My Life in Black and White (24 page)

When I finished chugging, Theo gave an impressed whistle.

“Still … thirsty,” I panted.

“Well then,” he said, “let’s get you another.”

By the time we walked outside to the parking lot, I’d had three bottles of water and a PowerBar. When Theo offered me a second one, I took it.

“I like a girl who’s not afraid to eat,” he said as I tore open the wrapper.

“What are you saying? I’m fat?”

“No.”

“A moment on the lips, forever on the hips,” I singsonged, taking a bite. “Nothing tastes as good as looking good feels.”

Theo gave me a funny look.

“That’s what my mother always says, to get me to stop eating.”

“Why would she want you to stop eating?”

I shrugged. “So I don’t get fat.”

“Well, you’re
not
.” He said this with such intensity that I almost choked. “You have, like, the ideal balance of fat and muscle. If I were a cannibal, I’d eat you.”

Now, I really did choke. The piece of PowerBar I was chewing flew out of my mouth and landed on the pavement.

“That’s by far the weirdest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

Theo didn’t look offended. “I meant it as a compliment.”

I thanked him.

“You’re welcome. You have a great body.”

We were standing on the passenger side of his truck and he was looking down at me and I felt the odd, sudden sensation of shyness.

“What kind of hat is that?” I blurted. Which is what I do when I’m feeling shy. I blurt.

“This?” Theo reached up to touch the short, black brim. “It’s a newsboy cap. My mom gave it to me…. Whenever I wear it, she calls me Brian, after Brian Williams … you know, on NBC? He’s her favorite reporter. I tell her she’s mixing her media, not to mention her millennia, but—”

“How many names do you
have
?”

Theo gave me a quizzical look.

“My sister calls you Clark Kent. Your dad calls you Taddeo. Your mom calls you Brian…. Are there any other aliases I should know about?”

“Right.” Theo nodded. “Taddeo is actually my name. My dad’s Italian, obviously, and my mom’s Irish. Taddeo McConnell Barbuto.”

“Wow.”

“I know…. I think that’s why my sister started calling me Theo. She didn’t want me getting tortured on the playground.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

Theo nodded. “Becks … Rebecca.”

“Older or younger?”

“Older.”

“High school or college?”

He hesitated.

“Are these questions too hard?” I teased.

“Nope,” he said, reaching past me to unlock the passenger door. “But the quiz is over.”

I waited for the punch line. When it didn’t come, I looked to see if he was kidding, but his face was unreadable. He wasn’t even looking at me anymore.

Confused, I climbed (as well as a person can climb on Jell-O legs) into the passenger seat, and Theo shut the door behind me.

I didn’t understand what just happened, but the mood had clearly shifted. When he got into the driver’s side he was frowning.

“Can you put on the AC?” I blurted. “I’m dying here.”

“Why don’t you take off your sweatshirt?”

It wasn’t an illogical suggestion—if you’re hot, remove a layer—but I immediately felt my body tense.

“At least take off your hood,” Theo said. “It’s trapping all your body heat.”

Obviously, I would do no such thing.

“What are you going to do—wear a hood for the rest of your life?”

The question was so shocking, I literally gasped. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Why?”

“
Why?
… Because it’s a really insensitive thing to say!”

Theo didn’t look the least bit apologetic. “Listen,” he said, resting his hand on the stick shift, “I know what happened to you.”

I turned away from him, stared out at the parking lot.

“Our school’s not that big. Things get around.”

When I didn’t respond he said, “I’ve seen your face, Lexi. In the darkroom that day and on your friend Taylor’s porch…. I know what you look like, and I just want you to know … you have no reason to feel self-conscious in front of me.”

I turned to the window.

“I mean that.”

“Right,” I muttered.

“You don’t believe me?”

I shook my head. “Never mind. Forget it.”

“No.”

Abruptly, I turned to look at him. “What?”

“I won’t forget it.”

My mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“You think you’re the only one?” Theo said. “Everyone has scars. We just don’t all wear them on the outside.”

I didn’t mean to, but I smirked.

Theo’s eyes locked with mine just long enough for me to register his disappointment.

“Sorry,” I said. “That just sounds a little … I don’t know … Lifetime Television for Women.”

“Right.” Theo nodded, turning the key in the ignition. “I thought you and I were going to have a real conversation, but I guess we’re not.”

I had no idea how to respond to that, so I said nothing. We drove to my house in silence, my mind tracing back over the weirdness of this exchange—the weirdness of Theo in general. The fact that I was sitting in his truck suddenly seemed absurd. We barely knew each other! Still, when he pulled into my driveway, I heard myself chirp like a cheerleader, “Well, thanks for the ride!”

“You’re welcome.” His eyes were dark and serious, looking straight at me.

“And thanks for the boxing lesson and everything—well,
Tiny’s
boxing lesson.” I was babbling, I realized. I just needed to shut up and open the door, but somehow my lips wouldn’t stop flapping. “Oh my God, I just realized I’m still wearing the clothes you gave me! Do you want me to—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “You can give them back another time.”

“Okay … I’ll wash them … you know, so you won’t have to.”

Theo nodded.

“Well … thanks again.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Okay, bye!” I said, flinging open the door and leaping out onto the lawn.
What’s wrong with me?
I thought as I ran up the front path. Followed by,
What’s wrong with
him?

