The Art of Getting Stared At (19 page)

Eventually I pull up YouTube, where I watch our stupid shoe video about a thousand times until the sharp pain in my chest shrinks back to the small knot of panic that's taken up permanent residence behind my breastbone. And then, with images of yellow shoes dancing through my head, I turn out the light and try to sleep.

The next morning, I wake up with a sick, heavy feeling in my stomach. Once again, I consider skipping school, but I can't. I need to go to math and we're getting down to the wire on the video. Isaac and I need to check out a juggler down on Jefferson. With any luck, he'll be good enough to replace the laughter yoga shoot.

Still, I'm uneasy in my own skin. I don't know why. Kim's comments maybe? Or the memory of how Isaac looked at me yesterday? My worry that he'll get close again?

For reasons I choose not to analyze, I put more effort into my appearance. When Ella's in the shower, I sneak into
her room and grab one of the lipsticks and liner Kim bought. I pull on my new jeans and a pale blue top with floaty sleeves. I spray down my hair, position the fedora just so, and carefully outline my lips before applying lipstick. I study my reflection in the mirror. Gross. My lips are huge. I can't believe women pay big bucks for this bee-stung look.

Whatever. At least I look different now for a reason.

I feel okay until I get to school and see Mandee Lingworth. When she waves, I remember her words—
You look like you're trying to be pretty.
I tell myself that's got nothing to do with it. But still. My doubts and insecurities roar back. Instead of slowing down to talk to her, I wave and pick up my pace.

For the next few hours, I find myself avoiding eye contact with people. I slip into math at the last possible minute, keeping my head down while I do my work, and getting back out without talking to anyone. I spend first and third block hiding in study hall writing an intro for the video. Or I try to. In truth, I am so obsessed with my hair that I cannot concentrate on my script. And that scares me. I am more than the hair on my head. More than my looks.

I need to remember that.

Isaac has an appointment with his adviser at lunch, which means we can't link up until one. Normally I'd hang in the cafeteria with Lexi, but the less time I'm around people, the fewer potential questions I'll have to endure. So I go for a walk instead, treating myself to a lobster roll from a street vendor; I chase it down with a double cappuccino. It'll give me the energy I need for the afternoon with Isaac. When I get back to school, I duck into an out-of-the-way bathroom to check my hair and reapply lipstick before meeting him in the foyer.

And I run straight into Lexi.

“Where have you been?” She's at the mirror, smoothing her eye shadow. “I've been looking all over for you.”

A freshman is washing her hands at the sink beside us. I wait until she finishes and heads for the door. “I have cramps and I needed some painkillers so I walked over to the pharmacy.”

“Why didn't you go to the nurse?”

“I needed some air.” I straighten my hat; stare at my reflection in the mirror. The lipstick and liner I put on this morning is gone. Either I've chewed it off or my skin absorbs the stuff like a sponge soaking up water.

“I could have gone with you.”

“Kim's driving me nuts.” I dig around in my knapsack for a comb. “I needed some time alone to process.”

Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Too much tofu, huh?”

I manage a grin. “Something like that.”

Lexi drops the shadow compact into her bag. “She's such a hag, making you stay there for the whole two months.”

A sliver of guilt twinges but only a sliver. Given how nasty Kim is, I figure she's fair game as my excuse for not staying with Lexi or Harper, who also offered to call Kim when I told her the whole sad, made-up story. “Yeah, she's the original wicked stepmonster.”

She laughs.

I want Lexi to leave so I can fix my lips and hair privately. I keep digging through the knapsack, pretending I can't find my comb. After what seems like a century, the bell rings in the hall. “You go ahead.” I'm almost giddy with relief. “I'll see you later.”

“I'm in no hurry.” She puts her bag down. “I'll wait.”

Damn. I can't take my hat off now. Feigning indifference, I comb the ends of my hair before pulling out the lipliner.

“Whoa!” Lexi leans over. “Is that Dior Rouge?”

“Yeah.”

“When did you start wearing
that
?”

“When Kim bought it for me and Ella.” My hand is shaking as I outline my top lip.

She wrinkles her nose. “For
Ella
?”

“Yeah. You know Kim.” I finish my upper lip and go to work on my bottom one. When I'm finished, I toss it in my knapsack and dig around for the lipstick.

When I pull out the black tube, Lexi gives me a sly grin. “At least he's inspired you to ditch that stupid lip gloss.”

My heart starts to thrum. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh for God's sake, Sloane.” She giggles. “Isaac.”

“This isn't about Isaac.”

She lifts her eyebrows. “Riiight.”

“Seriously. It's not.”

She giggles. “Give it up, Sloane. We've known each other since grade two. You can't fool me.”

I open my mouth to protest further but Lexi adds, “You could use a little mascara and shadow but otherwise you look pretty good, Sloanie Baloney.”

The old nickname makes me grin.

“Even that hat's growing on me.” A tiny frown creases her brow as she assesses me in the mirror. “One thing though.”

