Scars

by Cheryl Rainfield

  The constant noise makes me want to scream—people slamming their lockers shut, girls giggling with each other, sneakers squeaking down the hall, boys burping as loud as they can—but I know I’m only feeling like this because of the note.

  And I can’t let myself think about that.

  My arm is hot and stiff, every jostle sending pain through me. But it’s not the bright, hard pain that makes everything go away. It’s an annoying, irritating pain that makes me grit my teeth. I wish I could tear my nails through my flesh like blades. I don’t know if I can go through the whole day without finding a way to cut.

  I ram my books into my backpack and slam my locker shut. Sarah’s locker, beside mine, is still empty. My throat tightens, and I have to turn away. I miss her like an ache inside me, even though it’s been five months, even though I should have gotten over her by now. I want to kick her locker in, smash it until it’s flat, but that won’t bring her back.

  Everyone seems to have a group they belong to or at least someone they hang out with. When Sarah was here, we would walk the halls together, two of the smart kids that nobody hassled—mostly because Sarah could talk to anyone and make them feel special. Now I stand out like a giant pimple on a chin.

  I notice there’s a strange lull in the noise. I look up to see Danny and Kirk heading down the hall—two big, solid lugs who like pushing people around.

  I look away, but Danny’s caught my gaze and is steering toward me.

  “Got a problem?” he asks loudly.

  No problem, except having you in my face.

  Danny hooks his thumbs into his belt as he steps closer. I can’t look away. I know I should move, but it’s like I’m caught in a time warp. I’m six again, and he’s coming toward me, his belt undone. His breath is on my cheek.

  No. It’s Danny’s breath. He grips my face in his hand.

  “Get away from me!” I screech, pushing at his chest, but he’s like a wall, blocking off my world.

  Then a body rams between us, a soft body that smells of musky amber and cigarettes, breaking Danny’s hold and pushing me back against the lockers. I breathe in deeply, shudderingly as I flatten myself against the lockers. My rescuer is a girl I’ve seen around school—Meghan Ellis.

  She’s wearing a short leather skirt that shows off her butt, a white lacy bra, and not much else. There’s a bright streak of blue in her long honey hair, and a flash of silver on her fingers. I recognize her because she’s always getting into trouble—for talking back, for sitting down for the national anthem, and for punching out kids who bug her. That, and she sleeps around a lot.

  They’re circling each other like prizefighters, stopping in front of me.

  “You don’t own this school, Danny,” Meghan says, tapping his chest with her finger, “so back off.”

  “Yeah? What’s it to you?” Danny’s huge shoulders bunch up, the veins in his neck pulsing. “You sleeping with girls now?”

  My body flushes cold, then hot, as the hallway rings with laughter.

  Pow! goes Meghan’s fist, moving so fast that I almost don’t see it jabbing Danny in the gut. And then he’s twisting her arm back so far, it looks like it’s going to snap.

  Meghan grunts. I bite my lip hard enough to taste salty blood, and I inch backward. A combination lock’s digging into my back.

  “Nobody talks to me like that,” Danny says. “Say you’re sorry.”

  Meghan bares her teeth. “I just did talk to you like that, lover boy.”

  Danny jerks her arm back harder. I wish I had Sarah’s ability to reason with people—or at least the courage to fight—but I just stand there, praying something will happen.

  “Say it,” Danny says.

  Meghan shakes her head.

  The pain is bad; I can see it in her face, in the way the skin around her eyes gets tight and her lips draw back in a hiss. I take a step sideways, then another; my hands sliding along the slick surface of the painted brick, searching for the fire alarm I know is there. Come on! Finally I feel the cold, protruding metal and grab the handle, pulling it down hard. Then I quickly jerk my hand away.

  The fire alarm clangs madly. It’s all chaos now, students erupting from classrooms and pouring into the hall, and teachers herding everyone toward the exits. Danny lets Meghan go, and then he and Kirk are swallowed up by the crowd.

  I move closer to Meghan, who looks like she’s trying hard not to cry. “Are you okay?”

