The Art of Getting Stared At (6 page)

I own three hats. A raspberry-coloured toque my grandmother knit for me when I was five, a frayed straw hat with holes in it, and an oversized sage green vintage cap Dad found for me in New York last year.
Oversized is good,
I tell myself two hours later as I sit at the Harvest Moon Café sucking down a mango-lime smoothie. It means everything is covered.

All I have to do now is get through this birthday breakfast and then I can go home and surf the web.

Outside, a red and brown cable car clangs its way down the hill, a faint boxy outline in the morning fog. Inside, a harried server sprints past our table bearing a tray loaded with waffles and eggs. The gold and green tiffany lamp hanging over our table sways in her wake.

Ella leans towards me. “I told you it would be okay.” Her blue eyes flick to the three adults who sit beside us.

Mom, casual in jeans and a cream sweater, and Dad, preppy in beige chinos and a navy polo, are discussing Bay Area development. My stepmother, Kim, with her flawless makeup and smooth, blonde hair, sits quietly beside them. She's wearing a metallic bronze cami, a faux fur vest, and leggings with thigh-high boots that lace up the back. She looks like she's ready for a photo shoot.

Ella gazes back at me. “You worry too much.”

I squish a piece of icy mango between my teeth and resist the urge to scratch. Damn hat is making me itch. “You may be right.”

Ella's braces glint like pink tinsel when she grins. “Of course I'm right.”

When Ella had suggested me and Mom come for her birthday breakfast, I'd discouraged her. I couldn't take all three parents first thing in the morning. The negative undercurrents make me nuts. Mom and Kim tolerate each other because of me and Ella, but with only barely concealed hostility. So I told Ella I'd come but Mom wouldn't. I reminded her that the two moms didn't get along and it was probably better if my mom stayed home.

I should have known better. Ella had told them both what I'd said and, predictably, both had discounted my concerns. Coming from a broken family is a pain in the ass when the people in question adopt an air of strained civility. I envy my friends whose divorced parents don't talk. It's a lot simpler.

Ella's grin widens. “I'm always right,” she adds.

Exasperation is quickly followed by the complicated devotion I feel for my nine-year-old half-sister. Correction. Ten-year-old. This morning. “Except when you're not,” I tease.

She giggles and sips her pineapple juice. Ella thinks she's right about most things, most days. I can't fault her for it. We share an unfailing sense of self. I scratch my head. Along with blue eyes and the same father.

Kim leans towards me. “Must you wear a hat at the table?” she asks quietly. “It's rude.”

Kim is all about appearances and always has been. The first time I had a sleepover after she and Dad were married, I came downstairs for a glass of water and overheard her telling a friend,
Sloane is so plain I'm embarrassed to be seen with her sometimes
.
I tried, but the fallout from her mother wasn't worth it
. So plain. She'd said it years ago, but it still hurts. “I'm fine,” I say now.

“Maybe, but the hat isn't.” She openly appraises me. “And painter's pants to a celebratory breakfast? Honestly, Sloane, I expect more from you.”

Which is why I can't stay with her and Dad.

She leans back in her chair. “If you ever decide to make more of an effort with your appearance, I have some magazines you might want to look at.”

Mom comes to my defence. “Sloane is fine. Some of us weren't born with your sense of style,
Kimberly
.”

Oh man. Breakfast isn't even here and already the first Kimberly has been volleyed. How long will it be before Kim fires back with
Barbie
? Determined to avoid any more conversational icebergs, I turn the attention back to my sister. “Wasn't it great for Ella to invite us all for her birthday breakfast?”

Mom picks up my cue. “It was!” She beams at Ella. “Thanks for inviting me, darling.”

A flash of displeasure darkens Kim's green eyes. She gives Mom a frosty smile. “We wouldn't dream of leaving you out,
Barbie
.”

Whoa, that was fast! But instead of reacting, Mom looks at Ella and says, “Why don't you open your presents while we wait for breakfast?”

