Scars (3 page)

The familiar smell of paint and clay rises up around me and I breathe it in deeply. It reminds me of afternoons with Sandy, of him working on his pottery wheel while I sat in the corner with crayons or a lump of clay or later on, with paints. Lightness fills my chest as I gather my paints, brushes, and paper.

And then I see the X-acto knives lying there, their sharp short blades like daggers rising from their handles. It’s like they were left out just for me. I grab one, telling myself I’m only borrowing it for a few hours.

It would be so easy to cut, to just push my sleeve up, peel off the bandage, and cut—but I could never risk it, not where someone might see me. It almost feels like enough, just holding the knife, feeling its weight, the roughness of the etched metal handle, knowing I can cut if I need to. I tuck it into my bag between the pages of my sketchbook, then head to my table, the scent of paint and brushes already stirring images in my mind.

Students straggle into class, some grabbing their stuff and leaving, others sitting down to work. Mrs. Archer rushes in, her cheeks flushed, her copper hair shining. She winks at me from across the room, and I wish, as I always do, that she was my mother. I smile inside, but I ache, too. If I could put her and Carolyn together, I’d have the perfect mom—someone who understands my art, someone who understands my soul—and both of them like me just the way I am. But I know it’s stupid to even think about.

Mrs. Archer bends over a student’s work, and I twirl my paintbrush in my hand. If I were to paint her, I’d paint the warmth in her eyes, the brightness of her smile, and the way her nose crinkles up when she laughs. I’d paint the way her eyes take a person in, understanding and accepting everything and encouraging more. And I’d paint a tiny, inch-high figure of me, curled up in her and Carolyn’s outstretched hands. But I haven’t dared to paint either of them yet. It would make what I feel too real.

I dip my brush into the gouache, coating just the tip. The thick, opaque color clings to the bristles. Maybe I’ll paint Carolyn and Mrs. Archer today. Maybe I’m ready. But when I put my brush to paper, it’s Meghan who appears in the swirls of crimson, orange, and black. Pain flows from my fingertips and onto the paper, spreading before me like blood. The painting comes easily, like it’s been waiting for me. A quick stroke of crimson here, a dab of black there, and then I’m done. I straighten up. The heavy ache inside me has gone.

I rinse my brush, then touch the soft, cool tips of the bristles to my lips. It feels comforting and somehow soothing.
I need painting almost as much as I need cutting maybe more. Because if I couldn’t paint, I’d be a girl without a mouth. I say things through painting that I can’t say any other way. It’s how I pull up hidden truths, express the pain that I hide from others. But when things are really bad, it’s only my utility knife that releases the screams inside me.

Mrs. Archer leans over my work. “Wow. I like this,” she says, tracing the dark, harsh lines of the figure. I’ve painted a girl, eyes huge and hurt, holding a flame out toward the darkness—only the flame is licking back to catch her hair.

“I like your use of symbolism here,” she says. “It’s very dark—but very strong. And your use of color is startling, yet pleasing. This is a piece to be proud of.”

For a moment, I see my painting the way she does, with its beauty and strength. And then I start taking it apart, noticing the hand that’s out of proportion, the shadows that are too deep. Mom would point all that out, telling me how stark and depressing it is or how the lack of color puts people off. And Dad would just say it’s beautiful; he says that about all my art.

I look at my painting again and see how awkward it really is.

I slump against the table, holding my head in my hands.

“I’d like to display this, if I could,” Mrs. Archer says. “Maybe it’ll inspire some of my other students to paint like you.”

I hunch away from her words. “You want them to paint things that scare people?” I force a laugh.

“No, Kendra. I want them to paint from the gut, where the real power is.”

I can’t laugh that one away. I know that’s what I do.

I sit up straighter. “Thanks, but I’d like to keep this one.”

Mrs. Archer pats the tabletop. “I understand.”

But I’m not sure I do.

I look around for Meghan in the cafeteria, but I don’t see her anywhere. I feel disappointed, almost angry—as if we’d planned to get together. But girls like Meghan don’t mix with girls like me.

I sit down at the table where Sarah and I always sat, then take out my lunch and sketchbook, touching the X-acto knife beneath it for reassurance. There’s a group of girls at the other end, all talking and laughing. But they won’t bother me. They never do. Bothering me would mean having to acknowledge me, and they’re way too cool for that.

