The Art of Getting Stared At (23 page)

“You guys seemed to be having a pretty heavy-duty conversation.” Isaac shifts the duffle to his other hand and pushes the button. “
Miss Cookie
.”

His tone is light and teasing but I still blush. “When I read to them, I bring the kids cookies and wear this wig ... so they started calling me that and ... it just kinda stuck.” My voice trails away.

He grins. “It's cute.”

“Whatever.” My blush deepens. To hide my embarrassment, I watch the floor countdown of the elevator car.

“So what were you and Leslie talking about?

“Mostly about Stacey. Leslie was saying I shouldn't pity her.”

“You shouldn't.”

“Oh God. Not you too.”

He holds up his hand. “Relax. Don't lose your shit.”

The elevator pings. “I'm not losing my shit but I don't get you and Leslie.” The doors whoosh open; I step aside to let a woman and a man get off before following Isaac into the elevator. “That poor kid is in for a lifetime of hell.”

“The skin grafts won't go on forever.”

I punch the button for the lobby. “I'm not talking about the operations. I'm talking about how people will treat her.”

The car starts moving. “That's their loss, not hers.”

Part of me admires his laid-back attitude, but the other part is annoyed that he can't see where I'm coming from. “I feel sorry for her. Any compassionate person would.”

“Pity is just another form of judgment.” He shrugs. “It's disempowering. It doesn't help Jonas when people feel sorry for him. It won't help Stacey either.”

And if life unfolded according to the logic of Voice Man, my hair loss would be no big deal either.

The car stops to let a crowd of people on. Isaac steps closer and accidentally knocks my hat. Panic turns me cold. I straighten it and inch closer to the wall, but there's really nowhere to go. “So we'll go view the footage now, right?” His breath is hot on my ear; he smells faintly of coffee and musk.

“Sure.”

He is way too close. He gazes at me—at my eyes, my mouth, my eyes again—and my stomach bottoms out. Is it my brows? My hair? What can he see? “I figured we'd go back to my place instead of doing it at school. We have a computer room in the basement and I can kick the other kids out.”

His place. The basement.
Alone?
Not a chance. “Actually it might be better if you give me the tape so I can look on my own.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “But you just said yes. And we haven't sat down together to view the footage yet.”

The elevator bumps to a stop. I follow him into the lobby, mentally scrambling for an out. But Isaac doesn't give
me a chance to speak. “Look, I get it okay? I know what's going on.”

Fear twists my gut. He can't know.

He tosses the duffle over his shoulder and stares at me. “I'm not totally useless.”

Oh geez. “I didn't say you were.”

“I know you think you have to control every little thing, and if you don't do it, it won't be done right, but that's not true.” He's saying I'm a control freak. Without judgment and in the nicest way possible. And, damn him, he's right. “I know I messed up on that project we did last year and you ended up doing most of the work, and that wasn't fair.”

He's
admitting
it?

“This time I want to do my share,” he adds.

“For sure. It's just—”
I can't be alone with you. Not today.
“I have an appointment that I forgot about.” I gesture to the lab wing. “My doctor referred me and I completely forgot until I saw the tech with all the vials on the elevator.”

“I can wait. I don't mind.”

Oh shit. Of course he doesn't. Mr. Laid-Back. “I, um, I don't know how I'll feel afterwards so it's probably better if you don't hang around.”

A shadow passes across his face. “Oh.” Thank God. Like most guys, he's obviously a baby when it comes to illness. “Okay, sure.” He pops the tape out of the camera and drops it into my palm.

“Thanks.”

“So, I'll see you at school tomorrow then?” His face is shuttered, the warmth of seconds ago gone.

“Yeah. I guess. Probably.” I'm not sure why things are suddenly so awkward but they are.

“Because Fisher wants to see what we have before we do the laughter flash mob,” he reminds me.

“I know. He wants to talk about the final cut.”

“Right.” Isaac makes no move to leave. He's too still, too close, too sharply focused on me.

A nervous tic starts at the corner of my mouth. I can't walk out the entrance now that I've lied. I turn towards the lab wing. “See ya,” I say.

“See ya. And good luck,” he adds.

Good luck? Oh right. The test. I smile and keep on walking.

When I preview the footage in my room before dinner, I realize Isaac got some wicked hot stuff. Part of it was his creativity with angles; he even took a few shots lying on the floor. And in spite of the strict hospital rules, he captured some great footage of the kids laughing at
Crash
without focusing on any one patient. I can probably use it without worry. But he also captured a hilarious exchange between three boys who found the word
poopage
and its variations hysterically funny. When the camera pans to Jade, Stacey, and a third girl I don't know, they're studying the boys with complete distain. Their reaction—a perfect example of gender differences—makes me laugh. I definitely need to use it. But do I ask for permission or use it without asking the parent guardians? I'm mulling my options when there's a knock at the door.

“Come in.”

When Ella pokes her head around the corner, I hit pause. “Hi, Boo, what's up?”

“Not much.” She won't meet my gaze; she looks at the computer instead. “What are you doing?”

“Working on my video.” I need to do some editing before meeting with Fisher tomorrow.

She shifts awkwardly from one foot to another. “Mom said to tell you dinner's almost ready. She's making pasta.”

“Okay. Thanks.” I glance at the computer but Ella doesn't take the hint and leave.

“I went to Beth's after school today,” she says.

“Cool.” I tap my fingers impatiently on the keyboard. I want this done before dinner.

“And we were talking about your hair thingy and—”

My blood stops. “You told Beth?”