“Yes, yes!” Ella launches herself across the table and grabs a pale pink gift bag.

Who would have guessed a child from Dad's second marriage would pull us all together? It still amazes me.

I was six when Ella was born. Back then, I spent every other weekend with Dad and Kim. By the time I was eleven, they'd leave her with me for a few hours while they went to a movie or out to dinner. One memorable Saturday night,
Ella started throwing up and wouldn't stop. When Dad didn't answer his cell, I called Mom, who rushed over to help.

She'd seen Ella before, during pickups and drop-offs, but only at arm's length. That night Ella was a sick little girl. It turned out she'd eaten some tainted meat. Mom diagnosed and treated her, not leaving her side for the rest of the night.

Dad and Kim were deeply grateful. But underneath Kim's gratitude was a trickle of jealousy that rivered into something bigger. Not only was Kim jealous of the bond that formed between Ella and Mom, she was jealous of my mother's career as a doctor, though she'd never admit it.
Makeup artists save lives too,
Kim has told me more than once.

And that pretty much sums up the difference between the two women. One is substance and the other is style.

I watch Ella open a gift certificate for a facial (from Kim, naturally), some CDs from Dad, and a quilted Vera Bradley purse in a garish fuchsia and turquoise paisley (also from Kim). “Like yours!” Ella squeals. “Now we can be twins!”

Not likely. The purse Kim gave me for my birthday is way too flashy. I prefer the vintage leather satchel I found at the thrift shop last year.

I hand Ella the navy blue gift bag with sparkly gold stars. “This is from me and Barbara.” I'd had to do a
lot
of wrangling to get Mom on board.

Ella paws through the yellow tissue paper to the small box inside, a sliver of pink tongue poking out between her teeth. A fierce rush of love pierces me. She is beyond beautiful, this half-sister of mine. It used to bother me the way people stared. Not anymore. Better her than me.

The box is upside down. Ella flips it over and sounds out the red letters. “V. I. R. G. I. N.” Giggling, she glances from
me to Mom. “Virgin?” Her voice is high-pitched and loud. “What kind of gift is a
virgin
?”

Snickers break out at the table beside us. “Lower your voice!” Kim snaps.

“You got me a
virgin
for my birthday?” Ella shrieks. “I thought a virgin was—you know—a person. Or is there another kind of virgin I don't know about?”

Mom is practically snorting with laughter. “Just open the box, Ella.”

Ella removes the lid and gasps. “
A phone!
My very own phone!” She shoves the orange rectangle into Dad's face. “Look, Dad! My very, very, very
own
phone!”

All around us, people are smiling. I hear a boy two tables over ask why he can't get a phone.

Ella waves it under my nose. “Look, Sloane, it's
orange
. My favourite colour!”

“I know, goofball. I picked it out.”

Kim frowns. “Not smart, Sloane. Ella is too young for a phone.”

Too young for a phone but old enough for a facial? Geez Louise.

Mom tries to pacify her. “I hear you, Kim. Sloane had to work hard to convince me.”

“Lots of kids Ella's age have phones,” I say before sipping my smoothie. Mom was right. This has disaster written all over it. If Kim takes the damn phone back, Ella will never forgive me. But if Ella keeps it, Kim'll punish me for the next year. My head prickles. I resist the urge to scratch again.

Kim leans across the table. “Cell phones contain radiation,” she whispers to Mom. “They're dangerous.” My stepmother is obsessed with health. One of the cornerstones
of her makeup artistry business is that she uses only natural products, and insists her clients do too (although I happen to know she makes an exception when it comes to the heavy duty hair dye she hides in her bathroom vanity).

“The jury's still out on that,” Mom says. “I wouldn't worry.”

Kim plays her trump card. “We can't afford it.”

Dad makes good money as a pilot but Kim's income as a freelance makeup artist is only modest. And they have a large mortgage, fees for Ella's private school, and my child support to pay. As Kim often reminds me.

