The Art of Getting Stared At (2 page)

“Apparently they want to get away from hard-hitting stuff. Something in your shoe video caught their eye.” As I struggle to make sense of that, he adds, “Besides, you don't have time to produce two new pieces. The deadline is three weeks away—October sixteenth.”

Three weeks
to research, write, produce, and edit a video good enough to get a scholarship? “That's tight. Especially working alone. Plus, I'm only in grade eleven. It'd be eighteen months before I could enrol at Clear Eye.” And only if my parents agree, which is questionable. All the reasons why I
can't
do it keep mounting. “Maybe I could apply next year? That would give me more time.”

The truth is I'm scared. What if I try and fail? This is too important to screw up.

“Whoa.” Fisher holds up his hand. “I understand this is overwhelming. But opportunities like this are extremely rare. I've been teaching for twenty years and this has happened only once before. Clear Eye sees something in you they like. Right now. Today. They'll hold the scholarship until you graduate next year. If it were me, I'd seize the opportunity.” Fisher studies me for a minute and then adds, “I wouldn't encourage you if I didn't think you could do it. And if I didn't know how important film is to you.”

I am so light-headed I could float up to the ceiling. It's the kind of opportunity people dream about.
I've
dreamed about. “But
three
weeks?”

“I'll act as an adviser, but strictly hands off, of course.” He straightens the stack of DVDs on his desk. “I'll excuse you from class to do the necessary planning, scouting, and shooting, and I'll see if I can get you excused from your other classes too.”

My mind is already racing through timing, topics, and treatment. “I need a second person. Someone to operate the camera.” It's too much of a challenge to juggle everything myself. And the deadline leaves no time for screw-ups. “Can Matt be excused?” I'll swallow my pride and ask him to help. I have no choice. He's great with a camera.

“Matt isn't interested. But don't worry.” He motions someone forward. “I have a camera operator for you.”

I swivel around. When I meet a pair of laughing amber eyes, my heart flips like a dead turtle and sinks to my toes. Voice Man? a.k.a. Isaac Alexander? Fisher has to be kidding. Isaac saunters into the room from the doorway. What does he know about film?

“Hey.” He grabs a chair, flips it backwards, and straddles it with his long, jean-clad legs. “How's it going, sunshine?” He gives me that lopsided smile I know so well.

Sunshine?
That's what he called me last year when I figured—my thoughts skid to a stop.
Don't go there
. “I didn't think you were in this class.”
You're hardly even in this school. Much. Not since you got picked up by that PR firm.

“He is now,” Mr. Fisher says dryly. “Mr. Alexander needs two arts credits and the counsellor decided this class fits with his other commitments.”

Commitments like skipping school, charming girls, and doing voice-overs in his flirty baritone. I know exactly how that works. Isaac was in my socials class last winter and we teamed up for a project on Pearl Harbor. He promised to do his share of the work but all he did was flirt. At first I was charmed. I figured he liked me. I quickly realized Isaac likes all the girls. He flirted with every single one of them in that class and I ended up doing the socials project myself.

“I've agreed to take him on providing he works with you and does what you tell him to do.”

What you tell him to do.
Warmth creeps into my cheeks. Isaac's lower lip twitches. As we stare at each other, a weird kind of heat unfurls in my stomach. There's something about Isaac—something beyond the edginess of his wiry black dreads, smooth, brown skin, strange amber eyes. Something that draws me. Crazy but true.

He breaks the connection first, glancing down at the V of my white T-shirt. “No problem.” His gaze travels lower, to my cargo pants, my “don't-mess-with-me” boots. “We've worked together before.”

Not we. Me.
My silly daydreaming skids to a stop. Guys
like him don't go for girls like me. I figured that out last year.

“We can start this afternoon.” He flashes me another grin. “I'll buy you a coffee and we can talk about it.”

And let him weave another flirt spell around me? I don't have time for that. Besides, I'd rather work with someone who knows how to run a camera. “I'm busy this afternoon.”

