Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred (6 page)

CALEB NEVER CAME HOME LAST NIGHT. AND MY DAD ALREADY LEFT, I ASSUME
for work, by the time I got up this morning. The house is still and
quiet and, I can almost make myself believe, peaceful. But it's a false
sort of peace. A temporary illusion.

One benefit of Caleb's absence is that I have the bathroom all to
myself this morning. I can shower for as long as I like. I'm careful as
I rub soap over my recent cuts. They're still pretty raw and sore. But
even though it stings, the cleansing feels good, and I imagine that it
will help them heal. I assure myself that I won't cut again today. And
maybe not tomorrow either. I remind myself that tonight is the art
fair, and this has the potential to be a really good day. I can make it
a good day.

Because Caleb isn't around to pester me, I spend as much time as
I want in front of the bathroom mirror. I even take the time to blowdry my hair. And instead of braiding it as usual, I let it hang loose
down my back. Abby says I have the best hair. A deep, almost-black
shade of brown, it's thick and heavy and straight. I don't usually
bother to dry it since it takes forever. But today I think it may be
worth it. And, okay, I still remember how Kelsey draped herself over
Glen's art project yesterday, her blonde hair falling all over the place.
Not that I plan to imitate her, but I don't see how it could hurt anything to wear my hair down for a change.

I take extra time to put on mascara, a little blush, and some
lip gloss. It's not much, really, but it does improve things. Then I
stare at myself in the mirror with any towel wrapped around me
like a sarong. If I stand far enough back and squint just a little, I
almost don't notice the dark lines and welts that cover my arms. I
can almost imagine they're not there. But then I open my eyes wide
and look. They are still there. Red and ugly and telling.

Don't think about it. I go back to my room. Someday this will all
just be a memory.

According to my radio, today's weather forecast is for "warm
and sunny, heading into the low eighties." Even so, I know I'll wear
a long-sleeved top. But today I pick one that's lighter weight. It's a
white linen shirt with shell buttons up the front and on the cuffs. I
got it on sale at Banana Republic last summer. Funny that I knew to
buy long sleeves back when I wasn't even cutting yet.

First I put on a pale blue camisole that's got a little lace in
front, and then I layer the shirt over that, taking care to button the
cuffs. I don't want them slipping up my wrists. There can be no
cutting today. One drop of blood on this shirt will shout my issues
to the world. And since I plan to remain at school until the art fair
begins-I promised Mr. Pollinni that I'd help with setup-there
won't be time to come home and change in between. I decide to
forgo my usual overalls, opting instead for a short denim skirt that
I haven't worn in ages. And I go barelegged. One of the benefits of
my Native American heritage is that my legs have enough color to
pass for a tan even when they haven't been in the sun for months.
I promise myself, not for the first time, I will never cut on my legs.
I've read on websites that some girls cut all over their bodies. I am
determined not to cut anything but my arms. And I plan to stop doing that immediately. Today is a brand-new day.

I look at my reflection in the mirror one more time and think I
look almost normal. Then I add some beaded earrings and a necklace
that I made last winter, back before my mom got sick, when I was
still into beading. I used five shades of blue, and the set actually looks
pretty good. Abby thinks I have a knack for putting beads together. I
gave her a similar set for her birthday, except in shades of pink, and
she wears it all the time and even gets compliments on it.

It's still early enough to have some breakfast. I usually skip it, but
since I'm trying to do today right, I have a glass of orange juice and
a piece of toast. And then I write a very specific note to my parents,
reminding them about the art fair tonight, and how I won't be home
until late. I even invite them to come, though I don't really expect to
see them there. They haven't been out together in a long, long time.

At just a few minutes past eight, I finally see Abby's car pull
into the driveway. We have this little unspoken agreement that she's
to wait out there for me, without honking, and I will get out of
the house as fast as possible without having Daddy Dearest running
interference.

