Scars (5 page)

Sandy hangs his apron on the hook behind him. “The books are in the kitchen. Emil brought them over last night.”

I follow him back into the bright, airy room. It’s like a designer kitchen on a budget, with fake marble countertops, halogen lights, and used but top-quality appliances. Stainless steel pans and pots hang from hooks in the ceiling alongside dried herbs from his garden. Sandy takes his cooking almost as seriously as his pottery.

I head over to the yellowed pine table where a bunch of hardcover art books are fanned out in a half circle, a vase of pink rosebuds behind them. The roses fill the room with their scent.

I nudge him. “I see that’s not all Emil brought you.”

Sandy blushes right up to the roots of his ginger hair. “Emil’s a sweetheart.”

“And it doesn’t hurt that he’s cute!”

“Ah, Kendra, you know me too well,” Sandy says, slapping his chest and smiling. He and Emil make a handsome couple—light and dark, muscular and thin, both of them with kind faces and gentle eyes. If they ever raise a child together, that kid will be so lucky, growing up in a house full of love.

I start flipping through the books. The vibrant colors and textures are like music, the artists’ voices each singing in their own tone, yet coming together in a richness that
stirs my creativity. The artwork feeds my soul, giving me something I need. But I can’t take the books home, or Mom will know I’m still painting.

“Thank you! I love them.”

“Kendra—”

Something in his voice makes me look up. He’s got that worried frown between his eyes again.

“Your mother called.”

“Again? Okay…”

“She asked me how I thought you were doing.”

I let go of the book. “You didn’t tell her—”

“No; it’s none of her business what we talk about.”

I let out my breath. “I’ll bet she didn’t like that.”

“She didn’t.” He clears his throat. “She also told me your dad got downsized. I know how much you rely on Carolyn. I’d like to pay for your next few sessions.”

I can’t accept. Money’s tight for Sandy. And how could I ever pay him back? Yet I want to accept his offer so badly. Heat flares in my cheeks.

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Sure you can. You know I’d pay for more, if I could afford it. Let me do this; it’ll make me feel good. I wish I’d had a therapist when I was your age. It would have saved me a lot of grief.”

I wrestle with myself. But I need therapy, and I know Sandy means it. “All right. Thank you.” Crisis put off—at least for the next week or so. I set my portfolio down on the table. “But I still need a way to pay for the rest. I thought you might know where to sell these.”

Sandy sits down beside me, unzipping my portfolio. He goes through the paintings one by one, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but always silently. Now and then, he nods or picks one up to study it.

My mouth feels too dry to swallow. I’ve never shown anyone so much of my art before, especially not all at once. I’ve never let anyone see so much of me, revealed so much of myself. Because it’s my self that I’m showing—I have no doubt about that—my hopes and dreams, my nightmares and memories, all mixed together with bits of my soul.

Maybe I should have left some of the paintings at home. Especially the one he just uncovered—a naked girl with thick white bandages half covering her crotch and screaming mouth. I hadn’t even thought about the bandages, about what they might be saying. My heart pounds in my ears, but Sandy flips the painting over and looks at the next one—and the next.

I unclench my hands. Some of the paintings seem happy, until you look closer and see the corner of pain—the tree woman with an axe sticking out of the earth near her roots; the child holding a ball of light, a look of wonder on her face, while blood drips from her cracked hands. I don’t know why I can’t paint happy. Maybe I’m afraid I’ll end up dead inside, like Mom. Or maybe I just know pain better than anything else.

Sandy picks up the next painting, and I catch my breath. I don’t know how I could have let this one slip by—a girl climbing up the edge of a utility knife, her arms and legs gouged open to the bone. How much more obvious—and
stupid—could I be? My breath is high and tight in my chest. I clench my hands in my lap, willing Sandy to put the painting down and pick up the next one.

Sandy looks at me, his eyes dark and worried. “Is there anything I should know?”

“No,” I squeak.

He keeps looking at me and I can’t look away.

“Kendra, I know how much it hurts. Sometimes it can get so bad, you think you can’t survive it. But you can. You will.”

Oh, God. Don’t let him know.
I push back my chair, ready to run.

