Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred

by Melody Carlson

  I go into the bathroom and then into the farthest stall from the entrance, where I close and lock the metal door. I tell myself to just breathe and relax-I heard this bit of advice on one of those latenight radio-shrink shows. Like anyone would need someone to tell them to breathe, although in my case it might be true. But as I'm slowly breathing in and out, I start to think I'm hyperventilating and get worried that I might pass out, crash into the door, get a concussion, and end up looking like the school idiot as I'm carried out of here on a stretcher.

  Okay, I totally hate cutting at school. It's not only stupid but risky. Like what if someone saw me or figured this out? I've heard some of my friends talking about cutters in the past. Lish Mackey almost bled to death on the baseball field last fall when she cut too deeply once. Abby thought it was "totally freaky" Others said things like, "I just don't get it," or "That is so lame," or "Why would anyone want to inflict pain on herself?" or "It must just be a pathetic cry for attention." Maybe I'm the one who actually said that last thing.

  And so when I first began doing this, I swore I would never, never do this at school. And, really, why would I? I mean, the stuff with my dad was mainly what pushed me over the edge. In fact, I used to consider school to be a fairly safe place. I have my friends, my art, my classes ... For the most part, I actually like being here. Not that I'd ever admit that to anyone.

  Still, things happen. Like some rude chick will make some stupid comment about my race or my clothes or whatever, and suddenly I'm feeling uptight. Or something goes wrong in a class, like I get offended by some thoughtless teacher. It happens. But because of those unpredictable little scenarios, I eventually broke my promise to myself and took action. I'm always prepared now. I do what I've got to do to get by, whatever it takes to give me back some control, to help me cope.

  With shaking hands, I hang my backpack on the hook on the door, unzip the small pocket on the outside, and pull out what appears to be an innocent box of Altoids. While there are a few "curiously strong" peppermints in there for effect, under that piece of powdery paper is an even more curiously strong item. I've taped a razor blade securely to the bottom of the tin. I carefully remove it.

  I came up with this little plan when I realized that a razor blade might show up on the metal detectors that we walk through at the front doors ever)' morning. Although everyone says they don't really work and are only there to scare us, I wasn't so sure. So I figured no one would suspect anything from an innocent tin of Altoids. And so far, no one has.

  I think this is only about my fourth or maybe fifth time to cut at school. And already I have a system. I sit on the toilet, roll up my sleeve, get a giant wad of toilet paper all ready, and then I slice. There's no room for mistakes here. I can't sneak into my room and change my blood-spattered clothes, and the cut can't be so deep that it will bleed for very long. Also, I am equipped with bandages. Plenty of bandages.

  I take a deep breath-actually asking myself if I really need to do this-but then I imagine Glen's smug face as he collects every prize and ribbon at the art fair. And then I cut.

  Like a drug, that warm feeling rises up in me, a sense that I have control again, that everything's going to be just fine. Then I watch the red ribbon of blood for just a split second before I press the toilet paper onto it. 1 breathe deeply, and for the moment I am fine. Perfectly fine.

  I hear girls coming and going ... using sinks, toilets, mirrors. Fixing their faces and chatting about things that don't really matter. And finally it's quiet and I hear a bell ringing outside and know that I'm going to be late if I don't hurry. I put a large bandage over my cut, pleased with how perfectly it covers the wound. Then I pull my sleeve down, carefully replace the razor blade in the Altoids box, return this to my pack, and emerge from the stall as if nothing abnormal just happened in there.

  I feel a mixture of pleasure and relief as I walk to geometry class, slipping into a rear seat just before the bell rings. But these feelings are laced with guilt. It seems I can never completely escape the realization that this is wrong. And there's fear too-a constant nagging dread that someone may suspect me. Someone may know what I've been doing. Worse, what would happen if that someone told my dad?

  three

  DID YOU MAKE YOUR PHONE CALL?" ABBY ASKS ME AFTER GEOMETRY.

  "Yeah." I glance away, pretending to study a flyer that's plastered on a post. It's about an HIV-awareness meeting next week. Like I'm really interested.

  "Why didn't you just use my cell?" she persists as we walk down the hallway.

