Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred (3 page)

"That's okay," I say as I start to leave. "I'm in a hurry. See ya."

I know that Abby can see right through my stupid little lie. I
mean seriously, a phone call? How lame is that? But it's like I just
need to get away. First of all, I was cooking in that sun. Then the
news about Glen getting to show his art from his old school. No telling how good it is, or if it's even from this year like it's supposed to be. He could show up with all kinds of stuff that could really make
me look bad. I can't take this.

I go into the bathroom and then into the farthest stall from the
entrance, where I close and lock the metal door. I tell myself to just
breathe and relax-I heard this bit of advice on one of those latenight radio-shrink shows. Like anyone would need someone to tell
them to breathe, although in my case it might be true. But as I'm
slowly breathing in and out, I start to think I'm hyperventilating and
get worried that I might pass out, crash into the door, get a concussion, and end up looking like the school idiot as I'm carried out of
here on a stretcher.

Okay, I totally hate cutting at school. It's not only stupid but
risky. Like what if someone saw me or figured this out? I've heard
some of my friends talking about cutters in the past. Lish Mackey
almost bled to death on the baseball field last fall when she cut too
deeply once. Abby thought it was "totally freaky" Others said things
like, "I just don't get it," or "That is so lame," or "Why would anyone
want to inflict pain on herself?" or "It must just be a pathetic cry for
attention." Maybe I'm the one who actually said that last thing.

And so when I first began doing this, I swore I would never,
never do this at school. And, really, why would I? I mean, the stuff
with my dad was mainly what pushed me over the edge. In fact, I
used to consider school to be a fairly safe place. I have my friends,
my art, my classes ... For the most part, I actually like being here.
Not that I'd ever admit that to anyone.

Still, things happen. Like some rude chick will make some stupid
comment about my race or my clothes or whatever, and suddenly
I'm feeling uptight. Or something goes wrong in a class, like I get
offended by some thoughtless teacher. It happens. But because of
those unpredictable little scenarios, I eventually broke my promise to myself and took action. I'm always prepared now. I do what I've
got to do to get by, whatever it takes to give me back some control,
to help me cope.

With shaking hands, I hang my backpack on the hook on the
door, unzip the small pocket on the outside, and pull out what
appears to be an innocent box of Altoids. While there are a few
"curiously strong" peppermints in there for effect, under that piece
of powdery paper is an even more curiously strong item. I've taped a
razor blade securely to the bottom of the tin. I carefully remove it.

I came up with this little plan when I realized that a razor blade
might show up on the metal detectors that we walk through at the
front doors ever)' morning. Although everyone says they don't really
work and are only there to scare us, I wasn't so sure. So I figured no
one would suspect anything from an innocent tin of Altoids. And so
far, no one has.

I think this is only about my fourth or maybe fifth time to cut
at school. And already I have a system. I sit on the toilet, roll up
my sleeve, get a giant wad of toilet paper all ready, and then I slice.
There's no room for mistakes here. I can't sneak into my room and
change my blood-spattered clothes, and the cut can't be so deep
that it will bleed for very long. Also, I am equipped with bandages.
Plenty of bandages.

I take a deep breath-actually asking myself if I really need to
do this-but then I imagine Glen's smug face as he collects every
prize and ribbon at the art fair. And then I cut.

Like a drug, that warm feeling rises up in me, a sense that I have
control again, that everything's going to be just fine. Then I watch
the red ribbon of blood for just a split second before I press the
toilet paper onto it. 1 breathe deeply, and for the moment I am fine.
Perfectly fine.

I hear girls coming and going ... using sinks, toilets, mirrors.
Fixing their faces and chatting about things that don't really matter.
And finally it's quiet and I hear a bell ringing outside and know
that I'm going to be late if I don't hurry. I put a large bandage over
my cut, pleased with how perfectly it covers the wound. Then I
pull my sleeve down, carefully replace the razor blade in the Altoids
box, return this to my pack, and emerge from the stall as if nothing
abnormal just happened in there.

I feel a mixture of pleasure and relief as I walk to geometry class,
slipping into a rear seat just before the bell rings. But these feelings
are laced with guilt. It seems I can never completely escape the realization that this is wrong. And there's fear too-a constant nagging
dread that someone may suspect me. Someone may know what I've
been doing. Worse, what would happen if that someone told my
dad?

DID YOU MAKE YOUR PHONE CALL?" ABBY ASKS ME AFTER GEOMETRY.

"Yeah." I glance away, pretending to study a flyer that's plastered
on a post. It's about an HIV-awareness meeting next week. Like I'm
really interested.

"Why didn't you just use my cell?" she persists as we walk down
the hallway.

"I don't know." Now, I don't like to lie to my best friend, but
cutting is my one exception. It's like it falls into this special clause
in "the one and only thing you don't have to tell your best friend"
section. So I continue my charade. "It was about my mom," I say in
a serious voice.

"Oh?" I can tell this gets her attention and, I'm sure, her concern
too. "Is everything okay?"

Abby knows a lot about my family. Probably more than anyone,
including our extended family of aunts, uncles, and grandparents.
And she knows that my mom pretty much had a nervous breakdown last winter. Oh, we don't call it that. We call it "When Mom
Got Sick," like it's the title of a bad movie or something. But Mom
got more than just sick. She went flipping crazy. Just a week before
Christmas, she ran away from home and checked into a really
expensive hotel, where she took an overdose of sleeping pills and nearly killed herself. Actually, that was her goal-to kill herself.
But no one talks about that. Even Abby is unaware of that particular
scene. After Mom was discovered by a maid, she spent some time in
the kind of hospital where mental patients are taken in for evaluation and treatment.

