The Art of Getting Stared At (10 page)

“Or if my hair flies up. Besides, I don't want them getting bigger. I was reading about treatments. Cortisone injections could make me gain weight or give me a rash or high blood pressure. And there are creams but one of them stains everything it touches brown and—”

“Dr. Paxton will help you figure out treatments,” Mom interjects. “She'll outline a course of action for you.”

“Soon.”

“As soon as the referral goes through.” Mom leans over and squeezes my knee. “You're scared and confused, babe. That's understandable. It's a lot to take in. I wish I could be here to help. But you have a good head on your shoulders. You know you're more than your looks.” She pauses. “Good thing it's not Lexi dealing with this. She'd be a basket case. So would Kim and she's twenty years older.”

“I
am
a basket case.” My lower lip starts to tremble. “I don't want to go to school with bald patches on my head, except I have to do the video.”

With Isaac. A shiver of dread snakes down my spine. I have to interview people too. And do the flash mob. Oh my
God
. “At least Mr. Fisher said he'd get me excused from classes if I needed it.” And I really need it now.

“Running away is never a solution,” Mom says.

Tell that to somebody caught in the crossfire of war. She puts her tea down. “You've faced challenges before and overcome them.”

True. I broke my leg in three places when I was ten. I survived my parents' divorce too.

“You're strong and sensible. Stronger and more sensible than most other young women. You know that, right?”

Maybe, but am I strong enough and sensible enough to handle something this big? My throat constricts. “I know you've always told me looks aren't everything, but I don't want to look like a freak.”

“You are
not
a freak,” Mom says fiercely. “You're normal.”

“Normal people don't lose their hair!”

“You're the same person you were last week. You're smart and caring and funny and wise. And you're going to make this family proud the way you always have by holding your head high and moving forward.”

A single, hot tear rails down my cheek. Mom's right. As problems go, this isn't the worst thing in the world. It just feels like it.

“You'll use the hairspray. You'll get a hat. You'll style your hair differently—”

“A comb over? Don't be ridiculous.”

“You can handle this, Sloane. I
know
you can. And you have good friends who will support you. Friends like Lexi and Harper and Chloe.”

“They can't know. No one can. We don't know if this ...” I can't say the word
alopecia.
“If this
thing
is going to get worse or if this is as bad as it'll be. We don't know why I have it or how we'll treat it. People will ask questions that I won't be able to answer. I don't even want to try.” I need to focus on hiding it. And getting well.

Mom frowns. “It's your choice, of course, but friends can be a support.”

They'd all be grossed out. Especially Lexi. She'd probably think I had some kind of contagious disease. “Nobody else finds out,” I repeat. “Not Lexi, not Harper, not Chloe. Not Dad. Not Kim. Not Ella.”

“But—”

“No,” I interrupt. “This is my disease and my issue and I'm going to deal with it my way.”

I'm determined to show Mom that I can handle this. I'm determined to live what I've always known: that I'm more than my looks. And I'm determined, at all costs, to keep this a secret.

Seven

B
efore I leave for school Tuesday, I spray my hair into a helmet of steel and stuff the ugly green ball cap on my head. It's not ideal but it's all I've got. And to be honest, I'd rather people think I'm ugly than bald.

Although, really, the two go hand in hand.

I'm at my locker grabbing books for morning classes when Harper comes up. “My parents said yes! You can stay with us all month. We'll have to share a bathroom but you can have my sister's room and I told them you'd be okay with that, right?” She digs into her pocket, retrieves a key, babbling the whole time. “Here. It's for the front door. You'll need it because I'll be at volleyball practice three afternoons a week.”

The diagnosis changes everything. I don't want to be in a strange house now, or even at Lexi's. I need to tell them both no.

“Uh, Harper—”

But Harper races on about how much fun it'll be to have company with her sister off at college, how she can drive us to school when her mom doesn't need the car. And I can't think of a single reason why two days after I first asked—okay,
practically begged—I don't want to stay with her. So I nod and smile and stick the key into my pocket as I walk to math class.

Aside from a smirk from Breanne when the teacher asks me to remove my hat (and my escalating heart rate as I take it off), math passes in an uneventful blur of equations and formulas. Film studies is next.

“I need as much time as I can get to work on the video,” I tell Fisher when I get to film studies. “So if you could get me excused from classes for the next couple of weeks that would be great.” I am so grateful to Clear Eye. Not only is the scholarship the opportunity of a lifetime, but it gives me the perfect excuse to avoid everybody at school.

“I've already talked to your teachers. Other than math, that won't be a problem.” Fisher nods to a couple of students who wander in and take their seats. “However it could be more difficult for Isaac to get permission.”

“Did I hear my name?”

A ripple of awareness flutters down my spine. I turn, acknowledge his presence with a lift of my chin, and ignore the posse of girls behind him. He gives me a lazy, deliberate once-over. My stomach flips.
You're way hotter than Breanne.
He didn't mean it. Isaac would flirt with a chair.

“Sloane will be excused from everything but math class for the next few weeks,” Fisher tells him. “However, I've spoken to your teachers and most have issues with you missing class time.”

He flicks his dreads off his face, smiles that crazy half smile. “I'll talk to them. It won't be a problem.”

Of course it won't be a problem. Isaac could charm the whiskers off a cat.

