Skin (28 page)

And I’m strong enough to do it now. I’ve danced naked-faced in front of strangers. And I can stand on my head for as long as I want—yoga’s sinking in. I laugh sometimes, too, especially with Owen. And Devin and Rachel and Becca.

So I go on the Internet and find a copy of
Blue Moose
, by the author who wrote Joshua’s favorite children’s book, and I order a copy mailed to him. It feels good.

IT’S SNOWING. THE FIRST snow of the season. Dad talks about how weird this is. How when he was a kid snow started before Thanksgiving. Winter is shrinking. But it’s not gone. And, oh, I love this snow. I take some in my hand and I literally love it. I feel goofy.

There’s a male cardinal in the spruce tree. On one of those ugly bare lower branches that a gust of wind has already swept the snow from. He’s brilliant scarlet. And I love him, too. In fact, I’m in love with him.

I go inside and wash my hands, and I’m in love with the water that gushes from the spigot. And the soap. And the towel. And the towel rack.

Owen and I go sledding. Each in our own aluminum disk. But one time he invites me in his, and he circles his arms around me and we slide and swirl. I know he’s wanting more. And I know I have to tell him it won’t work. I can’t just talk about some vague kind of confusion. Sometime soon I have to explain point-blank that I don’t like him that way.

The next day I make the most delicious pea soup with Dante. We stand at the kitchen counter and chop side by side. Carrots and onions and celery and cabbage and potatoes and tomatoes. It’s perfect, looking out the kitchen window at the snow. I wonder where the fox is now.

“You know, Dante,” I say, “I’m okay these days.”

“Yeah,” he says. “So?”

“So you can stop being nice to me.”

“No shit? I can torture you again?”

I laugh.

“Okay, Slut. I’m out of here. You finish.” And he leaves.

But I don’t even care. It’s more normal this way.

I dump the rest of the chopped vegetables into the pot and put a lid on and talk Mamma into watching it while I go to the mall. I need a long walk right now. It’s just too beautiful.

I fall in love with every car that passes. With every telephone pole. And when I finally get there, with the whole busy parking lot.

Slinky’s selling perfume to a man. Oh, I know her name is Carey, but somehow the name Slinky is still in my head and it’s not bad to let it stay, now that I know the label means nothing. Slinky leans toward the man. I eavesdrop. He buys two bottles.

When he leaves, I say, “You’re good at that.”

She turns to me, her mouth opens and stops slack for a second, then on she goes into a big smile of welcome. “Merry Christmas. Or belated Merry Christmas. Or early Happy New Year.”

“It’s called vitiligo. Do you want me to go through my whole speech about it, or will the name be enough?”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not the way you mean.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Is it dangerous?”

“You won’t get it. And I won’t die of it.”

She taps her fingers thoughtfully on her lips. “It’s an interesting challenge.”

“Forget it. I’m through with makeup. No lipstick, no nothing.”

“Good. That’s a good decision.”

“Is that a mother’s approval or a professional cosmetics clerk evaluation?”

“Both. This way you’re unique. Can I sell you shampoo, then?” She smiles and there’s a wicked glint in her eye. “I
have some that will make you smell like vanilla. Appropriate, no?”

“I bet you don’t sell any of that to your African-American customers.”

“You lose. Vanilla is popular; everyone likes to smell like a pound cake. Or a pumpkin pie. Want pumpkin shampoo? Or eggnog? Oh, yeah, how about eggnog shampoo?”

“Are you trying to get me eaten alive?”

“Eaten, huh?” Slinky leans across the counter and whispers, “Did you bed the football hunk?”

“I never called him a hunk.”

“But he is, right?”

“That’s ancient history.”

“Are you sad about it?”

“Some parts of it. Not all.”

“Hmmm. So who are you in love with now?”

“Did I ever say I was in love with the football guy?”

“High school girls are always falling in love.”

I grin. I wonder if Slinky knows what a genius she is. “I’ll take a bottle of vanilla shampoo.” I’m already in love with it.

Slinky rings up the sale and hands me the bag. “You’re pretty, you know.”