“Tomorrow morning, then. I'll buy you breakfast. Over at the diner. Just the two of us.”

Isaac Alexander flirts like he breathes—effortlessly and without thought. But I cannot be charmed by coffee or an egg wrap. Not today. I think of Matt. Possibly not ever. “I'd like Mr. Fisher to be there.”

Isaac lifts his hands, an expression of mock horror on his face. “Whoa, man, as much as I like you, I'm not buying you breakfast. Sorry.”

Mr. Fisher laughs. “Why don't the three of us meet before school tomorrow to discuss topics and treatments?”

Reluctantly, I agree. Isaac takes nothing seriously. I can't work with a guy like that. Or with someone who knows nothing about film. This opportunity is too big to mess up. That means I need to find another camera operator between now and tomorrow morning.

In order to get to UCSF Medical Center from school, I hop on a bus to downtown before transferring to the light-rail line. Traffic is heavy and I fight my impatience as the bus slowly chugs its way down Nob Hill towards the heart of the city. I'm forced to stand beside a couple of tourists— English, judging by the accent—and the man does a running
commentary for his wife on what they see out the window: the Pacific-Union Club, one of the few surviving buildings from the famous 1906 earthquake; the pagodas of Chinatown; the distinctive spire of the Transamerica Pyramid. I get off near Saks Fifth Avenue, walk past people snapping pictures beside the palm trees in Union Square, and pop into a bakery to pick up sugar cookies for the kids.

Back outside, I walk quickly through the financial district, hardly noticing the throngs of business people pushing past me. I can't stop thinking about Clear Eye, or about Isaac. When I get to the Montgomery Street Station, I almost bump into a skinny saxophonist playing outside the entrance. But as soon as I see the escalators leading down to the platforms, I force myself to concentrate. Rapid transit in San Francisco is a beast of a thing with all sorts of different modes of transport and various lines—buses, streetcars, Muni Metro, and BART—and a pile of them converge at this particular station. Luckily I don't have to wait long for the line I need. As soon as we leave the tunnel on Church and come above ground at Duboce Park, I call Lexi.

She doesn't answer. Knowing we'll be heading into the Sunset Tunnel in a few minutes, I text her instead.
Invited to apply 4 Clear Eye scholarship. Need demo tape. Fisher's set me up with Voice Man.
When she doesn't respond, I'm left alone with my thoughts.

Isaac is something of a celebrity at Barrington High. Last year, a rep from a Bay Area PR firm was at the school picking up his son and he heard Isaac—aka Voice Man—doing his noon hour DJ gig. He was blown away by his voice. He got him a TV spot promoting dirt bikes and then some radio spots. Isaac's popularity soared. A local lifestyle magazine
featured him on their cover as part of a story on teen talent, and just a few months ago, he started working as a DJ at a trendy local club, The Ledge. Needless to say, he has no time for noon hour DJ shifts at school anymore.

A vision of his crazy lopsided smile pops into my head as I get off on Carl Street and head towards the hospital. And he has no time for a video project either.

Besides, I can't count on him,
I remind myself as I take the elevator up to the Children's Wing and walk into the nurses' lounge. Isaac Alexander is unreliable. He's a charmer. And he doesn't know the first thing about film. I'd be crazy to put a possible scholarship in his hands.

The low drone of rush hour traffic floats through the windows as I open the locker for my books and wig. The kids at the hospital know me as Miss Cookie. For those who can eat them, I provide cookies while I read. And I wear a special wig with fake plastic cookies glued onto the strands. I pull it out, give it a gentle shake, and twist my hair up under it.

Nurse Leslie Anders walks into the room. “Oh good, you're here.” She looks about twelve with her freckles and ponytail. “The kids have been asking for you.”

I grab my stack of books and whirl around. “You'll never believe what's happened!” Leslie is an old family friend. I tell her about Clear Eye, the demo tape, my need for a professional camera operator. “I'm going over to emerg to talk to Mom after I'm done here. Hopefully she'll pay for a freelancer.”

