Radiate (26 page)

“Oh, Daddy,” I cry out.

A torturous shriek fills the space of my room and I realize it came from deep within me.

“I know, baby.”

Dad pulls me into his arms and kisses my forehead. We hug each other tightly; our tears mingling together.

This is the second time I cry.

At least my daddy is here to comfort me.

***

I hide out in the house all day Saturday, avoiding Lora’s texts. She wants me to go shopping with her later, but it’s the last thing I want to do. I know I’ll eventually have to go out in public, but why rush it?

I tell her I have horrific menstrual cramps, which she buys, and leaves me alone.

The day is spent downloading historical romances to my e-reader so that I can escape into the fantasy of the ladies in lace and hoop skirts and their hair up in perfectly coifed chignons. Whatever the hell those are.

Leeny doesn’t leave my side, obviously sensing my anguish. She got sprayed by a skunk two years ago when she escaped the house one time. The vet had to shave off her thick gray fur to get the stink out. I suspect she knows what I’m going through.

Sunday morning, I avoid going to church. Quite frankly, I’m a little miffed at God for what I’m going through. Or maybe I should be pissed off at Satan. Honestly, I don’t know who to blame. I don’t think it’s God’s fault, per se, that I contracted cancer, but why couldn’t he have protected me? I’ve been baptized. I take Communion regularly and pray (almost) every night when I don’t fall asleep first. I’ve been going to Sunday school religiously—no pun intended—since I can remember, and I’ve been a member of Methodist Youth Fellowship and choir. I totally believe in God the Father, the Son, and Holy Spirit and that I will spend my life in heaven with them when I die. But why can’t my earthly life be better?

Why am I going through this?

I thought everything was over when the tumor was cut out.

The only obstacle was to walk without a limp.

Now this.

Baldy McBalderton the varsity cheerleader.

Fuck this noise.

By six o’clock that night, Mom won’t let me sulk in my room any longer. She insists that I come to the dinner table even though my eyes are swollen from crying and blowing my nose nonstop.

“This is
not
God’s fault,” Mom snaps at me, knowing what I’m thinking apparently. “He spared your life, Hayley, by allowing you to find that tumor in time to take care of it.”

I pick at my baked chicken and rice, feeling sorry for the fowl that had to sacrifice its life so we could eat tonight. Poor bastard.

I don’t want any part of it.

I push the plate away.

No food sounds interesting or appetizing.

A chalky aridness coats the inside of my throat.

Nothing—and no one—can cheer me up.

Doubt is my closest friend and most detested enemy.

Stupidity surrounds me.

Right at the peak of my high school social life. Right when I have an amazing, popular boyfriend. Right when my crowning achievement is being a varsity cheerleader.

I’m frickin’ bald and I have to go to school tomorrow.

I’m bald .
.
.

I’m bald .
.
.

I have no hair .
.
.

I look like an .
.
.

Mom slams her utensils to the table, knocking me out of my pity party. “Hayley Ann Matthews. Stop the damn pouting right now!”

I jolt up in my seat, not believing the insensitivity my mother is showing at this moment.

“Mom, in case you haven’t noticed, I’m
bald!
”

“
Big deal, Hayley. Hair grows back. Instead of wallowing in self-pity and trying to place the blame on God, you should thank Him—and your doctors—that you still have a leg to walk on. You have been so upbeat and positive up until now. You
can’t
let this defeat you.”

Dad reaches out to stop her. “Nan, don’t you think you’re being a little—”

“I will
not
have her doubting her faith, Jared.”

“I don’t... really,” I say meekly. “I just thought I was through everything. Through all the bullshit.” I bite my lip. “Sorry. How do I go to school looking like this?”

Dad smiles at Mom and then turns to me. “You’ll go like you do every other day. You’ll walk in the door, go to your locker, say hello to your friends, and go to class. You’re still the same person, Hayley. There’s more to you than just your hair.”

Mom chimes in, calmer now. “You’re alive, sweetie. That’s what’s important.”

I suppose she’s right. One day I’ll look back on all of this and realize my parents knew what they were talking about. Still, it doesn’t make going to school tomorrow any easier.

