The Art of Getting Stared At (17 page)

“I think I could choke one down.” I reach for the bag.

The University of San Francisco is spread over fifty-five acres on top of Lone Mountain in the heart of the city. If I wasn't determined to go to film school, I'd want to go here. It's a beautiful green space with some cool old buildings, plus there are always tons of hot guys taking law classes. Lexi and I usually come here once or twice every summer, often with takeout pizza or burgers. We grab a bench and eat our lunch in the shade of a date palm, pretending to enjoy the view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the Marin Headlands. Really, we're way more interested in scanning for our ideal guy. Lexi has a thing for Prince Harry types—guys with reddish hair
and freckles—while I lean to the more exotic guys. Yeah, like Isaac.

Professor Ng's office is on the third floor of the psychology wing in the School of Education and luckily we manage to find a parking spot in a nearby lot. Inside, we check in with the white-haired receptionist and then wait in the corner by the window. It's starting to rain; water droplets ping the glass.

“Since we're shooting inside now, you'll need to reset the white balance,” I remind Isaac.

“I'll activate it once we're in his office.” But he pulls the camera from its case and turns off the auto settings in preparation.

“I have half a dozen questions that'll take five or ten minutes. Depending on his answers, I may have more.” I'm
hoping
I'll have more. Professor Ng was forthcoming in his email but I don't know how forthcoming he'll be in person.

The door behind the receptionist opens. A small, dark-haired man moves briskly into the outer office. “Miss Kendrick?”

I extend my hand. “That's me.” I gesture to Isaac. “This is Isaac Alexander. He'll run camera so I can concentrate on our conversation.”

He smiles. “Of course. Please come in.”

“I'm sorry we were delayed. I appreciate you pushing the start time back.”

“Not a problem. It actually worked out better for me.”

Thank goodness for that. The room is small, stuffy, and smells vaguely of onions. Two extra chairs are wedged in beside the desk and piled with books, papers, and file folders. There's barely room for the two of us.

“It's pretty tight,” Isaac murmurs. “Maybe we should do the interview in the hall. The lighting would be better too.”

He's probably right.

“I'd prefer to do it here,” Professor Ng says. “We'll have fewer distractions.” He removes the books from the chairs and slides them under his desk. “Sit. Please.” He lifts the second chair. “I'll move this into the hall.”

Isaac looks at me and shrugs. Then he hoists the camera and takes his white balance from a piece of paper on the desk. “Can you get rid of that picture?” He points to a family portrait in a gold frame. “And maybe move his computer monitor?”

I put the picture on a nearby shelf, push the monitor as far left as I can, and pull out my notebook. “We appreciate you agreeing to this interview,” I say when Professor Ng hurries back into the room.

“No problem.” He sits down behind the desk. “I'm happy to do it.”

“I thought I'd give you a quick rundown of my questions.” I flip my notebook open. “While I do that, Isaac will shoot some wide shots of the two of us.” Getting generic wide shots before and after the interview will give us plenty of footage for potential cutaways.

“That's fine.” The professor leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers.

Seconds after I start to outline my line of questioning, Isaac interrupts me.

“Sloane? Could you take your hat off?”

I turn cold, then hot.
No way
. “Why?”

“It's in the way.”

“I'd prefer to keep it on.” I scoot my chair over. “There. Try that.”

He checks the viewfinder again. “It's iffy.”

“You'll make it work.” I give him a breezy smile as I turn back to the professor. “I trust you.”

Professor Ng is eloquent and surprisingly funny, offering both hard facts on the differences between how men and women perceive humour as well as a cute personal anecdote about his son and daughter. He has some insightful comments about the social benefits of laughter and says it's an excellent way to create bonds with others. Thinking of the upcoming flash mob, I ask him to expand.

“Shared laughter is one of the best ways to keep relationships fresh and exciting,” he says. “As well as that, it helps us overcome challenges both in relationships and personally. And it helps us not take ourselves so seriously.”

If only it was that easy
, I reflect after Isaac and I say our thanks, put away the equipment, and head to the van. If only I could watch a few
Friends
reruns, laugh, and feel better about my hair loss.

If only.

The rain has stopped but the blowing wind sends autumn leaves dancing across the sidewalk in front of us. “That went well, don't you think?”

“Uh-huh.”

His silence since we left the office is making me uncomfortable. “He gave us some really great stuff.”

“Yeah.”

I shoot him a look. “What's with the monosyllabic answers?”

“What's with you and that hat?”

My heart skips a beat. “What do you mean?”

“Why did you insist on wearing it? It really was in the way.”

“I like me in it.” The second the words leave my mouth, I want to take them back.
Like me in it
. How lame.

“I didn't think you were like that.”

“Like what?”

“Worrying about how you look.”

I attempt a giggle but I end up sounding more like a snorting pig than anything human. “All girls do.”

He shakes his head. “Maybe, but I figured you had more confidence.”

My unease morphs to anger. How dare he poke around in my psyche? “I have plenty of confidence.”

“Then why are you so freaked about going on-camera? And why hide behind a hat that's in the way?”

I concentrate on speaking calmly. “I like my hat. That's all. End of story.” But I am clenching my purse so hard my nails are jabbing my palms. I force my fingers to relax. “Seriously, Dr. Drew. Find someone else to analyze.”

