The Art of Getting Stared At (28 page)

“Excellent!” She throws her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek. I almost pass out from her noxious perfume.

Matt yanks Breanne back. “That's great.” His tone is so flat you'd think his grandma just died. “Let's go tell everybody.” He steers her away. Like dutiful foot soldiers, the Bathroom Brigade falls into step behind them.

I slide out from Isaac's arm. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” He gives me a lopsided grin. “Anything to avoid me, right.”

I clear my throat. “I don't know what you're talking about.” I start to walk.

“Yeah, you do. Lately you're doing everything you can to steer clear of me.”

So he's noticed? “You flatter yourself, Voice Man.” I stop at the water fountain. “I would've gone in your van except Breanne's a bitch and I don't trust her.” For once, I'm telling the truth. I shift my bag and lean down for a drink.

He props his arm against a nearby locker and studies
me. He's way too close. And he's staring too hard. My scalp prickles.
He can't see. The ball cap covers everything.

“That may be true about Breanne but my instincts are saying you don't want to be alone with me.”

My heart starts to thrum. “Your instincts suck.” I straighten.

He leans close. My throat constricts when his dreadlocks graze my cheek. “Then why'd you lie about going for tests at the hospital the other day?” he whispers.

My heart slams to a halt.
Crap.
We're so close I can practically count the gold flecks in his eyes. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I waited. I saw you leave five minutes after me.”

My shoulder blades tighten. I hadn't counted on that.

“So you either had no tests at all or the tests were over so fast, I could have waited and we could have previewed the footage together.” He pauses. He's waiting for me to respond. When I'm silent, he adds, “Either way, I think you did it on purpose because you didn't want to be alone with me.”

Suddenly breathless, I spin away from the water fountain. “Think whatever you want.”

He falls into step beside me. “I'm just trying to figure you out, that's all.”

“I am not a puzzle. There's nothing
to
figure out.” I quicken my pace. I need to get to Lexi. I need to get away from him. “Other than the video. That's the only thing we need to worry about.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.

He grins. “I'm not worried, sunshine, but I am curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“And cats have nine lives.”

“I don't play cat-and-mouse games,” I counter, relieved
that I've diverted his attention from my lie. “You should know that by now.”

“Too late. Game on.” He winks. “You've been warned.”

My heart flips. I turn the corner to the entrance. Lexi is there, waiting for me. Thank
God.

“Cat got your tongue?” he calls after me.

I don't turn around. But over my head, I give him the finger.

His laughter follows me down the hall.

“Seriously, Isaac sees me as conquest,” I whisper to Lexi when we walk through the door of Salon Aya forty minutes later. “I'm the only girl who doesn't drool when he comes within a hundred feet.”

Tinkling New Age music plays from hidden speakers. A calming floral smell hangs in the air. I tap my fingers impatiently against the blonde wood counter. This is the place Kim recommended, and I know she was in touch with the owner by email, but she's been so preoccupied with a fundraiser at Ella's school that I've had to make the arrangements myself, so I'm not entirely sure what I'm getting into. After a minute, when no one comes, we sit.

“You're wrong. He likes you. A doorknob could see it.”

I roll my eyes. “And you should know.”

“I
am
an expert on human nature.”

“Right. That's why you and Miles keep breaking up and getting back together.”

Ignoring the jab, Lexi gets up and helps herself to some filtered water. A striking orange and blue Japanese screen
separates the waiting room from a long hall and presumably the tattoo room. My uncertainty roars back. I was up half the night worrying. What if this is a mistake?

I can remove makeup. Take off a wig. But tattoos are forever. I chew the corner of my lip. I sound like a freaking commercial. Except it's my life. And getting brow tattoos is a permanent step into a girlie world I've always avoided.

Tranny
.

It's not a mistake. It's the only right decision. I won't let people judge me by my looks. And without brows, they will. Lexi sits back down. “I was the only one out of all your friends who warned you about Matt, remember?”

I don't want to talk about Matt. Taking a brochure from the side table, I change the subject. “Did you know you could get your eyelashes permed?”

She grimaces. “I wonder how safe
that
is.”

“Very,” says a woman who steps out from behind the screen. She's wearing a long, beige lab coat over tan pants and she has a file folder—also beige—tucked under her arm. She smiles at me. “Hi, Sloane. I'm Bo. I'm ready for you if you want to come back.”

“This is Lexi. I was hoping she could come in too.” Lexi was more than happy to skip second block.
Who needs planning,
she'd said. And then she'd added,
Besides, somebody has to make sure those needles are clean.

“I prefer not to have anyone there while I'm working, but you can come back while I do the outline and freezing,” she tells Lexi as she leads us down the hall.

Bo has a slim build, delicate face, and the curliest lashes I've ever seen. I wonder if she perms them. “Kim emailed one of your school photos and I blew it up so I could see the
natural shape of your brows,” she says. “I assume you want to go back to that?”

“Yes.”

“Good. That'll help me draw them on.” She stops at an open door and gestures us inside.

It's a tiny space, more examining room than spa. Tiled floor, bright lights. A white cabinet. She points to a large reclining chair, the kind found in a dental office. “That's your chair,” she says.

I sit. Lexi stares at the rolling tray of equipment. “So you, like, use sterile stuff, right?”

“Of course. And I wear gloves and use disposable needle tips. There's nothing to worry about.”

“I don't see a tattoo gun.”

