Stained (3 page)

I clench my fists. “What an a-hole!”

Charlene lowers her voice. “He said no boy would ever want me.”

“Why do you listen to what he says? Your mom left
him!
”

Charlene shrugs. “He's right. I've never even had a date.”

“You'll find someone; don't worry. It just has to be the right someone.”

“You mean someone desperate enough or blind enough to date me. If only I could lose a few pounds.”

I don't know what to say. I want to tell her she looks just fine to me. I want to tell her she doesn't need a guy. But I don't want to sound like my mom. Besides, she knows the hours I've spent staring at models' faces. How can I tell
her
not to obsess, when I do?

“What does your mom say?”

“That I'll find someone when I'm ready. She's becoming almost as New Age cheerleader as your mom!”

“She sounds more right than your dad, though.”

“Whatever.” Charlene shrugs, but her face holds pain. “At least she doesn't mention my weight. The weekend can't come soon enough for me.”

She blows a bubble, and the sweet cinnamon scent makes my mouth water.

Charlene swallows the bubble so fast she almost chokes. “Get a look at that new guy over there!” She grabs my arm. “Isn't he hot?”

I look. Dark hair, nice cheekbones, and great pecs, wearing only a black leather jacket over his T-shirt, even in this cold. He grins cockily at the girls flirting with him. He's at least an eight out of ten. What makes him so attractive is the way he slouches in his jeans, an almost dangerous vibe coming off him, like he could really hurt someone if he wanted to. I don't understand the attraction to that type, but it's clear that I am one of the few girls who doesn't.

“It's pretty late in the year to transfer,” I say.

“I heard he got kicked out of Central—but that's their loss! He's ours now.”

I frown. “That doesn't make him hot. Besides, he's too full of himself. Look at him lapping up the attention.”

“I'd lap him up if I could!” Charlene laughs loudly—a laugh meant to grab attention—and, sure enough, Bad Boy turns to look. His gaze lingers on Charlene, on her full belly and wide hips, her large breasts, her round, pretty face—and then he sees me. He stares at my cheek, his lips curling back.

I can feel all the blood rushing to my cheeks. I turn to Charlene, but she's got a goofy smile on her face.

“Come on, Sarah, let's go say hi!” she whispers, digging her fingers into my arm.

I shake her hand off. “No. You go ahead.”

“What's with you?”

“Nothing! Just . . . be careful.”

Charlene puts her hands on her hips. “You are
so
not okay. Spill!”

A basketball careens toward us, spraying dirty slush. I slap it back. “They canceled my treatments. Told me this morning, just as I was getting ready to leave.”

“Oh my god, you're kidding!” Charlene's rosebud mouth parts open. “But you've been planning this for years.”

“Something bad happened at my dad's company. He can't afford it right now. I'm so worried about him, Char. It hit him really hard.”

“Oh.” Charlene's voice is quiet. She knows all about tight budgets and a dad losing his job, struggling to make ends meet. I hope it doesn't hit my dad the way it hit hers. I don't want to see him lose his confidence, turn to drink, get mean. But I can't imagine my dad ever doing that. He has too much integrity.

“What're you going to do?” Charlene asks.

“Get a job, I guess. If I can.” But the last time I tried to—the only time I tried—the woman made a big deal of my face. I dig my nails into the palm of my hand. There has to be someplace that will hire me. Some way I can help Dad.

“Hey! I know what you need—a diversion,” Charlene says, nudging me. “And the perfect diversion is standing right over there. You're not going to let the Madisons of the world take him, are you?”

“Madison's welcome to him.”

Charlene sighs, her hair puffing up off her flushed forehead. “Come on, Sarah. I know you don't like people staring at your face. But this guy actually looked at me. I'm probably the only girl in school who's never been kissed.” She blinks as she gazes at me. “Okay, one of the only girls. So do it for me, will you?”

“He doesn't want to talk to me, Char. He wants to talk to you. Now, get yourself over there.” I give her a little push.

Charlene licks her lips. “Wish me luck.”

I don't want to wish her anything, not with that guy. My cheek is a great jerk-o-meter; it always brings out what is hidden in people. But I force a smile. “Luck.”