“Okay. Good.” Fisher nods. “We're watching a series of outtakes in class today but you two don't need to be here. I suggest you go to study hall and work on the video.”

Study hall is almost empty. As we sign in, I quietly tell the teacher in charge we need to discuss a project and I ask her if we can push two seats together.

“That's fine as long as you go to the back of the room.” She gestures to my head. My breath slams to a halt. “No hats allowed. Please remove it.”

I consider arguing but this particular teacher is a hard-ass. She'd stand her ground. And I'd look like a fool. I take my hat off. Isaac looks up from the sign-in sheet. His gaze lingers on my hair. “Ready?”

Fear turns my legs to rubber. What did he see? I used a ton of spray. It can't be wearing off already? As he leads the way to our seats, I quickly check my hair.

All there. Helmet head in place.

“You still feeling rotten?” he asks as we sit down.

Our knees accidentally brush. When I shift sideways, he lifts a brow and grins.

“I'm fine, thanks.” But my words are too loud and a girl at a nearby carousel glares.

“Your tooth is better?”

“Tooth?”

“Didn't you go to the dentist yesterday?”

Crap. “Oh that. Yeah.” Scared that he'll know I lied, I lay it on thick. “I had a huge cavity to fill. It's mostly better but still tender.” Avoiding his gaze, I retrieve my notebook and dig through my bag for a pen.

“I think we should shoot the laughter flash mob a week Sunday,” Isaac says. “It's the Columbus Day weekend and
Fleet Week. People will be in holiday mode. There'll be a ton of people at the Embarcadero.”

Fleet Week is insane. The annual celebration of sailors, marines, and the coast guard draws thousands of people to the harbour to see the active military ships. The Embarcadero will be even more crowded than usual. “That's the thirteenth. The video is due in at Clear Eye by five o'clock on the sixteenth. That only leaves three days to do my final cut and write the narrative. That's tight.”

“It's the best choice.”

“I don't know.”

“What's the issue?”

Me going on-camera.
“Timing, like I said. It's way too close. Plus, I'm rethinking the whole laughter flash mob thing.”

He looks at me. I stare back, resisting the childish urge to squirm. Just when I'm about to say something, anything, to break the awkwardness, he says, “Better to try and fail than not try at all.”

I grin. “Nice one, Dr. Drew.”

“I'm serious. You loved the flash mob idea yesterday.”

Yesterday was a different life. “It's too risky. If it doesn't work, we can't reshoot.” And I am
not
going in front of that camera.

“So what? Life's a giant risk. And besides, I've already texted people.”

My heart starts to thrum. “You have?”

He nods. “Tons of them. The rugby guys. The stoners. A friend in drama class. Breanne and her crowd.”

Oh no.

“They're psyched, Sloane. Really. You can't back out now.”
Not without looking like a total tool. And raising too many questions.

“I figured we could drive over to the Embarcadero today and scout the location.”

“I can't. I need to go to the hospital and talk to someone about filming the kids.” It's an excuse. I could easily follow up by phone, but the less time I spend at school, the better.

“Tomorrow then?”

“I want to do the zoo tomorrow, during film class block.”

“That's after lunch. What about before?”

“Don't you have a class?”

He grins. “I'll get out of it.”

“I'm not sure—”

“Trust me. I'll drive us to the Embarcadero, we can scout locations and do the zoo in the afternoon. We'll stop for pizza in between. I know this great place.”

Blood rushes into my head. I hate this. Everything's out of my control. My hair, the flash mob, now Isaac pushing me to go for pizza. It sounds too much like a date and that reminds me of how I got my hopes up last year when he flirted with me. I am so not Isaac Alexander's type.
So
not.

“Don't worry. I'll brown bag it.”

“I'm not worrying and I'm not brown bagging it. But I need to eat.”

I shrug. “Sure. Okay.”

The next hour flies by as we refine the storyboard, discuss a line of questions for the psychology professor, and talk about what we'll do if the hospital turns down our permission to shoot Jade and the others.

When the bell goes, I stand. “So I'll see you tomorrow then.”

Isaac stands too, only he's way too close and I step back too fast and the chair behind me goes crashing to the ground. The study hall teacher frowns.

We both bend to grab the chair, bumping heads in the process.

“Sorry, sorry.” I want to sink through the floor.

But Isaac is laughing. “You're screwed now,” he whispers. “Rule is when two people bump heads, they have to eat pizza together the next day.”

I roll my eyes. “That is
so
lame.”

“But true.” He grins down at me. “I'll meet you at the front entrance after first block tomorrow.”

While I'm at my locker getting my jacket, I text Lexi.
Won't be in planning. U around after school?

Seconds later, I get her reply.
Whaaaaaa???????? Why?

Lexi hates planning class, although I don't know why. She's actively planning to go to college, so the prep we do there benefits her. Me, I don't want to talk about SATs or hear about the pros and cons of one college over another. If they spent some time talking about film schools, it would be a different thing. I text her back:
Doing video stuff.

Can't u do it at lunch?

No.
I could, but I won't.
C U aftr school?

Going 2 pick up pay check.

Perfect.
I'll go with U. Need new hat.

Lexi's reply is a long time coming. I'm halfway to the bus stop before it hits my cell.
U need more than new hat 2 impress Isaac.

Isaac has nothing to do with it. At all. Much. But I do need a better hat. And more hairspray.