Scarred

by Joanne Macgregor

  “You have a real fun day, now,” he says, ripping the towel off from around his waist.

  I flinch and step back, half expecting him to lash out at me with it, but he just flings it aside and steps past me to dive into the pool, his body cutting through the water with hardly a splash.

  I release the breath that I’ve been holding onto as if it was my last, and watch him for a few moments, torn between relief, confusion and growing anger, before I head for the changing rooms. I have both English and Math today. Maybe I’ll have a chance to confront him and ask him what his problem is then.

  7

  Working pairs

  The first class of the day – History – is mercifully a Luke-free zone and I happily sit with Sienna. Afterwards, she heads off to Spanish and I’m stuck in a double-period of something called Life Orientation. It’s a stupid subject meant to teach us skills to cope with life. We had something similar at my previous school. Everyone finds it boring, no-one takes it seriously, but we all have to do the work because the grades count. Today, it goes so horribly wrong, it may as well be called Life Disorientation.

  First off, His Royal Rudeness is most definitely in this class. He alternates scowling grimly at me with ignoring me completely. Secondly, the hair-teeth-boobs girls are in this class, too, sitting in a group right in front of me. I would have chosen another seat, but this is the only one where I’m behind and out of Luke’s direct line of sight. It’s an important tactical advantage, but it doesn’t stop the death-stares. The girls alternate between flirting with Luke – he is clearly hot property – and coming up with new nicknames for me. They smile and laugh while they do it, so the teacher probably assumes they are being friendly. A dark girl with fine, doll-like features is still rooting for “Scar Monster”.

  “We could call her Monster for short. Or just Scar – like in Lion King,” she sniggers.

  But the leader of the pack, a blonde-haired, tan-skinned, brown-eyed beauty whose name, if I heard correctly, is Juliet, has a different suggestion.

  “How about ‘Scarface’?” she says softly, and looks over her shoulder at me to see my reaction, smiling like a shark before the bite.

  It’s genius. And hilarious. I tell them so.

  “Those are really clever names,” I say, deadpan. “Original. And side-splittingly funny. You should go into stand-up comedy, definitely.”

  They look momentarily confused, but then Juliet whispers something into their midst and they erupt in giggles. Despite my outward cool, my inner furnace must be turned to maximum, because I can feel my face glowing red. The scar feels like it is actually throbbing, though I must be imagining this.

  This classroom is located in the center of the school, and has no windows. The back wall is a collage of beautiful photographs – beach sunsets, misty mountains, full moons over desert dunes, perhaps originally from some large calendar – studded with inspirational words: reach, inspire, forgive, love, dream. Gag. The side walls are more prosaically decorated with posters urging us to shun the multiple evils of drugs, alcohol, bullying, teenage pregnancy, distracted driving and unsafe sex.

  The teacher claps her hands together, calling the class to order. Her name is Mrs. Copeman, but no doubt the girls have another name for her, too. Her dumpy figure and flat, sensible shoes would invite their scorn. I think I’m going to like her – she has a friendly, open face and smiles often as she introduces the new theme.

  “This term, we’ll be focusing on pollution.” She ignores the groans and disparaging comments from the students. “And you’ll be doing a two-part practical project” – more complaints – “for which you’ll be working in pairs.”

  There are squeals from the group of girls at this and they clutch at each other, partnering up already, although from under her thickly mascaraed lashes, Juliet casts a speculative look at Luke. This makes a change from her usual, faintly surprised expression because although her eyes are a pretty chestnut brown, they do protrude just the slightest bit.

  “For the first part of the project, each pair will be assigned a type of pollution that affects our different senses. For example, our sense of sight is affected by visual pollution such as litter and graffiti. Our sense of sound gets hammered with noise pollution from noisy trucks and aircraft, and the jackhammers of road workers. Our taste buds, and our bodies in general, are polluted by food additives and chemicals, and our sense of smell is polluted by smoke, diesel fumes, the smell coming off landfills, and the like. I’ve left out the sense of touch, because it was quite hard coming up with examples, but if anyone wants to do it, just come chat with me. You’ll need to do a theory section which describes your type of pollution, gives examples, and looks at methods of remediation and prevention. Plus I want a practical section with examples of the pollution – photographs, or sound recordings, or whiffs which I could sniff.”

