by Leanne Baugh
“Siri, how do I delete Facebook?” Another list of sites to show me how. But I decide not to. At least not yet.
I open the bedside-table drawer and reach down to take out my research notebook stuffed with printed-off photos of grizzly bears. I touch the notebook cover with my fingertips but don’t pick it up. Close the drawer, instead.
I go to my dresser mirror and examine every square inch of my face. I’m not to blame for what happened to me. It was just an unfortunate situation of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The crisscrossing scars. Concave cheek. Right eye mostly hidden under the lid. Scrunched up forehead. All of these things are just the covering, a mask. This face isn’t me. It’s not who I really am—it’s what I wear.
***
I’m super-nervous as Mr. Owen hands out the second drafts of the plays and monologues to the class. He finally comes to me, hesitates, and hands me the manuscript. On it says:
This is still a very rough draft; you’ve barely touched the surface of what your story could be. Where’s the real drama in your story? Where’s the pulse? Where’s the anguish? Where is the heart? Your monologue needs much more work to become a polished draft.
J. Owen
I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach. I worked so hard on this draft, was sure it was so much better. I’m starting to wonder if I have it in me. Suddenly, the realization that I’ll actually have to perform my monologue in front of the class, maybe even the whole school and community, scares the shit out of me. Mine is not a lighthearted comedy about a teenager coming to terms with saying good-bye to an imaginary friend. Like Tammy’s, my monologue is about a real-life, gut-wrenching event that has changed my life forever.
“Next up is Mason and Dax with their one-act play titled Therapy for a Superhero.” Mason, wearing a bright blue T-shirt with the Superman logo, and Dax stroll to the front of the class. They both have stupid grins. The old, worn-out, gold couch with swirly patterns that’s usually at the back of the class has been moved to the front. Mason lies down on it, and Dax sits in a chair holding a pen and a notebook.
“You gotta help me, doc. I’m sure someone is spiking my beer with kryptonite,” Mason says.
“Tell me why you feel this way,” Dax says. The two look at each other and crack up.
“Gentlemen, focus, please,” Owen says.
They keep laughing for another minute, which makes some people in the class start laughing. But not me.
“First of all, when I tried to stop a semi truck from hitting an old lady crossing the street, I got this scratch.” Mason points to a spot on his arm. “And I used to be able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, but now it takes me, like, two or three tries. And don’t even get me started about my superhuman speed. Usain Bolt could kick my butt in a race.”
Dax writes in his notebook. “How long have you been having these paranoid delusions?”
“Well, it all started when I was having a beer with my peeps, you know, Batman, Robin, Wonder Woman, Spider-Man…”
Their play is lame. Really lame. At least I don’t have to worry about them being competition for the Theater on the Edge internship. I can’t help but wonder if all bullies feel like someone put kryptonite in their beer. That they’re compensating somehow, because deep down they feel powerless. Powerless like me.
***
I watch Dax and Mason leave the class and wait as long as I can before I leave. Finally, I head for the stairs. My heart races and my stomach is full of anxious butterflies when I see them and a few other guys on the landing. I breathe deeply several times. I’m OK just as I am. I’m confident. I have control over my thoughts, feelings, and choices. I can stand up for myself.
“Bear Bait, where have you been all my life?” Mason says as he watches me slowly walk down the stairs.
“She’s been in Uglyville, where else?” says one guy, which makes them all laugh their asses off.
My knees are wobbly and my stomach flip-flops as I walk right up to Mason. A foot taller than me, I look up at his face. “You and your stoner posse need to stop. This is not okay. And I know this might be a shock to you, but you’re actually not that funny.” The guys say “Whoa” and crack up. “What you’re doing to me is hurtful, and I want you to stop.”
“Stop? Is that what you said, Bear Bait? Or should I say slut? You want us to stop?” Mason bends down and looks me right in the eye. “Oh, but we’ve barely even started yet.”
He stays right in my face. His breath smells like pot smoke and sauerkraut.
