Beneath the Skin

by Kyla Stone

  “I can’t.” My voice is raw. My insides feel hollowed out with a spoon. Suddenly all the old feelings come prowling back. Everything is dirty. Everything is tainted. I’m filthy, ugly, damaged.

  “Sidney? What’s wrong? Did I do something?”

  My cheek presses against the steamed window. It’s wet with condensation. If I could flee, I would already be gone, but I’m trapped here. Outside, the air is freezing, the wind whipping swirls of snow around the car. I need to call Arianna to come and get me. My phone is somewhere under the coats, scarves, and other discarded clothing items. I start searching, my fingers shaking. “I can’t do that. What you want—what they all want. I can’t. Despite what you may have read scrawled on the bathroom walls. I can’t. Find a different girl. A better one. One that’s not . . . me.”

  “But I want you.”

  I shake my head, back and forth, harder and harder. This was a mistake. I screwed it all up again. I have no idea how to do this. No clue how to be a regular teenager with a regular life. “No you don’t.”

  He reaches across the seat and takes my hand. I try to jerk it away, but he’s strong when he wants to be. He doesn’t let go. “Will you listen to me? I don’t care what’s scrawled on a bathroom wall. That’s not why I’m here. I don’t want a different girl. I want the one in the car with me, the one I’m head over heels for. If you aren’t ready, you aren’t ready. That’s okay. I’ll wait.”

  He says it so simply, like things could ever be that easy. “Yeah right. The males of the species generally get what they want. If the socially acceptable, PC charade of getting the girl’s permission first doesn’t work out in their favor, they take it by force.”

  “I’m not like that. I thought you’d know that by now. I mean what I say. I’ll wait.”

  Tears leak down my cheeks, betraying me yet again. I can barely speak, but I force myself to say the words. “You don’t understand. I may never be ready. I might not ever be able to do that stuff.”

  “Okay.”

  “You aren’t hearing me.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I’m not—I’m not good. I can’t be who you want.”

  He tilts his head and stares at me in silence for a long moment. “I think I understand. I have a cousin who went through—I mean, one time her camp counselor—”

  My eyes must go wild because he stops. My frantic heart is about to pound right out of my skin. I shake so hard my arm bangs against the plastic armrest. I can’t have this conversation. Whatever he’s about to say, I just can’t hear it. My own fear is a dull roaring in my ears. I can’t believe I’m doing this, spazzing out right in front of him. The familiar self-hatred wells up. I just want to make it stop, make everything go away.

  “Can I sing to you?”

  “What?”

  “Can I sing you a song? I write some of my own stuff when I play my guitar. It’s mostly awful. Seriously, my singing is on par with a monkey’s, but it relaxes me, makes me still inside.”

  He takes my silence as the answer he wants to hear. His voice is a little too high and off-key, but his rhythm is good. The song is about loving someone who’s already gone, how you don’t stop loving someone after they’re dead, how love carries a person through the darkest times. It has a haunting, lilting quality to it that seems amplified in the car, drifting over the hum of the engine and the soft hiss of the heater.

  I close my eyes and let the song sink into me. My heartbeat slows. I try to breathe again.

  At the end, he hits a note really off-key and his voice squeaks and cracks almost at the same time. He starts laughing. After a moment, I can laugh with him.

  I rub my eyes with my free hand. “That wasn’t the worst thing I’ve ever heard. I mean, I wasn’t clawing my eardrums out or anything.”

  “Thank you very much. I accept flowers, copious applause, and gift cards to Dicks Sporting Goods and GuitarHeaven.com.” He’s still holding my hand so tightly my fingers are losing sensation. “Will you please come here?”

  I shake my head. I can’t.

  He comes to me instead. He unfolds his lanky body and crawls awkwardly across the seat. He gathers me into a hug. I stiffen.

  “I think you’re amazing,” he says into my hair.

  “I’m getting snot on your shirt,” I mumble back.

  He laughs. I feel it rumbling through his chest.

  We lay like this for a long time, warm and safe in each other’s arms.

  The feeling settling over me is something new and bright and scary as hell. It’s almost too fragile to look at, too delicate to touch.

