The True Meaning of Cleavage

by Mariah Fredericks

  In the bathroom, I hear, “I just totally don’t get why her? It’s not like he could really like her.”

  “He probably wanted someone he could have power over.”

  “Right.”

  “Someone who wouldn’t complain or make a problem with Thea.”

  A snigger. “Well, that didn’t quite work out, did it?”

  I can feel Sari not looking at me in English. Feel her hating me. I’ve never had anyone hate me before. It’s a very strange feeling—like fingers pressing hard on your throat, wanting you to die.

  It gets so bad that one time, I can’t go to English at all. I just sit in the third stall of the girls’ bathroom until it’s all over.

  I start avoiding my locker. In the morning, I carry all my stuff around until the 10:00 break between classes. I catch people looking at me and wonder if they’re thinking I’m a jerk.

  One morning I’m putting my stuff away, I see Danny down the hall. He’s talking to someone else, but I can’t hear what they’re saying. They laugh, and I want more than anything to be with them, laughing about what they’re laughing about.

  As I lock the door, I think at Danny: Come over here. Say hi to me.

  When I look up, Danny and the other guy are gone. And I don’t know whether he saw me or not. If he still thinks I’m okay or not.

  But the worst, the absolute worst, is art class. I am terrified of David Cole now. I sit as far away from him as possible. I tell myself it’s because it wouldn’t be fair to Sari to be friendly with him. But the truth is, I’m scared to death Sari told him it was me who told and he’ll say something awful to me. I hate myself that I care.

  But David hasn’t said anything to me. In fact, I don’t think he even notices me. He’s quiet all throughout class, no jokes, no nothing—very un-David Cole like. I don’t get it. Thea didn’t break up with him. Most people still think he’s a god. Some of his jerky friends even think it’s cool he cheated on his girlfriend. He’s right where he was before—at the center of the galaxy known as Eldridge. So why’s he looking so miserable and pissy?

  We’re working on our self-portraits, and I think he’s having a real hard time with his. One time during class, Ms. Rothstein stops by his chair, and he says, “I don’t think I can get this.”

  Ms. Rothstein leans in to help him. I wish I could hear what she’s saying, because frankly, I don’t think I can get this either.

  They say suffering creates great art. But it’s not doing a thing for me. Since the whole thing with Sari, I’ve done a million self-portraits, and every one of them is worse than the last. They range from a squished squirrel to something that closely resembles a rotting grapefruit. Now I’m back to square one. Or I should say, oval one. A big round blank on the page.

  When Ms. Rothstein stops to look at my work, I show her my many attempts, the squirrel and the grapefruit. She frowns, but in this nice way, like she’s been there and knows what it feels like.

  She points to the squashed grapefruit. “I think you were on to something with this.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Putridness.” Maybe that’s right. Maybe I am putrid.

  “Look here and here.” She points to the eyes, draws her finger around the outline.

  I shake my head. “I can’t see it. I can’t see myself, that’s the problem.”

  “Well, that’s the hard part.” She pats my shoulder. “Don’t try to capture everything at once. Focus on one part of yourself. Not your earlobe, but … well, why not? If your earlobe is the most you part of you, start with that. Okay?”

  I nod. But I want to ask her: How can I see myself when I’ve become invisible?

  I look over at David Cole. He’s tearing something out of his sketch pad. Slamming his hands together, he crushes it into a ball, hurls it into the corner. Ms. Rothstein pretends not to see him, goes over to help another student instead.

  After class, I go and pick up the ball of paper David threw away. I smooth it out, trying to get the creases out as much as possible.

  It’s not that good, but it’s good enough for me to see how ugly it is.

  Carefully, I crumple it up again and put it in the trash. It feels like a private thing, and I don’t think anyone should be looking at it.

  Later, I see David on the corner with some of his friends. A few of the guys are laughing, but David’s not. He’s standing at the center of the crowd, but it’s sort of like he’s surrounded. I watch his face, and that’s what he looks like: trapped.

