Scarred Read online

  Luke

  She’s nuts.

  She actually stuck a picture of herself in the photos of visual pollution. And it wasn’t a mistake and she wasn’t kidding.

  Was she maybe doing it for attention? Did she hope I’d be all don’t worry, you’re still beautiful, it doesn’t matter, forget the past and focus on the future? Not going to happen, Water Baby.

  Or does she truly think she’s “polluted”, that the scar makes her ugly?

  Like I said, nuts.

  Training was cancelled tonight because half the team’s got the flu and coach is away. So I get to go straight home, to spend an extra few hours in the house of fun. The hall and living room are empty when I arrive, but mom must have heard the door.

  “Who’s that?”

  “It’s me.” Just me.

  I follow the sound of clicking keys to the study. Mom is seated at the desk, a full coffee cup and an empty glass beside her, working on her computer. Another digital album about my golden-boy, Harvard-going, genius brother she’ll never finish?

  “How was school?” There’s no real curiosity in her voice.

  “Fine. How are you doing?”

  “Good. Today’s a good day. I’m keeping busy,” she says, her voice brittle with unspoken things. “Look what I’ve started: Andrew’s early years!”

  I walk around the desk to peer over her shoulder at the screen. Andrew sitting in a stroller, his mouth plugged with a pacifier; Andrew taking his first steps; Andrew and I kicking a ball around in the back yard.

  “What do you think?” She turns her thin face up to me, desperate for something I can’t give her.

  “It’s great, mom. Your best yet.”

  “I think so, too.”

  Her smile is faint and fades quickly. Mom used to have such a great smile, and a deep, musical laugh which usually ended in hiccups. It hurts to see this pale imitation on her cracked lips.

  “Can I get you anything, something to eat maybe?” I ask. “You should eat something.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  There’s a skin on top of her cold coffee.

  “A fresh cup of coffee?”

  She shakes her head and leans into the screen again. “Such a cute little boy.”

  “I think this one is me,” I say, pointing at the picture of a smiling boy, maybe five or six years old, standing on his head.

  “Are you sure? Andrew had it in his room.”

  “Yeah, it’s me. I was always the upside-down kid.” Still am, in a way.

  “Oh, well, if you’re certain,” she sighs and deletes the photo from the page.

  I stare at the black-framed white space for a moment, then kiss the top of her head and leave her to her world.

  14

  First touch

  On Friday, I rush home after school to get there before Luke does. I have high hopes for this afternoon in the continuing campaign to convert Luke into seeing past my face and acknowledging the beautiful human being lurking beneath. Since our L.O. lesson on Tuesday, he has been less frosty towards me. He’s not friendly, precisely, but he definitely has thawed a little in the iciness stakes. I switch on the PC so it can start booting up, get a pot of coffee going, then dart around the small apartment hanging up towels and clothes, and putting away my dried breakfast dishes.

  The buzzer for the apartment block entrance goes off as I’m shoving my bottles of nail polish into the already stuffed bathroom cabinet. I shut the door against the impending avalanche of make-up, moisturizer and shampoo bottles, and run to the intercom at the door. I buzz him up, and force myself to wait three seconds after he rings the doorbell before I open the door.

  The air is sucked out of me again. I always forget just how good-looking he is, so that it sandbags me every time we come face to face. Today he is wearing black sneakers, faded jeans, and a white T-shirt with a small hole on the seam of one shoulder. My index finger itches to push through it and touch the skin beneath.

  “May I come in?”

  I realize I’ve been standing there, just staring.

  “Of course.”

  I step aside to let him in, surreptitiously wiping my mouth with the back of my hand to check for drool. He passes me, and I catch a whiff of something that smells faintly of spice. And of him.

  He stares at the line of newspaper articles stretching along the wall.

  “You have a thing for the really good news, I see?”

  He has a lopsided almost-grin on his face. I shrug, wishing I’d thought to take them down.

  “They motivate me,” I say.