Abby is one of the few people outside my immediate family
who has actually witnessed my dad losing it. Of course, he made a
remarkable recovery when he realized I had a friend in the house. He
even joked with her about how cranky parents can get sometimes.
I was grateful that she didn't buy it, and that she didn't make a big
deal about it either. I haven't told her everything about my family,
but she knows enough to be fairly understanding. And, thankfully,
she knows enough to keep her mouth shut.

"Whoa, girlfriend," she says when I climb into her Bronco.
"You're looking pretty good today"

I kind of smile. "Thanks."

"What's the occasion? Or, let me guess, you finally figured out
that Glen really is into you and you've decided to play along? Baiting
the hook, are we?"

"No. I just wanted to look nice for the art fair tonight."

"Oh." She's clearly disappointed.

"Okay, and I guess I don't mind if Glen notices."

She laughs. "That's better. I was starting to get worried about
you."

I glance at her. She almost sounded serious. "Huh?"

"Well, you know, what with the way you've been dressing
lately . . . and how you've been acting ... I guess I thought you
might've been depressed or something."

"Oh."

"But now you're giving me hope, girlfriend."

I smile. "Good. I'm feeling a little hopeful myself."

And, amazingly, that's sort of how my whole day goes. Maybe it's
because I look better than usual, or maybe I am actually smiling for
a change, but it's like everyone is being a whole lot nicer to me than
they normally are. By lunchtime I get to thinking that I've cleared
some major kind of obstacle in my life, and I'm thinking this really
could be the big day-the day I quit cutting myself for good. I'm
more hopeful than ever before.

Even Glen seems more interested in me. We chat like old buddies
at lunch then even hang together during art. Nothing anyone would
really notice-except for nme-but it feels like something's happening. And maybe Kelsey is a little jealous.

"Hey, Ruth," Mr. Pollinni approaches my table just before class
ends. "Can I ask a favor of you, for the art fair?"

"Sure," I tell him. "What is it?"

"Well, I had Claire Engstrom down for the pottery demonstra tion from seven to eight, but she's home with the flu. Do you think
you could take her place?

"I guess so. But I might be kind of rusty. I haven't done much
pottery this term."

Pollinni laughs. "I doubt it, Ruth. The last time I saw you throw
a pot, I don't think you even had your eyes open."

Well, I seriously doubt that. Although pottery is more about
feeling than seeing. Even so, I'm feeling a little nervous about agreeing to do this. I might screw up in front of everyone. I feel a familiar
tightening in my stomach. The gnawing fear that I might fail, that
I'll blow it and end up looking stupid. I hate looking stupid. Why
did I agree to do this?

"Something wrong?" Glen asks as we're leaving art.

I shrug.

"Come on. Tell me."

"It's no biggie," I say. "I'm just a little uncomfortable about
throwing pots in front of everyone. I mean, what if I mess up?"

He laughs. "Then you mess up-and just start over again."

"Easy for you to say"

"How about this," he says. "What if we split up the shift? You
throw for half an hour and I'll do the next one."

"You do pottery?"

He grins and nods.

"A man of many hidden talents ... "

"You should talk."

So now I'm feeling a little bit better. And it's sweet that Glen
wants to help me with this. I think maybe he does like me. And so
the day progresses, and I'm really feeling like I've almost got the
upper hand on my life now. Like things are finally going forward,
and maybe I'm really going to make it.

It's a mad rush to get everything set up after school. But about a
dozen of the art students, including Glen and me, are really taking
tonight seriously. Mr. Pollinni has it completely worked out-where
everything should go, and exactly how it should all look. When
we're done, I'm impressed.

The cafeteria looks as if it's been transformed into a real gallery.
Even the lighting, brought in by one of Pollinni's talented friends,
looks great. All the outside signs are in place and there's a cafe-like
area with desserts and coffee for sale and a section where student
art, as well as some that's been donated by local artists, is for sale. He
even lined up a small jazz ensemble to play background music.