  “Yeah, we could do, like, a scratch ‘n sniff of your armpit, Doug,” says Juliet.

  “Or a sound-bite of your voice,” comes the snappy reply. I laugh, and Juliet turns to give me a filthy look.

  “How would you capture an example of taste pollution?” someone asks.

  “Perhaps you could include a sample of the item to be tasted, along with a label of the ingredients,” Mrs. Copeman suggests while handing out typed instruction sheets. “Here is the assignment description and rubric. Right, now for the working pairs.”

  Around her, people are already choosing partners. I sit still, in a puddle of embarrassed dread. I don’t know anyone in the class – at least, no-one who would want to work with me.

  “Don’t get carried away. I’ll be assigning partners alphabetically. It’s important,” Mrs. Copeman has to raise her voice over the protests, “that you are able to work with different people. Learning how to stay flexible and adjust to change is part of what Life Orientation is about.”

  She picks up a class-list and starts pairing off students. Juliet is a Capstan, not a Capulet, though it’s close enough to give me the giggles when her name is read out. She gives me more of the stink-eye and tosses a lock of golden hair over her shoulder as she walks over to sit alongside a geeky boy called Tyrone Carter. He swallows several times and looks like he can’t believe his luck.

  For some reason, more surnames seem to begin with an M than with any other letter, but Munster is the last.

  The third bad thing in this class – and it’s the worst thing, definitely – happens when I get paired with the first N – Naughton. Luke Naughton.

  How can this be happening? Really, what are the odds?

  Luke sighs deeply and turns to face me. He obviously hates the idea of having me for a partner. All those close-up views of my face will no doubt put him off his lunch. He asks Mrs. Copeman if we can change partners.

  “No, Luke. I just told you that part of this project is learning to work with new partners and I’m sure Sloane will be more than up to the demands of this task. Now, one person from each pair needs to come up here and stick a paw in this bag to choose a pollution type.”

  Luke slumps in his chair, making no move to come to my desk or to approach Mrs. Copeman. After a few minutes, I get up, stick my hand in the bag she is holding and pull out a slip of paper. Then I sit down in the chair Juliet vacated, in the row next to Luke.

  “We have to do visual pollution,” I say.

  No response.

  “Pollution that affects our sense of sight.”

  “I get it,” he says flatly.

  He turns to me, stony-faced. His eyes are a deep green, ringed by a border of golden-brown. The look in them is unreadable but, still, they accomplish their usual trick of sucking the air out of my lungs. An awkward silence burgeons between us. I force myself to take a slow, steadying breath.

  “Um, look, I can see the idea of us working together thrills you about as much as it does me. How about we divide up the work and then each do our sections as separately as possible?”

  “Fine.”

  “Would you prefer to
do –”

  “Whatever,” he snaps.

  “Okay …”

  I clear my throat – something is making it hard to swallow – and turn to the printed page of instructions. I’m trying to stay cool, to act like his behavior doesn’t affect me, but my traitor eyes are prickling hotly. I clench a hand, digging my fingernails into my palm in painful distraction. I will not cry – not here, not now, and never in front of him.

  “I have a camera, so I could do the pictures of pollution if you’re okay with doing the theory section.”

  “Fine.”

  I consult my schedule and see that we have L.O. only once a week, in this slot.

  “So maybe we should make a first pass at our sections and bring them next week?” I suggest.

  “Email,” he says, passing me his instruction sheet. I take it by the other end, careful not to let my fingers touch his.

  “Huh?”

  “What’s your email address?” He enunciates each word carefully, as if I’m a mental incompetent.

  “Oh, right.”