  "I don't know." Now, I don't like to lie to my best friend, but cutting is my one exception. It's like it falls into this special clause in "the one and only thing you don't have to tell your best friend" section. So I continue my charade. "It was about my mom," I say in a serious voice.

  "Oh?" I can tell this gets her attention and, I'm sure, her concern too. "Is everything okay?"

  Abby knows a lot about my family. Probably more than anyone, including our extended family of aunts, uncles, and grandparents. And she knows that my mom pretty much had a nervous breakdown last winter. Oh, we don't call it that. We call it "When Mom Got Sick," like it's the title of a bad movie or something. But Mom got more than just sick. She went flipping crazy. Just a week before Christmas, she ran away from home and checked into a really expensive hotel, where she took an overdose of sleeping pills and nearly killed herself. Actually, that was her goal-to kill herself. But no one talks about that. Even Abby is unaware of that particular scene. After Mom was discovered by a maid, she spent some time in the kind of hospital where mental patients are taken in for evaluation and treatment.

  I'm not sure what the evaluation was, but treatment involved some pretty heavy doses of things like Xanax to calm her down and Prozac to wake her up. Now she takes a "cocktail" of these little pills every day. Rather, my dad doles out her daily portion of drugs then locks up the prescription bottles in his gun safe. But sometimes, like if she's not up yet, he leaves them with a glass of water by her bed. And then she sometimes "forgets" to take them. That's when things get messier than usual.

  "Yeah, it's pretty much okay now," I tell Abbyy "But Mom forgot to take her Prozac yesterday, and that sort of messed her up, you know. So I promised to call her at lunch today-to make sure she didn't forget again."

  "Your poor mom." Abby shakes her head. "She's been through so much this year."

  "You're telling me." I feel a wave a relief. Not only does my story get me off the hook, it's garnered some genuine sympathy too. Besides, in some ways it's not completely untrue. Mom did forget to take her meds yesterday. And maybe I should call her to remind her today. But chances are I'd only wake her up, and I always feel so bad to have disturbed her during the day. Sometimes I think the only time she really rests is when no one is home. I often hear her walking around the house at night. Sometimes she cleans things. Sometimes she just sits in the living room with the lights off and does nothing. It's kind of like having a ghost mom in the house.

  "Well, maybe you should have a special code for something like that," Abby says just as we're about to part ways for our next class.

  "Huh?"

  "You know, like when you need to call and check on your mom. Like maybe you could say that you've got to go to the bathroom."

  "Yeah, right. I'm gonna do that."

  "Well, something."

  "How about I say I have to go make a phone call?"

  Abby kind of smiles. "Yeah, whatever."

  Then before I can go she grabs my arm-the same arm I just cut-and I wince. "What's wrong?" she asks.

  "Nothing." I fake a smile. "Just pulled a muscle in my calf during PE today. It still kinda hurts."

  "Yeah, well, I don't want to forget. I have something to tell you. Something important!"

  "Okay, but hurry, I want to get to art."

  "Yeah, but you need to hear this first."

  "What?" I feel my impatience growing.

  "Glen Collins," she says with the kind of u
rgency that should be self-explanatory but unfortunately is not.

  "Yeah?" I say without revealing any real interest, but I'm thinking, So that's his last name. Collins. "What about him?"

  "I think he likes you."

  I roll my eyes. "Right. Tell me another one."

  "Seriously, Ruth. He asked about you after you left. And the way he asked questions makes me think he's really interested. Even poor Finney was acting a little worried."

  I kind of laugh. "Like Finney has something to worry about."

  "Well, I honestly think Glen likes you. And I just thought you should be forewarned."

  "Forewarned?" I study her. "Like for what?"

  She shrugs. "I don't know. Put your best foot forward."

  I actually laugh now. Then I stick out my right foot, showing off my beat-up old sandal. "Would that be this one?"

  "I don't know, Ruth. But I happen to think he's a pretty cool guy. And, hey, if you're not interested, leave him for some of us who are."

  I peer at her. "Meaning you're into him?"

  "I could be. But not if you are. Can't you see that I'm the one who's standing here telling you that I think he's into you? Don't you get it?"