Sandy sets the painting down. “You’re not thinking of killing yourself, are you?”

I’m so relieved I almost laugh. “Not right now.”

“Good. Because you have so much to live for, Kendra. You’re bright and talented—and things will get better for you, I promise.” Sandy reaches over and takes my hand, holds it in both his huge ones, his face serious. “If anything ever happened to you, I’d be devastated.”

“It’s okay, Sandy. I’m not thinking about suicide right now, I promise.”
Not since I started cutting.
“Six months ago, maybe—but not right now.”

“You telling me the truth? I read that gay teenagers are three times more likely to kill themselves than straight ones—” He looks at me intentely.

“Yes! I swear.”

“Well, you make sure you talk to me if you need to—any time, day or night.” He clears his throat. “You’re special
to me, Kendra; you’re like the daughter I never had. I care very much about what happens to you.”

A warm spot grows in my belly. “I—thanks, Sandy.”

“You betcha.” He hugs me hard, his rough cheek warm against my skin.

Shadows flutter inside me—but it
can’t
be Sandy. I need it not to be.

Sandy lets me go. “You okay?”

I nod and casually lean back.

“Well.” Sandy stacks my paintings together. “Are you sure you want to sell these? Your art is—”

“Too personal?”

“I was going to say
powerful
. Once you sell them, you’ll never be able to get them back.”

I swallow hard. “I know. But I’ve got to be able to keep working with Carolyn.”

“All right. Let me give these to Emil. He’ll get them hung in the Java Cup; the owner is one of us. And maybe he can get them in a few galleries, too. Sound good?”

“Perfect! Thank you, Sandy.” I hug him quickly. No shadows this time.

“And Kendra—if you decide you want to keep any of these pieces, just give me a call. I’d have no qualms about pulling them off the walls.”

I laugh. “I will.”

The phone shrills loudly.

I roll my eyes. “I’ll bet that’s my jailer, calling to check on me. I’d better get back.”

“You want me to walk you home?”

“Nah, I’m okay.”

It’s dark outside, darker than when I left the house, and a few of the streetlights are out. There’s a haze in the air like a thin fog, blurring everything. A cat screeches like someone stepped on its tail. I walk quickly past the parked cars, the rows of shadowy houses; some are still and dark, while others show the blue glow of TVs flickering in their windows.

Behind me, something rustles.

The hair rises on the back of my neck. I walk faster.

Footsteps echo behind me.

I spin around. Even through the gloom, I can see a man in a dark trench coat about a block away, a hat pulled down over his forehead, his face hidden in shadow.

My heart flutters. I start running, and the footsteps follow me, slowing when I slow, speeding up when I do. I’m sobbing, breath caught in my throat, and still the footsteps come, and I’m barely ahead of them.

I burst into the house, slam the door shut, and lock it. And then I stand there, shaking, until Mom comes to see who it is.

At school, I look for Meghan again. There’s something about her that draws me to her. Maybe it’s the tough-girl act that I know covers her vulnerability, or maybe it’s that I know nobody sees her for who she really is. Just like nobody sees me—nobody except Carolyn and Sandy. And Sarah; Sarah used to.

Meghan’s the first person who’s interested me since Sarah left; she’s the first person who’s made me think I might want to open myself up again. But I don’t see her anywhere, not even near Danny’s charred locker. What if her mother’s giving her problems? Or what if she got freaked out by my note?

I go to class when the bell rings, but I can’t focus on what the teacher’s saying. Whenever I start to relax, I hear the footsteps again. I keep my backpack on me, never letting it out of my sight. I’m afraid
he
knows that the art therapy group starts today, afraid that’s what set him off.

Artists show so much through their art—and not always consciously. We show things in our choices of color or the lack of it; in what we decide to paint; and even in our
brush strokes—like the way my mom’s are so controlled, while mine are so fluid. Art is like a printout of my soul, showing all the things I can’t say. And if
he’s
near me still, if he’s watching me, he already knows that.

Teachers’ voices move in and out of my awareness like a weak radio signal. Even in art class, it’s hard for me to keep my attention on Mrs. Archer. But I hear enough to know that we’re drawing in black, white, and shades of grey today. It’s a challenge that would normally have me leaping up to get my supplies before everyone else, but today I hang back, picking up whatever’s left over.