I'm not sure what the evaluation was, but treatment involved
some pretty heavy doses of things like Xanax to calm her down and
Prozac to wake her up. Now she takes a "cocktail" of these little pills
every day. Rather, my dad doles out her daily portion of drugs then
locks up the prescription bottles in his gun safe. But sometimes, like
if she's not up yet, he leaves them with a glass of water by her bed.
And then she sometimes "forgets" to take them. That's when things
get messier than usual.

"Yeah, it's pretty much okay now," I tell Abbyy "But Mom forgot
to take her Prozac yesterday, and that sort of messed her up, you
know. So I promised to call her at lunch today-to make sure she
didn't forget again."

"Your poor mom." Abby shakes her head. "She's been through
so much this year."

"You're telling me." I feel a wave a relief. Not only does my
story get me off the hook, it's garnered some genuine sympathy too.
Besides, in some ways it's not completely untrue. Mom did forget
to take her meds yesterday. And maybe I should call her to remind
her today. But chances are I'd only wake her up, and I always feel
so bad to have disturbed her during the day. Sometimes I think the
only time she really rests is when no one is home. I often hear her
walking around the house at night. Sometimes she cleans things.
Sometimes she just sits in the living room with the lights off and
does nothing. It's kind of like having a ghost mom in the house.

"Well, maybe you should have a special code for something like that," Abby says just as we're about to part ways for our next class.

"Huh?"

"You know, like when you need to call and check on your mom.
Like maybe you could say that you've got to go to the bathroom."

"Yeah, right. I'm gonna do that."

"Well, something."

"How about I say I have to go make a phone call?"

Abby kind of smiles. "Yeah, whatever."

Then before I can go she grabs my arm-the same arm I just
cut-and I wince. "What's wrong?" she asks.

"Nothing." I fake a smile. "Just pulled a muscle in my calf during
PE today. It still kinda hurts."

"Yeah, well, I don't want to forget. I have something to tell you.
Something important!"

"Okay, but hurry, I want to get to art."

"Yeah, but you need to hear this first."

"What?" I feel my impatience growing.

"Glen Collins," she says with the kind of urgency that should be
self-explanatory but unfortunately is not.

"Yeah?" I say without revealing any real interest, but I'm thinking, So that's his last name. Collins. "What about him?"

"I think he likes you."

I roll my eyes. "Right. Tell me another one."

"Seriously, Ruth. He asked about you after you left. And the way
he asked questions makes me think he's really interested. Even poor
Finney was acting a little worried."

I kind of laugh. "Like Finney has something to worry about."

"Well, I honestly think Glen likes you. And I just thought you
should be forewarned."

"Forewarned?" I study her. "Like for what?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. Put your best foot forward."

I actually laugh now. Then I stick out my right foot, showing off
my beat-up old sandal. "Would that be this one?"

"I don't know, Ruth. But I happen to think he's a pretty cool
guy. And, hey, if you're not interested, leave him for some of us
who are."

I peer at her. "Meaning you're into him?"

"I could be. But not if you are. Can't you see that I'm the one
who's standing here telling you that I think he's into you? Don't you
get it?"

I smile and thank her, then take off running toward art. Not that
I think Mr. Pollinni would actually mark me late. He hardly checks to
see who's there or not anyway, and I am, after all, one of his favorites.
That is, until Glen came along. Now I can't be too sure. And it probably doesn't help matters knowing that Mr. Pollinni is gay. Okay, this
is a big secret. I mean, lots of people suspect as much, but I happen
to know for a fact since I've met one of his boyfriends (a decorator
from San Francisco-talk about obvious!). But anyway, Glen is a
good-looking guy, and very artistic. What if he now captures Mr.
Pollinni's attention and favor? I have to be careful.

I gently touch my arm, checking my bandage beneath my sleeve.
Abby really grabbed it hard and it's throbbing now. I sigh as I hurry
into the classroom and wonder if everyone's life is as complicated as
mine. I notice Glen in the back of the room. He's laying a big black
portfolio on a table. I'm guessing it's filled with all his amazing art
from his former school. I envision him pulling out pieces reminiscent of Van Gogh or Picasso or maybe even Andy Warhol.

And then he looks up, his eyes meet mine, and I remember what
Abby just told me. Oh, I know she's nuts and just getting carried
away in over-the-top Abby fashion. But somehow when he smiles, I'm not so sure. Anyway, I smile back and then I feel my cheeks
growing warm. I'm embarrassed! Why should I be embarrassed? So
I just turn away, go to my regular spot at a middle table, drop my
backpack onto the dusty floor, and then head to my art locker.

I go on like this, as if nothing whatsoever is out of the ordinary. I
get my current project (a pen-and-ink drawing of an old gas station)
and get my supplies and go back to my table. Oh, I'm not a zombie.
I say "hey" to my art buddies. I look at Kelsey's acrylic of her two
cats (a little docile for my taste), and I tell her it's "very nice" then
go back to my seat and become absorbed in my work.

Now here's the challenge with pen-and-ink drawings-charcoal
can be even worse-but if you're wearing long sleeves you have to
be really careful not to let the edge of your sleeve drag over what
you've just done. And I can't roll up my sleeves. So what I've done
is made these little holes that I slip my thumbs into, which hold my
sleeves fairly taut. It helps some, but I still have to watch it or I'll
ruin all my hard work.

"Looking good, Ruth," says Glen from behind me.

I don't look up but just nod. "Thanks."

"Do you think it'll be done in time for the art fair tomorrow
night?"

I shrug. "I don't know. It's close. Maybe I'll take it home to finish
tonight." Even as I say this, I know for a fact that I won't. I hate
taking any art project home. Not that I don't like doing art in the
privacy of my room. I do. But I just don't like taking the chance of
being seen by my dad carrying something through the house that he
might ask about. Besides that, he has absolutely no problem snooping around in my room, and chances are he would find my project.