  I smile and thank her, then take off running toward art. Not that I think Mr. Pollinni would actually mark me late. He hardly checks to see who's there or not anyway, and I am, after all, one of his favorites. That is, until Glen came along. Now I can't be too sure. And it probably doesn't help matters knowing that Mr. Pollinni is gay. Okay, this is a big secret. I mean, lots of people suspect as much, but I happen to know for a fact since I've met one of his boyfriends (a decorator from San Francisco-talk about obvious!). But anyway, Glen is a good-looking guy, and very artistic. What if he now captures Mr. Pollinni's attention and favor? I have to be careful.

  I gently touch my arm, checking my bandage beneath my sleeve. Abby really grabbed it hard and it's throbbing now. I sigh as I hurry into the classroom and wonder if everyone's life is as complicated as mine. I notice Glen in the back of the room. He's laying a big black portfolio on a table. I'm guessing it's filled with all his amazing art from his former school. I envision him pulling out pieces reminiscent of Van Gogh or Picasso or maybe even Andy Warhol.

  And then he looks up, his eyes meet mine, and I remember what Abby just told me. Oh, I know she's nuts and just getting carried away in over-the-top Abby fashion. But somehow when he smiles, I'm not so sure. Anyway, I smile back and then I feel my cheeks growing warm. I'm embarrassed! Why should I be embarrassed? So I just turn away, go to my regular spot at a middle table, drop my backpack onto the dusty floor, and then head to my art locker.

  I go on like this, as if nothing whatsoever is out of the ordinary. I get my current project (a pen-and-ink drawing of an old gas station) and get my supplies and go back to my table. Oh, I'm not a zombie. I say "hey" to my art buddies. I look at Kelsey's acrylic of her two cats (a little docile for my taste), and I tell her it's "very nice" then go back to my seat and become absorbed in my work.

  Now here's the challenge with pen-and-ink drawings-charcoal can be even worse-but if you're wearing long sleeves you have to be really careful not to let the edge of your sleeve drag over what you've just done. And I can't roll up my sleeves. So what I've done is made these little holes that I slip my thumbs into, which hold my sleeves fairly taut. It helps some, but I still have to watch it or I'll ruin all my hard work.

  "Looking good, Ruth," says Glen from behind me.

  I don't look up but just nod. "Thanks."

  "Do you think it'll be done in time for the art fair tomorrow night?"

  I shrug. "I don't know. It's close. Maybe I'll take it home to finish tonight." Even as I say this, I know for a fact that I won't. I hate taking any art project home. Not that I don't like doing art in the privacy of my room. I do. But I just don't like taking the chance of being seen by my dad carrying something through the house that he might ask about. Besides that, he has absolutely no problem snooping around in my room, and chances are he would find my project.

  When that happens, one of two things usually results: (1) He makes some dismissive remark about how art is a waste of time in public school and how taxpayers' money should be put to better use, like sports programs, or (2) he makes a comment about the actual work or the subject matter. He never approves of what I choose to draw or paint. "Why do you like such dark and depressing things?" he'll ask me. "No wonder you're such a gloomy girl. Why don't you paint something cheerful for a change?"

  So I don't take my artwork home. And even when it comes to the sketch pad in my room, which I rarely use, I always make sure to keep it safely out of sight, usually under my mattress. Not that I think my dad won't look there, but I just try to keep it out of sight if he's around. It's just not worth the fuss.

  "Do you usually ride the bus home?"

  I turn around and look at him now. "Huh?"

  "You know, after school. Do you ride the bus?"

  I make a face. "Not if I can help it."

  "You have a car?"

  "No. I bum rides off Abby."

  "But I thought I saw you getting on the bus yesterday."

  I consider this. Like what is he, some kind of stalker or something? "Yeah," I admit. "I had to take the activities bus yesterday since I stayed late to work on the yearbook."

  "You're on the yearbook?"

  I nod and return to my work. I really do want to get this done in time for the art fair. Now I'm wondering if he's sabotaging me. Is he purposely trying to slow me down so that his chances will be even better?

  "I was on yearbook staff at my old school."