“That would be great.” Leslie fiddles with the round gold watch face pinned to her light blue uniform. “You deserve this opportunity, Sloane.” But her smile is forced.

“What's wrong?”

She hesitates a second too long and my heart skips a beat. “Jade is back,” she murmurs.

I stop breathing. Jade. My favourite five-year-old. Last time I saw her, we celebrated the fact that she was in remission and going home. “How bad?”

She's not supposed to tell me. Patient confidentiality and all that. But Leslie has known me since I was in diapers and this is
Jade
we're talking about.

“We don't know for sure.”

I glare at her.

She glances over her shoulder to make sure nobody is nearby. “An infection,” she whispers. “We're running tests.”

The books I'm clutching jab my chest. That's all she needs to say. I'm a doctor's kid. I know the subtext. The cancer's back.

Leslie wishes me luck. I grab my bag of cookies and head down the hall to start multiple readings of
Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus; You're Mean, Lily Jean;
and
What Do You Do With a Kangaroo
? With so many sick children, you'd expect the Children's Wing to be a sad place. But it's not usually. Sure, the parents are stressed, and if a child “leaves,” the atmosphere gets heavy, but kids are generally more optimistic than the adults. Especially Jade. I save her for last.

She doesn't notice me when I reach her doorway, and that's a good thing because when I see her tiny body dwarfed by that white hospital bed and surrounded by beeping machines, my knees go weak. Her dad is beside her, his face tight with fear.

“Miss Jade!” I struggle to keep my voice upbeat as I move into the room. “How come you're back here?”

Her huge ebony eyes look droopy but she still giggles. That's my Jade. “I have a 'fection, that's how come.”

My shoulder blades tighten. I cannot look at her father. “Well you know what the problem is, Miss Jade?”

“What's that?”

“We miss you around here, that's what.” I manoeuvre around the thin IV trailing into her tiny hand, lean over, and scoop her into a hug. Her backbone is knife-sharp under my fingers. She's skinnier than ever. And there's another port in her chest.

Her father leaves us to get a coffee and somehow I manage to get through three stories and a pile of lame jokes that make Jade laugh. When I walk into the nurses' lounge fifteen minutes later, I'm completely wiped out. I decide to go straight home and talk to Mom about the video shoot after her shift.

Leslie appears in the doorway. “How did it go?”

I remove the wig and pick up my brush. “Fine, I guess.” I point to the bag on the table. “There are a few cookies left. You can have them.” Leslie's sweet tooth is notorious.

“Thanks.” She picks up the bag; her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Not really. I yank the brush through my hair. Life is so weird. Two hours ago, I was floating. Ecstatic. And now there's Jade. It's not fair.

Leslie reads my mind. “There's no point in worrying. There are treatment options.”

“Right.” I part my hair, move the brush to the other side. That's when I feel it. A tiny, smooth surface, slick against my finger. “What the hell?” I rub my scalp.

For a second, I think it's a chunk of conditioner I haven't rinsed out or something caught in my hair. But when I touch it a second time, my heart skips a beat. I have a bald spot. The size of a quarter. A little above my right ear.

“What's wrong?” Leslie asks.

This is too weird. I'm vaguely aware of the burble of traffic seven floors below. The ping of the hospital intercom. A muted voice calling for a radiologist.

But mostly I'm focused on
it
. The bald spot. My finger is stuck to it like one of the cookies I hot glued onto my wig. People don't get bald spots on their heads. Not unless they're old and going bald. Or sick.

“Are you okay?”

I'm not sick. Jade ... the other kids ... they're the sick ones. I'm healthy. Although right now my body is trembling like I have the flu. “I'm fine.” I lower my hand. I want her to leave so I can check the rest of my head. I'm probably just reacting to the new wig. Or I caught my hair somewhere, pulled out a chunk, and didn't notice.