I sharpen my pencils and press a 4B against the page, enjoying its soft darkness. I sketch as I eat, Meghan’s face appearing on the page. I can’t stop thinking about how beautiful she is—and how sad. She looks like a model, with natural highlights in her brown hair, a great body, and intense green eyes. And she knows it; I can tell by the way she tosses her hair over her shoulders, pouts her lips, and wears revealing clothes. I wonder if it bothers her, the way guys
fall all over her, only looking at her body and not at what’s in her eyes. Maybe all their attention helps her forget her sadness for a while. Or maybe it makes her feel more alone.

I watch for her the rest of the day, but I don’t see her again. I wonder if the principal has sent her home to her drunken mother, if he even knows what she faces at home.

When the last bell rings, I walk the halls, looking for anyone who might be friends with her. She mostly hangs out with boys, if she hangs out with anyone at all.

I spot one: Jerry Farnsworth—tall, blond, and cute. A year older than we are. I swallow down my nervousness and walk up to him. “You know Meghan Ellis, right?” My voice squeaks.

“Who wants to know?” Jerry looks down at me. His smooth, tanned face is so handsome it’s almost pretty, and he’s wearing designer jeans and a dress shirt. A lot of girls in this school would love to have a reason to talk to him—but all I want to do is run away.

I wipe the sweat off my upper lip and blow the hair out of my face. “I just want to know where her locker is.”

Jerry zips up his backpack and looks at me with his sky blue eyes. “You’re not one of those bitches out to get Meghan, are you?”

I stare at him, not sure I’ve heard him right. The words don’t seem to fit his handsome face.

Jerry closes his locker and turns to face me, his arms crossed over his chest. “Are you one of those catty types who makes life hell for Meg, or not?” He squints at me. “You don’t really look the type.”

Right. I’m not one of the beautiful people. Cute,
maybe, but not the obsessed-with-my-looks, caught-up-in-social-status type
.

“No—I just want to be her friend,” I say. I sound like I’m in second grade.

Jerry smiles like he finds me funny. “First locker after the science lab—208.”

“Thanks.” I turn to go.

“Hold on a sec.” Jerry catches me by my arm. His gaze moves down my body slowly, pausing at my breasts.

Heat sweeps through me, blazing in my face. I wonder if he’s looking at me like that because he knows what the man did to me. Maybe it’s something boys can pick up on, the way a dog can smell when another dog is in heat. Jerry leans forward suddenly, smelling like tuna fish, and presses his open lips against mine. They’re thick and rubbery, and they make me want to gag.

I shove him away, and then I’m running as fast as I can. I don’t know if the laughter in my head is Jerry’s or
his
.

I want to cut again, but I can’t do it here. I stuff a note into Meghan’s locker and then head for home. The closer I get, the slower my steps become, and the heavier my body feels. It’s as if each step releases sedatives into my blood-stream. When I get to our street, I can see Mom standing in the doorway, ready to greet me like a social worker at a new job. Ever since she found out about the abuse, it’s been her new role in life. It’s like she thinks that if only she’d given me more attention, the abuse never would’ve happened. And who knows? Maybe she’s right.

I clench my teeth, swallow down all the words that
want to fly out of me like hornets to sting her.
It’s too late to fix things, Mom! Where were you, anyway, when he was raping me? Why didn’t you protect me?
I reach the door, and Mom swings it open wide, the smell of turpentine and oil paint slapping my face.

I can’t meet her eyes. She’s interrupted work for me—again. “Don’t bother me when I’m painting” is the law in our house. It makes me feel like I don’t matter; I used to imagine screaming to get Mom’s attention. I’m getting it now—not because of me, but because of what happened to me. And it feels all wrong.

I edge past her into the living room. She follows me so closely that she bumps into me when I stop.

“How was your day?” she asks in a fake-cheerful voice.

I shrug.
Why don’t you just leave me alone? You don’t really want to know how I feel.

“Kendra?” Mom comes around and peers at me, a tremble creeping into her smiling mouth.
Like she actually cares, after all these years of not asking.

