The Art of Getting Stared At (22 page)

Putting the compact aside, I pick up the strip of uber-curly lashes and go to work. Yesterday I planned to cut them down and glue them into the brows I had left.

But today, without any other brow hairs there to act as a frame, they look stupid. And the glue is way too thick. Dismayed, I stare at the freaky mad-scientist look on my forehead. Maybe I need to cut them down more.

There's a knock on my door. “Sloane?”

It's Kim. I don't answer. Instead, I tiptoe over and quietly lock the door. For someone who's big on boundaries, she doesn't seem to have a problem walking in on me whenever she wants. Deciding the lashes I tried are too curly, I pick out a straighter pair of half lashes. Maybe they'll look better.

A few minutes later, Kim knocks again. “Sloane? I need to talk to you.”

“Later.” Now I look like I have earthworms marching across my forehead. “I'm busy.” This isn't going to work. Plus, I'm going to be late for school. Disgusted, I rub everything off and pick up the brow pencil.

Honest to God, who knew? It's like trying to draw a fine line with a baseball bat. My lack of attention to the finer art of makeup is clearly biting me in the ass.

I'm in the middle of trying to wipe it off when my cell phone signals a text. I glance down. It's Kim.
I need to talk to you.

I wipe my fingers and punch out a reply.
Later
.

Half a minute later my phone buzzes again
. I got your dermatologist's appointment moved up.

My heart flips. I drop the wad of tissue clutched in my fingers. How did she manage that when I couldn't?

I text her back.
How? When?

Come out,
she responds.
And I'll tell you.

Piss. Trust Kim. But my need to know overrides my annoyance, so I go to the door and open it.

Fourteen

K
im leans against the wall, arms crossed, still in black sweats and fuchsia flip-flops. “You have brow pencil smeared all over your forehead.”

“Really? Thanks for telling me.”

She frowns. But it doesn't carry the usual “you disappoint me” vibe. Maybe because she's not wearing makeup, she looks almost human. “When do I see the specialist?”

“Tomorrow.”

I blink. What the—?

“She'll fit you in before her first appointment.”

Tomorrow. My knees start to tremble.
One more day.

“I told them it was an emergency.”

My euphoria is tempered by a squirm of unease. Kim managed to get me into that office when I couldn't. I owe her. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” She turns and heads for her bedroom. “I'll write you a note. You'll miss first block and possibly part of second.”

I follow her down the hall. “That's not an issue. I have film first thing tomorrow. And there's a transit stop half a
block from her office, so I should make it back in time for math.”

“I'll drive you both ways. It'll be faster.” She walks past her bed with its jumble of pale green sheets. “I'll go in with you too. Your dad would want me there.” She disappears around the corner into her studio.

I am
not
seeing the specialist with Kim. No matter how grateful I am. Biting back my frustration, I stop in the doorway. “The ride in would be nice but you can just drop me.”

“Dropping you isn't an option. Like I said, your dad would want me there. So would your mother.” She pulls out a black director's chair and inclines her head. “Sit.”

I don't want to sit. I need to get to school. “Why?”

Kim raises her brows, reminding me all over again of my own lack thereof. “Unless you want to go out in public with brow pencil on your forehead?” She turns to her supply shelf and starts opening boxes.

Feeling a strange mix of relief and discomfort, I sit.

“If you'd told me what you were looking for yesterday, I could have helped you.” She turns around, a clutch of makeup pencils in hand.

I didn't want her help. Not when it comes to makeup and stuff like that. I still don't. Only now, I'm truly broken and smart enough to realize I need it.

She turns on the lights framing the mirror. The temperature in the room shoots up by about a thousand degrees. “Whoa.”

“Sorry. I need good light to see what I'm doing.” She squirts some clear liquid onto a white makeup pad and quickly cleans my forehead. Then she says, “Hold out your wrist.”

She draws three lines, appraising them through narrowed eyes, glancing back and forth from my face to my wrist. “Given your dark hair and pale colouring, none of them are ideal. But if I even out your skin tone with foundation, they'll look better.”

I'm already halfway to Freakville. If I let Kim near me with makeup, I'll end up looking like the mayor of Freakville. “Just the brows.”

She picks a pencil, leans close, and goes to work.

I stare at her skin, surprised to see tiny round scars on her cheeks. There are a couple of small scars on her chin too. Odd. Kim's skin always appears so flawless. But then, I don't think I've ever seen her without makeup on.

“Some women prefer brow tattoos to brow pencils.” She's making small, feathery strokes across my brow line. “You might want to consider it.”

I didn't know they existed until I read about them in the chat room. They sound disgusting. “I don't think so.”

“They can be really beautiful. And done right, you can't tell the difference. I know somebody—”

“I'm good. But thanks.”

Wisely she says nothing more until she finishes. “It's not my best job.” She stands back to assess me. “Brow pencils are more for fill in and definition. I could try for thinner but the thin look doesn't suit you.”

I stare into the mirror. A waterfall of relief rushes through me. Kim has attempted to give me back my original, slightly thick, brows. I look almost normal again. Involuntarily my gaze is drawn to one of my spots. As long as I don't look at my hair.

“They look fine.” Slightly fake but way better than the Brazilian I had on my forehead a few minutes ago. “Thanks.”

“Take it with you.” Kim presses the brow pencil into my hand. “You'll probably need to touch up during the day.”

“Okay.” I slide from the chair.

“If you feel too washed out with the dark brows, try wearing blush or that new hat I bought you,” she adds. “The colour would be great with your skin.”

“I can't wear hats in most of my classes,” I tell her. Math + study hall = most. “And I've got the fedora anyway. But thanks for the suggestion.”

