Scarred

by Joanne Macgregor

  Question: Can this day get any worse?

  Answer: Do vampires suck?

  First up is English, with he-who-cannot-be-avoided, L.J., the Perkelator and the gang of girls whom, I have discovered from Sienna, all have names beginning with J: Juliet, Jessica, Jade and – ironically, because she is the plainest – Jane.

  “Do you think it’s a membership requirement for the clique? To have a J-name,” I asked Sienna on Saturday, truly curious.

  “Quite possibly. Which means you and I are out of consideration.”

  “I’m devastated. Heartbroken.”

  This is actually true, but it has nothing to do with the Jaysters.

  Luke is bent over a book on his desk and doesn’t look up when I pass him to get to mine, or when I put a note down on his desk. I wrote it earlier so I don’t have to speak to him. I’m trying to minimize the amount of direct contact he has to have with me.

  L.J. is hulking in his seat at the back of the class, scribbling red lines and geometric patterns across his wrists with a ballpoint pen. He’s pressing so hard that I worry he’ll tear open the skin. If I had a stick of gum, I’d offer it to him, just to interrupt the scratching. But I don’t. So I snag my pocket-pack of anti-bacterial wipes out of my bag, lift the white edge of one wipe temptingly out of the opening and offer it to him. He shakes his head and looks at me like he thinks I’m crazy, but he stops his ink tattoo.

  I sit, head in hand, eyes on Luke to see if he’s reading my note yet. He’s not. The fingers of his right hand are drumming on the desk top, just an inch away from it. Up front, Perkel is writing his word of the day on the board.

  “Simile, a noun, from the Latin similis, meaning ‘alike, resembling’.”

  Luke’s hand suddenly stretches out, snatches the note and opens it. I read along with him in my head.

  L

  Mrs. Copeman refuses to allow us to swap partners. And there’s another part of the project still to go.

  Sorry.

  S

  He crumples the note in his slender hand and lobs the ball of paper into the trash can at the front of the class. He doesn’t turn around. I’m relieved. I’m also disappointed because I’d really like to know what the green of his sweater does to his eyes.

  Perkel dusts his hands, looks over the students in the class and zones straight in on L.J.

  “And what, precisely, is a simile, Mr. Hamel?”

  Why does he always address L.J. by his surname? For everyone else he uses their first names. It’s like he’s trying to rile him. L.J. shrugs, looks down at his big hands and fiddles with a hangnail.

  “Can you give me an example of a simile? No? Someone else, then – anyone else?”

  L.J. ignores him. A couple of students have their hands up, but Perkel asks me next. Maybe he’s out to press my buttons, too.

  “Sloane?”

  “Mr. Perkel?”

  “Do you know what a simile is?”

  “I do.”

  Somewhere in front of me, someone laughs.

  “And yet,” says Perkel, looking irked, “your hand is not up.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Why is your hand not up, Sloane?”

  I begin to answer, but it apparently the question was rhetorical – he is answering it himself.

  “I think that you, Sloane, have adopted the lazy habit of not volunteering in class. Perhaps you do not want to draw attention to yourself. Perhaps you wish to stay, as the colloquial term has it, under the radar?”

  “Yes, Sloane, you should occasionally stick a hand in the air, otherwise you might go, like, completely unseen and unnoticed.” Juliet boggle-eyes my scar while she says this in a mock-kind voice.

  “You know, Juliet, when you do that with your eyes, you look even more like a Pekingese pup than usual.”

  Juliet gasps. I turn to Perkel.

  “Was that an example of a simile, Mr. Perkel?”

  The class laughs. Juliet seethes. Luke is twirling a pen between his fingers.

  Perkel tells us to be quiet and announces, “Today we are doing orals.”

  The boys snicker at this. I’ve noticed that there are certain words that always do this to teenage boys. Oral is one. Tongue is another.

  “Unprepared speeches,” Perkel clarifies.

  We have four minutes to think up something sensible to say on the topic “A clear and present danger” and we are supposed to make notes of what we want to say on the blank pieces of card he hands out. My head is still busy trying to analyze Luke’s response to my note when Perkel says, “Time’s up!”