Charlene gives her body a wiggle, then saunters toward Bad Boy. I want to call out to her, tell her she's worth more, tell her she shouldn't listen to her dad, but I just stand there watching. It didn't used to be like this. We used to sense each other's private despair—Charlene with her plumpness, me with my face—and jolly each other out of it. And that used to be enough. But something's changed.

I feel sad as I watch Charlene laugh with Bad Boy, practically pushing herself onto him. I have never felt so alone.

11:30 A.M.

 

I'M WORRIED ABOUT SARAH. She's pale and distracted, not even pretending to listen. I stare at the whiteboard as Mr. Talbot writes out an equation. I wish she would trust me enough to let me in. She looks like she needs someone.

The first time I saw Sarah act all hero-like, she won my heart. It was in fifth grade. She was walking home ahead of me. As I rounded the corner, I saw Sarah running after a group of boys who were taunting Googly Eyes—that's what the other kids called her—a girl with dirty Coke-bottle glasses, her mouth permanently open, and wearing cheap, ill-fitting clothes. I jogged after them, keeping Sarah in sight.

The boys were shoving and laughing at Googly Eyes. Sarah ran right up to them, put herself between them and the girl, her fists up like a boxer, and yelled at them to leave Googly Eyes alone. I thought they might attack her, but when she screamed that they were weak, spineless bullies, those boys took off down the street, running fast. I trailed after Sarah as she put her arm around the girl and walked her the rest of the way home—protecting her like Wonder Woman would. I think that's the day I really fell in love with her.

Sarah became a hero in my eyes that day. But I've never seen her defend herself the way she defends other people. It's like she thinks she doesn't deserve it, or maybe she thinks she doesn't need it. Which is funny. Because what Sarah needs is Sarah. She just doesn't know it yet.

2:58 P.M.

 

I HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE to stop thinking about Dad. I keep seeing his face, how gray it looked, the worry etched deep. I ache from the loss of my dreams, but it's Dad's face that makes me feel like I'm underwater.

I've caught Nick watching me, and I know he knows there's something wrong, but what can I say to him? It's not like we're friends, not the way Charlene and I are. But I almost wish we were. I could use a friend today.

I push out of the heavy school doors into the gray afternoon, cold wind ripping tears from my eyes. The wind snaps my hair back from my cheek. I don't even try to cover it back up; I know it's useless. Behind me, the door crunches open again, then slams shut. Heavy footsteps echo behind me, and I hear male laughter. My skin tightens.

As I turn the corner, I glance back. Bad Boy is trailing me like a shadow. Bad Boy and a group of his new buddies.

I can feel them behind me, their stares burning into my scalp. They are hooting and hollering, trying to make me run. I slow my pace and lift my head higher. Maybe they'll get bored and leave me alone.

People stare at me as they pass—not at the boys following me, acting like hoodlums, but at me, minding my own business.

A little boy looks up at me and points. “Mommy, what's wrong with her face?”

“Shush, honey,” the woman says, not meeting my eyes.

My chest tightens. I don't look back at them, though I can feel the woman still watching me.

The boys are closer now, their jeers loud in the street. “What's the hurry, disease girl?”

I speed up, breath jagged in my throat. The dark gray clouds grow heavier and lower.

Out of the corner of my eye, I sense a car keeping pace with me. Another jerk gearing up for an accident, all because he'd rather watch my face than the traffic. I keep my focus on the streetlamp, the mailbox, the dirty store windows that I pass, the children shrieking with laughter as they run through the slush. One of Mom's stock phrases echoes through my head like a litany:
“Educate, don't aggravate.”
I tell the voice to shut up, but it doesn't go away.

“Hey, burn face!” the new guy shouts. “I'm talking to you.”

Cold wind knifes through my coat. I turn around slowly to show him I'm not scared. There's six of them—five boys . . . and Charlene?

I clench my hands. Charlene is clinging to Bad Boy's arm, a silly smile on her face, her eyes pleading with me to understand. I stare at her, and she looks away.

I take a deep, shuddering breath. “It's not a burn or a disease. It's a port-wine stain.” I am my mother's daughter, after all.