“I apply the pigment manually with a hand-held needle,” Bo explains. She pulls something from my file, clips it to the wall, switches on a light. An ache goes through me. It's a picture of my old eyebrows. “The hand-held is more precise, less painful, and generally results in almost no after-effects.”

She retrieves a brow pencil from the tray, pulls out a stool, and scoots over to me. “I'm going to draw one in to make sure you're happy with the shape.” She reclines my chair. “If you're not, say so, because it's easier to make changes now.”

It's like being at the dentist, the way she hovers at my head. Only I can keep my mouth shut and it's not painful—yet.

“There.” She returns my chair to the upright position and hands me a mirror. “See what you think.”

Something about it is off. “Maybe a little thicker?” I lower the mirror so Lexi can take a look.

“I think the arch should move a little to the right,” she says.

The two of them study me like I'm an exhibit in a museum.

“Let me do the left one.” Bo lowers my chair and goes to work again. After a few minutes, she asks, “Is that better?”

The change is subtle but noticeable. “Yes.”

Bo tweaks the first brow to match the second, smears numbing cream on my brow area, and then we discuss pigments. I have naturally dark brows but Bo says I need to go a shade lighter. “Too dark will be too harsh with your pale skin. Trust me.”

Lexi just shrugs.

“You can always go darker when you come back for the touch-up,” Bo adds. “But you can't go the other way and lighten up.”

“Okay.”

As Lexi follows Bo back to the waiting room, I hear her say, “The Mayo Clinic says you can get an allergic reaction to tattoos years after you get them. Has that happened to any of your clients?”

Bo's answer is muffled. One thing's for sure: Lexi wouldn't have left me here if she had concerns. She told me that on the way over, when she googled to see if Salon Aya had any health violations lodged against them.

“You have a good friend there,” Bo says when she comes back.

“She worries a lot.”

“There's nothing wrong with that. Or with asking lots of questions.” She bends over me. “I'm going to check to see if the numbing cream is working. Shut your eyes for me, please.” A few seconds later, I feel a slight prick on my forehead. “Can you feel that?”

“A little.”

“How much does it hurt, on a scale of one to ten?”

I've never been good at the pain scale thing. I open my eyes. “It doesn't really hurt. It's more like a jab.”

She smiles. “Then I think we're ready.” She lowers my chair, pulls the equipment tray over, and puts on a set of goggles, and then a pair of gloves.

Here we go.
Sweat blooms on my palms. I wipe them on my jeans.

She unwraps something. I assume it's the needle but I don't look. Instead I clutch the side of the chair and stare at the ceiling. “This is the disinfectant.” She wipes my forehead with a wet cotton swab. “You'll feel a slight vibration and maybe a little pain when I touch your brow. Let me know if it's too much.”

My heart trips into my throat. “Okay.”

“Some clients are more relaxed if they shut their eyes.”

She thinks I can relax? Is she
kidding
? But I'm not going to watch so I shut my eyes.

Her lab coat rustles as she leans close. “Here we go.”

I brace myself. A soft, whirring sound fills the air. And then I feel it. A prick followed by a slight burn. It's bearable. Like being poked with a really sharp brow pencil. I let my breath out. I didn't realize I was holding it.

“You doing okay?” she asks after a minute.

“Mm-hmm.” The area she's done stings like water on a bad sunburn but I don't tell her. I just want to get this over with.

“Your alopecia diagnosis must have come as a bit of a shock.”

“Yeah.”

“I have a number of clients with it and I know it's a difficult condition to deal with,” she says. “I admire you for being proactive and not letting it stop you.”

I'm not being proactive, I'm being protective. I never realized how easy it was to hide behind being normal until normal was gone.

“There are other things we can do for you besides brow tattoos,” she says. “Make sure you take a brochure when you leave.”

I don't want anything else. I change the subject. “Have you known Kim long?”

“Sixteen years.” Her hand moves a little to the right. “We trained at the same school but only became friends when we started volunteering together.”

“Volunteering? For what?”

Her hand presses against my right nostril. “There's a non-profit group in town that provides clothing to women who are applying for jobs but don't have the resources to dress appropriately.”

I can hardly breathe but I manage to say, “I've heard of them.”

“They wanted professionals to help with hair and makeup, so we started going in. Then a shelter called. And another non-profit.” She shifts her hand, freeing my nostril. I take a grateful breath. “Word got around that we could make women feel better and also hide bruises.” She pokes me with the needle.

I gasp. “Ouch!”

She pulls away. “Sorry. I'm near the frown line and it can be painful. Do you want to take a break?”

“No, keep going. I'll be okay.” I'm no baby, but that hurt.
“Kim didn't say much about it.” Didn't say anything. Bo stabs me again. The pain is so intense I grit my teeth and clutch the edge of the chair.

“She doesn't do much anymore. Not since she got roughed up by that client's boyfriend when she was pregnant with Ella.”

I gasp.

“Sorry.” She lifts the needle. “Maybe I should give you more numbing cream?”

“No, I'm—”
Shocked.
Kim got roughed up? And I didn't know? “I'm fine.”

She goes back to work. “Yeah, it was a long time ago now, but an angry boyfriend didn't like how well Kim covered up the results of his beating, and he found the shelter, and the next time your mom left, he was waiting for her. Thank God someone saw and called for help.”

I seem to remember something about Kim going to emergency when she was pregnant with Ella. Dad told me she fell. She had her arm in a sling at her baby shower; I remember that.

Bo lifts her head. I open my eyes. “One down and one more to go,” she says.