The Art of Getting Stared At (7 page)

“That's great news about the Clear Eye invite,” Matt finally says. “I always said you'd make it as a filmmaker.”

Matt said a lot of things.

“I know that wasn't the easiest video given the circumstances and it says a lot about your skills that you turned it into something so great.”

He's sucking up and I don't like it. “What's this about, Matt? Why are you here anyway?” All the fury I've stuffed down for the last few days boils to the surface. A couple of tourists look up from the oversized map they're studying. I turn my back and lower my voice. “We are
not
going out anymore. In case you missed it.” I'm hurt and confused. I can't believe he did what he did. I can't believe he had the nerve to show up today.

“Just because you and I had issues doesn't mean Ella should suffer.”

Issues. As in Matt wanted to take our relationship horizontal and I wasn't ready for that yet. In spite of the fact that I cared about him, something always made me hold back. Matt could be cold sometimes, and distant too. Sleeping with him just didn't feel right to me ...

“I didn't have anybody else to give the books to.” He waits while a cable car clangs past. “Besides, we need to talk.”

“There's nothing to talk about.”

He won't meet my gaze. “Yeah, there is.”

My heart lurches. Matt feels bad. He's going to apologize. He's going to admit he did a stupid thing and ask for another chance.

“Isaac is bad news.”

And I will give him one because everyone d—“Pardon?”

“Isaac. You need to be careful. The guy's a player.”

The two tourists brush past us; I move so we're not blocking the sidewalk. “You came here to
warn
me?”

“Mostly, yeah. We've been friends for a long time. I don't want you to be hurt.” A muscle twitches in the back of his jaw. “Plus, I think you should let Breanne work with you on the video. Just because you don't like her doesn't mean she should be penalized.”

“Are you
kidding
?”

Matt's mouth falls open. “No.” And it hangs there.

I realize that Matt hangs his mouth open a lot. Like he's catching flies. Clearly we are less alike than I thought. My mouth never hangs open.

“She was the one who posted the shoe video to YouTube. If it wasn't for Breanne, Clear Eye wouldn't have seen it and you wouldn't have been invited to apply for a scholarship.”

The fog is starting to roll in. The air is cold; I feel the chill to my bones. “That's bullshit. Fisher has contacts there. He could have sent it in.”

Matt ignores me. “If Breanne could get on-camera this time, instead of just her feet, it would mean a lot. She needs another credit for her acting portfolio.”

“So why didn't she say yes when Fisher asked if she wanted to help out?”

He shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other. “It didn't occur to her until later.”

Until she heard Isaac was involved. “I thought you guys had hooked up. Aren't you worried about her and Isaac hanging out? Him being a player?” I taunt.

His flush deepens. “I figured she could, you know, help you keep an eye on him.”

Fury dances through me. “Like she kept an eye on you?”

“That's different.”

“Right. And here I thought you were going to apologize.” I turn to go.

Matt frowns. “For what?”

For what?
Is he really this dumb? I turn back. “Maybe for cheating on me?”

“That was unfortunate.”

I am so angry I can barely form words. “
Unfortunate?
”

“Yeah, but things happen.” He spreads his hands. “I like you, Sloane. I hope we can still be friends. But you're kinda intense with the whole ‘film is my life' thing. Breanne, she's—”

“Easy?”

His eyes narrow. “Not easy,
easy.
Easy as in easygoing.”

My throat is tighter than a closed fist. “Easygoing enough to do it in the library where everybody could see? You're just lucky the librarian didn't catch you.” One of the science nerds had caught them instead, taking a picture on his cell and uploading it to Facebook while Matt and Breanne were still groping each other.

“We weren't doing
it
but I guess we could've been more discreet.”

“You're an asshole, Matthew. You and Breanne deserve each other.”

I turn on my heel, head for the corner. When I reach the light, Matt shouts, “FYI. That hat makes you look like a freak.”

Matt's comments leave me feeling unhinged. I text Harper to see if she wants to hang out. I need the distraction, plus I want to see if I can stay with her when Mom is away. When she doesn't answer, I head up the hill on Columbus past the San Francisco Art Institute, in the general direction of home. My thighs burn with the effort but it gives me something else to focus on. As I walk, the fog starts to lift and eventually my mood does too. I walk through North Beach, San Francisco's answer to Little Italy, with its funky mix of apartments, cafés, and Victorian homes. When I reach Jackson Street, I decide to keep going. I head past the shops near Portsmouth Square, skirting the edges of Chinatown where the smell of shrimp dumplings and pork buns makes my mouth water, to Anthropologie downtown where Lexi works.

Since it's Saturday, the store is packed. It's no surprise, but it's not exactly conducive to a long talk. I find Lexi, grab a royal blue criss-cross T-shirt, and pretend I want to try it on. While Lexi escorts me to a change room, I tell her about Matt.

“Forget him.” She knocks on one of the doors. “You've got more important things to think about.” When no one answers, she opens the door and we slip inside.

Like change rooms everywhere, the place is a wall of
mirrors. I won't look; I won't. “He called me a freak.” Tears prickle behind my eyes. I thought the walk had helped, but obviously not enough. Matt's words were harsh and they still sting.