  She puts her hand on her hip. “’Course I am. Hey, you’re not the scared little rabbit I thought you were.” She blows the hair out of her eyes. “Thanks for saving my ass.”

  “You’re the one who saved mine.”

  “Whatever.” She grins. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to let Danny get away with this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Girls, get a move on,” Mr. Blair shouts from behind us. “This is a fire alarm, not a gab session.”

  It would have to be him. I don’t see why I have to go to school where one of Dad’s friends works. He comes up behind me, practically breathing down my neck. I can smell his sour coffee breath, sour like the man’s. I stiffen. Is it him? He’s known me long enough.

  I leap away from him and rush through the doors and down the steps. When I look back, Mr. Blair is watching me, a grim expression on his face.

  4

  The fire alarm goes off again in second period—to great cheers from the students. I smell smoke even before I’m out of the classroom.

  Everyone jostles each other, trying to get out first. I keep my body tight, away from the others. I can’t stand feeling trapped.

  I burst out into the hall and see Danny standing at his locker, its door open, flames licking up toward the ceiling. Thick black smoke is pouring out from the bottom, catching in my lungs and making my eyes water. I slip out of the rush of people and duck back against the wall, coughing. Danny howls something about his gym shorts.

  Between the stampeding students, I catch glimpses of Meghan leaning against the lockers, chomping on her gum and watching Danny. She sees me and nods.

  “Move along, folks,” someone shouts.

  I turn to see Mr. Blair striding towards us with a fire extinguisher. Why couldn’t it be any other teacher? Anyone but him.

  Mr. Blair frowns when he sees me, then turns his attention to Meghan. His gaze darts back and forth between her and Danny.

  He knows; I’m sure of it. I dash through the crowd and grab Meghan’s arm. “Come on!”

  “No way. This is too good to miss.”

  I can hardly hear her over the insistent clanging of the fire alarm. I lean close. “Mr. Blair’s watching you. And I think he knows.”

  Meghan shrugs. “So I miss school again. No biggie. But thanks for the tip.”

  Behind us, I hear the whoosh of the fire extinguisher. Meghan’s smiling, but her eyes aren’t; they’re sad and old, the way I often feel. For a moment, it’s like there’s no distance between us. Then Meghan shakes her hair into her eyes and the connection breaks.

  “If we leave now, he might forget about you,” I say.

  Meghan shrugs, the sadness back in her eyes. “I don’t care. I’m trying to see how many times I can go to detention before my mom detaches her face from her beer can.”

  “I’m sorry.” I touch her arm, but her face is closing up, her eyes masking over.

  “Forget it. Just forget I said anything, okay?” She crosses her arms over her chest and turns to look at Mr. Blair. And I see her like a painting in my mind—a narrow, lonely figure leaning up against dented grey lockers, her face defiant yet vulnerable, the sadness trapped inside her.

  But I wouldn’t paint it like that. I’d paint her bandaged and bleeding, stumbling alone over the rubble of the hall, sharp slabs of the floor poking up to block her way, with smoldering lockers lying across her path—and nothing visible at the end of the smoke-filled hall.

  Meghan doesn’t look back at me. I know she wants me to leave. And some part of me under
stands; we both know how to hurt ourselves.

  I turn and walk away.

  After the bell rings again, signaling all clear, I’m one of the first to get back into the school. Danny’s locker is a sodden, blackened mess, and Meghan is nowhere to be seen. The art room is empty, with knapsacks and books scattered on the floor and tables, and art projects left undone.

  The familiar smell of paint and clay rises up around me and I breathe it in deeply. It reminds me of afternoons with Sandy, of him working on his pottery wheel while I sat in the corner with crayons or a lump of clay or later on, with paints. Lightness fills my chest as I gather my paints, brushes, and paper.

  And then I see the X-acto knives lying there, their sharp short blades like daggers rising from their handles. It’s like they were left out just for me. I grab one, telling myself I’m only borrowing it for a few hours.

  It would be so easy to cut, to just push my sleeve up, peel off the bandage, and cut—but I could never risk it, not where someone might see me. It almost feels like enough, just holding the knife, feeling its weight, the roughness of the etched metal handle, knowing I can cut if I need to. I tuck it into my bag between the pages of my sketchbook, then head to my table, the scent of paint and brushes already stirring images in my mind.

