as honest as an un-photo-shopped portrait – I’ve been checking my inbox regularly since I gave Luke my email address. Tonight, at last, there’s a message from him with an attachment: VisualPollution.doc. I force myself to read the attachment first. His essay is really good. He’s obviously put some work into it. As covering messages go, his gets a prize for brevity.
S.
Here’s my section of LO project.
Yours?
L
I read it a couple of times, decide the “Yours?” means “Where’s your section of work, woman?” and isn’t an indicator of his confusion over how to sign off the message – yours sincerely, yours unpleasantly, yours when a snowball thrives in hell. But I don’t intend to send him my photos before Tuesday’s L.O. lesson. I figure him having more time to examine them will lead to him having more negative opinions. Also (jeez, this business of being honest with myself will become a real habit if I don’t watch out), I want to see his real reaction.
Yup. Apparently there’s still some feeble inner fragment which thinks it can change his mind about me, that longs to hear him say: “Goshdarnit, Sloane, but these pictures show real sensitivity and perspicacity. Anyone who could take shots like this must really be a beautiful person … er … despite appearances. Please forgive my previous boorish behavior!”
It’s not going to happen. I know that in my head. I get my head to speak sternly to the other, less rational parts of me, and go to bed. The rogue thoughts give me no rest there, either.
I dream that I am swimming, as fast as I can, in the school pool. I’m doing an odd mutant stroke which keeps my head submerged in the water but I still somehow know without looking that Luke is swimming ahead of me. It’s exhausting swimming like this, especially once we’re out in the open ocean. I try to catch up with him, but high waves with crests of foam like broken glass keep pushing me further back. I thrash my legs and arms faster and faster, and then I bump my head on something. I have swum into a drifting patch of pollution – old pictures and amber plastic and dead phones and empty handbags and black tires are floating like a barricade in front of me. I can’t get past the trash. There’s a large suitcase bobbing on the water near me. Treading water to keep from sinking, I push and shove all the debris into it and tie it up tightly with a rope so it won’t burst open. Then I thrust the suitcase behind me and strike out towards Luke, but my leg tangles in the rope and I have to swim on, dragging all this useless garbage behind me. It slows me down. Panicking, I stick my head out of the water and see Luke, who is a dolphin, leaping in and out of the waves, disappearing into the distance.
12
Defaced
Sunday is spent with my aunt Beryl (my mother’s younger sister), my uncle Dave, and their two-year-old triplets. I help aunt Beryl with the noisy toddlers and reassure her at least twenty-two times that I’m fine, my new school is just swell, and that yes, I’m making friends – everyone is so kind and welcoming, and the teachers are great. It’s probably what she wants to hear. There’s a desperate and slightly insane gleam in her eyes that tells me she can’t handle more drama, and seeing Devon, Keagan and Teagan trampolining on the sofa – alternately licking melting popsicles and punching one another in the head – I can see why.
Tuesday follows Monday, and L.O. follows History as surely as my eyes follow the back of Luke’s head. This is the only view of him I usually have, since he is still ignoring me – protecting his delicate sensibilities by averting his gaze from my unsightly face. But there’s no avoiding me now, no sir. Mrs. Copeman tells us to get on with our projects and I take the seat next to Luke as soon as Juliet has vacated it – which she does with a breathy sigh and a longing look at Himself.
“I got your essay,” I say to the side of his (unblemished) face. “It was really good. I corrected some of the spelling and changed a few sentences. I hope you don’t mind.”
Apparently he does. I blanch at the look he gives me. I hand him the corrected print-out of his work and he reads it through – surely noting, but not saying anything about, my changes. When he is finished, he merely nods and then holds out a hand to me. It is a fine hand. I have a thing for hands, and for wrists, and this is a great specimen.
I look at it, swallow, and then look a query at him.
“Your work?” he asks.
“Oh, yes.”
I fish the envelope of photographs out of my bag and place it onto the desk in front of him. When he picks it up and takes the photographs out, I have an excuse to stare at his hands again. They are good hands: strong-looking, yet with long slender fingers. Pity he doesn’t have hairy pork-sausage fingers, because that right there would put me off him, big-time. And I seriously need to be put off.
I watch him nervously for any reaction while he looks through the first few pictures (the litter, graffiti and scuzzy pond scum) without comment. He pauses when he gets to the picture of a massive McDonalds yellow arch in the heart of West Lake suburbia, then nods and the corner of his mouth twitches. I knew he would get it. I scooch to the edge of my chair to see if he gets the next one. It’s of an attractive young woman whose beautiful skin is marked by an amateurish tattoo on her neck and a triple-piercing through her brow.
He studies the picture, holds it up to me and says, “Tattoos as skin pollution? Controversial.”
He has turned to face me directly and he isn’t scowling. When he comes to the shot of the day-glo orange babe, he actually grins. My stomach does something peculiar deep inside me and I think I might hear the Hallelujah! of an angel chorus reverberating inside my head.
“You left this in here,” he says, picking out one of the photographs and handing it back to me, while continuing to look through the shots. I look down at the photo. It’s the close-up I took of my own face, balancing the camera on a shelf in my wardrobe and using the automatic timer function. I
was a bit too close to the lens for the bright flash, so the shot is a touch over-exposed, but it somehow works to the picture’s advantage. My skin looks unnaturally white, my eyes a vivid blue, and the slashing scar stands out even more starkly. I hand the picture back to him.
“No, it’s … I meant it to be in there.”
He glances up from a picture of a fat man’s butt-cleavage, his grin fading.
“What?” He looks confused.
“It’s an example of, you know, what spoils the visual.”
“You …”
He misses a beat, frowns, looks at me oddly.
“Are you kidding me? Jeez!”
“No. I … I thought …”
I don’t know what to say. He’s angry again.
“I can redo it if you think it’s overexposed.”
He looks at me as if I’m crazy.
“Or, we can toss it if you don’t like it.”
“Or,” he says, pushing the photo back firmly at me, “we can toss it because it doesn’t belong in this collection. Jeez!”
I’m rattled, not sure what he means. I know he hates my scar. He finds it repugnant – he has made that abundantly clear. If anyone can see that it’s a visual pollutant, he can.
“The rest of these are pretty good,” he says, sounding grudging. “Now we need to get together, I guess, and combine both sections into one document.”
“We can do it at my place – I have a scanner and printer and stuff,” I volunteer. He nods. “When are you free?”
We agree to meet on Friday afternoon at my apartment to finish the project. I scrawl my address on a piece of paper and give it to him. He hands me the photographs, gives me a long, searching look and turns back to his work.
13
Scarred Page 4