  True to form, he calls on L.J. first. L.J. shambles up to the front of the class and turns his pallid face to us.

  “When you throw a stone into a pond, ripples spread out from the point of impact. Our actions are the same. There are consequences for what we do. For every action, there is an equal but opposite reaction. That’s a law of the universe. Actions can be dangerous because of what reactions they cause,” he says, then falls silent.

  “Is that it? Nothing more to say?” says Perkel.

  “I want to quote lyrics of a song, ‘Surrender’ by Seven Ravens.

  Where the waves are still

  And the ripples fade,

  When the stars burn out

  And the devil’s paid,

  Where the struggle ends in the end of deep,

  Sweet surrender there in the silent sleep.”

  “Why don’t you sing it, L.J.ayyyy?” says Jessica. Or perhaps it is Jade.

  “Yes, give us a song, Long John,” says the other one.

  “Larry-Jack, Larry-Jack, Larry-Jack,” chants Juliet in an undertone.

  “Enough,” says Perkel in a tolerant, amused voice. He smoothes his pointed beard. “Anything more, Mr. Hamel?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Not for a decent grade, it isn’t.”

  Perkel waves L.J. back to his seat with a dismissive hand.

  “Sloane, you can go next. Don’t forget your speech-card.”

  I walk to the front and turn to face the class. I stare down at the perfectly blank card in my hands, then look around the room, desperately seeking inspiration. Luke is leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest and his long legs stretched out in front of him. He stares at me, as if waiting to hear – and judge – what I could possibly have to say.

  “You may begin,” Perkel prompts from his desk behind me.

  I have nothing to say. Clear and present danger. It sounds like the name of a book, or a movie. Or an accident. The silence stretches out. Perkel clears his throat impatiently.

  “Like, anytime now,” Juliet calls out. I scowl at her. She is actually brushing her sleek, blonde hair – in a classroom! – with a foul glittery, pink hairbrush. It gives me an idea.

  “Few people are aware,” I begin, “of the clear and present danger presented by germs.”

  The Jaysters snicker. Luke shifts in his chair and rolls his eyes.

  “Bacteria and viruses lurk on every surface – desks, door handles, stair bannisters and especially on personal items – such as pens,” I direct this last at Luke, who is twirling a pen in his fingers again. “And brushes,” I say to Juliet. She looks down dubiously at the brush in her hand, puts it down on the desk and then, after a moment, stuffs it into her bag.

  “Sick people, diseased people, infectious people,” I continue dramatically – I’m really getting into this now – “cough and sneeze into their hands and then touch things around them, transferring contagion onto light switches, remote controls, term papers.” I emphasize my point with a demonstration. I hack a cough into a cupped hand, then wipe the palm over the corner of Perkel’s desk. I’m pleased to see that he is looking discomforted.

  “And those are just the polite people. Many people simply cough and sneeze and spit wherever, spewing billions of germs into the air and onto the objects and people around them, contaminating and infecting.”

  “Gross me out,” says one girl
sitting in the front, pulling a revolted face.

  “Research shows that most people do not wash their hands after they use the toilet. These are the same people who might, minutes later, shake your hand, borrow your phone, or use the ketchup bottle before you in the cafeteria at lunchtime. And that’s not to mention the disease pathogens often present in water and raw food, like sushi, under-cooked chicken, and contaminated salad.”

  The boy sitting across from Luke makes a gagging noise and mimes vomiting, but I’m in my stride, now, and completely confident. If there’s one thing I know, it’s germs.

  “Some of the contagious diseases you can catch in these easily transmissible ways include: influenza, tuberculosis, meningitis, salmonella poisoning, Ebola and Hemorrhagic Fever, and pneumoleucocytic taccycardic osmepsia!”

  Okay, so I made that last one up – but it sounded dead impressive. I have the whole class’s attention now and, by the expressions on their faces, there will be fewer meals sold in the cafeteria today.