Lexi hangs the T-shirt, crosses her arms, and comes to my defence. “Matt is an asshole. He's just pissed because you wouldn't sleep with him.” Lexi's loyalty, which is always there when I need it, is comforting. “You're a million lifetimes from freakdom, Sloane, though I have to admit that green hat does make you look jaundiced.” She sighs. “I don't know why you pretend not to care about your looks. We both know you do.”

Wrong. Lexi just
wants
me to care about my looks. The familiar argument is a welcome reprieve from thoughts of Matt. “I've told you. I should have been born Muslim. The veil is liberating. It frees you from worrying about clothes and makeup and hair.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, blah, blah.”

“Seriously! Who wanted to be a mummy for Halloween when she was nine so both of her hands would be covered in bandages?”

“There are germs on doors,” she says primly.

“Yeah, and I had to knock on every single one of those doors for both of us.”

Her cheeks grow pink. “I gave you extra candy, remember?”

“Forget the candy,” I tease. “How's that mummy suit thing working for you these days?”

She snickers. “Do we have to talk about this?”

“Of course we have to talk about this! I'm telling you, Lexi, the burka is the answer for both of us. You'll never have
to worry about another germ and it won't matter what I look like. We'll both be happy.”

“Yeah, until some guy wants to kiss us.”

“Trust you to get to the heart of what really matters.” We both start to laugh. After a minute my gaze is drawn to the mirror. To my lips. To the hat. Covering up isn't liberating at all today.

Lexi glances at the T-shirt I chose. “Blue isn't your colour either. Why don't I bring you something else to try?”

“No thanks.”

“Go home and work on your video,” Lexi orders. “It'll take your mind off stuff.”

It doesn't. Not really. Once I'm home, I spend some time researching laughter on my laptop, and I text Harper again. When she doesn't answer, I call her cell and leave a message asking if I can stay with her the first month Mom's away. I call a few other friends too but nobody can commit. A few minutes later I'm back on the laptop surfing. And I can't help myself: I google “hair loss.” Over sixty-three million results pop up. Whoa!

I click on the top link. The first two paragraphs detail the normal cycle of hair loss and growth but paragraph three— what causes excessive hair loss—is the one that interests me the most.

Surgery can cause hair loss, I read. So can hormonal problems, having a baby, and thyroid disease. There's a section on infections; I click on it and scan the entries. Ringworm. Folliculitis. Something called Demodex. It's a wormlike creature that lives in hair follicles. I stop breathing.

Oh. My. God.

Mom taps on my door. “Sloane?”

Worms? My stomach does a queasy flip.

Mom pokes her head inside my room. “Sloane?” Her gaze lands on the laptop resting on my knees. Her lips turn down. “Oh, Sloane.”

Heat hits my cheeks.

“You said you wouldn't.”

“That was before I lost more hair.” But I slam it shut. I could seriously throw up.
Worms?

Her eyebrows fold into a frown. “Please don't.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

“I found a specialist who'll see us Monday afternoon at one.”

I have film after lunch Monday and Isaac and I need to get going on the video. But I need to see the doctor too. “Can't I go Monday morning?”

“It's the best I can do, baby. He's squeezing us in right after lunch.”

I should be grateful. It can take weeks, months even, to get into specialists. Maybe Isaac and I can get some planning time in at lunch. “Thanks.”

“I'll write you a note for school.” Mom gestures to the laptop. “And please stay off the Internet. Don't be like Lexi.”

To avoid temptation, I stash my laptop in the dining room. Mom's prying eyes, coupled with my worry that I could go into cardiac arrest if I find any more disgusting diseases, are enough to stop me from googling symptoms.

While thoughts of my hair are never far from my mind, I spend the rest of Saturday working on the video. When I find
out that men and women view laughter differently—women want someone to make them laugh while men prefer to make people laugh—I consider a gender approach. I brainstorm shoot possibilities, do a list of potential locations, a rough storyboard, and then I compose a couple of emails: one to a local professor who may be able to address gender differences and another to the hospital asking for permission to film some of the sick kids.

Sunday Mom and I go to the store to buy supplies for Sudan and I pick up the biggest can of hairspray I can find. Mom gives me a look and I know why—I need to stop obsessing. So that afternoon, I veg out in front of the TV, first watching
Pina
, a German documentary I haven't seen that focuses on the contemporary dance choreographer Pina Bausch, and then losing myself in an old favourite:
Religulous
by the crazy Bill Maher.

Monday morning, I contribute to the hole in the ozone by using a third of the can to spray my hair in place. The two spots are covered by my surrounding hair but what if I turn suddenly and my hair swings out ... or if the wind comes up? I can't take a chance that someone will see. But to be honest, I'm feeling pretty good about things. I've lost no hair since Saturday,
and
the itching on my scalp is practically gone. I'm positive it's not worms. It's probably that new shampoo. I had a reaction to it. That's all.

Isaac stops me as I'm walking to the library before first bell. “Hey, sunshine, I didn't see you at The Ledge this weekend.” He's wearing a distressed black jacket that gives him a tough edge.
Isaac is bad news.
Maybe, but bad news never looked so good. “I watched for you.”

I know it's a line, but my stomach still does a little tap
dance. What would it be like to have Isaac
really
looking for me? “I was busy with the video. I've got a possible shot list, a few locations we might want to scout, and a very rough storyboard.” I slide my overdue library book through the slot and dig through my knapsack. “I was hoping you could look at everything.”