“It was fine,” I say in a clipped voice.

“Oh.”

She looks away. I know she’s disappointed. I’m not fake-happy enough. Not chatty and smile-even-if-you’redying the way she is. I look past her and notice her painting propped up on the easel, glistening wet. Another forest scene. Technically perfect, with tiny, controlled strokes, as exact as a photo. But it feels empty to me, like there’s no one behind the paintbrush. No emotion. Like a computer-generated image.

“I made a snack for you,” Mom says, motioning toward the table.

Tofu dip and carrot sticks.
Woo–hoo
. “Thanks.” I pick up a carrot and bite into it. It tastes like turpentine.

“Sandy called again.” Her voice rises. “He said he had more books for you.”

He can’t have told her what the books are about. He wouldn’t.
“I’ll pick them up later.”

“I don’t want you going over to his house too often.”

“Why not?”

She gets a strange look on her face, almost as if she’s mad at me. “Because he’s a grown man. And because … I worry about you.”

“You don’t need to worry, Mom.”
The worst has already happened
. “Sandy wouldn’t hurt me. You should know; he’s your friend, too!”

“A friend who’s a man. And he’s—you know—
gay
.”

Got a little hidden prejudice there? Man, what would you do if you knew about me?

“Why does he want you around, anyway? It’s not natural.”

You mean you can’t figure out why someone likes me.
“Just because he’s gay doesn’t mean he can’t be friends with a girl.”

Mom grimaces, as if my words make her smell something sour—like vomit. I don’t think she knows how bad she looks when she does that; if she did, she wouldn’t do it.

I pretend I don’t see. “It’s pretty common for gay men to have women friends.”

“Women friends. Not girls.”

Her face looks so different from her usual smooth mask. My fingers itch to get it down on paper—a thin charcoal smudge for the curl of her lips, burnt umber to emphasize the deep lines of her face, a sepia wash for the rest … .

“You have to be careful around men, honey. I’d think you, of all people, would know that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I clench my fists so hard, the scabs rip open again.

Mom’s hands flutter. “I don’t think you should be alone with him. You know how men are … . ”

“God, you’re the one who used to take me over there when I was little! Besides, he’s a decent guy. He wouldn’t hurt me like that.”
He can’t have; I like him too much
.

“Well, I want you to be careful. Let me know when you leave. And don’t stay too long. Really, that’s just good manners.” Her expression softens. “I care about you, Kendra, whether you believe it or not.”

“I know you do.”
But not the way I need you to
. I try not to choke on the stench of oil and turpentine. “Your painting is good, Mom.”

“Your father thinks so, too.” She looks at me with that funny expression again. “He says he likes watching me paint; I remind him of the girl he fell in love with.”

Oh gag
. I don’t know what to say. “Well, I’ve got a lot of homework—”

“Your father thinks it’s strange that you’re not painting any more. We both do. He’s worried about you.”

“I’m
fine
,” I say.

“Oh, honey, I wish you’d let me teach you again. You were showing such improvement!”

I keep my voice level and steady, though I feel like screaming. “I’m not ready to paint.”

“But you were always so happy when you painted. Remember?”

No. I was happy before you started telling me everything I was doing wrong. It’s funny how you glide right over that, like Carolyn never got you to back off.

I glare at her neat rows of paints and brushes, all lined up on the dining room table according to color, size, and type. I could never work like that—so rigidly.

“Honey, don’t let what you went through color your entire world. Don’t let it make you give up painting.”

I’m not giving it up
, I almost say, but I stop myself, just in time. “I still love art. That hasn’t changed.”

“Appreciating art is not the same thing as creating it!”

“Can we just drop it?”

“Of course.” But she smiles too brightly, and I know I’ve hurt her.

“I’m still an artist,” I say.

Her eyes glisten. “I know you are.”

I squirm, the truth pinching at me. But I know if I show her my paintings, she’ll critique the joy right out of them, the way she did with my oils. And then what’ll I have left?

Mom straightens the collar of my blouse. “How was your session with Carolyn?”

My heart pounds in my ears. I can’t talk about the abuse. And I don’t want to share Carolyn with her. Carolyn’s the one good thing that Mom can’t touch. “It went fine.”