"Everything looks great!" I tell Mr. Pollinni. "And we have time
to spare."

Altogether there are about twenty art students scattered at
stations throughout the cafeteria so we can demonstrate our skills. I
already set up my easel in a somewhat out-of-the-way corner. I plan
to do an acrylic demonstration (that is, if I survive my stint on the
potter's wheel). I notice that Glen is setting up his easel right next to
mine. He's going to be working on a charcoal drawing tonight.

"You ready to hit the wheel?" he asks as I lay several tubes of
paint out in a fan around my palette.

I glance up at the clock to see it's about ten minutes until seven.
"Guess I better go for it," 1 say as I pick up my paint smock, which
is actually just an oversized flannel shirt that I scavenged from my
dad last year.

"Break a leg." He winks at me.

"Right."

"Just relax, Ruth, you'll be fine."

"Thanks." I'm thinking that if I hurry, I might actually get in a
few minutes of warm-up time before anyone gets here. So I wave good-bye and head over to the wheel. Its in a fairly open area right
next to the entrance, like it's the main event. Just what I need.

I try not to think about that as I tie back my hair and pull on
my smock. I use a wire to cut several blocks of clay and begin slapping the pieces around until they're all bubble-free and lined up
and ready to throw. Then I pick up the first slab and slam it into
the metal surface of the wheel with an air of confidence that is only
skin-deep. But at least I hit dead center. That's always a good start.

So far, so good. I turn on the electric wheel, dip my hands in
water, and the next thing you know I'm off to the races. And it's
funny; as I sit there really getting into it, my hands working the
smooth, wet clay, absorbing its coolness and feeling it take shape
beneath my fingers, I hardly notice that people have begun to trickle
in. Several grade-schoolers are standing around the fast-moving
wheel watching me work.

"Cool," says a blonde girl who looks to be around ten or so. "I
wish I could do that."

I look up and smile at her. "You can. Just start taking art in
middle school. They do pottery there."

"Really?" Her eyes are wide.

I nod. "That's where I started."

The spectators all ooh and ah as I make a small indentation on
top of the spinning ball, opening it up into what is quickly becoming a pot. Then I pull it up taller, creating a slender cylinder, and
this impresses them even more. Really, I suppose it does look like
magic to them. To my surprise, it's actually kind of fun. I'm really
getting into this!

"Looking good, Ruth," says Glen from behind me. "You sure
you want to give this up?"

"Is it time?" I ask.

"You've got about five more minutes." Then he leans down.
"Hey, you're getting your sleeves all messy"

I look down and see that the cuffs of my nice white blouse are
totally splattered with the reddish-brown clay.

"Here, let me help you."

I take in a quick breath. "It's okay. Just leave it-"

But it's too late, he's already reached down for my right hand,
like he's going to push up my sleeve for me. With pounding heart, I
jerk my hands off the pot so quickly that I accidentally knock it and
it warps-badly. Thrown off balance, it flops over and looks as if it's
been murdered. The spectators make disappointed noises.

"Bummer!" says a middle-school boy.

"Sorry," Glen tells me, moving away from me now. "I was just
trying to-"

"It's okay," I say quickly, standing and grabbing for a rag to wipe
my hands. "You just startled me is all."

"Sorry," he says again, looking uncomfortable.

"It's fine," I say in a stiff voice. "Why don't you go ahead and
take over now?"

"Hey, Ruth, I'm really-"

But I'm already walking away. I cannot take this! I head straight for
the bathroom, holding back tears of humiliation. I rinse the remaining wet clay from my hands, washing and washing even after they
are clean. When I look up into the mirror, I can see that my face is
flushed and blotchy. And my shirt sleeves are a total mess. I'm a mess.
Why did I think I could do this? I am so stupid! So clueless. Such a
total loser. What makes me think I can pull off a normal life? I feel so
frustrated now that all I want to do is go get my backpack, find my
Altoids box, and escape all this. Escape this pathetic excuse of a life.