The Art of Getting Stared At (34 page)

“Not this one. There isn't any bad guy.”

She wrinkles her nose. “That's dumb.”

I laugh. “It's not that kind of movie.”

“Huh.” She shuts her eyes for a minute and this time I'm sure she's dozed off but they fly open again. “My bad guy is cancer,” she whispers.

“I know.”

“He's not gonna win 'cause the bad guy never wins, you know that, right?”

A lump the size of Nob Hill threatens to cut off my air supply. “Right,” I manage. “Bad guys never win.”

“Sometimes it looks like they do, but in the end, the good guy always does.” She yawns. “I'm tired.”

“I know.” Legs trembling, I stand. I feel awkward and uncertain. I want to lean down and kiss her forehead but I've never kissed Jade before and though it would probably be okay, it feels too personal and ... too final. I squeeze her fingers instead. “See you later, alligator.”

She smiles and I glimpse the real Jade, the bigger, wider, whole version of the sick little girl lying on the bed. I feel at once both weepy and awed. “In a while, crocodile.” She shuts her eyes.

Latanna walks me to the door. “Thank you for coming. I know it meant a lot to her and I'm sure it wasn't an easy thing for you to do.”

I nod; I don't trust myself to speak. By the time I get into the hall, my eyes are blurred. I'm sure Leslie expects me to stop by the desk and tell her how it went but I don't want to talk. I want to get out of my wig, grab my stuff, and go home.

I want to hold close my memories of Jade and the courage with which she has embraced her life. I want to think about what truly matters and let go of the things that don't.

I want to be alone.

I'll spring for a cab instead of taking the bus, I decide. I can't handle crowds right now. Head down and eyes brimming, I bolt around the corner to the nurses' lounge. And plow into someone coming towards me.

“Sorry,” I mumble, stepping sideways. “Excuse me.”

A hand reaches out to stop me. “Not so fast.”

My head snaps up. Oh my God. Not him. Not
now.

“We need to talk,” Isaac says.

Twenty - One

I
make Isaac wait downstairs in the lobby. He makes me promise I will, in fact, come out that way when I'm ready to go, that I won't ditch out another door. The thought crosses my mind, albeit only for a second or two.

You are running from Isaac.

In the lounge, I put away my Miss Cookie wig and take my time layering up in my jacket, scarf, and hat. So maybe Lexi was a little bit right about that too, I silently admit as I reapply lip gloss. But I'm not running today. After seeing Jade I don't have the energy. And I know Isaac. He won't leave me alone until I listen to what he has to say.

When I get off the elevator, he is standing a few feet away, waiting. Those crazy tawny eyes lock with mine. My mouth goes dry.
He sees me. The real me.

It's a crazy scary thought.

I can't look away. I stare back, thinking of all the labels I have attached to him: Voice Man. Flirt. Mr. Unreliable. Maybe it's time to do an edit. Maybe it's time to reframe this picture.

Dreads swinging, he swoops forward and takes my
elbow, steering me away from the crowd. He reminds me of a panther, black clothes, slick movements, silent intensity.

And panthers are dangerous.

“We need to talk.”

“You already said that.” He's still holding my elbow and it's making my heart stutter. I ease myself away. He yanks me back.

I stiffen. “I'm not a dog that'll bolt if you let go.”

“I don't trust you.”

I roll my eyes. “Nice.” I brace myself for the chill as he propels me out the main entrance, but the cool air feels good against my flushed cheeks. We turn towards the parking lot. His long leg presses into me; I have to practically run to keep up.

“This gives new meaning to being joined at the hip,” I mutter. He doesn't respond, doesn't even crack a smile. After a minute, I relax—as much as I can, considering he's wearing some kind of musky spice cologne that makes me want to both jump him and run away. Honestly, how can
one
guy mess with my head
so much
?

The van comes into view. “I thought we could talk in there,” he says.

“We don't need to sit inside. We can talk here.” He has parked two spots down from the ticket machine, which isn't ideal in terms of privacy but an audience should keep things superficial. I'm counting on it.

“It's cold.” He shoves the key into the driver's door.

He is right. A cold front moved down from Canada over the weekend. “It's not that cold.” I lean against the van. It's like an ice cube. I am being a dolt. And I don't know why.

You are running from Isaac.
Silently, I address the Lexi in my head.
I'm not running. I am standing still, listening.

He slams the door. “Fine, we'll talk here.” He turns to me. We're so close our breath clouds puff out, mingle, and slowly dissolve in the cool air between us.
What a great tight shot,
I think, ignoring the flutter of desire that ripples through me. I can see it now: soft edges, a slow dissolve. It's sexy as hell.

I expect Isaac to say something but he's looking over my shoulder at the machine. He's waiting for a guy in a blue windbreaker to take his ticket and leave. As soon as he walks off, a woman in stilettos tap-taps her way to the machine.

Silence yawns between us. I shift from one foot to another. At this rate, we could be here an hour. Finally, when the breath thing and the stillness get to be too much, I say, “Thanks for the, um, video you did.”
Why did you do it?
“It was good.”
Lame, Sloane. Totally lame.
“I mean ... I don't mean of me. Not exactly.”
Yes, I mean me exactly.
“But, um, the music. The music was really, really nice.”
Nice. What a stupid, empty word.

“You're welcome.” But he's not looking at me. He's still watching the machine.

What does it mean?
I want to ask.
How am I supposed to feel? Did you show it to anybody else?
The questions bounce around and around my head. I'm about to pick one when Isaac looks at me and says, “When were you going to tell me?”

He expected me to
tell him
? “Tell you?” My tone is level; I manage not to snap. But my anger starts to simmer.