  It’s like waking up from a long and difficult sleep or a deep thaw—coming back to the world. It happens slowly, one numb limb at a time.

  48

  “I can’t believe you’re forcing me to wear this . . . thing,” I grumble to Arianna. I’m squeezed into a too-tight purple tube dress Arianna and Aunt Ellie somehow convinced me to buy after dragging me to the mall and forcing me to try on twenty different fluffy, swirly, flowery dresses. My stomach is all squashed and wires poke me in several sensitive areas. I can barely breathe. “How am I supposed to actually eat in this?”

  Arianna just smiles. “It looks lovely on you.”

  “Ha. I feel like a horse in a corset.”

  Butter bubbles and spits in the skillet. Arianna adds the clams and covers the skillet with a lid. Her hair is piled in sleek ringlets on top of her head, and her dress is a sparkly gray the color of storm clouds. She looks like a movie star ready for the Oscars, but she’s acting like a star chef in full control of her kitchen.

  Arianna worked up the courage to tell her parents she’s not going to college, and she asked me to be with her. She’s spent the last two hours cooking. She set out the good china and showed me how to do the napkins. She promptly redid them, so now they’re precisely folded and propped like burgundy pyramids beside each plate.

  She tugs on a pair of mitts and pulls the spinach and artichoke lasagna dish out of the oven and places it on the counter next to the chicken Alfredo and the baked ziti with mushrooms.

  I stare at all the food. “Are you feeding a small army here? Maybe all of Jesus’ disciples at the Last Supper?”

  She rubs her forehead with the back of her arm. “I just want it to be perfect, okay? Can you check on the clams?”

  I clomp over to the stove, nearly falling in the three-inch heels Arianna lent me. I lean down and rub my ankles. “These are horrible contraptions. Invented by a man, I’m sure.”

  “Think of this as practice for the prom.”

  “No way. I’d rather boil myself—”

  “—In a vat of oil. Yeah, yeah. I know. But don’t tell me you’ll be able to say no to Lucas.”

  I adjust the strapless bra Aunt Ellie made me get, which must be some kind of instrument of torture. “I can say no to anything. Saying no is not my problem.”

  Arianna raises one eyebrow. “Just like you said no to me?”

  “I wanted to do this. Obviously.”

  She laughs. “Have it your way, but you’ll have to dress up for graduation, too.”

  “Ugh. All that pomp and circumstance . . . billowy gowns, marching around like clowns, sitting ramrod straight for three hours trying not to snore while the principal misreads two hundred names? And for what? A piece of paper?”

  Arianna drops the clams into the pot of soup bubbling on the stove. “I’m working very hard for that piece of paper, thank you very much.”

  “At least it’s still two months away.” The whole house smells of oregano and toasted cheese. My stomach growls. “If I have to stare at all this food for much longer, I’m gonna hurt someone. Namely, the chef.”

  “My parents should be here any minute. I told them 6:30.”

  It’s already almost seven. Pastor Torrès is at some Bible study/bowling night thing I don’t really understand. Mrs. Torrès is working late, per usual.

  As the minutes pass, the lines around her mouth tighten a little more.
We split a breadstick without speaking. Arianna rips up her half in teeny, tiny pieces. At 7:30 p.m., she takes out the custard she made for dessert and dusts the puffy, golden top with confectioner’s sugar and nutmeg. At 7:45, her parents finally show up.

  “Hola, girls,” Mrs. Torrès says. “Oh, darling, how sweet. But I already ate. Your father didn’t tell me you’d be making anything.”

  Arianna and I stand side by side next to the dining table. Her hands press against her stomach. Her voice is calm, but there’s a ragged edge to it. “Actually, I told you both about this dinner last week. You could have a little bit, couldn’t you?”

  Mrs. Torrès hangs her tan trench coat in the coat closet. “I don’t know. You know I don’t eat after six. This isn’t my normal schedule. I still have patient files to finish tonight.”

  “It’s important. Where’s Papà?”

