I go home to cook Rattle a hamburger. After all, right is right. Plus I pop a vitamin pill. That’s part of my new regimen—it has all the vitamins and minerals a vitiligo victim needs.
In the middle of flipping the burger I remember that I didn’t even ask Devin what’s up with Charlie. All we talk about anymore is what’s up with me.
I’m an egotistical pig.
And I can’t blame that on vitiligo.
SLINKY WAS RIGHT AND Slinky was wrong. Hair and nails don’t have feeling in them, so maybe that’s why she classifies them as not alive. But they grow.
Take a hair shaft on a horse, for example. Under the skin, at the base of the shaft, there are two follicles. One is a growth follicle and the other is a color-producing follicle—which, of course, is the one I care about. Both are alive.
A popular way of branding horses is by freezing. You put a bitterly cold iron on the horse’s skin, which is covered with hair, and hold it there for the right amount of time with the right amount of pressure. The color-producing follicles will die. So when new hair grows, it will be pure white.
On the other hand, if you press the freezing iron there too long or too hard, the growth follicles will die, too, and you’ll have a bald brand.
I stare at my own skin. Skin is more complicated than hair. It turns out that our skin is a single organ. The body’s heaviest organ. It has an upper layer, the epidermis, which looks smooth to the eye, but, in fact, is a bunch of hills and valleys. Its main function is to protect what’s under it. And it has a lower layer, the dermis.
Tattoo ink is injected between the epidermis and the dermis. But that’s not my concern anymore; I’m not getting tattoos. I’m reading about skin because my skin is my enemy right now. And what’s the old saying: Know thy enemy.
Below the dermis is a fatty layer. Under that are arteries and veins and nerves.
In most mammals the fatty layer is connected firmly to the skin. But not in all. So you can skin a rabbit easily, because the skin splits off like a jacket. You can’t do that to a mouse or a guinea pig. Or a human.
Okay. That’s a good thing about my skin. I can appreciate that.
Below the fatty layer is a sheet of muscle called the panniculus carnosus. In humans it covers the jaw and parts of the face. But in most mammals it runs all over the head and torso and halfway down the limbs. So a horse can twitch its flank when a fly lands on it, but people can’t. We can twitch the skin on our jaw, though. And make funny faces. Without the panniculous carnosus, our faces would be deadpan.
Okay. I’m grateful for my panniculous carnosus. I like my expressive face.
All right, Slinky, all right, all right. I love my skin, my lifesaving enemy. I have to. Like you say, any other choice sucks.
I close my computer as my phone beeps. A message from Joshua: “u there? talk to me.”
It’s Saturday, and only 9 a.m. I type: “ur awake early!”
“went 2 bed early. Grounded. Remember?”
“u won last nite. congrats.”
“thnx. 2 bad u weren’t there. I missed u.”
I type: “me 2.”
His answer is immediate: “still on for 2nite?”
My pulse speeds. I’m not good at sneaking. I never had to do it before. I let out my breath noisily. I can’t afford a month of being grounded: I’m like a fruit about to pass from ripe to rotting. I have to stay in continual motion. Never in my life have I understood a swift or a tuna better. Time is running out—it’s now or never.
I type: “yes.”
“time?”
I’m babysitting for Sarah again. Mrs. Harrison almost cried with gratitude when I called her on Tuesday and said I could sit for her Saturday if she wanted. It was sort of Joshua’s idea, and sort of mine. We came up with it at lunch that day at the same moment.
I type: “they leave at 7. how about 8?”
“7:05.”
I laugh. Joshua acts like he’s the one with vitiligo. “What if they linger? 7:15.”
“7:10.”
I close the computer and go downstairs to do my homework. I like to work at the kitchen table.
Dad’s drinking coffee, probably his nine hundredth this morning, and looking out the back window.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“A fox.”
“Really?” I run to the window, but all I see is the bushes and trees at the rear of our yard. “Where?”
“He went by around seven.”
“Dad! That was hours ago.”
“I know. I come back every so often to look at where he went. He was big, with a huge tail—a real fox tail.”