  He looks perplexed.

  ‘You’re motivated by people who are attacked and burned and,” he peers closer to read a headline, “-dismembered?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I want to explain it to him, but he’s already turning away, muttering something under his breath. It’s clear he thinks I’m mentally deranged - he might be right on that score. He looks around as we walk into the living room, and glances down the hallway that leads to my bedroom and the bathroom.

  “You live here with …?”

  “I live alone.”

  He turns to face me at that.

  “Like, alone-alone?”

  “Yup. Um … would you like something to drink? A soda, or some coffee?”

  “Coffee would be great. Thanks,” he says, rubbing a hand behind his neck. I’m not the only one feeling awkward.

  I go to the kitchen, and set out a tray with the coffee pot, milk, sugar, cups and spoons. I bought some cookies for today and I put these on a plate, but they look stupid – as if I neatly arranged them. So I carefully order them into a careless jumble, then I pick up the tray and head back to the living room.

  Luke is moving along the tall rack of shelves that covers the length of one wall. He runs a hand over the spines of my books as he studies their titles, then moves on to my small collection of fossilized ammonites, picking one up in his long fingers and turning it over to examine it. Meanwhile, I’m examining the back of him. His hair is cut short, like all the boys on the swim team, but it twists into a point at the top of his neck. I can see the line of his broad swimmer’s shoulders and the lean muscles of his back under his T-shirt. The view of his denim-clad rear is not too much of a trial for my eyes either.

  He leans forward to look closer at my display of medals, trophies and plaques from when I used to swim competitively, and the framed, gold-bordered certificate of my advanced life-saving qualification. I must make some noise, because he turns to face me. There’s a sad smile on his face which literally makes my mouth fall open, it’s so beautiful.

  “You were good,” he says.

  I shrug and nod, put the tray down on the coffee table. Will he sit next to me on the sofa while we have our coffee? He turns back to the shelf, moving along to a photo of my mother. It’s an enlarged close-up of her face that I took on her old camera when we were on a rare vacation at the beach. She never took much time off from work, so when we did get away together, we always made the most of it. I was fourteen that summer, but that didn’t stop me from exploring the tide-pools with her, plastic bucket and net in hand, like a little kid. In the picture, her face is slightly flushed with sunburn and she’s smiling widely, looking happy and carefree. Other memories of her – more recent ones – threaten to bubble up to the surface, but I push them behind the curtain of now.

  “That’s my moth-”

  “I know who it is,” he says, turning to face me. His face is tight again, his eyes hard.

  “Let’s just get to work, okay?” he snaps.

  I’m muddled by the abrupt change in him. I need to confront him and I’ll do it, too, just as soon as I get my breath back.

  We each grab a cup of coffee – he takes his black, like his freaking mood, I notice – and then sit down at the corner desk where the computer is. He casts a disparaging look at the bottles of vitamins and immune-boosters clustered beside my screen that I forgot to hide in my hurried tidy-up. On top of t
hem, embarrassingly, lies a thermometer. Flushing, I push them aside, pulling the keyboard closer and tilting the screen so that he can see.

  We begin to work. I grab the mouse and do the cutting, pasting, scanning and merging; he offers suggestions and comments – all of them strictly related to our project. He sits so close, as he studies the screen, that I can feel the heat coming off his body. It makes my hands clumsy on the keyboard. I’m grateful to the programming geeks in Silicon Valley who invented auto save, because twice I nearly succeed in wiping out the whole project. I’m also made edgy – half upset and half angry – by the tension which radiates off of him. It’s clear he’d rather be anywhere but here. I’m working as fast as I can, but we still have a way to go when it happens.

  I’m leaning across him to catch a piece of paper as it emerges from the mouth of the printer, when I accidentally brush against him. My bare arm just touches his. He flinches and pulls back as if I’ve burnt him, or something. That’s it – I’ve had just about as much as I can take.

  “So sorry,” I say in a voice dripping with false sweetness. “I forgot.”

