The Art of Getting Stared At (29 page)

I brace myself while she goes to work on my left brow. This side hurts even more. My left eye waters; a headache starts at the base of my scull. I fist the chair and try to make sense of what I've learned. How could I not know something this important?

“We still call Kim once in a while,” Bo says. “Especially when we get bruises we can't cover with over-the-counter makeup.”

Gross. I don't want to think about the why of that.

“Kim can hide bruises and scars better than anyone. But you know that, right?”

No, this is all news to me, but I want her to keep talking so I mumble, “Mm-hmm.”

“But since Kim promised your dad she wouldn't go to any of the shelters alone, Martin almost always takes her.”

Martin. I remember the look on Kim's face when she spoke to him on the phone. The intimacy in her voice when she said “darling.” She's having an affair with another volunteer.

“Martin's good with a makeup brush and so's his partner, Brian, but—”

I suck in a quick breath.

Bo thinks she's hurt me again. “Sorry,” she says.

Martin's gay. And unless he plays both sides, he's not messing with Kim. More to the point, she's not messing with him. My stomach sinks. And I was so quick to assume she was.

The needle whirs against my brow line. “But neither guy holds a candle to your mom when it comes to camouflage and hiding things.”

No kidding. What else is Kim hiding?

“And besides that, the shelters are really strict about men on the premises. Even if they're gay.”

Why didn't Kim tell me? About Martin? The women she's helped? Why would she keep something like that private?

Makeup saves lives too, Sloane.

She did tell me, in a roundabout way. But did she expect me to read her mind?

Kim isn't having an affair. Nor is she the shallow bimbo brain I thought she was. I made an assumption. A judgment.

Judgments can bite you in the ass.
Lexi has told me that more than once.

No kidding. I've been so worried about others' judgments I've paid no attention to my own. My headache intensifies. Kim let me think the worst.

It pisses me off. And it hurts.

After a while, Bo pulls back and studies me, her impossibly curly lashes blinking as she looks from one brow to another. She smiles. “I think my work here is done.” She switches off the spotlight, removes her gloves and goggles, and returns my chair to its upright position. “Have a look.”

Heart hammering, I take the mirror she hands me.
What if I hate it? What if she has ruined me?

I stare at my reflection. Fear dusts my mouth; I cannot swallow. I bring the mirror closer. “They look real.” I reach up to touch them but she stops me.

“No. Your hands may not be clean.”

“The colour is perfect.” I glance from one to the other. “Just dark enough.”

“They won't stay quite that dark,” she says. “The colour will soften to its final shade in the next week.”

I tilt my head. I can't believe what I'm seeing. “It's like I have individual brow hairs or something.”

“It's called feathering. It's my specialty.”

“Kim was right. You
are
a magician.”

She smiles. “We're all magicians, honey.” She puts the mirror away and grabs a white tube from the nearby tray. “Your mom's a magician at hiding bruises and I'm a magician at making brows.”

She dots my forehead with cool gel. “This will speed
healing and keep the brows moist. It'll also help with any swelling or irritation.”

I wipe my suddenly clammy hands on my new jeans. “Swelling?” I can't afford to swell; I have the laughter flash mob to do.

“It shouldn't be too bad. The needle is much gentler than the tattoo gun. But if it swells, use ice. Disinfect and moisturize several times a day too.” She covers each brow with a strip of gauze. “Take these off as soon as you get home. Avoid the sun, try not to scratch, and don't pick at any scabs that form.”

Scabs?
My unease edges closer to panic. I should have asked Kim more questions. Why didn't Kim tell me?

Bo hands me a small, clear bag. “Here's a sheet with aftercare instructions as well as some antiseptic wipes and a little moisturizer to get you started.”

“Thanks.” I stand. I expect to be light-headed, but except for tingling where my new brows are and the stupid headache that won't leave, I feel fine.

“If you have any questions, call.” We walk down the hall. “Or check with your mom. She's familiar with the procedure.”

“Sure.” Butterflies dance in my stomach as I go into the waiting room. What will Lexi think?

Bo gently pulls back one gauze strip so Lexi can take a look. She stares at me for a minute. “Whoa! They're, like, totally natural.”

“They turned out pretty well,” Bo says.

I dig for my wallet. “How much do I owe you?”

“Kim took care of it.” As Bo steers us to the front door, Lexi's narrow-eyed gaze burns into me. What's she thinking? Does she really like them?

“Don't forget to book your follow-up appointment,” Bo reminds me. “Maybe in a couple of weeks, once you've finished the video and handed it off, and things settle down for you.”

My hand freezes on the door. “You know about that?”

“Of course.” She smiles again. “Your mom told me. She's pretty proud of you.”

If that's the case, Kim hides it well. My cheeks burn. Like she hides a lot of other things.

Eighteen

T
he next morning, my forehead is a red hot mess.

“Bo said I might get a little swelling,” I tell Kim when I march into the kitchen and confront her at the counter minutes after I get up. “This isn't a
little.
This is a
lot.
I may as well be wearing
those
on my forehead.” I point to the strawberries she's rinsing.

She glances at my forehead. “Ice will help.”