  I glance back up at him. And I am surprised to see that his expression looks a little sad and slightly lost. And this gets to me. I set my ink pen down on the paper towel and turn my attention fully to him. "Was it hard switching schools like that? I mean so close to the end of the year?"

  He nods. "Yeah. But there wasn't much I could do about it."

  "Sorry"

  Now he brightens some. "Anyway, what I was getting to was that maybe I could give you a ride home tonight. I mean, since we're both staying late to work on matting and stuff."

  I nod then turn back to my drawing. "Sure," I tell him. "That'd be great. Way better than the smelly activities bus."

  "Okay then ... " he exhales loudly. "Guess I better let you get back to your work."

  And I do. But even as I do, I am wondering, Maybe Abby is right. Maybe he does like me. And suddenly I want to turn around and really check this guy out more carefully. I mean, so far I haven't really given him the time of day. And now I'm wondering why.

  After about ten minutes, I come up with the need to exchange my dark inky water for something a bit clearer (which I normally don't do often enough). I walk back to the sink, past where Glen is sitting, now intently working on his pencil sketch, and I carefully look him over from my position by the sink.

  "What're you staring at?" asks Kelsey as she reaches past me to get some paper towels.

  "Nothing," I say quickly. "Just spacing, I guess."

  She gives me a look that says she's not convinced. Then she glances over to where I was staring, right where Glen is still sitting hunched over his drawing. "Yeah, you and me both," she finally says. "I'm feeling a little spacey myself." Then she laughs.

  I make my face blank, as if I have absolutely no idea what she's talking about, then go back to my table and immerse myself in getting the lettering right on the crooked sign that's hanging over the old gas station. But what I'm seeing in my mind's eye is Glen Collins.

  I'm guessing he's a little taller than six feet and medium weight. His hair is that kind of sandy brown color that gets lighter during the summer. And his eyes are this clear shade of blue. But his profile might just knock my socks off. He's got the straightest nose, a very determined mouth, and a strong chin with just the slightest cleft. All in all, this guy is not a bit hard on the eyes. Funny I hadn't noticed earlier. I mean, he's not flashy. Not like, say, Byr
on Nash-the "heartthrob of Sumner High." But then Byron's not really my type. Too perfect. Besides, I'm sure he gets his teeth whitened, and I think that's so phony. But the fact is that most of the girls in this school are ga-ga over him. And in Byron's defense, he's actually a pretty nice guy.

  Suddenly I am hearing Kelsey talking rather loudly in the back of the room. By the tone of her voice, I'd say she is trying to sweettalk someone. I wonder if she's working over poor Mr. Pollinni, trying to get him to compliment her kitty-cat picture. But when I turn to see, I realize that she's doting on Glen, lathering on praise for his current piece of artwork.

  To my disappointment, he seems to be enjoying the attention. But then who doesn't appreciate being admired from time to time, even if by someone who thinks Elvis on velvet is a form of artwork?

  But I feel irritated too. It's not that I have anything against Kelsey personally. And I even encouraged her to stick with art, not because I thought she had any talent, but because I thought it would help her grow as a person. See, Kelsey is part of the "popular" crowd. Not that I care about that. But I suppose I sometimes envy those kids, since they seem to have it so easy.

  It's like they go around running the school with their smiles and charm and witty remarks. Sometimes I honestly believe that their biggest problems are things like "What should I wear today? Gucci or Prada?" I mean, their skin, hair, teeth, clothes ... They all look like what you see in fashion magazines or on TV shows like The OC or Laguna Beach. And while my friends and I tell each other that these kids are spoiled rotten and pretty superficial, I'm sure we all experience a little jealousy from time to time-not that we would ever admit to it. I certainly wouldn't.

  So as I sit here, watching Kelsey leaning over Glen's table, her thick blonde hair cascading like it belonged in a Pantene commercial, hearing her lightly amused laughter and her quirky compliments, I feel not only jealous but totally hopeless as well. Because, as I quickly reassess Glen Collins, I realize that he looks like one of them too. With Kelsey's attention, it's only a matter of time before he gets pulled straight into her crowd. It figures.