  Students straggle into class, some grabbing their stuff and leaving, others sitting down to work. Mrs. Archer rushes in, her cheeks flushed, her copper hair shining. She winks at me from across the room, and I wish, as I always do, that she was my mother. I smile inside, but I ache, too. If I could put her and Carolyn together, I’d have the perfect mom—someone who understands my art, someone who understands my soul—and both of them like me just the way I am. But I know it’s stupid to even think about.

  Mrs. Archer bends over a student’s work, and I twirl my paintbrush in my hand. If I were to paint her, I’d paint the warmth in her eyes, the brightness of her smile, and the way her nose crinkles up when she laughs. I’d paint the way her eyes take a person in, understanding and accepting everything and encouraging more. And I’d paint a tiny, inch-high figure of me, curled up in her and Carolyn’s outstretched hands. But I haven’t dared to paint either of them yet. It would make what I feel too real.

  I dip my brush into the gouache, coating just the tip. The thick, opaque color clings to the bristles. Maybe I’ll paint Carolyn and Mrs. Archer today. Maybe I’m ready. But when I put my brush to paper, it’s Meghan who appears in the swirls of crimson, orange, and black. Pain flows from my fingertips and onto the paper, spreading before me like blood. The painting comes easily, like it’s been waiting for me. A quick stroke of crimson here, a dab of black there, and then I’m done. I straighten up. The heavy ache inside me has gone.

  I rinse my brush, then touch the soft, cool tips of the bristles to my lips. It feels comforting and somehow soothing. I need painting almost as much as I need cutting maybe more. Because if I couldn’t paint, I’d be a girl without a mouth. I say things through painting that I can’t say any other way. It’s how I pull up hidden truths, express the pain that I hide from others. But when things are really bad, it’s only my utility knife that releases the screams inside me.

  Mrs. Archer leans over my work. “Wow. I like this,” she says, tracing the dark, harsh lines of the figure. I’ve painted a girl, eyes huge and hurt, holding a flame out toward the darkness—only the flame is licking back to catch her hair.

  “I like your use of symbolism here,” she says. “It’s very dark—but very strong. And your use of color is startling, yet pleasing. This is a piece to be proud of.”

  For a moment, I see my painting the way she does, with its beauty and strength. And then I start taking it apart, noticing the hand that’s out of proportion, the shadows that are too deep. Mom would point all that out, telling me how stark and depressing it is or how the lack of color puts people off. And Dad would just say it’s beautiful; he says that about all my art.

  I look at my painting again and see how awkward it really is.

  I slump against the table, holding my head in my hands.

  “I’d like to display this, if I could,” Mrs. Archer says. “Maybe it’ll inspire some of my other students to paint like you.”

  I hunch away from her words. “You want them to paint things that scare people?” I force a laugh.

  “No, Kendra. I want them to paint from the gut, where the real power is.”

  I can’t laugh that one away. I know that’s what I do.

  I sit up straighter. “Thanks, but I’d like to keep this one.”

  Mrs. Archer pats the tabletop. “I understand.”

  But I’m not sure I do.

  5

  I look around for Meghan in the cafeteria, but I don’t see her anywhere. I feel disappointed, almost angry—as if we’d planned to get together. But girls like Meghan don’t mix with girls like me.

  I sit down at the table where Sarah and I always sat, then take out my lunch and sketchbook, touching the X-acto knife beneath it for reassurance. There’s a group of girls at the other end, all talking and laughing. But they won’t bother me. They never do. Bothering me would mean having to acknowledge me, and they’re way too cool for that.

  I sharpen my pencils and press a 4B against the page, enjoying its soft darkness. I sketch as I eat, Meghan’s face appearing on the page. I can’t stop thinking about how beautiful she is—and how sad. She looks like a model, with natural highlights in her brown hair, a great body, and intense green eyes. And she knows it; I can tell by the way she tosses her hair over her shoulders, pouts her lips, and wears revealing clothes. I wonder if it bothers her, the way guys fall all over her, only looking at her body and not at what’s in her eyes. Maybe all their attention helps her forget her sadness for a while. Or maybe it makes her feel more alone.