I have accepted enough help from Kim. I don't need more. I am still my mother's daughter. Smart still matters more than pretty.

At least I used to think so. Now, I'm not so sure.

“Isaac is good with them,” Leslie says later that afternoon when we finish shooting. We're in the long wing waiting room and Isaac is surrounded by a group of laughing kids. They're watching
Crash
. The clown is repeating his walkingthe-dog mime routine where he trips, falls, and crashes as he tries to get an invisible, oversized poodle named Crayon to behave. And, like they did when we filmed them, the kids are eating it up. “Most guys his age would be uncomfortable in this kind of environment but he's taking it all in stride.”

That's an understatement. Isaac is on the floor, jean-clad legs sprawled out in front of him, framed by half a dozen little girls. My heart tumbles at the sight of all those shiny, bald heads. One girl, wearing a yellow robe, grabs at his dreads. He pulls back and gives her a look of mock horror.
She laughs. “He's a flirt,” I say. But I can't help smiling. If any kids could do with some good-natured flirting, it's these ones. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Leslie studying me.

“You okay, Sloane?”

Isaac asked me the same thing when we met this afternoon. When I said I was fine, he added that I looked pale. Being pale was the least of my worries. Hiding in plain sight at school for most of the day proved harder than I thought it would be. “I'm fine,” I tell her. And I quickly change the subject like I did with him. “I'm pretty sure we got some great tape.” I tell her about the laughter flash mob this coming Sunday, how it's the last shoot we need before doing the final edit. She asks if I've heard from Mom and we spend a few minutes talking about Africa. Then she looks at her watch and says, “Jade has a scan in fifteen minutes. I need to get her ready.”

I glance to the corner where Jade sits with a couple of kids in wheelchairs. Isaac has joined them. He's crouched beside Stacey, a six-year-old burn victim who's in for more skin grafts. And he's signing. “I didn't know Stacey could sign.”

“She can't.” Leslie retrieves an empty wheelchair from the alcove near the door. “But since her hearing was damaged in the explosion, her mom is trying to teach her. Somebody must have told Isaac.”

When we reach them, Jade looks at me and giggles. “You look so silly without your hat, Miss Cookie!”

Isaac gives me a tiny half smile.
Miss Cookie,
he mouths.

I give him the death stare before turning to Jade. “Remember what I told you when I came in today and you didn't recognize me at first? I only wear it when I'm reading
to you.” Today I'm back to the sage-green ball cap. I don't care if it makes me look jaundiced. It hides more than the fedora.

“You have an appointment downstairs, Jade. The tech will be here any minute to pick you up.” Leslie pats the wheelchair. “Your limousine awaits.”

“I want him to push me.” Jade points at Isaac.

Leslie gives her weary smile. “The word
please
might be useful.”

“Pleeeease!” Jade squeals.

Isaac looks at me. “We're done here, right?” I nod. He takes the wheelchair and waits while Jade gets settled before steering her to the door. Jade waves at her friends. “See ya later, alligators.”

Two of them answer. “In a while, crocodile.”

Stacey says nothing. But as she lifts a hand in farewell, a faint smile floats across her taut, scarred face. The image haunts me as Leslie and I follow Isaac and Jade into the hall.

“Poor Stacey,” I mutter softly.

Jade hears me. “Stacey's not poor. She lives in a big house with a heated pool, and last summer her parents took her to Disney World.”

Isaac looks back at me. “And there are worse things than being deaf.”

Deaf is only part of it. Stacey's whole face is burned.

“Yeah, like being blind,” Jade says. “Then you couldn't see
anything
at Disney World. That would be awful.”

As the two of them debate the merits of Disney World over Disneyland, Leslie and I fall behind. “Sometimes it takes a five-year-old to give me a slap upside the face,” she says.

“What do you mean?”

“It's easy to pity these kids. I fall into the same trap at times.”

“It's not a trap.” I can hide my hair loss. Stacey's problem is front and centre. “Most people would feel sorry for her.”

Leslie sighs. “I get what you're saying, Sloane. I do. But pity implies they're somehow less than their whole selves. And Jade understands that.”

Up ahead, Isaac leans down and whispers something in Jade's ear. She laughs. “Oh come on, Jade's five years old.”

“So?” She snorts. “Trust me, some five-year-olds are wiser than a few adults I know.” She turns serious again. “It may not be conscious, but at some level, Jade understands she's not her cancer and Stacey isn't her burn. And Stacey's hearing loss may or may not be permanent; the doctors aren't sure yet.”

That's good news. It suddenly occurs to me that I've been more upset by Stacey's scarring than her hearing loss. What does that say about me? Nothing good. I push back a niggle of shame.

“Either way,” Leslie adds, “Jade doesn't feel sorry for Stacey because she doesn't see her as a victim. She sees Stacey as Stacey.”

I didn't. My shame deepens. “You know what people are like. That poor kid is in for years of stares and comments and general nastiness. People will see her as ‘less than,'” I put invisible quotes around the last two words, “because of her burn.” Just like some people will see me as less than because I'm losing my hair.

“I know.” Leslie and I watch Isaac wheel Jade up to the nurses' station. “Both girls have a hard road ahead. Jade has to heal and Stacey has to learn to endure.”

Learn to endure. What a nasty phrase. “It doesn't seem fair.”

“No, it doesn't.”

When we reach the nurses' station, a tech wearing neon green nursing clogs is checking the white patient ID bracelet on Jade's bird-thin wrist. “You're just the person I need to see.” He quickly confirms her name on his clipboard and releases the brake on her chair.

“Bye, Miss Cookie,” Jade says. “Bye, Isaac. Bye, Leslie.”

“See you soon, Jade.” After thanking Leslie and saying goodbye, Isaac and I head for the elevator.