The Art of Getting Stared At (18 page)

“At the end of this week.” I reach for my stack of books. “Which story today, Miss Jade?”

But she isn't interested in my books. Smudgy shadows circle her ebony eyes as she stares up at me. “Can I come?”

I tweak her nose. “Don't you have better things to do?”
Chemo? Getting better?

“No.” Her head makes a
swish swish
noise against the pillow when she shakes it. “Can I?” She looks at Latanna. “Please, can I go? Please?”

“I don't think the doctors will let you but Miss Cookie asked if she could bring her camera here and film you the next time the clowns come. What do you think of that?”

Her eyes widen. “A real camera like they use for movies?”

I grin. “Yes, a real camera like they use for movies.”

“And I could be
on
it?”

I nod. “Yes.”

She beams. “That would be so, so fun.
So fun
,” she repeats in case I didn't get it the first time.

Latanna brushes the hair off her forehead. “And something for you to look forward to, right?”

“Right!”

I hadn't thought of that. “If you're sure.”

“We're sure!” Jade says.

Latanna laughs. And, in spite of my misgivings, I do too.

“You're late,” Kim snaps when I step through the front door just before five. Her stilettos beat out an angry
tap tap
rhythm against the hardwood as she hurries to the closet. She's perfectly made up—big surprise—but her lips are tight, her movements jerky. “I texted you. Didn't you get my message?”

“No.” My knapsack hits the floor with a thump.

She glances down. “That doesn't belong there.”

I pick it up.

“Don't you check your phone?” she asks.

“Not at the hospital.”

She lifts a brow. “Honestly, Sloane, you should check your phone
regularly
in case the specialist calls and can see you sooner. What's the point of having a phone if you don't use it?”

I refuse to be baited. “You didn't say anything this morning about having to go out tonight and I didn't think dinner was until six.”

“I don't have to clear my schedule with you.” She thrusts her arms through a butterscotch-coloured leather jacket, smoothes her black skirt. “Something's come up. I needed you here an hour ago.”

“Sorry.” But I'm not. Not until Kim turns away and I
catch sight of Ella slumped on the living room couch. Her arms are crossed; she is pouting. Crap. Don't tell me Kim's taken out her anger on my little sister?

Kim grabs her purse from the hall table. “There's a vegan bean casserole in the fridge. It'll need about forty minutes in the oven, which is already on.” Her keys jangle when she picks them up. “You can grate some cheese for Ella but I'd pass on the cheese if I were you.” She studies my face through narrowed eyes. “You look like you're putting on weight and that's the last thing you need at a time like this.”

I stiffen. Nice.

She opens the door. Before she steps outside, she looks back and says, “If there's an emergency, call my cell. Unlike some people, I answer mine.” She slams the door behind her.

I toss my knapsack in the corner and walk into the living room. “How're you feeling?” I ask Ella as I flop in an easy chair across from her.

She's picking at a random thread on a pale blue pillow. Her eyes are puffy, like she's been crying. “Bad. Sad. Mad.”

Right back at you, sister.
“What's wrong?”

“Mom won't let me go to Hannah's sleepover.” As Ella tells me who else is going and what Hannah has planned, Jade's face floats through my mind. There'll be no sleepovers for her. Not for a while anyway. Maybe never. I shiver. All the little moments of life we take for granted when they're happening. Like this. Right now. Being with Ella.

“Why won't she let you go?”

Ella's lower lip folds down. “She says I'm too young for sleepovers.”

Too young, my ass. Kim buys Ella purses meant for twenty-year-olds. Lets her wear makeup. She just doesn't like
Hannah's mother because she's on welfare. I heard her say that to Dad last week.

“She bought me a hat instead.”

I stiffen. “A hat?”

“Instead of the sleepover. She said it would make me feel better.” A tiny frown creases her forehead. “Don't feel bad, Sloane. She got you one too. Mine's brown, yours is blue.”

I clench my teeth so hard my jaw hurts. First makeup and now hats. What's next? Matching outfits? “I'll talk to her.”

Ella brightens. “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” It probably won't do any good, but if it'll make Ella feel better, there's no harm. Plus I need to tell her what she can do with her hat. “When she comes home tonight.” I toss a leg over the side of the chair.

“Mom would kill you if she saw you doing that.”

“I know.” I toss my other leg over, swing them back and forth.

Ella giggles. And then she turns serious. “Are you sick?”

I stop swinging my legs. “Why are you asking that?”

“Mom said you had to see a specialist. That's for sick people.” She stares at me. “You aren't sick, are you Sloane?”

Sick? Not sick like Jade or any of the other kids I saw today, although Kim's buying sprees are making me nauseous. “I'm not sick now but I'll barf if I have to eat beans for dinner. You want to go for a walk? I'll buy you McDonald's.”

