The Art of Getting Stared At (21 page)

“I
knew
it!” Before I can finish, she bolts from the room yelling, “Mom! Why didn't you
tell
me?”

I need to go after her. I can't let her be afraid.

But first, I toss the covers aside and swing my legs to the floor. I walk slowly to the mirror.

Oh my God.
A nasty, metallic taste floods my mouth. It's the taste of panic.

My eyebrows are completely gone.

“They don't know
for sure
what's making me lose my hair,” I tell Ella as we sit across from each other at the kitchen table. It's set with Kim's cheerful yellow breakfast plates, a bowl of strawberries and honeydew melon, and a small bottle of agave syrup, clearly Kim's idea of an Aunt Jemima substitute. “They think it could be something called alopecia. But they're sending me to a specialist and I won't know for sure until then.”

Ella's blue eyes are huge in her milk-pale face. “Could I get it?”

“No. It's not something you catch like—”
Like lice
I was going to say. “Like a cold or anything. It's just me.” Just. Me.

Her relief is palpable. “Good. 'Cause I don't want to lose my hair or anything.”

Yeah, no shit.
The sound of morning birdsong floats through the window. Yesterday's rain is history. It's going to be a nice day.

“It's nothing to be afraid of,” Kim interjects from the counter where she's cooking the waffles. It's the first thing
she's said since I walked into the kitchen. To give her credit, she's let me handle every single one of Ella's questions.

“I'm not afraid.” Ella wrinkles her nose. “It's just ugly, that's all.” She is staring at my head.

Ella sounds so much like Kim I want to slap her. I hate the way she's staring. I should have worn my hat to the table.

“You won't lose all your hair, will you?”

The $64,000 question. “I don't know. I could.”

She leans over and looks at the side of my head. “You've lost a lot already.” She looks totally grossed out.

“Yeah, I have. Sucks to be me.” I try to smile but it's a pathetic attempt. It's taking all I've got to be strong for her, not to fall apart. “But you know what I've always told you, Ella, appearances aren't everything, right?”

“Right.” The flat tone of her voice tells me she doesn't buy it. “Except people will stare.”

“I'm not telling people. At least not until I see the specialist.” And maybe not ever. “So I need you to keep quiet about this, okay?”

She nods. “Sure. When do you see the specialist?”

“In a little over two weeks.”

She makes a face. “It sucks that you have to wait.”

“Yeah. Well.” I shrug. “I'll wear my hat and no one will know.” Except for the problem of my eyebrows falling off ...

Ella brightens. “And Mom bought you the other hat, remember? That blue beret. We can be twins.”

“Right.” I'm not going within a hundred yards of that dumb thing. But I do have an imminent date with some false eyelashes.

Kim places a cup of coffee in front of me. With cream. A lump swells in my throat. It's a small kindness, the sort of
thing Mom would do. And that reminds me. Mom still hasn't called. “Thanks.” I glance up just in time to glimpse the back of her sweats as she turns away.

“You're welcome.” She flicks open the waffle iron, presses a peach-tipped nail into the dough. “They're almost done. Just another minute. You can eat before you shower.”

“I'm not hungry.” I pick up my mug and stand.

“You have to eat, Sloane.” A note of irritation creeps into her voice as she shoots me a quick look. “You can't go to school without breakfast.”

“Oh yes I can.”

Back in the bedroom, I punch out another text to Mom:
Call me ASAP. It's really important.

Out in the hall, Kim laughs at something Ella says. The sound stabs me like a physical blow. My life is falling apart but everybody else's life is exactly the same. I need Mom. She's the only one who will understand.

I take my cell into the bathroom when I shower. After Kim leaves to drive Ella to school, I carry it with me into the kitchen to get a second cup of coffee and a cold waffle. In spite of what I said to Kim, I am hungry, almost jittery in my need for food. Catching sight of my reflection in the stainless steel of the microwave, I quickly avert my gaze. I know how bad I look.

I don't need to look again.

When I get dressed, I automatically reach for comfort clothes (old jeans, a soft hoodie) because—let's be honest— new clothes just don't go with the bald forehead look. My jeans are half on when my cell buzzes.

I hop-run to the bed, stubbing my toe as I lunge for the phone. “Shit!” The screen says it's an unidentified caller. Thinking of Isaac and how he surprised me yesterday, I say a tentative, “Hello?”

The line hums. My heart leaps into my throat. Please, God, let it be her. “Sloane?” a faraway voice finally says.

Legs trembling, I sink onto the bed. “Mom! I miss you.” My tears are back, clogging my throat, clouding my vision.

“Got your messages ... been travelling ... just back at base tonight.”

“You're cutting out.” Suddenly I am furious. At the phone lines, at Mom, at my throbbing toe. “I need to
talk
to you.”
My eyebrows are gone. How am I supposed to live? Go to school? Do the video?

“Hold on,” she says. There's a click before the line once again offers up its empty hum.