  I watch for her the rest of the day, but I don’t see her again. I wonder if the principal has sent her home to her drunken mother, if he even knows what she faces at home.

  When the last bell rings, I walk the halls, looking for anyone who might be friends with her. She mostly hangs out with boys, if she hangs out with anyone at all.

  I spot one: Jerry Farnsworth—tall, blond, and cute. A year older than we are. I swallow down my nervousness and walk up to him. “You know Meghan Ellis, right?” My voice squeaks.

  “Who wants to know?” Jerry looks down at me. His smooth, tanned face is so handsome it’s almost pretty, and he’s wearing designer jeans and a dress shirt. A lot of girls in this school would love to have a reason to talk to him—but all I want to do is run away.

  I wipe the sweat off my upper lip and blow the hair out of my face. “I just want to know where her locker is.”

  Jerry zips up his backpack and looks at me with his sky blue eyes. “You’re not one of those bitches out to get Meghan, are you?”

  I stare at him, not sure I’ve heard him right. The words don’t seem to fit his handsome face.

  Jerry closes his locker and turns to face me, his arms crossed over his chest. “Are you one of those catty types who makes life hell for Meg, or not?” He squints at me. “You don’t really look the type.”

  Right. I’m not one of the beautiful people. Cute, maybe, but not the obsessed-with-my-looks, caught-up-in-social-status type.

  “No—I just want to be her friend,” I say. I sound like I’m in second grade.

  Jerry smiles like he finds me funny. “First locker after the science lab—208.”

  “Thanks.” I turn to go.

  “Hold on a sec.” Jerry catches me by my arm. His gaze moves down my body slowly, pausing at my breasts.

  Heat sweeps through me, blazing in my face. I wonder if he’s looking at me like that because he knows what the man did to me. Maybe it’s something boys can pick up on, the way a dog can smell when another dog is in heat. Jerry leans forward suddenly, smelling like tuna fish, and presses his open lips against mine. They’re thick and rubbery, and they make me want to gag.

  I shove him away, and then I�
�m running as fast as I can. I don’t know if the laughter in my head is Jerry’s or his.

  I want to cut again, but I can’t do it here. I stuff a note into Meghan’s locker and then head for home. The closer I get, the slower my steps become, and the heavier my body feels. It’s as if each step releases sedatives into my blood-stream. When I get to our street, I can see Mom standing in the doorway, ready to greet me like a social worker at a new job. Ever since she found out about the abuse, it’s been her new role in life. It’s like she thinks that if only she’d given me more attention, the abuse never would’ve happened. And who knows? Maybe she’s right.

  I clench my teeth, swallow down all the words that want to fly out of me like hornets to sting her. It’s too late to fix things, Mom! Where were you, anyway, when he was raping me? Why didn’t you protect me? I reach the door, and Mom swings it open wide, the smell of turpentine and oil paint slapping my face.

  I can’t meet her eyes. She’s interrupted work for me—again. “Don’t bother me when I’m painting” is the law in our house. It makes me feel like I don’t matter; I used to imagine screaming to get Mom’s attention. I’m getting it now—not because of me, but because of what happened to me. And it feels all wrong.

  I edge past her into the living room. She follows me so closely that she bumps into me when I stop.

  “How was your day?” she asks in a fake-cheerful voice.

  I shrug. Why don’t you just leave me alone? You don’t really want to know how I feel.

  “Kendra?” Mom comes around and peers at me, a tremble creeping into her smiling mouth. Like she actually cares, after all these years of not asking.

  “It was fine,” I say in a clipped voice.

  “Oh.”

  She looks away. I know she’s disappointed. I’m not fake-happy enough. Not chatty and smile-even-if-you’redying the way she is. I look past her and notice her painting propped up on the easel, glistening wet. Another forest scene. Technically perfect, with tiny, controlled strokes, as exact as a photo. But it feels empty to me, like there’s no one behind the paintbrush. No emotion. Like a computer-generated image.