  I scrawl it on the sheet, and hand it back. He obviously wants to keep me at internet-distance, whenever possible. He doesn’t volunteer his email address, and I’ll be damned if I ask him.

  There is nothing more to say. All around us, the other students are chatting away – some about the assignment, some about their plans for Labor Day weekend. Tyrone Carter is in a geek-spasm – treating Juliet to a long lecture about how corrupted files and computer viruses can destroy a PC’s hard-drive and should be considered “information pollution”. Alone in the class, Luke and I sit in silence. I jot down some ideas for places where I could take pictures of pollution, and write a reminder to buy a bigger memory card for my camera and some photographic paper for my printer. He plays with a pen, circling it between his long fingers and occasionally tapping it on the pad of paper in front of him. His every movement speaks of deep irritation.

  Neither of us says another word or looks at the other until the bell for the lunch-break rings. I’m brown-bagging it today – I have given myself permission not to have to eat in the crowded cafeteria – and I long to escape to the shade under the large oak which grows on the slope bordering the fields outside. Automatically, I take a pack of anti-bacterial wipes out of my bag, remove one, and clean my hands.

  Luke stares at the wipe, then gives me a brief, disbelieving look before slinging his bag over one shoulder and heading out. I crumple the square of white and drop it in the bin. My appetite is gone.

  8

  Luke

  A class full of potential partners, and I get paired with Sloane Munster. It’s like I can’t get away from this. Or her.

  I try to ignore her, but that’s impossible. She’s everywhere. In the pool when I want to swim, in my way in the halls, in my L.O. class as my project partner when I’d rather work with anyone else. In my head when I try to think of anything else.

  It pisses me off. She pisses me off.

  She says she’ll go ask Copeman again to ask if we can change, but I know it won’t help. It’s not right, it’s not fair. But I’ve learned that’s just how the world works.

  So she’s all peppy about the project. Full of suggestions as to how we can do it. Doesn’t she get it? At all?

  She must. She does. From the way she tries to steer clear of me, I can tell she knows this is getting to me. She’s wound pretty tight – as tight as mom – and all folded in on herself like a paper clip. She goes red when the girls get on her case, grips her things like they’ll spin out away from her if she loosens her hold, and keeps trying to hide that damn scar. I’d feel sorry for her only, you know, I don’t.

  I need to stop thinking about her and focus on my times. This afternoon I’ll just swing by to visit Moses for a few minutes and then I’ll go on to evening practice. First dry land strength-training, then drills, then sprints. Coach wants me to break 1:55 on the 200m freestyle. He says he believes I can do it. Do I believe it? I’d better. I’ve got to lift my game unless I want to be stuck at home for ever.

  And what’s with her germ phobia? It’s pathetic.

  9

  Not enamored

  Question: Are things going well?

  Answer: Are they, hell!

  It’s day three of my new life. Before lunch, I have history and art (no problems) and then English (problems).

  I shun the front-of-class seat I sat in on the first day and find one right in the back corner, along the wall that separates the classroom from the hallway. There’s a row of small windows high up on the wall and the poster of Lord Byron broods directly over my seat. It’s a good seat for hiding out in, and it will be warm in winter: there is a radiator alongside my desk, and a pipe leads from it up along the pillar of the wall between windows, and disappears into the ceiling.

  I wish I could follow it.

  I didn’t notice it last time, but L.J. is also in this class. He lurks in a seat at the back, too, but whereas I am hiding from Luke, I think L.J. is trying to get as far away from Mr. Perkel as possible. I don’t blame him. This teacher really seems to have it in for him.

  Mr. Perkel, who is wearing a blue bowtie today, kicks off the lesson by giving the class a word of the day.

  “Enamored,” he sounds each syllable of the word distinctly as he writes it on the board. “From the Latin prefix en and the root amor. Can anyone tell me what it means?”

  No-one volunteers.

  “Mr. Hamel?” Perkel looks at L.J. with a raised eyebrow. L.J. shrugs, says nothing.