  “So in conclusion, I would like to caution you. Before you touch that door handle, consider the herpes viruses which might be lurking there. Before you flush the toilet in the school bathroom, think about whether a person with pink-eye might have touched it before you. Before you kiss that hottie, you may want to check their tonsils for strep-throat. Because unknown, unseen, and invisible though they may be, germs pose a clear and present danger!”

  Loud applause salutes the end of my speech, even though some people are wearing expressions which make them look like they just sucked on a lemon. Others are laughing – fake-sneezing and coughing loudly at each other. Luke does not look amused by the raucous reaction of the class. Clearly, no-one is to like anything I do.

  “Thank you Sloane, that was most … informative,” Mr. Perkel says. He is looking a bit green about the gills. He likes to dole it out but is not much good, apparently, at taking it.

  “Nice one,” says L.J. approvingly when I plonk back into my chair. He holds out a hand for a low five and I swipe it. It is soft and damp.

  “Germs don’t scare me much,” he continues softly. “I’d lick your tonsils anytime.”

  Where did that come from? I make a pained face at him then turn, a little disturbed if I’m honest, to listen to Juliet’s speech. It’s all about the terrorist threat to the heartland of America. She seems to think that the CIA, NSA and FBI and probably the PTA, too, should spend their time and budgets alternately on bombing the hell out of most Middle East nations and monitoring the phone-calls and email exchanges of private citizens.

  I start doodling but look up when Luke’s name is called.

  “I would like to talk to you all, and to some of you especially,” he looks at me, “about the clear and present danger posed by driving while talking or texting on a cell-phone.”

  I drop my head into my hands and slump onto my desk. This is going to be torture, I think. It is. For the next seven and a half hours, or so it feels, Luke holds forth on the type of negligent, selfish, worthless scum who endanger us all, taking the limbs and lives of innocents, and ruining the happiness of families everywhere. People who drive distracted deserve to die, and those who do not intervene to stop them – who do not forcibly wrangle the phones from out of the driver’s murdering mitts – are just as culpable. All the way through, I’m breathing: in for four, hold for four, out for four, hold for four, just as Eileen taught me. It helps me keep the flashbacks at bay, which is good, but it also keeps me in the here-and-now, which is bad, because Luke is still feeding my monster of guilt.

  “We’ve all heard that friends don’t let friends drive drunk,” he concludes, “but I would argue that passengers who let drivers text and drive, while knowing that this constitutes a clear and present danger, are equally responsible for the murder and mayhem that ensues.”

  The class is silent after his speech, though Perkel compliments him enthusiastically.

  “Well said, Luke! That was an excellent speech on a most important and very relevant subject.”

  I am crushed, like a car in a compactor, by the stream of bitter agony which Luke has siphoned off onto me. The worst of it is, he’s right. I know it. I knew it then – that day in the car, before my life imploded – and I know it now.

  Luke glares back at me as the next student gets up to speak. It’s a scorching look and I can only stare bleakly back. My cheek is resting in my hand, my whole body is heavy. My head moves – a series of small nods – and I look away, guilty as charged.

  20

  Luke

  I let her have it full-force, so I should feel better.

  But I don’t.

  It felt like kicking a little puppy. A tall, sad, blue-eyed, freckle-nosed little puppy.

  21

  Resuscitation

  It is a law of the universe, observable in high school gym classes everywhere, that girls who spend their summer vacations on the beach in the hungriest of skimpy bikinis will, once back at school, coyly refuse to wear one-piece school swimsuits and get in the water with their male peers.

  Of our class today, only four girls, including me, are in the water. The others sit on the poolside stands, talking, checking their phones, playing with their hair, and conspicuously not paying any attention to the boys. The boys strut up and down the edge of the pool, pushing and shoving until they fall into the water, and then attempt to drown each other with savage dunks, all to the accompaniment of loud shouts, taunts and boasts.