Back at my seat, I stare at the blank page. The greys and blacks of charcoal and graphite remind me of the shadows, of
him
—and I can’t let myself go there.

I clench my pencil, unable to make a mark on the page. Mrs. Archer walks past me slowly. I know she’s noticed I haven’t even started, but she doesn’t say anything. She always seems to know when to push me and when to leave me alone.

I sketch a few light lines, erase them, then start again.
Meghan
.
Think of Meghan.

I keep my mind focused on her as I work, shutting out everything else.

I draw Meghan’s face, grinning cockily at me. I draw her with attitude, the tendrils of her hair becoming whips, keeping other people away. And I draw myself, coiled in one of her tendrils, her hair flowing up to join with mine. I rough out the background, filling it with texture that overlaps and intertwines.

Someone leans over me.

I jump.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Mrs. Archer says, touching my shoulder. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

“Of course not!”

Mrs. Archer sits down beside me, studying my drawing. I lean back and try to see with unclouded eyes.

The pencil strokes that make up Meghan’s and my hair are soft and winding, sharp only at the tips, but the background is harsh, almost chaotic in pattern. The contrast works well, but it’s somehow disturbing.

I stare harder and suck in my breath. The figure of a man, like a shadow, hovers in the background, his claw-like hands reaching toward one of the girls—towards me.

I glance quickly at Mrs. Archer, but I can’t tell if she’s seen it or not.

“This is very powerful, Kendra,” she says. “The emotion, the depth—it truly affects the viewer.”

“I’ve heard that before,” I say wryly.

Mrs. Archer looks at me quizzically. “It’s a
good
thing, Kendra. You make the viewer feel something when they look at your work. We need art like that in this world.”

I look into her warm eyes, eyes that take me in. I don’t know how she knew I’d heard what she said as a criticism—heard my mother’s voice echoing in hers—but somehow she did. And then she gave me the reassurance I needed, without my even having to ask for it.

Mrs. Archer tilts her head. “I noticed you were having some trouble getting started today. Is everything all right at home?”

“Everything’s fine!” I say quickly, my voice too bright—like my mom’s.

Mrs. Archer looks like she doesn’t quite believe me, but she nods, then goes back to my drawing. “The contrast works beautifully here. I wonder what would happen, though, if you heightened the contrast even more? If you brought these two figures”—she points to Meghan and me—“clearly into the forefront, and let the others take more of a backseat.”

I look at the drawing, my interest quickening. That’s
exactly
what I should do. The people Meghan’s keeping away—they’re peripheral, so they should look that way. And the man—I don’t want him to be there at all, but he is. At least he’s in the shadows, with his face obscured. He’ll stay darker than the other figures—he needs to be; it’s who he is. But the two girls will stand out like they’re filled with light.

“I get it!” I say. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Archer laughs as she stands. “It’s all you, Kendra.”

I go back to my drawing, working feverishly now, wanting to get it finished before the period ends. As I add the layers, the figures advance or recede, the way I thought they would.

The bell rings, snapping me out of my concentration. I shove my sketchbook into my bag, take my materials back up to the front, then stand waiting for Mrs. Archer to finish with another student.

She turns to me.

“It worked perfectly,” I say. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Archer shakes her head. “I just built on your idea. You’re the one who took it there.” She sets her notebook
down on her desk. “I don’t think you know how extraordinary you are, Kendra. I have several gifted students this year, though you’re by far the most talented. But the others—they’d improve by leaps and bounds if they learned how to listen to suggestions other than their own once in a while. But you—you listen to an idea, figure out how and if it fits into your vision, and then you run with it.”

She pauses, looks at me seriously. “I don’t know if you know what you’re going to do with your life, Kendra, but I hope you’ll always create art. You’ve got a powerful voice and a lot to say. And I think, if you keep at it, you’ll go quite far.”

Wow.
I take a step back, blinking. It feels wonderful and frightening, all at once, to have someone believe in me that much. I wish I could hang onto her voice instead of always hearing my mom’s.