  “You forgot?” There is ice in the fire of his hazel eyes now.

  “Yes! I forgot to be careful not to touch you – in case I contaminate you, in case my face is contagious. I forgot that there are people in the world who are obsessed with appearance and are just plain rude when it comes to those of us who look a little less than perfect!”

  I’m almost shouting as I fling the paper onto the desk and face him head on.

  “What?”

  Unbelievably, he – he! – sounds outraged. If anyone’s got dibs on justifiable moral outrage here, it’s damn well me.

  “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that it’s rude to stare at people with disfigurements? You’re rude! And offensive.”

  “Me? I offend you?” Again with that tone of indignant anger. It fuels my own rage.

  “Yes you are! I mean, what is your problem? I’m scarred, alright? It’s ugly – I know that. Actually, I know it better than you do. But there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, Okay? And – newsflash! – I never asked for it. If I offend you so much, perhaps you should keep your eyes closed. Or explain to Mrs. Copeman that I physically nauseate you and demand a new partner on the grounds of physical health. Juliet looks keen, and there’s nothing wrong with her face.”

  Luke stares at me, his face blank with something like shock. He opens his mouth to speak, starts to say something, stops, then tries again.

  “You think I’m offended by your face? That I’m upset by your scar?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Now I’m the one who is surprised. It derails my anger.

  “No, I’m not. It’s not how you look, it’s who you are, that you are. As soon as Perkel told the class your name, I knew who you were.”

  “But –” I splutter, “I don’t understand. You hardly know me. How can you be so mortally offended by who I am?”

  “My name is Luke Naughton, Sloane.”

  I’m trying hard to understand what he means, even as a corner of my mind registers that this is the first time he’s said my name, that it makes his mouth move in interesting ways.

  “I know that,” I say.

  “Luke Naughton.”

  It’s clear this is supposed to mean something to me, but it doesn’t. I stare uncomprehendingly back at him.

  “Brother of Andrew Naughton.” His voice is bitter with cold fury.

  My scalp creeps back over my head. Something dreadful is happening.

  “Ah, rings a bell, does it?”

  “Ohhh.” I realize who he is. “Oh!”

  I understand everything now, understand him. It feels like someone pulled a plug on the bottom of my feet; I can feel the blood draining from my face, my knees giving way. I need to sit, to get out of the range of those accusing, icy eyes.

  “Oh …” the last of my breath escapes on the soft syllable.

  What a fool I’ve been to hope, to dream, when my life has taught me so brutally that the good stuff’s not for me. And him! How must he have felt these last weeks, trapped in a classroom, on a project, with me – living, breathing, walking, talking me? Constantly faced with my scar – the revolting reminder of what he has lost.

  “I … I …”

  I don’t know what to say. I sag onto the sofa, bury my face in my hands, mumble, “I didn’t know, Luke. I never knew who you were, that you were at this school. I would never have –”

  I’m interrupted by a snort. I look up to see his retreating back. He stalks out of the room, wrenches the front door open so hard it bangs against the wall, then slams it shut behind him.

  There’s an ache in my chest, an actual physical heart-ache, as I sit in the sudden silence, staring at the closed door in front of me.

  And then it all surges upwards, all the memories I’ve been holding back and pressing down and trying to breathe away. And it’s enough to drown me.

  15

  A fierce cold burn

  I was sixteen years old the day I got the scar, and everything changed.

  Where I live, west of Chicago, it’s hot and humid in the summer. Heat hazes shimmer in the distance and the roads steam when thunderstorms rip through the city and suburbs, lashing the trees, hurling fat raindrops down and sizzling the air with cracks of lightning. You can smell the storms coming. There’s a trace of ozone in the air, like the promise of love – sweet and exhilarating and dangerous. When the afternoon light turns lime, a bad one is on the way. After the world has been sluiced clean and threatened with destruction, the sun blazes again. Winters start cold and then get colder. When the sun shines, it does so with pallid weakness and it retreats like a coward to the coming of snow.