  Here’s what really bothers me: It’s not that I told someone about Sari and David; it’s why I told. Because I wanted to feel important. Because I wanted to feel like I was more in the know than Erica Trager, more powerful than David, more fascinating than Sari. More something than every one of them. I wanted to feel like I had something to say. Instead of listening all the time.

  I keep trying to tell myself that it was really David Cole who did this to Sari. Or that she did it to herself. But it doesn’t work.

  When I get home, I go to the kitchen where my mom keeps a calendar by the phone. I count how many days are left in the school year. There are forty-two. Somehow, I have to find a way to survive forty-two more days.

  In my room, I get out my notebook and make a list:

  Things To Look Forward To

  I. Hollow Planet: The Film

  But I have to cross that out. The Hollow Planet movie doesn’t come out until summer.

  I….

  I tap my pen against the spiral binding of the notebook.

  I. Sari talking to me again

  I cross that one out too.

  I. Doing really, really well on my self-portrait. Learn how to draw real people.

  I write that down, stab a big definite dot at the end of the sentence.

  That night after dinner, I sit down on my bed with my sketch pad, far away from the mirror, and close my eyes. I think of my face, what I remember first, what I see first. What tells people looking at me that it’s me they’re looking at?

  Then an image comes. I open my eyes, and before I can think about it, I draw a huge circle on the page and begin.

  I draw for almost an hour. I only know that when I slow down and glance at the clock. Then it’s like I’ve come out of a trance, and I realize that in front of me, there’s some kind of vision of … me.

  Quickly, I close the pad and put it on the floor. I don’t want to see what I’ve done. If I hate it, I don’t think I can stand it.

  I decide I really need a soda and head to the kitchen. As I approach the living room, I see the light’s on. I know my dad’s working in his study, so it can only be my mom. For a second, I hesitate. I really don’t want to deal with her right now. On the other hand, I don’t feel like I can go back to my room, either.

  I could just rush past, pretend I don’t see her. But she’d probably stop me. So instead, I stop by the door, like I was looking for her, and say, “Hi, Ma.”

  She looks up from the book she’s reading. “Hi, you.” She pats the couch next to her. “Come talk to me.”

  I go to sit down near her. My mom can be stupid about certain things, but she’s smart about knowing when you have something going on that you don’t want to tell her about. I don’t want to tell her about Sari. It’s not something I can tell anyone. So I will have to be very, very careful.

  She says, “You’ve been hiding out in your room a lot lately.”

  “I have a huge amount of work to do. Art stuff.”

  “Oh?” She sits up, all interested. “What’re you working on these days? I haven’t seen anything in a long time.”

  Yeah, I think, because everything I do you think is either silly or gross. “I’m trying to do a self-portrait.”

  My mother nods, like, Hey, this is more like it. No more snake men and vermin queens. “Ambitious.”

  “Well, it’s not my ambition. I have to do it for class.”

  “How’s it going?”

  I blow a raspberry, and my mom laughs.

  �
��You’ll get it, honey. I know you will.”

  “I wish I knew it.”

  She pats my hand. “Hey, you’re very talented.”

  I don’t think my mom has ever said that to me before. Not like this, as if I were someone she didn’t know, someone she’d read about. Staring at my sneakers, I say, “Talented for a kid or for an adult?”

  “Well, right now, you’re a kid, so it’s hard to say. But I’d be very surprised if you weren’t talented as an adult, too. You just have to keep growing, taking some risks. Like this picture.”

  “Well, I hate this risk.” I want to kick the table. “I don’t know what I look like.”

  I suspect my mom will think this is idiotic. But instead, she just says, “Hmm.”

  “I tried looking in the mirror, but it didn’t work. I mean, I don’t know if I’m pretty or ugly or nothing or—”

  “People aren’t just pretty or ugly, Jess. Look at the great portraits, is that the first thing you see?” “So, you’re saying I’m ugly.” My mom laughs. “No.”