I’m trying
not
to feel sorry for myself, but it’s pretty damn hard not to.

There’s very little sleep that night and in the morning, my getting ready time is significantly less since I have nothing on my head to style. I stare at myself in the mirror, trying to find myself in the image somewhere. The features are still the same, albeit a bit sadder.

Leeny rubs up against me, purring and meowing. She still loves me. Just the way I am. Mom and Dad do, too. I should love myself.

“Hair grows back,” I say to the mirror.

There’s a deep, cleansing breath for confidence, and I grab my purse, backpack, and crutches and head out the door.

Mom lets me take her car to school... I suppose in the event that I need to flee. I won’t let that be an option, though.

When I walk in through the glass doors, there are noticeable gasps, sideway glances, and unspoken judgments regarding my bald pate. I ignore them and instead head straight to my locker. I stash the books I don’t need right away and pull out the AP English Literature textbook.

There’s a sobbing cry beside me. My partner stands there stock-still as her mouth hangs open. “When did it happen, Hayley?”

“Saturday morning,” I say quietly.

“Oh my God,” Lora says. Then she wraps her arms around me. I need this support more than anything right now. Staving back tears that I refuse to shed at school, I hug her back and try to laugh about it.

“It’s my extreme makeover.”

Water pools in her eyes. “I’m glad
you
can laugh about it.”

“What’s my choice?”

“You rock, girl,” Lora says. “I don’t know if I’d have the guts to walk into PHS like that.”

I had to. Mom’s right. I can’t let the shit get the best of me. “Again, what choice do I have?” This time, I snicker even harder, really starting to feel the meaning of the words.

The whispers and eyes of fellow students dance and swirl around me. I refuse to let them consume me, though. Mentally, I shield myself in a barrier of protection to knock down any negativity or criticism. I have to in order to get through this. The worst part is behind me. I have to keep my eye on a brighter, healthier future.

Still, I’m fully aware that I’m the talk of the school and not in a good way.

“Wow, would you look at Hayley Matthews,” I hear from a distance.

Leave it to Gabriel Tremblay to save the day. Without missing a beat, my friend with the shaved head strides right up to me and rubs my head. “Look at this! A PHS cheerleader has so much school spirit that she shaved her head, too.”

A smile cracks on my face.

Kids nearby murmur among themselves with some oohs and ahhs here and there. Do they honestly believe I’d do that?

“Well, that worked,” he says to me. He scrubs his own severe buzzcut and smiles. “You’re one of us now, Hayley.”

For a moment, I’m almost no longer self-conscious about my lack of hair.

That is until my boyfriend passes by.

Daniel sees me and immediately bursts out laughing. “Hayley! Holy shit! You shaved your head? What the fuck? You had such gorgeous hair.”

Thanks .
.
. I know .
.
.

Lora moves to chastise him. “Daniel, don’t—”

“Wait, wait,” he continues. “Is that some sort of makeup skullcap thing? Some sort of joke?”

Gabriel grinds his teeth together. “Dude, are you seriously this insensitive?”

Daniel’s clueless. “What? What did I say?”

His laughter pierces my soul and echoes through my brain. I want nothing more than to crack him in the knees with my crutches just to shut him up. I muster up the courage I so need at this moment and snarl out at him.

“I had chemo and radiation, you asshole.
That’s
why I lost my hair.”

Awkwardly, Daniel steps back, and embarrassment is written all over his face. He advances on me and pulls me to him. “Oh, babe. I’m so sorry. I am an asshole.”

His hand moves up and briefly touches my scalp, but he quickly moves it away, as if burned by the skin.

“Everyone’s going to react differently,” I say. “I know I freaked out.”

“You’re still adorable,” Lora says. “Right, Daniel?”

He stares down into my face, and I know he has no idea what words could make this right. “You’re the cutest,” he manages to say. The words seem a little flat. Or maybe I’m just reading too much into it.

The bell for first period rings and we disperse.

Lora walks beside me and says it’s going to be my “signature look.” “I’m going to make you some head rags to wear. We’ll sew sequins on them and make them to match the cheerleading uniforms.”

“That’s a perfect idea,” Gabriel says. I hadn’t even realized he was still hanging with us. I have him to thank for being able to breathe normally at this point.