  “Don’t know? How unusual. I’m amazed,” Perkel says sarcastically. “Luke?”

  “To be in love, or infatuated?” says Luke.

  “Correct. To be beguiled, captivated, entranced, totally head-over-heels in love. From the Latin, amor, for love. As in ‘The beauty was enamored of herself’.” He looks at the Juliet when he says this – perhaps he does have some redeeming features – but then he continues, directing his next comment at L.J. “It can be used in the negative, too, naturally, as in, ‘I am not enamored with your ignorance’.”

  L.J. merely stares back blankly at him. Maybe he is giving peace a chance.

  “As Abraham Lincoln famously said, ‘Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt’, eh, L.J.?”

  The class turns as one to look at L.J. He still says nothing, but under his desk his hands are clenched around the metal legs of his desk. The ridges of his knuckles stand out like white pebbles. A muscle pulses in his jaw.

  “You know, Mr. Hamel, you could do worse than to follow the example of Luke, here.”

  “Mr. Perkel –” Luke begins to object as heads swivel to face him, but Perkel holds out a hand to silence him and continues speaking to L.J.

  “If you got out in the sun, and got some exercise, you, too, could look healthy and fit.”

  Luke turns to face L.J., and gives his head a shake as if to distance himself from Perkel’s words. He is clearly feeling uncomfortable.

  “If you put some effort and discipline into your work, as he does,” Perkel continues, caressing his goatee, “if you just cracked the spine of a book occasionally, then you, too, might be able to answer questions in class.”

  “Mr. Perkel – please,” Luke protests, rubbing a hand furiously over the back of his neck.

  L.J.’s voice, when he speaks, is soft. It doesn’t fit him. Well, maybe it goes with his small head, but not his hulking body.

  “Are you going to ask him out on a date soon, if you are so enamored of him?”

  The class gasps. Perkel’s face turns into a pinch-mouthed mask of anger. I burst out into involuntary laughter.

  Perkel directs his angry gaze at me. On the distress-inducing scale, it only registers a minor blip. Perhaps being on the singed end of Luke’s blazing looks has toughened me up some.

  “Was there something you wanted to say, Sloane?”

  Now everyone – including L.J., including Luke – is looking at me. The wise
course would be to mumble a denial and back down apologetically. But this teacher annoys me. He went looking for what he got by picking on L.J. I’ve been the target of nasty comments often enough to want to stand up to him, too.

  “Only that that I think comparisons are odious, Mr. Perkel.”

  “Comparisons are odious?” He’s daring me to dig myself into a deeper hole.

  I pick up my spade.

  “It’s another famous saying, though not by Lincoln. It was John Donne, I think. The point is that comparisons between people are often inaccurate and usually counter-productive, because different people have different abilities and interests, and should be judged on their own merits. You shouldn’t compare students to each other in terms of work, and certainly not in terms of their physique.”

  “Are you telling me, in my own classroom, what I should and should not do, young lady?”

  Perkel’s voice has risen, it sounds high and tight. I look around briefly and see expressions which range from eager to appalled, from doubtful to apoplectic (Perkel’s). L.J. is looking at me with an approving smile on his face, as if egging me on. Luke is also looking at me, but his expression is harder to decipher. Then his eyes shift to my scar and he turns back around in his chair. Oh, what the heck …

  “Yes, sir. I suppose I am.”

  My mother would be proud of me.

  10

  Luke

  I can’t figure her out.

  She looks close to cracking most of the time, but then today she took on Perkel – who must be one of the biggest asshats I’ve ever met – and told him “comparisons are odious”. I agreed with that. I had to stop myself nodding and stare at her scar to bring me to my senses.

  She wants to swim for fun. Fun! And do her work and take photos and make friends and get on with living her life like she doesn’t have a care in the world, but then she gets herself into detention. Deliberately. She stands up to the girls who tease her, but then ducks into the restroom to hide when she sees me coming down the hallway. She walks like she wants no-one to notice her, but still her head sticks out above the other girls. It does that in my brain, too.