“Whatever, freak. Why don't you just get a new face?”

They all laugh, even Charlene. I wish I could gouge the faulty blood vessels out of my flesh and rid myself of this stain.

Charlene giggles again, loud and high pitched, her laughter cutting through the air.

I look at her. “This isn't you,” I say quietly. “You're better than this.”

One of the guys snickers.

Bad Boy yanks Charlene closer. “You gonna let her talk to you like that?”

Charlene bows her head. “It's no big deal.”

“I think it is.”

They move faster than I thought they could, enclosing me in a human fence. Pedestrians edge around us in a wide circle, some looking curious, some scared, but not one of them stops. The pawnshop next to us is dark and deserted.

My breath quickens in my chest. Charlene looks uncertain now, her skin pale where there is no makeup.

I shiver and take a step back, almost bumping into the boy behind me. “Look—I didn't do anything to you.”

“You showed your ugly face,” the new boy says. “You flaunted it.”

I
flaunted
it? Did he even see the way I draped my long hair to cover my cheek, bowed my head in class, kept my mouth shut when people laughed at me? I'm the invisible girl, the make-no-waves girl, the pretend-I'm-not-here girl. I hardly take up space. I even breathe more shallowly than other people do.

The sky rumbles ominously, the air around us heavy, growing colder. The new boy reaches into his pocket.

I tighten into myself, getting ready to run.

A horn shrieks in my ears. “Hey!” a man yells. “What do you think you're doing? Leave her alone!”

I can't believe it. No one's ever done that before. I turn to look at my rescuer, at the man who's standing half out of his red car, frowning at us. My eyes widen. It's Brian, Dad's cute assistant. My legs feel weak.

The sky tears open, hail pummeling down like tiny pebbles, bouncing off the cars, the sidewalk, our bodies. Kids squeal and run for cover, women pull their hats down tighter, and men scurry along the sidewalk and rush into doorways. Bad Boy swears and pulls his jacket up over his head. And then he turns and jogs away, the others leaving with him—all except Charlene.

“You okay?” Brian calls, still half out of his car, one hand raised against the hail.

“Yeah—thank you!” I say.

“Want a ride home?” He says it casually, but I feel him waiting for my response. I hesitate. Normally I'd love to spend time with Brian—unsupervised time. But I don't want him to see me like this. “Nah, that's okay.”

Brian nods, gets back in his car, and drives off.

I take a deep, quivering breath and let it fill my body. The wind eases up, but now the hail has turned to sleet—cold and wet and biting. Millions of tiny frozen drops sting my skin, coating the cars, the pavement.

Charlene's face is miserable, her hair plastered against her skull. “Sarah, I'm sorry.” Her mascara runs down her cheeks in long brown lines.

“Sorry,” I say flatly. She stood there laughing at me, not doing anything when they threatened me, and she's
sorry?
It's not enough.

Charlene's shoulders curve inward. “I don't know what came over me. I guess I was flattered by Kirk's attention. I am really, really sorry. Can you forgive me?” Her pain-filled eyes beg me to understand.

I know Charlene feels like an outcast, too. People say mean things about her weight, the way they do about my face. I think of how desperately I wanted my treatments, how nothing else mattered until I saw the pain Dad was in this morning, and I think maybe I understand. “Yeah,” I say slowly.

“Friends?” Charlene says.

“Always.”

Charlene squeezes my hand, and then she, too, runs off, and I am left standing there on the slick, darkened sidewalk.

3:15 P.M.

 

MY CLOTHES ARE STIFF and heavy with water, and still the sleet keeps bombarding me, pelting out of the sky like it'll never stop. People are huddled in doorways, but I don't want to endure the embarrassed faces, the awkward silences, the glances that slide away from mine.

I head off down the street, shifting my heavy backpack to my other shoulder. I can't believe I just had a knight in shining armor come to my aid. And I can't believe it was Brian.

At the corner I stop for a red sedan that drives up, its windshield wipers thumping back and forth.

“Hey!” a voice shouts from the car. Brian's voice.

I peer through the sleet at his dark head poking out of the driver's window. He's getting wet.