“That’s what foxes have, Dad.”
He keeps looking out back.
So I do, too.
There are still tomatoes in Mamma’s little garden plot. They stand with brown leaves in their cone-shaped cages. In August we had a ripe armload every day. But now the few left are green.
A female cardinal alights on a tomato cage. A male watches her from the spruce. She moves her tail up and down, up and down. Is she doing it on purpose to drive that male crazy? Do males go crazy when it isn’t mating season?
“I’ve got more spots, Dad,” I say in the most level voice I can manage. My fingers grip the edge of the counter and turn white. But that’s bloodless white, not vitiligo white.
“You’ll always be beautiful, Pina.”
“Don’t say that. I can’t bear it when you say that. You have no idea what it means.”
“I have to say what I think.”
“But it doesn’t matter what you think. Can’t you see that, Dad?”
“It always matters what the people we love think.”
“I’m going to see Joshua tonight.” It came out—it just came out, like a hiccup or a sneeze.
He puts his coffee cup on the counter and folds his arms across his chest. But he’s still looking out the window. “You’re grounded for a month, aren’t you? This is only the beginning of that month.”
“I’m babysitting. He’s coming to help me.”
“Help you? Is that what you call it?”
“Yes, Dad. That’s exactly what I call it.”
He puts his whole hand over his mouth and slides it down to his chin, as if he’s rubbing away all the things he might have said. “Well, we get help where we can. Just don’t be foolish, Pina.”
“When have I ever been foolish, Dad?”
“Last weekend. Saturday night was pretty damn foolish.”
I kiss him on the cheek. “If that’s the only example you can think of, wouldn’t you say it’s about time?”
“Maybe that’s what it feels like to you, Pina. But foolish isn’t nearly as good as it’s cracked up to be.”
“OH, SEP, IS THAT YOU?”
I look up in surprise. “Hey, Ms. Martin.” She’s walking a huge white dog with hair in clumps like dirty clouds. “I didn’t know you lived around here.”
“I don’t. Or not that close anyway. But it’s Saturday, and Monster likes a good long walk on Saturday.”
I smile. “Her name is Monster?”
“It’s a he, actually. His real name is Mandar. It’s a good Hindu name for a male dog. But my niece dubbed him Monster. She was only four when I got him, and Mandar sounded like monster to her, I guess. Anyway, it stuck.”
Monster sniffs at my hand.
I scratch his big head, and wonder what he can feel through all that fur. Under it, his skin is pink for sure. Most dogs have pink skin regardless of the color of their fur. But dogs with black fur have skin in charcoal hues. And Dalmatians have pink skin with dark spots where the black fur grows. And if I keep thinking about skin, I may start slobbering like some halfwit.
“He likes you, Sep. Usually he’s diffident with strangers.”
“Probably he just smells my dog.” I straighten up. “Are you Hindu?”
“No. But I like Hindu things.” She pulls a chain out from inside her shirt. A fat yellow man with an elephant head hangs f
rom it. “Do you know who this is?”
“Some god, right?”
“Lord Ganesh, in fact. Feel. Real ivory.”
It’s cool and smooth and seems almost soft. “Isn’t ivory white?”
“This is old. Real ivory yellows.” She slips it back inside and pats her shirt. “Ganesh removes all obstacles.”
I shake my head, holding in a laugh. “That’s a good trick.”
“Among the best.” Ms. Martin looks at me intensely, as though she’s about to say something important. It makes me nervous.
“I better keep going or I’ll be late to my babysitting job.”
“All right, Sep. See you Wednesday. You’re doing very well in dance club this year, you know. You have more of a sense of your body. It’s good to see that kind of real understanding. You’re becoming a warrior.”
I can’t help but blink.
She smiles. “You don’t remember when I talked about warriors, do you?”
My neck goes hot. “I know the warrior poses, but that’s all. I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay. I’m sure you were attending to something else equally important when I was talking about them.” She pats Ganesh through her shirt again. “If you build endurance in sustaining a warrior pose, you’ll be able to stand up for yourself, to argue without fear, to refuse without apology. Those are qualities of a warrior. That’s what I see developing in you, Sep.”