  “Well, what do you think I look like?”

  “Hon, you’re my daughter. You’ve been beautiful since day one.”

  “Oh, great. I bet that’s what the Elephant Man’s mom said too.”

  “I doubt it. Sweetie, I could tell you all sorts of things about the way you look. I could talk about your mouth, which probably feels too big to you now but is going to look so great to you a few years from now. I could say that I wish you wore your hair down more, because you have such pretty hair. I could talk about how I’m so happy you got your dad’s eyes and not mine. But that’s all a mom talking, and this isn’t a mom portrait, it’s a self-portrait.”

  “So that means I have to do all the work.”

  “I’m afraid so, baby.” She smiles, moves close. “So speaking of hair and eyes and stuff …”

  “Yeah?”

  “Who’s this Danny? The one who called?”

  I look up at my mother and realize she is thrilled. Thrilled that finally, a genuine boy has called her little girl. That her little girl will be dressing up and going on dates and jumping on the phone every time it rings. That her little girl is finally going to be a normal little girl, not the freak that’s been living in her house for fourteen years.

  I mean, it’s been weeks since Danny called, and she’s been waiting all this time to ask. I guess now she figures she finally got her chance.

  I fight the urge to shriek in her face.

  “He’s just a guy from school. Heavily into computers and Hollow Planet.”

  My mom nods encouragingly: More, more. I want details, give me more. It occurs to me: My mother wants to be my new best friend.

  “He’s also a serial killer wanted by the police in seven states.”

  My mother does not appreciate jokes like this, and gives me a look to remind me.

  “It’s no big thing, Ma.”

  “Who said it was a big thing?”

  But it is a big thing to her, and there’s no way she can hide it. I have an edgy, weird feeling all over. My jaw feels like it wants to bite.

  In this light voice, I say, “Well, you should be glad it’s no big thing. You should be completely thrilled that Danny is just my friend. That I’m not into love or dating or any of that ridiculousness. Because would you like to know what happens to girls who are into love and dating and ridiculousness? They get completely and utterly screwed.”

  I’ve run out of breath. My throat is all tight. My mom is staring at me like I’ve just vomited on her.

  “I mean, it’s all just a big, dumb show. ‘Look who I got, look who I’m with.’ Status. People don’t even like each other. Then, when they get bored with you or someone cooler comes along, you’re … nothing.”

  My eyes are stinging, and I have to look away before I start crying.

  I feel my mom reaching out, hear her say, “Baby?”

  But I’m out of there long before she can touch me.

  In my room, I grab the first thing I can—books—and hurl them against the wall. Good, but there’s still too much inside. I take more books, throw them one after the other at the wall. I try to break the wall, destroy the books. I don’t care anymore.

  I pull the drawers out of my bureau, turn them over. They’re heavy and can absorb rage really well. But there’s still too much.

  I kick the side of my desk until my foot really hurts. Maybe I broke something.

  Good.

  I kick it again, really hard. I hear my mom walk down the hall toward my room, wondering what’s going on.

  If she tries to come in here …

  I stand there, staring at the closed door. I’m breathing really hard, and for a second, I imagine I’m holding the door shut with my breathing.

  Don’t come in, Mom. Do not come in.

  She doesn’t.

  Finally, when there isn’ anything more to throw or kick, I pick my way through the mess to my bed. Everything that doesn’t belong, I shove onto the floor. Then I reach over to my night table and get the third Hollow Planet book.

  A lot of people ask me why I love science fiction so much. Here’s what I’ll tell them if they ever ask me again: In science fiction, people are either good or evil. If they harm someone, it’s because they want to. If they’re good and they want to save people, they have the power to do that. There are no screwups in sci-fi. Nobody who would like to do the right thing but can’t quite get it together. Nobody who doesn’t mean to hurt someone but does it anyway. There’s good and there’s evil; you love one and you hate the other. And that’s that.