Her cheeks fill with colour. “Yes, but—”

“I told you—”

“Not to tell anyone,” Ella interrupts, a flash of impatience in her blue eyes. “I
know
that. But Beth isn't
anyone
. She's my best friend.”

“And best friends keep secrets!” chimes a second voice. Beth pops into view like a live jack-in-the-box. She smiles. “And I won't tell anyone. Honest!”

Shocked by Beth's unexpected appearance and Ella's traitorous behaviour, I can only stare. Beth is the yang to Ella's yin. On top of similar dark hair and eyes, they're the same height, same build; they favour the same blue eye-shadowed, lip-glossed look. And now, as they stand in the doorway, they share the same smug, “we have a secret and we're cool with it” smirk. I take a deep, centreing breath.

They're only ten years old
.
Even if they act like they're fourteen. They don't know anyone I know. They go to different schools.

Except, Ella is incredibly chatty. If she's told Beth, she's probably told someone else. Or she soon will.

Ella pulls out a white book from behind her back. I glimpse blocky pink writing on the cover. “This is Beth's mom's—”

My voice comes out in a squeak. “You told Beth's mom too?”

The two girls roll their eyes in tandem. “No,” Beth clarifies. “Ella told
me
and I remembered Mom's book and we think it can help.” She plucks the book from Ella's hand and marches into the room.

“
You
think it can help,” Ella says.

“Whatever,” Beth counters.

I'm suddenly conscious of the fact that I'm not wearing my hat, that I haven't combed my hair. “Here.” Beth shoves the book at me. I glance down as my hands fold around it.
Think Yourself Well! The Amazing Power of Your Mind!

Oh my God. She has to be kidding.

“So Ella wasn't lying.” When I look up, Beth is staring at my head. “You really are going bald.”

My shoulders tighten. I don't need to answer to her.

“I told you!” Ella walks into the room. “And that's the hat she usually wears.” She points to the fedora on my dresser. “Only not at home. But Mom says soon she'll get a wig—”

What?
“I'm not getting a wig.”

“... and that means she can have a pile of different styles so she'll look different every day of the week. That part's cool, right?”

Beth averts her gaze and takes a step back. “Right.” Her voice is thick with uncertainty.

“So it's good?” Ella gestures to the offending book resting on my lap. “You'll read it?”

My head is ready to explode. I'm not sure who deserves my rage more—Ella or Kim. “I'll see,” I mutter.

“Mom was right,” Ella tells Beth. “We shouldn't have given it to her.”

My body turns to stone. “Kim knows about the book. She knows you told Beth?”

“Yeah.” Ella glares at me. “And I already got into trouble so you don't need to rag on me too.”

“And I promised your mom I wouldn't tell anybody,” Beth stresses again.

She's not my mother,
I almost say. But my jaw is clenched so tight I doubt I could open my mouth.

“Mom said we shouldn't give you the book because you aren't really sick and we shouldn't treat you like a patient and make you more upset and stuff.”

“But my mom is hugely into visualization and positive thinking and aura cleansing, and when we told her we knew someone who wasn't really sick but they were kinda sick and losing their hair, she said this is the best book for the job.” Beth smiles. “So I wanted to bring it over.”

The words spill out of Beth like water bursting from a dam, and that's how I feel. Like I've been smacked down by a five-ton wall of water. Or, more specifically, by two wellintentioned ten-year-olds. So they haven't told anybody else. Technically. Except, they have. And Beth's mom isn't stupid. She'll figure it out soon enough.

“And even though Mom had a cow, Beth can still stay for dinner as long as we don't talk about your hair when you're around,” Ella adds.

When you're around
. So I can be the subject of conversation as long as they do it behind my back. I bite down harder on my back teeth. Nice. I turn back to the computer, start the footage again.

“Poopalicious!” shouts a boy in a blue bathrobe as he gestures to the back of his wheelchair. The two boys beside him howl with laughter.

“Ew,
gross
,” Ella squeals.

Beth grimaces. “What is
wrong
with him?”

“Patrick has leukemia,” I tell them.

“But why does he have to be so
disgusting
?”

Disgusting, like what people find funny clearly depends on their point of view. I pause the video a second time. “You guys need to leave. I have work to do.”

“I hope he's not at the laughter flash mob,” Ella mutters as they head for the door.

“If he is, I'm not standing beside him,” Beth says.

I call after them, “Who said you guys were going?”

“Mom did,” Ella says. “It's Columbus Day weekend, plus it's a Sunday so Mom's taking me and Beth and Felicity. If Felicity's mom says it's okay.”

I'm not sure how I feel about that. The last thing I need is Kim watching me. On the other hand, I'm seriously afraid only a few people will show up and that'll make for lousy footage.

“Your mom is taking us for pizza first,” Beth says as they wander into the hall. “But I have a sensitive stomach, and if I see or hear anything gross, I sometimes puke and it would
not
be funny if I puked up my pizza.”

“Especially not on-camera,” Ella adds.

That's also a matter of opinion. I toss the stupid book to
the floor and push play. Bursts of laughter fill the bedroom. I stare at the sight of three boys almost hyperventilating with glee. On the floor, the corner of
Think Yourself Well! The Amazing Power of Your Mind!
presses against my foot. I stomp down hard and get back to work.

Fifteen

T
he waiting room in Dr. Arianna Paxton's office is empty when we arrive the next morning. As we follow the nurse down the hall past the examining rooms, my heart flips at the poster of a woman with an obvious skin disease. I avert my gaze and remind myself of why I'm here. I need a treatment plan. I need to get better. I need my hair back.

The nurse ushers us into the last room on the right. There's an examining bed, a chrome desk and chairs, and a kids' play area in the corner. “I'll let her know you're here.”