My vision blurs. I blink back my tears. “What am I supposed to do? Walk around all day with an ice pack on my face?”

Dad looks up from his paper. “It's not that bad.”

I catch my reflection in the patio door. Swollen brows. Bald spots. Nasty-assed green pyjamas I should have thrown out last year. Trembling, I turn on him. “Would
you
go out of the house like this?”

He simply looks at me.

Ella jams the last spoonful of cereal into her mouth, puts the bowl in the sink, and slinks out of the kitchen. I turn hot with humiliation. I'm being irrational but I can't help it. I'm
sick of looking like a freak. Sick of having to deal. I want my life back. I want to be normal.

Fury building, I switch back to Kim. “The laughter flash mob is
tomorrow.
Why didn't you talk me out of this? Why didn't you tell me this would happen? Did you have to keep this a secret too?”

“Wait a sec—”

I interrupt her. My anger has a life of its own. “You always said I was ugly, Kim. Well, now I am. How does it feel to have an ugly-ass freak for a stepdaughter?”

“I never said you were ugly.”

“Plain, then. What's the difference? You've never liked me. You've always tried to fix me!”

Her lower lip trembles. “That's not true. I've tried to help you because I care.”

“Yeah, right,” I mutter.

“That's enough!” Dad interrupts. “Don't throw accusations around, Sloane. I understand you're upset. I know you're hurting. But you made the decision to get your brows tattooed and you need to take responsibility for it.” He slaps his paper down. “It wasn't up to Kim to talk you in or out of it.”

The fury drains out of me like air leaving a balloon. He's right. It's not Kim's fault. I wish I could blame her—I wish I could blame someone—but I can't. Suddenly cold, I sink into a kitchen chair. “I'm sorry.” I hug my knees to my chest. My words sound hollow, meaningless. “I am.”

“At least it's Saturday and you don't have school,” Dad adds.

My anger sparks back to life. “What about the
rest
of the year? What am I supposed to do about that?”

“One day at a time, Sloane.” He picks up his dishes, puts them on the counter. “I'll take Ella to dance this morning,” he tells Kim as he gives her a kiss. “If you don't mind holding down the fort here.” The two of them exchange a look before he leaves the room. A look that would translate on film to: if you'll stay and deal with The Freakish One.

“Ice packs will be a big help.” Kim blots the strawberries and puts them in the fridge. “You should be fine tomorrow.”

“But what if there's scabbing? Bo said that sometimes happens too.” What a holy hell of a disaster. I can't stop the flash mob. I can't undo the tattoos. But I
can't
go out with scabs on my face.

“Not always,” Kim says. “Lots of women don't scab up.”

“Not everyone swells either!”

“If you're worried, I'll buy you some medicated ointment and you can apply that. If you do scab, they'll be very, very tiny and I can cover them with makeup for a few hours, even though you're really supposed to keep the area clean.”

Mumbling my thanks, I head for the shower. After I ragged on her, Kim is still willing to help me. I should be grateful. Instead I feel small.

“Bo told me about Martin,” I say to Kim later that morning. Sunshine streams through the kitchen window. A grey sparrow pecks at the birdseed in the feeder on the deck.

“Huh.” Ice clatters as she removes a handful from the bin in the freezer and fills a small plastic sandwich bag.

I've spent the last hour with an ice pack on my forehead watching sitcom reruns and trying not to think about
tomorrow. But the ice pack has thawed, and while it refreezes, I'll need to resort to baggies with ice.

“And about what you do at the shelter sometimes,” I add.

Kim doesn't respond. She zips the bag shut, opens a drawer, and pulls out a tea towel.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“It's a private thing. We're not supposed to talk about the women.”

“But in general terms. You could have told me.”

She folds the ice pack into the towel. “I do it for me and I do it for them. I don't do it for anybody else.”

She still hasn't answered my question. I stare at her, looking for answers, trying to make sense of it. Of her. But Kim's veneer is in place, flawless, perfect, giving nothing away. Not long ago I would have taken her rebuff personally. But Kim's enigmatic nature isn't about me. It's her deal. Still, one thing bugs me.

“That night Martin called, why didn't you explain what was going on?”

“It didn't seem important.”

“Not important? But I was implying—” I stop.
Something ugly.
“I just don't get it.”

A cloud passes across her green eyes. I've touched a nerve. And, I suddenly realize, I've used her phrase: I just don't get it.
You have every opportunity to do something with your appearance and you don't. I just don't get it.

I brace myself, expecting to have my own words—
you don't have to get it; it's my life—
tossed back at me.

Instead she hands me the ice pack and asks, “Would it have made a difference, Sloane?”

Probably not. I would have found fault with her anyway.
Because, as far as I'm concerned, Kim never could do anything right. I've found fault with her for years. I hold the ice to my flaming cheeks and wander back to the TV room. And that says more about me than it does about her.

Sunday, I wake up before dawn. This time tomorrow, the laughter flash mob will be over; I'll be working on my video for Clear Eye. But my excitement is tempered by dread. What will I see in the mirror today?

I lie there for a while listening to the birds and watching the sky get lighter. It's going to be a beautiful day, perfect for shooting. Finally, when I can't stand the suspense anymore, I get up and pad to the mirror.