Ella jumps off the couch. “Yes!”

Later, when I'm getting Ella to bed, Dad calls. He seems surprised when I tell him Kim's not home, especially when I
say I'm not sure where she is. I quickly change the subject and talk about the video project instead, telling him about today's shoot at the university and our idea for the flash mob. Before he can ask how I'm feeling, I give the phone to Ella and she pleads her case for the sleepover. It takes me a long time to get her to bed after Dad's call. Finally she settles down, and I get to work on the video. Kim doesn't get home until almost midnight.

“Isn't it a little late for homework?” she asks when she walks into the kitchen and sees me sitting at the table with my laptop and notes. Isaac put the footage on a key and I'm already culling the good from the bad, even though we're still missing a couple of key scenes. “Shouldn't you be in bed by now?”

“Yeah, probably.” I power down the laptop. “Dad called. So did some guy named Martin. Just after you left.” We were halfway out the door when the phone rang. Ella didn't want me to go back. I shouldn't have.

“Right. I know.” She slides out of her heels and pads over to the counter where she reaches into the cupboard for a bag of coffee. “I connected with both of them.”

Oh man.
And did you tell Dad about Martin
? I give her a hard stare. “I'll just bet.”

She measures beans, pours them into the grinder, and turns to face me. Her eyeliner is smudged; she looks tired. “I don't like the implication behind your tone of voice, Sloane. We have to live together for the next two months. You need to be more civil.”

You need to show some loyalty to Dad
. “And you need to stop buying makeup and hats and pretending they're for Ella when we both know they're for me.”

She flicks on the grinder. After the whirring stops, she says, “I bought the hat for Ella because she was upset. She insisted on getting one for you.”

Right.
“I'm not allowed to wear hats at school.” With the exception of math and study hall, most teachers don't care but Kim doesn't need to know that. “And Ella was upset because you won't let her go to the sleepover. She told me.”

She measures grounds into the machine. “That's correct.” The rich smell of coffee fills the air.

“Ella is ten. She's old enough for sleepovers.”

“When you're a parent, you can make those decisions. Right now, I'm in charge.”

The anger I suppressed over her earlier comment about my weight coupled with my fear that she's cheating on Dad— it would kill him if he knew—flares. “So you'll buy Ella makeup and facials and let her do stuff most ten-year-olds don't, but when it comes to something normal like a sleepover, you say no. I don't get you.”

“And I don't get
you
. You make no effort at all. None.” She gazes at my pyjamas, glances down to my bare feet. “It's no wonder you and Matt didn't last.”

My breath hitches. “That's mean!”

“Maybe. And I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. But honest to God, Sloane, someone has to tell you a few simple truths. People judge you on your appearance. You may not like it but it's true. And now—” She glances at my head and quickly averts her eyes. “With your hair falling out, you have to try harder. You have to do
something
.”

Isaac thinks I'm hot. Beautiful. Isaac is also a flirt. “Let me tell you a few simple truths,
Kimberly
.”

She flinches at the use of her full name.

“There's a little girl in the hospital dying of cancer.” My voice is so thick and low I don't sound like myself. “Her mother would probably cut off her right arm if it meant her daughter could go to a sleepover. You may not believe it, but it's true. Because that's how some mothers are.” Moisture clouds my eyes. I grab my laptop and jump up from the table. I won't cry in front of her. “Ask
her
if appearances matter.” I bolt for the hall.

Kim's voice floats after me. “You forgot your notes.”

Bite me.

Kim's comments send me straight to the bedroom mirror. I stare at the contours of my cheeks. I don't think I've gained weight. I tug on the waistband of my pyjamas. If anything, my clothes are looser. Probably because I can barely choke down Kim's crappy health food.

But as I study my face, a lava flow of hot panic bubbles up. I
do
look different. Not quite myself. It's not the spots. I can't see them from this angle. I turn my head. There they are. I straighten my head; they disappear. And yet ... I stare into my face, now flushed with worry. Maybe my thinning hair is changing my appearance. Making me look heavier.

Desperate for I don't know what—support, reassurance, ideas to keep myself looking
like
myself—I crawl into bed with my laptop and visit a different alopecia chat room, one I've never checked before.

Big mistake.

I'm both horrified and fascinated by the incredibly personal details people share. The entries from guys moaning
about their receding hairlines make me wish they were here so I could slap them (a receding hairline? Please!). Messages from the serious sufferers talking about treatment side effects make me want to vomit. But the entry that hits me hardest and makes me cry is from a twenty-seven-year-old Irish woman who says her life was ruined when she went from a full head of hair to bald in a month.

Her words slam into my chest like a physical punch.
A month?
I curl into a fetal-like ball and resist the urge to run back to the mirror to see if I've lost more hair in the last ten minutes.