The Art of Getting Stared At (8 page)

“A storyboard?” He whistles low and deep; I almost drop my bag. “That's, like, intense. I figured we'd just wing it.”

Intense.
I'm beginning to hate that word. “I don't wing anything. The key to success is planning.” And not succumbing to flirty guys who make whistles sound like mating calls.

His amber eyes twinkle. “I'd say the key to success is having fun and going with the flow.”

Of course he'd think that. And maybe, under different circumstances ... “I've got some kind of flow going here. Though it's pretty rough because I won't know what form this thing will take until we get footage.” I hand him the papers. “But it's a starting point.”

He sticks them into his back pocket. “No problem. We can talk about it in film class.”

“I, ah, won't be in class today. I have to leave.” A telltale blush starts behind my ears. “I, ah, have a toothache.” The heat creeps into my face. “I need to see the dentist.”

He levels me a look. For a second I think he'll call me on the lie but then he says, “Sure. Let's meet in the library.”

Does he know?
I stare into his crazy gold-brown eyes, but all I see is flirty charm. “The cafeteria would be better.” Without giving him a chance to respond, I turn and walk away.

Before meeting Isaac, I ditch into the bathroom to check my hair. Reassured the hairspray is still working, I head for the cafeteria where I spot Isaac immediately. He is surrounded by the Bathroom Brigade.

Of course.

I get in line for food, make small talk with Mandee, and try to figure out how I'll get Isaac alone. But, by the time I finish paying, he's sitting at an empty table by the window, and the girls—Breanne included—are two tables away watching him. They look like a pack of coyotes eying a baby bunny.

“I thought you had a toothache?” he says when I set my burger and fries down.

Shit, shit,
shit
. “I'm okay on my left side. And if it hurts too much, I've got the yogourt.” And thank God for that. My storyboard and notes are on the table. I see red ink on the possible locations list. He's scribbled comments. “What did you think?”

“Pretty drawings,” he drawls.

“Ouch!” I'm a lousy artist; my storyboard figures are barely stick people. “Hey, it's meant to be rough, okay?”

“Chill. I'm teasing.” He dips his burrito into a container of hot sauce.

“Let me tell you how this video thing works.” I point to the storyboard, explaining how the visuals and accompanying text is a rough guide only, giving me a sense of the major areas and images to be conveyed. Isaac asks a couple of questions about his role taking primary footage, how I'll handle backup audio. He says he's made arrangements to get a small extension arm that will help with shot balance and allow him to pan and tilt more easily. I'm relieved and
more than a little impressed that he's done his homework and already seems to know his way around a camera.

“So as you can see from the storyboard, I have the basic video direction down but nothing definitive for the ending.” Resisting the urge to shove the entire burger into my mouth, I tear off a chunk of bun and nibble at it. “A lot depends on what we get during the shoots but overall it's still lacking punch.”

“What about a flash mob?”

“A flash mob?”

He swallows his last bite of burrito. “Yeah, a laughter flash mob.”

It might work. In that documentary on Pina, they had an amazing segment showing a dance routine performed by different generations—teens, adults, grandparents. It wasn't a flash mob but the way they blended the visuals was impressive. Maybe we could create the same look. “We'd have to do it somewhere with lots of foot traffic.”

“Somewhere like the ferry building at the Embarcadero.” He gulps his chocolate milk, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It's a great location, down on the waterfront. The historic ferry building is gorgeous too with its Spanish-style clock tower and arched arcade look. “We'd have to promote the shit out of it,” he adds, “so people would show up. Plus, we'd only be able to film it once so it's a bit of a risk, but you could weave the footage into whatever else we get. It would be powerful.”

“Powerful would be great!
If
people laugh.”

“They'd laugh.” He tips back in his chair. “You'd have to work it, that's all.”

“I'd need an A camera and a B camera for sure. One for
close-ups and the other for crowd shots. Lexi could help. She and I could each run one.”

“I'm the camera operator,” Isaac says. “I'll run one. Lexi can run the second one. You'll have to start the flash mob.”

I almost choke on a sliver of meat. “
I'm
not going on-camera.”

“Why not?”

Because I'm more comfortable behind the scenes. Because I'm not an on-camera kind of person.
“I just ... can't.”

He rocks forward; his chair hits the floor with a soft thud. “Well, I can't. I have this agreement with the PR firm about where I can and cannot appear. Getting permission from them could take weeks. You have to do it.”

Go on-camera? Not my idea of fun. But. Images spool out in my mind. How I could juxtapose the flash mob with more serious bits from the professor, from the kids at the hospital. The flash mob is fresh, light, fun. Just what Fisher said Clear Eye wanted.

“I'd still need a second camera.”

He raises a brow. “You just said Lexi.”

“I'm not going on-camera alone. I'll need her with me.”

“What about Breanne?”

Oh man. I wish Breanne would crawl under a rock somewhere. Preferably one that weighs about a thousand pounds. “Not her.”

He glances towards their table. Three girls give him a little wave. I want to gag. “She has some great ideas. And she's willing to help.”

No doubt. I lean forward and lower my voice. “FYI. There was a little incident in a library stall last week. You may have heard? Breanne making out with my ex.” My voice is
starting to climb. I force it back down. “Only he wasn't my ex at the time.”

He eyes me like I've turned into a fire hydrant or something. “
You
dated Matthew Squires? He's a total loser.”

Maybe. Maybe not. But he's no longer my friend.

He shakes his head; his dreads bounce. “You're too smart for him.”

I wrap up my burger with more force than necessary. “Smart has nothing to do with it.”
Because obviously my brain cells were on holiday at the time.