He shrugs. “Right. Whatever.”

He doesn't believe me. I'm about to argue my case further when he stops in the middle of the sidewalk and turns to face me. He's standing so close the denim from his jeans brushes my knees. So close I could count the tiny gold flecks in his brown eyes. “You're beautiful, Sloane. I told you that the other day.”

You're way hotter than Breanne.

“With or without the hat,” he adds. “But you need to own it, that's all.”

My breath hitches in my throat. If only he meant it. I manage another snort-giggle. “Yeah, right.”

His eyes darken; the gold sparks dissolve. His head dips towards me; my legs turn to licorice.
He's going to kiss me again
.
He is.

And I can't let it happen. Not again. I step back and shoot him a shaky smile. “That's me, a regular beauty queen. And you're a famous DJ.” I start to walk. “Come on. Your limo's waiting.”

Eleven

B
y the time we get back to the car, it's almost one thirty. Rather than going back to school for an hour, Isaac drops me at the hospital a little early. My cell phone rings seconds after I walk through the entrance. The words
unidentified caller
pop onto the screen. My heart skips a beat. “Hello?”

“Sloanie?” Mom's voice is tinny, like she's calling from the moon.

Tears well at the sound of her voice. I stop so suddenly a man in a suit smashes into my back and gives me a dirty look. “Where are you?”

She starts to answer but cuts out. “You're blocking traffic,” a woman says. The purple flowers she's carrying hit me as she brushes past.

I hurry back to the front door. Reception can be spotty in the hospital; I'm not taking any chances.

“Are you there?” Mom asks.

“I'm here.” Outside, the clouds are low and threatening; the wind cuts through my hoodie. Needing to generate heat, I speed walk past the drop-off lane to the street. “Where are you?” I ask a second time.

Another delay as my words travel halfway around the world. “At the teaching hospital in Juba ... got here yesterday ... gathering supplies ... going ... village tomorrow ... you okay?”

Okay? My hair is falling out. Isaac is making me crazy. My video is nowhere near done and it's due in a little over a week. And then there's Jade waiting upstairs. There's so much to say, but I don't know where to start, so I say, “Yeah.”

Another pause and then, “How are you feeling?”

Terrified. Angry. Confused. I turn at the corner, falling in with a group of people carrying briefcases and designer bags. I see my reflection in a store window.
Beautiful.
Isaac called me beautiful. I glance at my hat. At my hair poking out the bottom. What a joke.

“Scared,” I whisper into the phone. I can't believe how much my life has changed in a little over a week. The last time I read to the kids, I didn't know I had alopecia. “And pissed off.” I'm so angry it's like I'm PMSing all the time.

A strange emptiness fills the line. She's gone again.

The crowd I'm with makes another turn, steps off the curb, and surges across the street. On autopilot, I follow the woman in front of me, noting her purposeful strides, the royal blue Hermès scarf tied casually to her leather bag. I remember a picture Mom showed me of her last trip to Sudan—the dusty red soil, the thatched huts, the desperation in the eyes of a mother cradling a baby. The poverty.

Tears prickle behind my lids. The two of us are worlds apart.

But then she is back. “... love you, Sloane.”

“Love you too, Mom. Miss you.”

“Will ... email ... call ... few days.”

She is gone. This time, for good. I stare at the unfamiliar
buildings looming on either side of the street. And I am lost. The irony doesn't escape me.
Oh, get over yourself
. I don't have time for a pity party. I pocket my cell, swallow my tears, and begin to retrace my steps.

“One of the nurses said you wanted to talk to us,” Jade's mom says as we watch the lab tech draw blood from Jade's arm.

“I did but—” I avert my gaze as the tech reaches for vial number four. This feels opportunistic. “I'm not sure now.”

Latanna straightens the fuzzy pipe cleaners scattered on Jade's portable hospital table. The pale yellows, pinks, and purples remind me of Easter. “What was it about?”

“I'm doing this school video on laughter.”

The lines at the corners of her eyes crinkle when she smiles. “That sounds interesting. I can't wait for Jade to get to high school and do all those wonderful things.”

Her sunny optimism makes me want to weep. Jade is back on chemo. She's wearing her favourite green bandana with a sticker: “Chemo. All the cool kids do it.”

“But what does that have to do with us?”

I turn my back to the bed and quietly say, “I was going to ask if I could film Jade the next time the clowns perform for the kids.”

Latanna gazes at me, her warm brown eyes open and trusting. So like her daughter. A nugget of shame blooms in my chest. “Because she laughs. All the time.” Even today when I walked through the door and saw her making a pipe cleaner bracelet, she was giggling. “But it's okay.”

Because no matter how much I want my video to shine, reducing Jade to a frame or two of laughter feels wrong. She is so much more than that. I can't do it.

“Done,” the lab tech announces. I turn around as she pops a Hello Kitty Band-Aid onto Jade's arm.

“And, anyway, we're doing a laughter flash mob so we'll probably have enough tape.”

“I saw a flash mob on YouTube once and it looked waaaay fun,” Jade says as she rests back against her pillow. Her voice is so weak the word
way
comes out in a breathless whisper. “When are you doing it, Miss Cookie?”