  That day – the day – was just another cold November school morning. It began ordinarily enough: mom nagging me awake with threats that I’d be late, the mad scramble to shower, dress and pack my bag. I was still chewing on a breakfast bar as I climbed into the car, tossing my bags into the tiny rear seat. The lack of room for friends at the back was only one of the things I hated about mom’s “new” car – a 1969 Aston Martin DB6 Vantage – which had been her fortieth birthday present to herself. I also disliked the right-hand drive, the noisy engine, the tiny trunk and the fact that it was stick-shift. But mom loved the sleek silver styling, the wooden steering wheel, the luscious red leather interior and the powerful six-cylinder engine. She said the classic coupe made her feel like James Bond. I said it made her drive like him, too.

  Mom swore under her breath as we belted up.

  “We’re late already, and we still have to stop on the way to get the painting.”

  “What painting?”

  “The painting for the office. We’ve had one of the boardroom paintings reframed and I want it up on the wall in time for this morning’s partners’ meeting.”

  “Does it have to be you who picks it up? Can’t you send some assistant to get it?” I mean, what’s the point of being a senior partner in a law firm if you can’t get flunkies to do your bidding?

  “It’s on our way, Sloane. Besides, I want to check that –”

  “– that it’s perfect!” I completed the sentence for her.

  “Am I so predictable?” Mom smiled at me.

  “Just a little.” I grinned back.

  The rain was falling more heavily now, slowing down the morning traffic and stressing my mother even more. The weatherman had predicted snow before the weekend.

  “Chill, mom,” I said, and pulled out my cell phone to check on my messages and mail.

  “I hate to be late,” said my mother, and stretched out a hand automatically to reach into her handbag as the shrill ring of her phone sounded.

  “Mom, don’t.” I hated it when my mother used the phone while driving.

  “Lana Munster,” she answered, pulling a face at me. “… Yes, I’m on my way in … Of course, I have the contracts … As soon as I can, okay? I should be anot
her …” she cradled the phone between her jaw and shoulder so that she could glance at her wristwatch, and took her other hand off the wheel to turn down the radio as we took off from the traffic lights. And they say teenagers are bad drivers!

  “… another thirty minutes, just need to get the painting and drop Sloane off … I’ll be there, okay? Bye.”

  She ended the call with her thumb and tossed the phone into her bag, glaring at the traffic in front of her and trying to find a gap to get into the lane closest to the sidewalk. The wipers swished clear streaks across the windshield, and the headlights shone shafts of light into the glittering downpour.

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that, mom. You know it’s dangerous.”

  They had shown us a video, in driver’s ed., showing how distracted cellphone users were. Worse than driving drunk, the instructor said.

  “Oh, lighten up, Sloane! You’re sixteen, not sixty. Who’s the mother around here?” She flipped her scarf – a bright stream of coral and crimson and butter-yellow – over her shoulder.

  “Right, the framing store’s coming up – look for a parking spot … There!”

  She pulled over and into a diagonal space near a store with the name “Frame of Mind” in gold lettering on the front window. It still looked dark inside the store.

  “Are they even open yet?”

  “For me – naturally!” said my mother.

  She was out of the car and in the store moments later. My mother had to do everything at speed. I guess it was part of the drive and determination that had fuelled her career success. Well, that and the awareness that as a single parent, all the responsibility for providing for us was on her shoulders. I tried to remember this when I got irritated by her inability ever to switch off from work, to ignore the phone, to relax and spend time with me.

  I checked my make-up in the visor mirror, then fiddled with the radio – one of the few things that had been updated in the car – and found a song I liked: “Give me Love” by Ed Sheeran. I had just closed my eyes to enjoy the music when there was a hammering at my window. Mom was there, holding a large painting and gesturing to me to open my door. When I did, she thrust the painting onto my lap and then ran around to her side of the car.