“Just calling it like I see it.”

“Do you have no filters?”

He grins. “Filters are for coffee machines.”

Why does he have to be so cute? “So, anyway, that's why I'm not working with Breanne.” I pile everything back on my tray. “I need to go. But I think the flash mob is a good idea. Let's figure out the logistics tomorrow.”

“Sure thing.”

As I stand, he looks up at me and says, “And FYI, you're way hotter than Breanne.”

My stomach does a backflip. “Nice try, Voice Man, but I don't fall for one-liners.”

He just laughs.

Hotter than Breanne.
I almost wish it were true.

Five

D
r. Thibodeau's office is a spacious corner suite with plush carpet, a wood-panelled wall displaying his degrees, and a bank of windows overlooking the downtown office towers.

He gestures to two chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat. Please.” He's a tall, dignified man with a shock of salt and pepper hair, piercing eyes, and a slight accent.

As Mom and I sit, he takes the leather wingback behind the desk, reaches for a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, and quickly skims the open file in front of him.

Dr. Thibodeau wasn't Mom's first choice—he's a good doctor but rather cold, she'd said Saturday—but he's the only one who could fit me in on short notice.

“Yes, right.” After a minute, he removes his glasses and glances at Mom. “You gave me a brief rundown when we talked earlier.” His smile is carefully neutral when he looks at me. “I understand you have some spots on your head?”

“Yes.”

“When did you notice them?”

“Last Thursday.”

“And what were you doing? Shampooing your hair or—”

“I was brushing my hair. By Saturday the smaller one seemed bigger.” Beside me, Mom shifts in her chair. I've overreacted, I know I have, and I'm suddenly embarrassed. “But I'm sure it's an allergic reaction.”

He reaches for a black pen and begins to write. “What makes you think that?”

I tell him about my new shampoo. The new wig I made to wear at the hospital. The clump of hair in the shower. The itching and burning that's basically gone now. When I'm finished, he asks if I've had a sudden weight gain or weight loss, if I've noticed any change in my energy levels.

“No,” I say.

He inclines his head to a small doorway I hadn't noticed before. “Let's have a look, shall we?”

His examining room is tiny. There's a narrow bed, a built-in cupboard with a series of shallow drawers, and a couple of huge spotlights. Mom stands in the doorway while I sit on the bed. When Dr. Thibodeau switches on one of the spots, the temperature in the room shoots up about twenty degrees, making me hot and uneasy.

“Any rash?” Gently he runs his fingers over my scalp.

My chest constricts as though I can't get enough air. I force myself to take deep, even breaths. “No.” He's so close I smell the coffee on his breath. I see that the gold specs on his burgundy tie are actually tiny stars.

He presses on one of the spots. “Does this hurt?”

“No.” Perspiration is pooling under my arms, a combination of heat and nerves. I want this to be over.

“Any sensitivity here?” He runs his finger over a small area on the crown of my head before moving to a spot near my neck. “Or here?”

“No.”

He looks behind my ears, examines my neck, presses on my lymph nodes. He even looks at my fingernails. But the fact that he asks no other questions reassures me. This is an allergy. It
has
to be.

Back at the desk, he writes a few things in my file and then he asks, “Any family history of diabetes?”

Diabetes? I didn't see diabetes mentioned on any of the sites I checked. To be fair, though, I didn't get that far after the worm scare.

Mom shakes her head. “No.”

“What about arthritis?” he asks.

I sit on my hands and resist the urge to squirm. What's up with the family history?

“My mother had osteoarthritis,” Mom says. “And my uncle—her brother—had rheumatoid arthritis.”

He jots that down. “What about allergies, skin rashes, eczema, that kind of thing?”

“I have sensitive skin,” I tell him. “I get a rash if I eat too much citrus.”

He nods and then looks at Mom.

“My grandmother had severe eczema,” Mom adds.

“On your mother's side?”

She hesitates. “Yes.”

His eyebrow goes up just a fraction. I might have missed it if I hadn't been staring at him. The two adults share a look. My heart picks up speed. Something isn't right.

“We'll run some blood tests right away.” He's still looking at Mom, not at me.

“Of course,” Mom says.

“But I doubt they'll show anything.”

“So it is an allergy then?” I ask.

They both turn to me. Mom's eyes are bright. Too bright, I think. Before I can process that, the doctor says, “I don't believe this is an allergy, Miss Kendrick.”

My mouth is suddenly dry. “Then what is it?”

The doctor spins his pen between his fingers. “Though the blood work may say otherwise, I believe you have alopecia areata.”

“Alopecia what?” I hadn't seen that when I'd searched online.

“Alopecia areata,” he repeats matter-of-factly. “It's an autoimmune disease in which the immune system mistakenly attacks the hair follicles and causes hair loss.”

Blood rushes to my temples. “A disease?”

“It's not life threatening,” Mom quickly adds.

I'm suddenly light-headed. “But I have this new shampoo,” I tell him again. “I'm sure it's an allergy. And it's just two small spots—”

“Three,” he interrupts.

“I have
another one
?”

“A third one above the neck,” he says. “Small but noticeable. And a possible fourth on your crown. It's a little early to tell.”

My hand shakes as I touch my head. The doctor watches with vague curiosity. It's as if I'm a specimen to him, nothing more. I'm instantly and inexplicably furious. This can't be happening. I put my hand back down.

“Like your mother said, this is not a life-threatening condition, Miss Kendrick.” He could be talking about the weather he's so unemotional. “You will be fine.”

“Fine?” My voice comes out in a squeak. I have a disease but I'll be
fine
?