I hold my eyes on hers. It takes a few seconds before I find my voice. “Thanks. So are you.”

“I mean it.”

“I do, too.”

She waves. “A mutual admiration society. Don’t be a stranger.”

The next day Mamma and Daddy go into New York City on the train. They leave early. And Dante disappears on me again. He took the you-can-stop-being-nice-to-me declaration to heart.

Just before noon the doorbell rings. I open it.

Joshua Winer stands there.

Tears spring to my eyes. But it’s just a physical thing. I’m not sad. In fact, my pulse races. I can hear it inside my temples. “Hello, Joshua.”

“I got the book. Thank you.” His eyes take me in. I can tell he’s really seeing me for the first time since I’ve been out of the closet. A steely determination runs along the line of his jaw.

“Oh. It came fast,” I say. “I meant it for your birthday.”

“Yeah, well.” He’s wearing his jacket—the same jacket he wore in fall. It was too heavy then. It’s too light now. His hands are deep in his pockets.

“You must be cold.” I step aside. “Come in?”

He comes inside and I shut the door behind him.

“I hope you like the book.”

“I read it already. It’s great.”

“Good.” I look down at his sneakers, dripping snow on the floor. “Want some pea soup?”

“No. Thanks. Here.” He pulls a small, skinny package out of his pocket.

“What’s this?”

“Your present.”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“It will be someday.”

I open the present. It’s a flat pen, unlike any I’ve ever seen before. I read off the side: “Strawberry Red? What is this?”

“Henna Penna. It’s natural coloring for your lips. I know you’re not covering up anymore, but in case you ever want to add a little color just for fun, this is an easy way. And it lasts longer than lipstick.”

Now tears do come, real tears. I blink them back. “You’re with Sharon now.”

“Yes.”

I put the Henna Penna pen in my pocket and force myself to smile. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Good.”

“I’m glad.”

He turns to go. Then he stops. He looks over his shoulder at me. He shakes his head. Then he turns to face me again. “I was furious with you for so long.” He lifts his
hands, then shoves them in the pockets of his jacket so hard, I’m surprised the cloth doesn’t rip. “Not at first. At first, I was just a mess. You dropped me, like snapping your fingers. Poof. I was gone. Banished.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, Sharon helped out. She’s complicated, and… I don’t know, but she’s got this way of coming through when you really need her.”

I do my best to smile. “That’s good.”

He gives a little laugh. “Whatever. Anyway, then you came to school without makeup, and I saw what had happened, and I understood. That’s when I got furious.” His fists are still pushing against the inside of his pockets and I can see the outline of his knuckles. He looks down a moment and when he looks back up again, his eyes shine with anger. “You had no right, Sep. You treated me like a jerk. Like some superficial asshole.”

I blink at the word. This isn’t how Joshua talks. “I protected you.”

“I didn’t ask to be protected.”

“I cried a lot.”

“I could have cried with you.”

“I shouted a lot.”

“I could have shouted with you.”

“I was afraid of that. Afraid you’d regret it all later.”

“You can’t know that. I don’t even know. I’ll never know. You didn’t let me find out. In your great quest to find the true Sep you robbed me of any chance.”

I wipe away tears. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s like you decided who I was. And I hated the person you decided I was. And it made me wonder if that’s who I really am.” He shakes his head. “You messed with me.”

“It wasn’t that. You deserved better, Joshua.”

“See? There you go again. Figuring out what I need. What I want. Who the hell gave you that right?”

“No one.” My voice comes like a high-pitched squeal. “And it’s not true anyway. It’s me I disappointed.” Tears come, but I swallow and keep talking. “I was afraid you’d stick with me out of chivalry. I couldn’t stand the idea of seeing pity in your eyes. I put all that on you and I’m sorry. I put it on you… because…” I stop to swallow my tears. “… because I wanted to dump me. Can you understand that? I was so mad at myself for getting vitiligo—for not being able to do anything to fix it. It’s me I couldn’t love. Not you. You’re good and I know you’re good, and I think that made it even harder. You were too good for me.” I’m wiping fast but the tears are coming faster. “I wish I hadn’t shut you out. I wish I hadn’t been so self-centered and stupid. I was wrong. I’m really sorry, Joshua.”