“I’ll do whatever it takes to make you stop this. I’ll go to the police if I have to.” I hope that didn’t sound like the empty threat that it is. I elbow him hard, squeeze past him, and race down the stairs.
FASHIONISTAS
Tammy and I make our way through West Ridge Mall.
“There are a few boutiques in here that I think you’ll like. But first, we’re getting our makeup done,” Tammy says.
“What?”
“I phoned ahead. They can take both of us.” Tammy strolls up to a small kiosk with rows of mascara and colorful eye shadow and lipstick.
“How about I just watch you,” I say.
“No way. As your extreme makeover consultant, I insist we start here,” Tammy says. “No discussion. End of story.”
When the two girls working at the New Self counter look at Tammy and then at me, they share a wide-eyed, uncomfortable look. Tammy and I are obviously going to be the biggest challenges of their aesthetics careers.
“I’m Tammy.”
“Oh.” She looks at Tammy in a weird way. “I’m Jane and this is Savannah. We’ll be doing your makeup today.”
“Let’s get started, shall we? This might take a while,” Tammy says, winking at me.
I get Savannah. She has pink hair the color of cotton candy, but her makeup looks natural, even tasteful, as far as makeup goes. “You can sit here.” She gestures to a stool. “Do you want to pick colors for your eye shadow and lipstick?”
“I’ll just have what you’re wearing. All of it,” I say, feeling incredibly self-conscious as she inspects every inch of my face, probably trying to figure out how the hell she’s going to cover up the disaster. Oops. Replace that with a positive thought. Savannah is probably trying to figure out how to maximize my best features.
“I’m an Ivory 2 foundation, but I’m thinking the Beige 3 concealer will work best with your skin color,” she says.
Concealer. Good luck, Savannah. I catch myself again. No negative thoughts. No trashing myself. I try to reboot my brain again for a sunnier point of view. I look over at Jane, who is applying foundation to Tammy’s face. There’s a long patch of whiskers that didn’t get shaved.
“Sorry about the racing stripes,” Tammy says. “My blade is pretty dull.”
“When do you usually shave?” Jane asks.
“As soon as I get out of bed. Facial hair is the bane of my existence.”
“First thing in the morning, the skin is puffy from sleep,” Jane says. “Try waiting about twenty to thirty minutes for your skin to tighten back up to normal. You’ll get a closer shave because more of the hair follicle is exposed.”
“Well, aren’t you just a fountain of knowledge,” Tammy says with a big smile.
When my makeover is done, I look at myself in the mirror in total disbelief. The way Savannah concealed, toned, and blushed my face, I look almost normal—at least as normal as I’ve looked in nearly a year. I’m still wearing a mask, but I like this one better.
“I don’t want to give you the heavy sales pitch,” Savannah says, “but I think if you invest in anything, the concealer and blush would be your best bet.”
“I can only afford one, so how about the concealer,” I say. I look over at Tammy’s dramatic sapphire-blue eye shadow and bright red lipstick.
“Can you please take ou
r picture?” Tammy hands Jane her cell phone. I try on my best smile.
I have to say, Tammy and I both look pretty darn good.
After we pay for our new makeup, Tammy leads me into Bella’s, a woman’s clothing store. I remember shopping here with Grace and Serena a few years ago, when I cared a whole lot more about what I wore. I bought one of my favorite summer dresses here.
A salesgirl who looks even younger than me approaches. “Anything I can help with?” I notice she curiously studies my face but doesn’t give me the usual shocked or appalled look that I expect when in public. Could it be the makeup?
“We’re looking for dresses,” Tammy says.
“Follow me,” she says and leads us to the rack. “Let me know if you have any questions about sizes or anything.”
Tammy and I start looking.
“What about this?” Tammy holds up a bright, flowery dress.
“Nah, not my style.”
I look through the short cotton dresses. I catch a glimpse of myself in the large mirror on the wall. Definitely don’t look like the old me, but maybe this is the new me? Even my crooked smile looks kind of cute. A positive thought about myself right off the bat. Yay me!
