Scars. Part 4

"Overreacted," Dad says. "I understand. But you can't let what happened to you affect all your relations.h.i.+ps with men." He stands up. "It isn't healthy."

That's what therapy is for. But I don't say that.

8.

After supper, I grab my portfolio and head off to Sandy's. There's a note taped to his door: "Kendra-come right in." I can hear the steady thump of music right through his closed door, and beneath the rhythm, I can just make out the whir of his pottery wheel.

I walk through his kitchen to his workroom. Sandy's bobbing his head to the music, his hands covered in wet clay as he works at the wheel, his sleeves neatly rolled up past his elbows. I stop in the doorway and watch. It never fails to look like magic, the way Sandy can pull a vase or a bowl out of a blob of clay.

Sandy shuts off the wheel and cuts the vase off the base with a piece of wire.

"I wish I could do that!" I shout.

He looks up, happy to see me. He wipes his hands on his ap.r.o.n and turns off the stereo. "You wanna sit down and have a try?"

I shake my head. "Not today." And not any day in the near future. He'd know something was wrong if I didn't roll up my sleeves, and I can't do that without him seeing what I've done. I miss the feeling of the cool, squishy clay beneath my fingers, the whir of the wheel-but my creations always collapse or turn out lopsided anyway. Pencils and paint are more my thing.

Sandy hangs his ap.r.o.n on the hook behind him. "The books are in the kitchen. Emil brought them over last night."

I follow him back into the bright, airy room. It's like a designer kitchen on a budget, with fake marble countertops, halogen lights, and used but top-quality appliances. Stainless steel pans and pots hang from hooks in the ceiling alongside dried herbs from his garden. Sandy takes his cooking almost as seriously as his pottery.

I head over to the yellowed pine table where a bunch of hardcover art books are fanned out in a half circle, a vase of pink rosebuds behind them. The roses fill the room with their scent.

I nudge him. "I see that's not all Emil brought you."

Sandy blushes right up to the roots of his ginger hair. "Emil's a sweetheart."

"And it doesn't hurt that he's cute!"

"Ah, Kendra, you know me too well," Sandy says, slapping his chest and smiling. He and Emil make a handsome couple-light and dark, muscular and thin, both of them with kind faces and gentle eyes. If they ever raise a child together, that kid will be so lucky, growing up in a house full of love.

I start flipping through the books. The vibrant colors and textures are like music, the artists' voices each singing in their own tone, yet coming together in a richness that stirs my creativity. The artwork feeds my soul, giving me something I need. But I can't take the books home, or Mom will know I'm still painting.

"Thank you! I love them."

"Kendra-"

Something in his voice makes me look up. He's got that worried frown between his eyes again.

"Your mother called."

"Again? Okay..."

"She asked me how I thought you were doing."

I let go of the book. "You didn't tell her-"

"No; it's none of her business what we talk about."

I let out my breath. "I'll bet she didn't like that."

"She didn't." He clears his throat. "She also told me your dad got downsized. I know how much you rely on Carolyn. I'd like to pay for your next few sessions."

I can't accept. Money's tight for Sandy. And how could I ever pay him back? Yet I want to accept his offer so badly. Heat flares in my cheeks.

"I can't let you do that."

"Sure you can. You know I'd pay for more, if I could afford it. Let me do this; it'll make me feel good. I wish I'd had a therapist when I was your age. It would have saved me a lot of grief."

I wrestle with myself. But I need therapy, and I know Sandy means it. "All right. Thank you." Crisis put off-at least for the next week or so. I set my portfolio down on the table. "But I still need a way to pay for the rest. I thought you might know where to sell these."

Sandy sits down beside me, unzipping my portfolio. He goes through the paintings one by one, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but always silently. Now and then, he nods or picks one up to study it.

My mouth feels too dry to swallow. I've never shown anyone so much of my art before, especially not all at once. I've never let anyone see so much of me, revealed so much of myself. Because it's my self that I'm showing-I have no doubt about that-my hopes and dreams, my nightmares and memories, all mixed together with bits of my soul.

Maybe I should have left some of the paintings at home. Especially the one he just uncovered-a naked girl with thick white bandages half covering her crotch and screaming mouth. I hadn't even thought about the bandages, about what they might be saying. My heart pounds in my ears, but Sandy flips the painting over and looks at the next one-and the next.

I unclench my hands. Some of the paintings seem happy, until you look closer and see the corner of pain-the tree woman with an axe sticking out of the earth near her roots; the child holding a ball of light, a look of wonder on her face, while blood drips from her cracked hands. I don't know why I can't paint happy. Maybe I'm afraid I'll end up dead inside, like Mom. Or maybe I just know pain better than anything else.