“Yeah, tell me. Did you think I wouldn't understand? Did you think I'd go around telling everybody else you have cancer?”

He thinks I have cancer. My knees start to tremble. It's a good thing the van is holding me up.
Cancer.
I almost start to laugh. How insane is that? But my relief is immediately tempered by a sobering thought: cancer is easy to understand. It's acceptable. Alopecia isn't.

“I don't have cancer,” I tell him as a man and two young kids walk up to the ticket machine. “I have alopecia.”

He looks blankly at me. The word means nothing to him.

“It's a hair loss disease.” I remember Lexi and Ella. “And it's not life threatening or contagious or anything like that.”

“Oh for shit's sake.” He slumps against the van. “Is that all?”

I stiffen. “What do you mean,
is that all
?” One of the kids shoots me a nervous look. I lower my voice. “That's enough.”

“But it'll grow back, right?”

Here goes. “Maybe. Maybe not. This could be forever.” As I say the words, that hard pit of despair lodged in my chest softens a little. It's still there, it'll probably be there as long as my hair isn't, but resistance and denial only makes it worse. I know that now.

Isaac stares at me, his gaze steady and true. “Okay.”

The trembling in my knees spreads up my thighs, into my arms. “
Okay
? You know what? I hate the word
okay. Nothing
about this is okay.”

“Whoa.” He holds up a hand. The man at the machine grabs his two kids and hurries them away. “It's just hair,” he says.

My hands form fists. I clench my teeth. For a minute I can't speak. But then all the pain and anguish and fear and disgust I've fought to suppress over the last few weeks explodes out of me. “
Just?
” He sounds like my mother and
I hate it. It's all I can do not to pummel his chest in fury. “Hair isn't just decorative; it actually fulfills a role.
And
it's part of our identity.
And
the average woman spends two and a half years of her
life
dealing with it. Did you know that?”

He almost smiles. “So think of all the time you'll save.”

My breath hitches. “I can't believe you just said that.”

“Come on, Sloane, lighten up.”

Trust Isaac to minimize this. “Lighten
up
?”

“Yeah, lighten up. Just when I was starting to think we were possible, I figured out something was wrong. I thought you were sick. I spent all of last week thinking you had cancer. I felt like shit. I felt like we never even had a freaking chance.”

Starting to think we were possible?
“A chance?”

“Yes, a chance.” Exasperation darkens his eyes. “I like you, Sloane. I thought you got that by now.”

“You like all the girls and besides—”

“No.” He interrupts. “I might flirt with all the girls but you're the one I want.”

... the one I want.

A car starts up a dozen rows away. A gull caws in the sky above us. A single hair falls from my head; I'm sure I feel it hit my shoulders. My senses are magnified a thousand times over. How could I not see what Lexi saw? How could I miss it? Even after the video, I didn't get it. Clearly I only see what I want to see.

“And now you tell me you don't have cancer. You aren't going to die.” I swear his lower lip is trembling. “You can walk and talk. You can see and hear.” I know he's thinking of his little brother. “You aren't
sick
sick.”

Not like Jade. And for that, I am extremely, profoundly, ridiculously grateful.

His amber eyes are smoky serious as he laces his fingers through mine. My heart jackhammers in my chest. Isaac and me. We are possible. We do have a chance. I've always felt it. And I've always tried to deny it.

But guys like Isaac? Girls like me? I crash back to reality. Not happening. “I'll be bald, Isaac. Next week. The week after. Soon.”

“So. It's not like this will affect how you are in the world.”

How can he say that? “Are you
kidding
?”

A muscle twitches in his jaw. “No, I'm not kidding.” He glares at me. “It's just freaking hair,” he repeats.

Adrenalin surges through me. I drop his hand. Hair matters. Without it, people make judgments. “You don't get it.”

“Like hell I don't.”

“Right. I'd like to see you lose yours.”

“Shave my head.”

I snort. “Right.”

“I'm serious. Let's do it. Right now.”

“You can't shave your head. What about all those PR shots of you around town? With your dreads.”

His face is thunderous, splotched with angry colour. “Fuck the photos.”

Breath leaves me in a giant whoosh. He
is
serious.

He yanks open the van door. “Let's go. Your place or mine?”

Big disasters can start small. It's true. A little hole can sink a big ship. A lone cell can lead to cancer. One lost hair can start a catastrophe that changes your life forever.

And a single slip can reveal a truth you'd rather hide.

But just as laughter can hide pain, disaster can hide opportunities. Not everybody on the
Titanic
died. Not all diseases kill you.

And not every guy who flirts or every girl who wears makeup is shallow.

“It's here somewhere.” I'm on my knees digging through the bathroom cupboard for the electric razor Mom uses. She wouldn't have taken it to Africa. No way.

“A straight edge is supposed to be better.” Isaac steps over to the claw foot tub and brushes against me; I jump like I've gotten a shock. Maybe coming to the house on Jackson wasn't such a good idea. “There's a pink one here.” He has found the disposable I left in the shower caddy before I went to Dad and Kim's. Not even two weeks ago. It feels longer.

“We don't need it.” My fingers fold around the plastic case. “I found her electric.” I straighten and almost bump into him. We do a nervous two-step and resume our side-by-side position in front of the mirror.

“They say it's better if you do it in the shower.” His lips curve; his gold eyes issue a dare. “The hot water opens your pores and follicles and relaxes your scalp muscles.”

“I'm already relaxed.”

He laughs. “Right.”

Palms sweating, I unzip the case and place the razor beside the scissors. I thought it would be good, coming here. I didn't want to go to Isaac's and meet his family. Not now. And I didn't want to go to Dad and Kim's. I wanted privacy.