Tammy and I go into the change room area and each try on a pile of dresses. Most of the ones Tammy wanted me to try on were definitely not me. Except one—a short, sleeveless navy-blue cotton sundress with a high neckline that covers my chest scars. It has an embroidered pattern on the top, with a thin, matching line of embroidery along the bottom. The same pattern also outlines two small pockets. I look at my reflection in the mirror. I like what I see. And I’ve got just enough money left to buy it.
“Abby, you in here?” Tammy’s outside my door.
“Yup.” I open my small cubicle door. She’s wearing the bright, floral-
patterned dress.
“Wow, awesome dress,” Tammy says, looking me up and down. “I knew that one would work for you. You look hot, lady.”
“Thanks. I was thinking the very same thing.” I turn and look at the back of the dress. “And speaking of hot—look at you. That dress looks so good on you.”
Tammy examines herself from all angles in the full-length mirror.
“I do look good, don’t I?” she says with an enormous smile that would light up a dark room.
We stand in front of the change room mirror for a long while staring at ourselves. Both broken, raw, traumatized in our own way, but desperate to rebuild ourselves outside and in. My chest is all light and fluttery.
***
When I drive up to the house, Dad’s just leaving. He’s showered, shaved, and changed out of his work clothes and into khakis and a nice navy V-neck sweater.
I roll down my window. “What’s shaking?”
“Just heading out.”
“Where are you off to?” As if I don’t know. And obviously Dad knows that I know.
“Okay, Curious George, I’m going on a coffee date.”
“Well, look at you, wasting no time at all.”
Dad smiles, taps on the hood of my car. “See you later, kiddo,” he says as he walks to his newly washed truck.
“Are you meeting Belinda the accountant?” I call out. He waves but doesn’t turn around.
OVER THE EDGE
Grace sleeps with her head on my shoulder as the school bus drives down Highway 1 through the rolling foothills toward the mountains. The combined guys’ and girls’ phys ed classes are taking the morning to hike Mount Yamnuska, one of the first mountains when heading west toward Banff, about a forty-
minute drive from Springbank. A pretty easy hike my family has done together a few times. I look out the window at the early morning sun lighting up the still-snowy peaks. The sky is bright blue, only a few wispy brushstrokes of white clouds.
This will be my first hike, my first time in the wilderness in ten months and fourteen days. But who’s counting? I had to give myself a good talking to this morning when I woke up. Looked myself right in the mirror (wearing my new concealer, of course) and told myself that I’m brave and courageous and strong. I vowed to think only positive, happy thoughts. But as insurance, I went on the Parks Canada website to read the “Weekly Bear Report.” Grizzly bears sighted at Taylor Creek, Moraine Creek, Bow Lake, Baker Creek, the Sawback, Lake Louise ski area, Num-Ti-Jah Lodge, and the Banff Springs Golf Course. No bears sighted near Yamnuska. Besides, even if there was a bear in the area, it wouldn’t come near a big group of hikers. But that’s what I thought last time.
I look around the bus. A few seats ahead, Briar sits with Keegan, and across the aisle, Serena is with Liam. She’s chatting his ear off while he nods, looking out the window. I wonder if this is his first time in the great outdoors since our fateful hike. Something to put in my gratitude journal, if I had one, is that Mason and Dax are skipping the hike.
Mr. Harris and Ms. Wong stand. “Quiet for a second everyone,” Ms. Wong says. Grace lifts her head and opens her eyes. “Yamnuska is an Indigenous name that translates to wall of stone. Yamnuska comes from the Stoney Nakoda word lyamnathka, which means steep cliffs or flat-faced mountain. And if you look out the window,” she points to the north, “you’ll see that’s a great description.”
“But there’s not going to be any rock scrambling today. Right, Keegan?” Mr. Harris says.
“What? No scrambling?” Keegan says jokingly. Briar lets out a loud, forced laugh.