  “Spreading salt on the sidewalk. Really, Ari, I’ve had a difficult day. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

  Pastor Torrès strides in with a red bowling ball bag in one hand and a Bible in the other, his head and shoulders dusted with snow. “Sorry we’re late, Mija. Bible study went over.” He winks at us.

  “The food’s probably cold, but please, have a seat.” Arianna gestures with one hand.

  “You two look muy bonito. No one told me this was a party,” Pastor Torrès says as we sit down. Arianna says a prayer over our food and pours sparkling apple cider into the wine glasses.

  Mrs. Torrès’ lips form a straight, bloodless line. “Really, Ari? Could you have made a meal with more carbs?”

  I take a huge bite of lasagna. “This is the awesome sauce.”

  Pastor Torrès nods. “I have to agree. This is fantastic, Mija. Tastes a little . . . I can’t even describe it.”

  Arianna smiles. “It’s the caramelized onion and blue cheese.”

  “And the expertise of the chef,” I say.

  Mrs. Torrès puts a tiny piece of ziti on her fork. She literally winces as she puts it in her mouth. She catches me looking at her. Her gaze travels over me, like I’m a pig being appraised for my meat at a 4H fair. “Sidney dear, have you lost weight?”

  I stiffen. I know I’ve been running a lot lately, but I’m sure as hell not doing it to get skinny. I have enough issues with all the shit going on inside my head to worry about my weight. The only thing I think about calories right now is how to get more of them into Arianna. “Have I?”

  Mrs. Torrès beams at me. “You have. I can tell. That’s wonderful. Please tell us your secret. Arianna’s been getting a little thick in the waist lately.”

  Beside me, Arianna goes rigid.

  My blood pounds in my ears. It’s all I can do not to stab something living with my fork. “I call it the bread and pasta diet.” I spear all the ziti, lasagna, and Alfredo I can and cram it all into my mouth. I chew several times with my mouth open, bits of spinach and cheesy sauce spilling down my chin. “It’s hard, but I’m willing to sacrifice for my figure.”

  Mrs. Torrès’ face blanches. She fingers her gold cross. “There’s no need to be rude.”

  “Hey now,” Pastor Torrès says quickly. “Sidney was just joking around.”

  “No I wasn’t. Haven’t you heard? Beauty comes in all shapes and sizes.”

  “You should give more consideration to your health,” Mrs. Torrès snaps.

  “And you should give more consideration to the well-being of your daughter.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  This is going sideways fast. I want to leap up from my seat and scream some sense into these people. I want to yell, “Arianna’s not going to your stupid college to be a stupid doctor. How you like them apples?” But this is Arianna’s show. I’ve got to let her do this her way. I grit my teeth and try to breathe with this terrible dress constricting my ribs.

  “I have something to say,” Arianna says softly.

  “I’d rather hear what your friend has to say for herself.” Mrs. Torrès’ voice is sharp.

  “Just drop it, Paola.”

  “I see no reason—”

  “I said I have something to say.” Arianna speaks louder. She opens her mouth, closes it. “I’m not going to college.”

  Her parents freeze, both of them, like they’ve been choreographed. Pastor Torrès holds a fork dripping with tomato sauce in midair. Mrs. Torrès’ hand clenches around her sparkling cider glass. Her eyebrows nearly touch her hairline. “What did you say?”

  Arianna’s trembling. “I don’t want to be a doctor. I hate the sight of blood and the thought of med school literally makes me sick. I want to be a chef. I love to cook.”

  Mrs. Torrès stares at Arianna, her mouth slack.

  “But college is the key to your future.” Pastor Torrès looks confused.

  “No. No it’s not. I’m not going to college. I’m going to culinary school. I’ve applied to the Culinary Arts Institute in Chicago.”

  Mrs. Torrès scowls. Her fingers tighten around her cross necklace like she can force the good Lord to put a stop to this hot mess. “This is unacceptable.”

  “I will never be as smart or as thin as you think I should be, Mamà. I tried and it nearly killed me. I’m tired of living my life based on how other people think I should act. I’m tired of being forced into things when I should have the choice.” Arianna sucks in her breath. “But what I want never seems to matter to you. I’m sorry if you’re upset, but I’m not going to change my mind.”