  I sniff disparagingly at the gratuitous displays of beauty and strength – honestly, it’s like some baboon mating ritual – and swim another length, warming up while I wait for the lesson to start. Coach Quinn arrives, spots the posse of passive resisters and walks toward them, as if he intends to challenge them. But whoever he asks will tell him that she has “lady troubles” or that it’s her time of the month and he will blush furiously and stammer an apology. Then the other girls will look at him with wide, wounded eyes and berate him for his male insensitivity, before surrounding the girl and escorting her off to the locker rooms, where, I know, all of them will have a good laugh and some of them will have a smoke. Coach halts halfway to the girls, thinks a moment, then retreats to the safety of the males of the species.

  The best part of swimming for me now, A.S. (I realize I haven’t thought this term for a while), is the pleasure of submerging my face in the water and feeling that my body is still strong and functional as I cut through the water. I’m not as powerful or fast as I used to be, but I could still beat most of the boys here. Even though I can feel the click in my knee and the pull in my thigh, I push myself until my muscles burn.

  I have forgotten my goggles and cap, and my eyes sting from the chlorine in the water. The Shrink says forgetfulness and short-term memory impairment is a symptom of post-traumatic stress. At our last session, she also told me that I have a “sense of foreshortened future”. She says I’ll battle with thinking and planning for the long-term future because, having come so close to snuffing it, I struggle to conceive of a future in which I live to a ripe old age. All I know is, I feel old already as I hang onto the side of the pool, trying to catch my breath.

  Luke is in my Gym class – the gods are without mercy – but happily, the Jaysters aren’t. Sienna usually is, but she’s off sick today with the flu. I have an in-built heat-detecting radar inside of me, and it tracks the hotness that is Luke to where he stands with the boys – who have no biological excuse to get them out of exercise. I clutch the wall, looking at his swimmer’s build: broad shoulders tapering down to a slim waist and flat stomach. His muscles are long and lean, his skin tanned and free of blemish.

  I turn my back when a boy dive-bombs into a nearby lane, sending a deluge of water my way. Coach blows his whistle to get everyone’s attention and says that today we are to practice life-saving. We’ve already done the theory – today it’s time to get practical. True to his usual sexist way, he appears to believe that only girls can drown and only boys can save. It’s not li
ke I need the practice – I have my advanced certificate in life-saving – but I still resent the assumption. There are ten boys, but only six mannequins, so the coach calls out to the girls in the pool.

  “You, ladies! Act like you’re drowning.”

  Two of the girls, one in a red latex cap and the other in a blue, immediately start screaming in mock panic, raising their arms in the air as if to summon the boys. Two immediately respond to the call and strike out to the flailing giggling girls. I have a premonition of dread. I cross my fingers and keep my back turned to the boys’ side of the pool.

  “You, Ben, pair up with that girl over there, in the black cap,” he says.

  Behind me, someone groans a complaint. Magda – the girl in the black cap – is in the lane next to me, treading water. She is overweight and unpopular and apparently no guy’s first choice for a damsel in distress.

  “At least she’ll float easily,” someone whispers.

  There is a tightening of Magda’s mouth, but otherwise she does a passable job of pretending she never heard the comment.

  I know what is about to happen. The skin on the back of my neck prickles and it is not from the drips of cold water that fall from my hair, which is pulled into an untidy knot at the top of my head. I turn to the sound of loud splashes. Coach is shoving the life-saving mannequin torsos into the pool with kicks of his feet. They look like the bald, expressionless, androgynous remains of a shark feast, as if a great white had chomped through them, biting off both arms above the elbow and everything below the waist. Mad thoughts crowd my mind. Is this so they don’t have to make mannequins with genitals? Or do we only need to know how to save torsos? I hang onto the wall-edging as I wait for what I know is coming.

  “You,” says coach, pointing at one of the figures in the water who hasn’t yet snagged a mannequin, “you can save her – the one with the … uh … no cap.”

  I know what he was about to say, and I know who he has just spoken to. There is a moment of silence among the boys. Apparently, while it is considered acceptable to poke fun at fatties in the water, it crosses some line to mock the facially disfigured. Or maybe it is my demeanor that gives them pause: I turn to face them and stare a challenge, and no one dares a smart comment. Still, they give Luke commiserative pats on the shoulder as he swims out to where I am.