  It takes me four hours to read the book all the way through. My mom knocks once; I tell her I’m fine but I need to be alone right now. As she leaves, I hear her say something to my dad, and for a second, I feel lonely. With them on one side and me on the other.

  But that’s just the way it has to be right now.

  When I’m ready to go to sleep, I tiptoe through the wreckage to my computer. I always check my e-mail just before bed. I don’t expect anything; it’s a just a habit.

  But when I open my e-mail, my computer makes the little singing sound, and a message in bold pops up. The subject is “100 Days!” and it’s from “Nomi28.”

  Clicking it, I read:

  Only 100 more days until hollow planet strikes!

  Hey, where’ve you been?

  Danny

  It takes me a weird second to realize I’m smiling. Quickly, I type back:

  Exiled. To hideous and distant place. can’t deal. Be back tomorrow.

  I think for a second, then type:

  Are you going to try to go opening day?

  I hesitate a moment before clicking SEND. Then I move the cursor up and press.

  14

  —Hollow Planet: Destiny’s Sword At last, the two armies met on the battlefield. There was a terrible silence, followed by the first shriek of war. Followed finally by the even more terrible and lasting silence of loss.

  My finals schedule is truly ridiculous. Next week, I have to live through the following:

  TUESDAY: Biology exam

  WEDNESDAY: History paper due

  THURSDAY: English paper due

  FRIDAY: French exam. Final art project due

  One thing I can never stand about school is that too matter what happens to you in your real life, you’re still expected to get good grades. Even if your entire year has been one big soap opera, no one cares. Not your teachers, not the principal, your parents, no one. You could lose all your limbs and half your nose, and they’d still be, like, You got a B- in history?

  Which is why I’m in the library trying to cram. And I’m not alone. Look around, and everywhere you see heads down, notebooks open, pens scribbling away. You definitely smell panic in the air.

  Eric Reed is lurking around the stacks; he says he’s got something that’ll help you pull three all-nighters in a row, and people keep drifting back there to talk to him. At the table next to me, some girls are whisperin
g about the senior party, comparing rumors about where it’s going to be and figuring out how to crash. Their words keep getting tangled up in the plus-que-parfait. I turn around, about to tell them to shut up …

  And that’s when I see Sari.

  I haven’t seen her—seen her and really looked at her—for a long time. And at first, I don’t recognize her. She’s wearing her hair in a braid, which makes her face look seriously fierce. I can tell she’s not eating, because she’s gotten really skinny. As she stands in the doorway, she manages to look for one particular person and let the rest of us know we can all drop dead at the same time.

  I know she’s not looking for me, so I glance around the library to see who it is she is looking for. She might be here to study with someone. But something about the look on her face tells me that she’s not.

  Then all of a sudden, she strides to the back of the library and disappears behind the stacks. The girls nearby start whispering madly. I hear: “… David … Thea … He said it was only once … She’s a total liar … Skank …”

  But even they shut up when Sari reappears a few minutes later.

  With Eric Reed.

  Eric Reed? What’s Sari doing with Eric Reed?

  Last year, she said he was a druggy jerk.

  So why is she leaving the library with him?

  And why is his arm around her?

  If I find out Sari’s doing drugs, I’ll kill her. I’ll find her, make her talk to me, and tell her what a complete idiot she’s being.

  After school I bump into Danny on the corner. I’m so lost inside my brain thinking about Sari and how I can find out what’s going on with her, I don’t even see him until he waves a hand in front of my face.

  “Hey.” He smiles. “What’s up?”

  “Oh, hey, Danny.” Then, because I’m embarrassed I didn’t see him, I ask him if he wants to walk through the park.

  “What were you so deep in thought about?” he says as we pass by the soccer field, where some guys are kicking a ball around.

  At first, I think, No, don’t ask him. Danny’s not going to know anything about Sari. Then I think, Why not?