“Right, Liam?” says Mr. Harris. Liam smiles and nods.
“I want everyone to stay on the well-marked path,” Ms. Wong says. “We’ll have a rest at the top. But don’t worry, folks, we’ll have you back for third period this afternoon.” Groans from around the bus.
The bus pulls into the parking lot at the trailhead. Everyone grabs their day pack and files out of the bus. Grace stands and throws her pack over her shoulder.
“That mountain’s not going to hike itself,” she says with a big smile and then takes a swig from her water bottle. She stuffs her thick black curls under a baseball cap.
I’m frozen in my seat but somehow finally manage to stand and head down the aisle. The bus driver has already plugged earbuds into his phone and is listening to music, while he plays a video game on his iPad.
The group huddles around the teachers. “As I said, stay on the path and stick together. Okay, let’s get moving,” Mr. Harris says. The keeners lead the way. I used to be one of those keeners.
“I’m surprised Serena even came,” Grace says. “She doesn’t walk any more than she has to—she even drives around the parking lot at the mall forever just to get a spot close to the door.”
“I have a feeling Liam has something to do with it,” I say.
“I think you might be right. How are you feeling about, you know…?” She gestures toward Liam and Serena.
I shrug. “Heartbroken and numb at the same time, if that makes any sense.”
“Strangely, it kind of does.”
Ms. Wong walks up to us. “How are you doing, Abby? Is your leg feeling strong?”
Grace starts up the trail.
“Just great.” I put on my happy face. I’m strong. I’m courageous. I’m…I’m…seriously anxious.
“Excellent,” she says. “I’m glad you came.” She joins the line of hikers just ahead.
I slip on my pack and catch up to Grace, who’s waiting for me. Liam, who’s a little bit ahead, glances back. When he sees me, he turns around and keeps walking. He looks strong, buff, like he’s been working out.
Grace must sense my hesitation because she links my arm in hers.
“Let’s not be the stragglers,” she says. I look behind us. There are still a few people near the bus, tightening up boots and eating granola bars. “We so used to kick ass on the trail.”
“Yeah, we sure did.” Did being the operative word.
Grace ha
ngs on to me for a while, but the trail narrows and we have to go single file. Being in the mountains again feels surreal, like I’m floating above my body, and I can barely feel my hiking boots touch the ground. I can’t tell yet whether it’s a good or bad feeling. After a while, my bad leg starts to ache. I stretch, but the ache doesn’t go away.
The trail narrows by a steep rock face. I look down over the edge at the field below and see a large brown shape in a grove of trees. I shake my head, blink a few times, and look again. The brown mass is now moving.
“Bear,” I say to Grace, pointing down the cliff.
“No way,” she says, peering down through the trees. “It’s just a moose.”
“Trust me, it’s a bear. A brown bear.”
Even though the bear is about 100 feet down a cliff from me, my knees buckle, my whole body starts to wobble. Sweat beads above my top lip. I look over the edge again and see the bear paw at the ground, digging up roots.
“Holy shit, I think it is a bear,” Grace says, studying my face. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I start back on the trail with Grace close behind. I begin to feel dizzy, especially looking down the rock face at the bear. My eyes dart around as we hike through a grove of trees. I hike like that for about ten minutes. I stop. Close my eyes. All I can see is the grizzly barreling toward me, growling, mouth open wide, razor teeth bared. I sink down, the sharp rocks poking into my bare knees. “I can’t do this,” I say to Grace. “I just can’t.”
A few others hiking behind us ask what’s wrong. I cover my face with my hands and close my eyes.
“Tell Wong and Harris we’re heading back to the bus,” Grace says and then squats down beside me. She puts her hand on my back, which helps calm the shaking. We stay like this for what seems like an hour, but it’s probably only a few minutes.
I open my eyes and stare at the pebbles on the trail. Lift my head and slowly stand up. I feel like I’m going to puke, but nothing comes. Grace holds my elbow and guides me back down the trail.