I hadn’t planned on lying to my mother. But in the heat of the moment, when I came bursting through the front door all sweaty and disheveled and she proceeded to flip out because Ruthie was already home and no one knew where I was, and didn’t I realize that she had been worried sick? I knew I couldn’t tell her the truth. The words just popped out of my mouth: “Dance class.”

“Dance class?” My mother raised her golden eyebrows. This was all she had to do to show me how delighted she was. I think it was a mixture of her devastation that I’d quit ballet in second grade and her relief that I hadn’t spent the afternoon drinking vodka and stripping down to my underwear.

“Uh-huh,” I said. “One of my friends from school—you don’t know her, but her mom owns a dance studio—she wanted me to try out this class. It all just kind of happened. Sorry I didn’t call first. My cell was dead.”

So many lies, but my mother was too happy to be suspicious. “These things happen,” she said, smiling benevolently. “I’m just glad you’re dancing again, sweetheart. It’s wonderful.”

“Uh-huh … Well, I should go change. I’m pretty sweaty.”

Only then, when she considered my outfit, did she hesitate. “Is that what you wore to dance in?”

“Yeah … I didn’t know I was going until after school. I wasn’t exactly prepared.”

This part was true.

“Well, we should buy you some proper attire. Leotards, tights, ballet slippers … some of those pretty elastic headbands to keep the hair out of your eyes….”

“No, it’s fine,” I said, thinking fast. “It’s a really low-key class. Modern dance. We can wear whatever.”

“Well, honey, surely a bulky sweatshirt like that can’t be easy to move around in. At least let me pick you up a few leotards.”

“Fine, Mom.”

Because—really, did it matter what I said? She would buy leotards, anyway. Just like she kept buying me new clothes for school—cardigan sweaters, corduroy skirts—even though I told her not to, I would never wear them, I was happy in sweatshirts and jeans. She couldn’t help herself.

“Great!” My mother clapped her hands like she’d just won big money on
The Price Is Right
.

“Great,” I repeated. Then, “Okay, Mom. I’m going up now.”

As I walked out of the kitchen, I felt bad about lying, but not horrible. This was a lie that made my mother happy. She had a dancer for a daughter! Someone to buy leotards and headbands for! Maybe I should have told her the truth, but what good would that do? She would be appalled—horrified, really—at the image of me one-two punching the hands of a gap-toothed, three-hundred-pound bald man named Tiny. What if I forgot how to be feminine? What if my face got hit?

Honestly, she wouldn’t be able to handle it.

Kissing the Canvas

LATER, WHEN I walked down the hall to Ruthie’s room—it took a lot of pride-swallowing to get me there because I’d basically been ignoring her since the night of the dance—I heard giggling. Not laughter; giggling. The last time I’d heard my sister giggle, she was eight.

Curiosity surged through me, but the minute I knocked, she stopped. “I’m on the phone!”

I poked my head through the door. “Can I come in?”

Ruthie was flopped on her bed, cell clutched between her ear and her shoulder, cheeks flushed. “Hold on a sec,” she murmured. Then, cupping one hand over the receiver, “What do you want?”

“I need to talk to you,” I told her.

“Can it wait? I’m on the phone.”

“With who?”

“That’s not relevant.”

“Why isn’t it relevant?”

Ruthie sighed heavily. She lifted the phone and said, “Can I call you back? My sister’s here…. Yeah … I know, me too—” She paused, smiling. “Okay. Give me five minutes…. Bye.”

When Ruthie looked at me, I could tell she was annoyed, but she arranged her features into a neutral expression. “What’s up?”

“Who was that?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not
worried
. I’m curious….” Staring at my sister, I noticed something. Her eyes looked different—brighter than usual. “Wait—” I said. “Are you wearing
makeup
?”

“Lex.”

“Oh my God. You
are
.”

Ruthie sighed. “Look, I’ve got a lot to do tonight. Can we just get to the point of why you’re here?”

“Okay fine,” I said. “How well do you know Theo?”

“Barbuto?”

“Yeah.”

She hesitated then said, “Pretty well … We’re friends with some of the same people…. Why?”

“I don’t know…. I was hanging out with him today after school, and it was cool for a while and then it was like … I don’t know what happened…. Out of nowhere he got all weird.”

“Weird how?” Ruthie said. “Give me some context.”

I wasn’t sure how much context she needed; I just gave her the basics. “So what’s the deal with his sister?” I said. “Is she a dropout or something?”

Ruthie shook her head.

“Teen mom? Drug dealer?”

“No.”

“Well, what then?”

“Okay, remember that article that came out last year, about eating disorders? After that girl in the senior class died?”

“Yeah,” I said. As soon as it happened, our ninth-grade health teacher, Mrs. Meechan, had led an all-school assembly about the dangers and warning signs of anorexia and bulimia, and then everyone had to fill out some eating-disorder questionnaire.

“Well,” Ruthie said, “that was Theo’s sister. Rebecca Barbuto. She was the whole reason they wrote the article. Remember the picture on the front page? She was really pretty … long, dark hair. She looked a lot like Theo.”

“Oh my God,” I said.

“I know.”

“He didn’t say anything…. I mean, he made some comment about everyone having scars, but I thought he was just trying to make me feel better…. I had no idea.”

Ruthie nodded. “He has a hard time talking about it. We were cooking partners in home ec last year. He barely said a word after it happened…. Not to me, anyway. But this one day he looked upset, so I asked him how he was holding up, and he told me his mom had to go into the hospital … you know … for depression. She took a bunch of pills. It was pretty bad.”