“Thank you, Ms. Martin.” I’m flushing with embarrassment. I look down and hurry on.
I feel weird about her saying I’m becoming a warrior. But she’s right: I do have more of a sense of my body now. And it’s getting stronger. Maybe that’s because it’s betraying me.
The front light is not on at the Harrisons’ house. They haven’t adjusted to September yet. Evening falls earlier every day. Somehow Mrs. Harrison is always behind. Maybe she wants time to stop and wait till she’s ready for it. I can understand that. I don’t think it’s going to work out for her—or me—but, hey, I can understand it.
I ring the bell. Mr. Harrison answers. Mr. Harrison never answers.
“Hello… Sep.”
I can see from his eyes that he’s relieved he remembered my name. How can it be so hard for him? I’m the only steady babysitter they have. Anyone else is a once-is-enough sitter.
I walk in past him and Sarah comes flying across the room and tackles my shins.
“Football!” she screams.
I look down at her and am tempted to clap a hand over her mouth before she can say what I’m almost sure is coming next.
“Football?” says Mrs. Harrison, straightening her pearls as she comes into the room. “Girls don’t play football.”
“Joshua does!” screams Sarah. I knew it. Damn. “So I do, too.” She hugs me harder.
I struggle to keep my balance.
“Who’s Joshua?” asks Mrs. Harrison with a frown. “There aren’t any Joshuas in your nursery class.”
“He’s Sep’s Joshua.”
Mrs. Harrison looks at me.
“He’s a friend,” I say. “He came over last Friday while I was sitting. Do you mind?”
Mrs. Harrison’s lips part.
“No.” Mr. Harrison steps forward abruptly and takes Mrs. Harrison by the elbow. “You can have a friend over, Sep. Let’s go, Amy.”
Mrs. Harrison nods frantically. “Of course. Have fun.”
“You have fun,” I call, sincerely.
But they’re already gone. Like escapees.
I laugh.
Sarah lets go and stands in front of me. “What’s funny?”
“Your parents.”
She smiles. “Funny parents. Funny funny parents.” She runs once around me then straight to the couch. “Want—to—play—with—Le—gos?” Each syllable comes between jumps.
It is a springy couch. I remember it well.
“Sure.”
She sails off the couch and lands with a splatter, barely missing the coffee table. It’s a wonder that Sarah has made it alive this long. But in seconds she’s up off the floor without a tear and dumping the Legos in a heap.
The doorbell rings.
Sarah looks at me with a big O mouth.
I nod.
She runs for the door and opens it with a loud, “Hello, Joshua!”
“Hi, Boss.”
“I’m Sarah.”
“Hi, Sport.”
“I’m Sarah.”
“Hi, Sarah!”
“Yay!” Sarah grabs his hand and pulls him into the house.
I shut the door behind him.
“Want to play Legos or football?” asks Sarah. “You choose. You’re the guest. Choose.” She runs for the couch and jumps again. “Choose—choose—choose.”
I’ve seen Sarah hyper before. A lot. But this is extreme even for her. I swear it feels like sexual energy, because if I let myself, I could be jumping on that couch right beside her. How young do girls start feeling the thrill of sexuality?
“I’m kind of tired. How about you do Legos and I’ll sit on the couch and watch?”
Sarah lands from a jump onto her bottom. Then she scoots off the couch. “Okay. It’s yours. Sit.”
“Okay, Boss.”
Sarah giggles.
“I mean Sport.”
Sarah laughs.
“I mean Sarah.” Joshua sits on the couch.
Sarah goes to the Lego pile and sits demurely by it. “Come on, Sep. Let’s build. For Joshua.” This child is definitely flirting.
I sit across the pile from Sarah and we build.
“What are you making?” asks Joshua, after a while.
“Everything,” says Sarah. “See?” She holds up her creation.
“And you, Sep?”
I smile sheepishly. “I’m just putting together pieces at random.”