A sigh of relief escapes my chest, and I head off with him as Lora goes to her first-period class.

“You’re gonna be okay, Hay.”

***

I may be, but Chloe Bradenton certainly isn’t.

At practice, she’s horrified.

“We have a
look
on this squad.”

“I understand,” I say. “Like I planned this.”

She softens when she seems to realize what a class act bitch she’s being. “I’m sorry, Hayley. I know all of this has been difficult for you. But I have to think of the squad. First, you’re limping and using your crutches, and now you’re... you’re . . .”

“You can say it,” I interrupt. “I’m bald.”

“We have a look,” she reiterates, like I’m stupid.

Hands on hips, I stare her down. “What do you suggest I do?”

Chloe thinks for a moment, glancing around at the other girls. Then she snaps her fingers. “I’ve got it! Have you thought of getting a long wig?”

***

After school, I go pick up Mom, and she and I drive forty-five minutes south to Dothan to do some wig shopping. I’m not exactly thrilled about this. I want to keep my spot on the squad. I just don’t know if hiding myself under synthetic hair is the answer.

We park the car and walk into the mall. I’ve passed this store a hundred times before when Mom and I’ve been shopping for school clothes, although I never pictured myself shopping here.

Roxanne’s WigWam.

The corniest name ever for a wig shop.

The front of the store looks like a tepee. I can’t believe I’m coming in here.

An older, chubby woman asks if she can help us. She’s totally wearing a wig, à la Carol Brady from
The Brady Bunch
reruns on television. She wears it well, but I don’t think I’ll be ordering up that look today.

“My daughter underwent chemotherapy and has lost her hair, as you can see,” my mom explains.

Mrs. Brady gasps and pulls her hands to her mouth. “Cancer? In someone so young?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say politely, and appreciate the woman’s reaction. Surely she’s met a lot of cancer patients in her line of work? Right?

Then she sits me down in a wicker chair in front of a simple mirror. “I have several looks that might interest you, young lady.”

I point at her retreating form. “I already know what I—” but she’s disappeared in the back.

“Trust her,” Mom says. “She does this for a living.”

I relax into the creaking chair and await Mrs. Brady’s return.

Mom can’t help but snort when she sees the choices on the plastic mannequin heads before me. First, Mrs. Brady brings me this ridiculously long, blond wig. She lays it on my head and proceeds to tell me, “It’s you. It’s so you.”

Tugging it off, I set it back on the fake head. “Only at Halloween, I’m afraid.”

Next, there’s a thick, black, curly wig. Totally not me.

A short red bob might work if I’m ever in the witness protection program.

Finally, the sales lady reaches to a top shelf and pulls down a long wig made of soft mahogany-colored hair with stylish bangs. The lady fits it over my head and begins fussing with it.

“Now, this one is called ‘Lavish,’ and it’s from the Raquel Welch collection.”

“Rachel who?” I ask.

Mom rolls her eyes. “Raquel. She was an actress back in the 1970s.”

The sales lady gushes over me. “Oh yes. The Raquel Welch wigs are top-quality designer wigs. This look offers the ultimate in a natural front hairline. You can see this sleek cut includes a tapered front and sides that blend with the long, straight layers that fall all the way to the middle of your back.”

“I like it,” Mom says. “How much?”

“This one’s on sale for one hundred and ten dollars, and you get a free wig stand with it.”

Just what every high school senior wants in her room. A wig stand. And a free one at that.

I survey myself in the mirror, moving it around my head to glance at all the angles. The hair is pretty enough and I sort of look like myself again. I attempt to gather it up into a ponytail, but the whole thing just pops off my head.

“Holy crap.”

“Hayley.”

“Mom, this is silly.”

The saleswoman senses my hesitation. “It’s totally you, my dear.”

“Actually, it’s
not
me at all, ma’am.”

It’s not her fault I’m completely against this entire shopping excursion.

Mrs. Brady literally crams the fake hair back onto my head, squiggling it down over my ears and again picking at the bangs to set them to the left. I stare past her into the mirror.

Just as before in my room when I saw my bald pate for the first time, I don’t recognize myself.