“Mom and I added Ella to our plan.” I rustle through the box and pull out the paperwork.

“Kids under sixteen are half price,” Mom adds.

Dad ignores the fury tightening Kim's face. “That's very nice. Thank you.”

“Yes, thank you, thank you, thank you!” Ella is already dialing. “Look, I'm going to phone home and leave a message. Won't that be cool!”

“You can call me too,” I tell her. “I programmed my number in.”

Kim opens her mouth to comment but her own cell emits its familiar ring tone. Radiation danger clearly forgotten, she quickly digs through her purse and views the screen.

“Who was it?” Dad asks after she tucks the phone away.

“No one important.” But her colour is up and she won't meet his gaze. Kim gets a “no one important” phone call just about every time I'm with her. Plus, when Dad's away, she sometimes goes on these mysterious “errands.” I've wondered a few times if she's having an affair.

She turns to me. “I understand you'll be staying with us while your Mom's away.”

“It's not for sure,” I say.

“Your father told me eight weeks,” Kim says. “I'd like to know. I might need you to babysit.”

Big surprise.

Ella finally clues in to the conversation. “You're staying with us for
eight
weeks?” She claps her hands.

Shit, shit,
shit.
“Don't get excited, Ella. I'm staying with Lexi for part of the time. I might stay with another friend for the rest.”

“You'll stay with us,” Dad says firmly. “Your mother and I have already discussed it.”

“I have that video to make, remember? And I have to work with this guy at school.”

“But I'm giving you money to hire a freelancer.”

Mom's lips form an O. “You are?”

Kim's lips tighten. “How much?”

“Turns out I'm not allowed to use one so I have to work with a classmate instead,” I tell Dad. “But it'll be easier if I'm closer to the school.”

“Stay with us!” Ella bounces up and down in her seat. “That would be the best birthday present ever. Please Sloane!”

I'm so furious I can't speak. Which is just as well. It's impossible to say no to Ella. Impossible.

“You
have
to stay, Sloane.” Ella's blue eyes plead with me. “Promise?”

“I'll think about it, Ella Bella Boo. No promises.”

“But—”

The server materializes as if I've summoned her to my
rescue, plopping down plates of eggs and bacon and waffles. “There's a guy out front who asked if he could join your table.” She gestures with her head to the gift bags on the extra chair. “You might want to make room.”

Ella cranes her neck. “What guy?”

Four

I
t's Matt.

As he slides into the seat beside me, he avoids my gaze, though there's a touch of pink underneath his freckles. “I can't stay,” he says, turning to Ella. “But I wanted to wish you happy birthday.” He hands her the wrapped Clarice Bean books we picked out together a few weeks ago. The mango smoothie flips in my stomach.
Books. The library. Breanne.

Ella goes nuts as I knew she would and Dad insists Matt have a coffee. I'm forced to push my waffle around my plate for thirty minutes while Matt and Dad talk computers and gaming and cars. Matt and I became friends during a school fundraiser when our dads volunteered at a weekend car wash. We shared a deep and mutual embarrassment over the antics of our fathers as they tried to entice drivers in from the street to get their cars cleaned. Our friendship grew out of that. The evolution from friend to boyfriend six months ago seemed natural. But now everything about it, including his presence here at breakfast, feels awkward. So when he turns to me and asks, “What's with the hat anyway?” and Kim laughs and says, “Unfortunate, isn't it?” I know it's time for him to leave.

I say my goodbyes to everybody and push back my chair. “I'll walk you out,” I say to Matt.

We weave through the crowd to the front door where only a few people still wait in line. A seagull wheels overhead when we reach the sidewalk, its shrill cry piercing the morning air. I stare across the street, waiting for Matt to speak first. I can just make out the low-rise brick buildings and windswept trees in the fog, and a couple of runners heading for Aquatic Park. Out on the water, a foghorn bellows, low and mournful.