“Good. That’s all I wanted to say.” He lets out a long
breath. “No. No, it isn’t. Did you know? Did you know from the start? Did you set out to use me? To have your little fling before this skin thing got too bad?”

I can’t speak.

“’Cause that stinks worse. Other people have feelings, Sep. I have feelings. There’s more to life than just your pain.”

I nod. The tears stream and I wish I’d dissolve. “It was… mixed up. The best thing in my life and the worst thing in my life were happening at the same time. And they got locked together. I know you got hurt. I hurt you—I know that. I’m sorry. I’m sorrier than I’ve ever been for anything ever in my whole life.” I’m wiping the tears and the snot, but everything keeps coming. “Is that all now?”

“I think so. I’ll come back if it’s not.”

“I’ll be here. Joshua…?”

“What?”

“I loved you. I love you.”

“Well… thank you for telling me. I’m glad you told me. Next time you love someone find a better way to show it.” He shrugs. “One last thing.”

I cringe inside.

“I’m not that good. Maybe you just saw what you wanted to see.”

And he’s gone.

I sink to my knees and lower my forehead into the puddle left by his shoes.

I was lousy to him. Wretched. And he is that good, no matter what he says. I should have been good, too.

But he’s all right now. He made it through. He’s happy with Sharon. I’m glad he’s happy with her.

I go to the kitchen and come back with a rag to clean up the floor. Then I look through Dad’s jazz CDs and put on Louis Jordan.

I go into the living room and dance. It’s not like Jazz Dance Club, where we have the whole gym, so we can run and leap and kick like maniacs. But there’s still plenty of room to move. And I love moving like this. Subtle and soft. It isn’t compulsion. I’m not a swift anymore. I’m not a tuna.

Joshua didn’t say he loved me back.

There could be nine hundred reasons why he wouldn’t say it. But the fact is, he didn’t.

But someday someone will. Someone will love me.

And I will let him.

I will love him back good next time. Like Joshua said, I’ll find a better way to show it.

I drop onto the couch and fall back into the cushions. I don’t want to be alone right now. I want to be with a friend. Not a lover. A friend. And I know a friend who probably wants to be with me.

I use the phone, of all things. Texting has its limitations.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Owen.” And I suddenly realize I never thanked him. “Thank you for
The Things They Carried
.”

“You liked it?”

“I keep it under my pillow.

“That sounds good.”

“Are you free?”

“Sure.”

“Hungry?”

“Sure.”

“I have pea soup.”

“I love pea soup. And I’ll show you a video clip on the Internet, about this mathematician-dancer, Karl Schaffer, who works algebra into his floor patterns.”

“That sounds great.”

“It is. I’ve been surfing dance sites ever since your dance performance. This one is perfect for you.”

I swallow. “There’s something else, Owen. I have to tell you something.”

“What?”

“I like you, Owen. I guess I love you. But I’ll never be your girlfriend.”

A moment of silence.

“So?”

“So do you still want to come over?”

“Do you really have pea soup?”

I can hear the smile in his voice. I laugh. “Hurry up. It’ll be ready by the time you get here.”

Thanks
to Eva, Robert and Barry Furrow, Suheily Aponte, Sarah Babinski, Brenda Bowen, Dan Consiglio and his students in the U.S. Literature class at the Nueva Esperanza Academy of Philadelphia in 2008–2009, Libby Crissey, Nikyyah Cruz, Dena Davis, Alice Galenson, Sarah Geselowitz, Sally Hess, Annette Hoeksema, Abby Holtzman, Mimi Huerta, Britany Johnson, Samara Leist, Grace Leonard, Zaida Melendez, Rosa Mykyta-Chomsky, Rachel Platt, Kristina Pratts, Juan Ramos, Natasha Santiago, Jeanette Shaw, Richard Tchen, Talia Tiffany, Robert Velez. Thank you to Margery Cuyler, for believing in this story. And a special thank you to Melanie Kroupa, with her very sharp mind and pencil.