“That’s how I feel about building. I’m supposed to be building right now. It’s a stupid physics project on keystones, but I haven’t even started yet and it’s due Monday.” He leans forward and puts his elbows on his knees and wrings his hands. “Between practice after school every day and games on the weekends—I don’t know. I’m already behind. I wish I’d never taken physics.”
“What’s physics?” asks Sarah.
“Everything,” says Joshua. “Or, rather, everything is physics. That’s what my teacher says.”
“What’s keystones?”
I’m amazed that she remembers the word. She’s smart.
“They’re the stone in the middle of an arch that gives the whole thing stability. Without the keystone, the arch would fall apart.”
“Do you know what an arch is?” I ask Sarah.
“Everybody knows. A rainbow is an arch.”
“That’s right,” I say. “You’re smart, Sarah. But rainbows aren’t built by people. When people build arches from blocks of stone, they need something to hold it all together. The keystone does that. It’s at the very top, in the center.”
“Glue is good.”
“Right again,” I say. “But that’s cheating. On this project at least.” I look over at Joshua and tilt my head in question.
He nods. “No glue. Definitely no glue.”
I turn back to Sarah. “If you cut the stones right and have a keystone, pressure alone can hold it firm.”
“Use Legos.” Sarah scoops up a handful and holds them out toward Joshua.
“Legos have those little bumps that hold them together. That’s sort of like glue.”
“Cheating is bad,” says Sarah. She drops the Legos on the floor again.
“So what are you going to do?” I ask Joshua.
“I don’t know. I guess tomorrow I’ll try to find some sort of cube—maybe Styrofoam or something—and shave it to make the curving parts and whatever. It’s a big pain. Mrs. Spinelli is treating us like fourth graders, as though we won’t get the concept unless we do it with our own hands.”
“I’m four,” says Sarah.
“‘Fourth graders’ doesn’t mean th
ey’re four years old,” I say. “It means—”
“But I’m four,” interrupts Sarah. “After Halloween, I’ll be five. Now I’m four.” She stares at me.
I stare back. “I’m sixteen,” I say.
“So am I,” says Joshua.
“I agree with Mrs. Spinelli,” I say. “I think it’s good to learn with your body—your hands. It’s different from just learning with your head. And you’re a hands guy anyway. You play football. You’ve got physics in your body every time you throw or catch that ball.”
He smiles. “If you start up that road, you’ll say dogs can do physics. They run and catch Frisbees, after all.”
“Not Rattle,” I say.
“Rattle.” He smiles and shakes his head. “How is the pup?”
“Practically blind.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s just because he’s so old now. He’s a tam… He’s a happy garbage guy.”
“Like I’m a happy ‘hands guy’?”
I smile. “Anyway, don’t begrudge Mrs. Spinelli’s wanting you to build an arch.”
“With a keystone, don’t forget. This is Pennsylvania, the Keystone State.”
“We have sweet potatoes,” says Sarah.
“Sweet potatoes?” Joshua gives a lopsided smile.
“You can make anything with sweet potatoes. Mommy says. Soup, pie, bread.” Sarah marches into the kitchen and comes back with three big sweet potatoes. Joshua and I look at each other and smile. We chop them into cubes.
A half hour later an orange arch stands about eight inches high on a pane of glass from one of the old photo frames in Sarah’s garage. That way Mrs. Spinelli will be able to look at it from underneath and see every part. That was Sarah’s idea, too.
Sarah might be brilliant. Sarah and Devin. Brilliant people.
We bathe Sarah and she sits between Joshua and me on her bed. He offered her his lap, but she got shy and nestled closer against me. He reads aloud. Three books. Like always.
Then we both kiss her good night.
And we go back into the living room.
We stand a moment, silent. Then Joshua takes me in his arms and holds me close, and we kiss. He maneuvers us to the couch.
“Lights out,” I say quickly. Evil deceiver that I’ve become. I’ve been thinking about this all day, all week. The fact that I should tell Joshua about my vitiligo just sits there like a festering wound hidden under a lacy shawl. But I have no intention of exposing it—I refuse to think why, sometimes a person has a right not to think—so my job is to keep him from lifting the lace. I need the safety of the dark. “Lights out, first.”
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