Clutching the phone in one hand, I pull up my jeans with the other. I'm doing up the snap when Mom comes back.

“I'm in the office on the other line now. That should be better.”

It is. The hum is still there but it's not overwhelming. And her voice is clear and strong. “I've been trying to get you since yesterday.”

“I'm sorry, babe, I only saw your message a few minutes ago. There's been a flu outbreak or something in one of the villages. We've sent blood samples to London for analysis. Anyway, we've been swamped. Four people have died and we brought three people back with us. They're critical.”

Death. Flu. African poverty. And I think my world is ending because I have no eyebrows. I am such a tool. “You sound tired.”

“Yeah, well.” A soft chuckle floats down the line. “I didn't come here for a rest.”

My eyebrows are gone. Tell me what to do.

“You must be on your way to school. Isn't it after eight there?”

“Just after seven. I'll leave in forty minutes or so.” It's easier to talk about the mundane. “Isaac and I are doing a shoot at the hospital today for the video. Then we'll work on the footage and plan more for the laughter flash mob this coming Sunday.”

Isaac.
In my dream, we were going to make out. I wanted it. He did too. An ache unfurls low in my belly. Once upon a time, even with all his crazy-assed flirting, I'd thought me and Isaac ... But not now.

For sure not now.

“Laughter flash mob. That sounds interesting.”

“Yeah, except I have to be on-camera for it.”

“That's not so bad,” she says.

“My eyebrows are gone.”

“So it's getting worse.”

“Yeah. I've got eight spots now.” My voice comes out all wobbly. “Ella found out this morning.”

She sighs. “I know you wanted to keep this private, but maybe it's best this way. It may get to the point where you can't hide it.” She hesitates. “Or are you at that point already?”

“Not quite. Two of the spots are almost too big to cover with hair, but if I wear a hat, I'm okay.” I eye the makeup, lashes, and hairpiece waiting on the dresser. “I'm trying a few other things too.” I know better than to say more. “And I've been checking out my treatment options online.”

“You can't believe everything you read on the Internet,”
Mom cautions. “And whether you're able to stop it or not, the hair you've already lost may not come back for a long time. If at all.”

Heat surges into my face. “Don't be so negative. I read about this guy whose hair started to grow back
two weeks
after he had some kind of shots. You never know what's going to happen.”

“True, but I don't want you to get your hopes up and be more disappointed. You need to face facts, Sloane. You need to be realistic.”

Realism sucks.

The hum on the line swells, and for a minute, her voice is lost. Then she says, “Like I told you last week, you have good friends who will support you. They love you and they'll continue to love you. Hair is nothing. Not in the big scheme of things.”

Maybe not in the African scheme of things. But in North America, seventy-five percent of women polled would rather lose their left arm than their head of hair. I read that in the chat room.

“I'm not telling my friends. They'd be grossed out, like Ella.”

Mom sighs again. “Not true friends. Besides, you've never worried about what people thought of you before.”

I was never bald before.

“You can't start now.”

I already have. I have turned into someone I hardly know.

“You need to give people a chance,” she says. “Not everyone is as judgmental as you might expect.”

Yeah, some of us know better than to judge on looks, but it's the ones who don't I'm worried about.

And then Mom says, “I'll be right there.”

For a heartbeat I think she's talking to me. But when she adds, “I'll phone London right after I check on him,” my tiny kernel of hope dies. Someone else is in the room with her.

“I have to go,” she says.

“I know.” Disappointment rises up. I need more. More time. More her. More support. “I love you, Mom.”

“I love you too, Sloanie. Hang in there. Remember you've got your specialist's appointment in a few weeks. I'll call before then. Promise. Sending you hugs.” She makes a smacking sound. “Kisses too.” And then she is gone.

I don't have much time to fix myself before I need to leave for school and yet I procrastinate, wasting five minutes putting everything into my knapsack and then sending an email to Leslie reminding her I'll be at the hospital with Isaac that afternoon.

But I am only postponing the inevitable. Telling myself to approach this like a film subject, I go to the mirror and pretend I'm seeing a stranger for the first time.

My insides drain away.

No wonder Ella was afraid. Without my eyebrows, I look washed out and sick. Truth lodges, cold and bleak, in the pit of my stomach. I do look gross.

Pity slams me, followed by disgust, fear, panic, your basic smorgasbord of nasty. Taking a deep breath, I lean into the mirror and inspect my lashes. Are they thinning? Or is it my imagination?

I can't tell. I've lost all perspective where my looks are concerned.

As I pull out the false lashes, I hear Kim's car pulling into the garage. Damn. I wanted to be out of the house before she came back from driving Ella to school. Frowning, I stare at a marbled grey compact. I don't remember taking it. Popping the lid, I see a trio of shadows: soft green, glittery gold, shimmering brown. So pretty. I touch my finger to the gold shimmer and smear it on my wrist, releasing a faint, sweet scent. It's a touch of pretty in a morning of ugly. No wonder women like this stuff. I snap the case shut.