  Mrs. Torrès stands up, dropping her napkin on top of her barely-touched food. “¡Nanay cucas! Your grandparents didn’t sacrifice everything to come to this country for their granddaughter to become a—a cook.” She says the word like it’s a slur. “That’s what my mother did, when she came here. She cooked and cleaned for rich, lazy women who couldn’t be bothered to do it themselves. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” Arianna says in a firm voice. “But this is different. I want to choose my own future.”

  “You are a foolish child!”

  Pastor Torrès places his hand on her arm.

  She shakes him off. “This is not the proper time or place to have this discussion. You’ve obviously exposed yourself to certain . . . negative influences. You have no idea how disappointed I am right now, Arianna.”

  We watch her huff out of the dining room. Arianna gnaws on her fingernails. Her eyes glisten in the candlelight. I want to chase down Mrs. Torrès and shake her bony body until her eyeballs bounce out of their sockets. “What the hell was that? Pardon my language, sir.”

  Pastor Torrès stands up and comes around the table. His face is red, like he’s embarrassed. He should be. He squeezes Arianna’s shoulder. “I apologize for your mother, Ari. You’re right. We’ve put too much pressure on you. Let me talk to your mom. She’s just really upset right now. She wants the best for you, mi amor. We’ll figure something out.”

  I have my doubts about that, but at least she has one parent who’s not a psycho.

  Arianna squeezes his hand. “Thanks, Papà.”

  He gives me a rueful smile. “Please don’t judge us based on tonight, okay? Ari’s mother really loves her, and so do I. I guess we haven’t realized how quickly she’s growing up.”

  I feel a small stab of envy, but also relief. Arianna’s father loves her. She is safe with him.

  Pastor Torrès rubs his belly. “Please excuse me, ladies. I have a men’s ministries meeting early tomorrow morning. I hope we see you in church, soon, Sidney.”

  “I’m not making any promises.”

  “We’ll wear you down eventually.” Pastor Torrès grins. “In case Ari hasn’t told you, I play to win!”

  Arianna rolls her eyes. We say goodnight, and he goes upstairs. We finish our food. I eat everything on my plate. Arianna manages to finish her serving of lasagna. She smiles, her lower lip quivering. “Well, I survived it, anyway. The pasta and my parents.”

  “Sometimes, that’s the most you can hope for. You did good.”

&nbs
p; “It was pretty epic, wasn’t it? Did you see the look on my mom’s face?”

  “Like she was choking on a piece of kale.”

  We both laugh.

  We clean up the table and dish all of the excess food into Tupperware containers. I start the dishes, and Arianna wipes off the island. “I feel better, you know, even with everything in my life that’s still the same, like my mom. I mean, it’s still hard. It still hurts. But every time I make myself take a bite of food, it’s like I’m fighting for myself. Each time, it makes me just a little bit stronger. Does that make sense?”

  It does. Sudden tears scratch the back of my throat. There’s so many things I want to say, but I don’t know how. I hope she knows. I want her to know.

  Later, when we’re done mopping the floor, we go back to Arianna’s room. We put on comfy sweatpants and sit on Arianna’s bed. I pull out my sketch pad and charcoal and draw Arianna in profile. I sketch in the shape of her head, the arch of her eyebrows and bow of her upper lip, the curve of her eyelashes and sweep of her hair. I add the light, dark, and midtones, blending the subtle shadows with my shading stump and picking out highlights with the kneaded eraser.

  Arianna peers over my shoulder. “Holy cow! I mean—you’re amazing. This is amazing. It’s like, that’s me, but it’s more than me. There’s this sadness in my face, but there’s . . . strength, too. It’s—it’s beautiful.” Her voice goes hoarse. And I know she gets it.

  I have this. I have her.

  I know her broken places and she knows mine.

  I hold it inside me, like the memory of the ice, a reminder of how a broken thing can be remade into something beautiful, something new and astonishing, something good.

  49

  I’m right on time for my session with Dr. Yang. I sit in the La-Z-Boy, but instead of slumping, I lean forward, my elbows on my knees. “Why did you put me and Arianna together for counseling?”