“What's that?”

“You shouldn't pluck your eyebrows so much.”

I stare at my reflection. The air leaves me in a giant
whoosh
. My heart starts to race.

“That thin look doesn't suit you,” she adds.

Blood roars into my head. I cannot breathe. I'm not plucking my eyebrows. They're falling out.

Twelve

“O
h my God.”

“What's wrong?”

I realize I've spoken out loud. I clutch the edge of the counter and stare at my wispy brows. How did I miss something so obvious? No
wonder
I look different.

Lexi touches my arm. “Are you okay?”

My chest feels like it's going to explode. It's not normal for a heart to beat this fast. Maybe I'm having a heart attack.

“You're really pale all of a sudden.”

She sounds so far away. Somehow I find enough breath to say, “I have cramps.” I bend forward, clutch my middle. “I need to go home. You need to tell Isaac for me.”

“Okay.” She chews the corner of her mouth. “But you know something? You've been getting cramps a lot. You might have endometriosis. I read about this girl once—”

“Lexi, please! Just go find Isaac.” I need to get out of here. I need to talk to Mom. That thought makes me want to cry, except then Lexi will probably insist on calling an ambulance. “Tell him he'll have to shoot the juggler without
me.” I grab my knapsack and bolt for a stall. “He's waiting in the foyer.”

“Don't go anywhere,” Lexi orders as I lock myself in and lean against the door. The steel is cold through my flimsy new top. It makes me shiver. I take slow, deep breaths. “Okay?” she calls. “I think the school nurse should see you before you leave.”

When I don't answer, she bangs on the stall. I jump. “Okay?” she demands again.

Pressing a hand against my chest, I will my heart to slow. “Yeah, okay.” Seconds later, I hear the soft thud of the outside door signalling Lexi's departure.

Silently I count to ten. That should give her enough time to get down the hall and around the corner to the foyer. When I'm sure she's gone, I make my escape, heading in the opposite direction for the nearest outside exit. I'm not seeing the school nurse. I'm going home.

The sky is the colour of a trash can as I head north to get the number 1 bus instead of going south for my usual number 27. It means making a second exchange downtown but it's a small price to pay for privacy. When Lexi realizes I've left, she's liable to come after me and I don't want to talk to her.

What can I say?
Oh, by the way, I'm going bald?

A bead of moisture hits my cheek. Then another. And another. Great. It's starting to rain. And I don't have an umbrella. I pick up my pace, hurrying past a trio of kids who study me over the tips of their cigarettes as I walk by, and an older couple checking something on an iPhone.

Once they're behind me, I dig out my cell and pull up the number Mom programmed in when my appointment was confirmed.

“Dr. Paxton's office,” a nasally voice answers. “How may I help you?”

“I have an appointment with the doctor on the twenty-seventh,” I respond. A drop of rain hits my eye; I brush it away. “But I need to get it moved up.”

“Who's calling please?”

“Sloane Kendrick. Dr. Thibodeau referred me.”

“One moment while I pull your file.” She puts me on hold. Canned music fills my ear. The rain is heavier now; it slices into my hoodie like sharp chips of ice. Shivering, I stare down the street past a little Thai restaurant, a laundromat, a mailbox. Where
is
the bus stop?

After a minute, the woman returns. “I'm sorry, Miss Kendrick. The twenty-seventh is the best we can do.”

She
has
to fit me in. I struggle to say something, but I'm breathing so hard I'm almost hyperventilating.

“Miss Kendrick? Are you there?”

Panicked, I turn in a circle, trying to get my bearings.

“Miss Kendrick?”

“I'm here.” I take cover under the black and gold awning of a small brick apartment building. “What about a cancellation list? Do you have one?”

“We do but it's reserved for emergencies.”

“This
is
an emergency.”

“And what is the nature of—” She hesitates. “The emergency?”

I wait for a man walking a tartan-coated Westie to pass. “I'm losing my hair,” I blurt out. “My eyebrows too.”

“I'm sorry but that isn't classed as an emergency.”

What the f—?
How can she not get it? “Fine. Okay.” No amount of arguing will make her understand and I can't afford to piss her off. “Could you please just check again to see if you can fit me in any time before the twenty-seventh? I'll come in at lunch. Early in the morning. Last thing at night. I don't care.”

“One moment.” She puts me on hold a second time.

I peer down the street. No bus stop. I stand on my toes and look behind me. There, almost a block away, is the familiar red-topped bus shelter. I went too far. I walked right past it.

With a sigh, I pull my hoodie tight, step into the rain, and start retracing my steps.

“I'm sorry, Miss Kendrick, but the twenty-seventh is the best we can do.”

I step blindly off the curb, in front of a black Jetta. An angry honk fills the air.

I wave my apology at the driver of the car and go sideways to allow him to pass. And because I am still not looking where I'm going, I manage to step into the middle of an oil-slicked puddle. “Okay. Thanks.” For nothing.