Sandy picks up the next painting, and I catch my breath. I don't know how I could have let this one slip by-a girl climbing up the edge of a utility knife, her arms and legs gouged open to the bone. How much more obvious-and stupid-could I be? My breath is high and tight in my chest. I clench my hands in my lap, willing Sandy to put the painting down and pick up the next one.

Sandy looks at me, his eyes dark and worried. "Is there anything I should know?"

"No," I squeak.

He keeps looking at me and I can't look away.

"Kendra, I know how much it hurts. Sometimes it can get so bad, you think you can't survive it. But you can. You will."

Oh, G.o.d. Don't let him know. I push back my chair, ready to run.

Sandy sets the painting down. "You're not thinking of killing yourself, are you?"

I'm so relieved I almost laugh. "Not right now."

"Good. Because you have so much to live for, Kendra. You're bright and talented-and things will get better for you, I promise." Sandy reaches over and takes my hand, holds it in both his huge ones, his face serious. "If anything ever happened to you, I'd be devastated."

"It's okay, Sandy. I'm not thinking about suicide right now, I promise." Not since I started cutting. "Six months ago, maybe-but not right now."

"You telling me the truth? I read that gay teenagers are three times more likely to kill themselves than straight ones-" He looks at me intentely.

"Yes! I swear."

"Well, you make sure you talk to me if you need to-any time, day or night." He clears his throat. "You're special to me, Kendra; you're like the daughter I never had. I care very much about what happens to you."

A warm spot grows in my belly. "I-thanks, Sandy."

"You betcha." He hugs me hard, his rough cheek warm against my skin.

Shadows flutter inside me-but it can't be Sandy. I need it not to be.

Sandy lets me go. "You okay?"

I nod and casually lean back.

"Well." Sandy stacks my paintings together. "Are you sure you want to sell these? Your art is-"

"Too personal?"

"I was going to say powerful. Once you sell them, you'll never be able to get them back."

I swallow hard. "I know. But I've got to be able to keep working with Carolyn."

"All right. Let me give these to Emil. He'll get them hung in the Java Cup; the owner is one of us. And maybe he can get them in a few galleries, too. Sound good?"

"Perfect! Thank you, Sandy." I hug him quickly. No shadows this time.

"And Kendra-if you decide you want to keep any of these pieces, just give me a call. I'd have no qualms about pulling them off the walls."

I laugh. "I will."

The phone shrills loudly.

I roll my eyes. "I'll bet that's my jailer, calling to check on me. I'd better get back."

"You want me to walk you home?"

"Nah, I'm okay."

It's dark outside, darker than when I left the house, and a few of the streetlights are out. There's a haze in the air like a thin fog, blurring everything. A cat screeches like someone stepped on its tail. I walk quickly past the parked cars, the rows of shadowy houses; some are still and dark, while others show the blue glow of TVs flickering in their windows.

Behind me, something rustles.

The hair rises on the back of my neck. I walk faster.

Footsteps echo behind me.

I spin around. Even through the gloom, I can see a man in a dark trench coat about a block away, a hat pulled down over his forehead, his face hidden in shadow.

My heart flutters. I start running, and the footsteps follow me, slowing when I slow, speeding up when I do. I'm sobbing, breath caught in my throat, and still the footsteps come, and I'm barely ahead of them.

I burst into the house, slam the door shut, and lock it. And then I stand there, shaking, until Mom comes to see who it is.

9.

At school, I look for Meghan again. There's something about her that draws me to her. Maybe it's the tough-girl act that I know covers her vulnerability, or maybe it's that I know n.o.body sees her for who she really is. Just like n.o.body sees me-n.o.body except Carolyn and Sandy. And Sarah; Sarah used to.

Meghan's the first person who's interested me since Sarah left; she's the first person who's made me think I might want to open myself up again. But I don't see her anywhere, not even near Danny's charred locker. What if her mother's giving her problems? Or what if she got freaked out by my note?

I go to cla.s.s when the bell rings, but I can't focus on what the teacher's saying. Whenever I start to relax, I hear the footsteps again. I keep my backpack on me, never letting it out of my sight. I'm afraid he knows that the art therapy group starts today, afraid that's what set him off.

Artists show so much through their art-and not always consciously. We show things in our choices of color or the lack of it; in what we decide to paint; and even in our brush strokes-like the way my mom's are so controlled, while mine are so fluid. Art is like a printout of my soul, showing all the things I can't say. And if he's near me still, if he's watching me, he already knows that.

Teachers' voices move in and out of my awareness like a weak radio signal. Even in art cla.s.s, it's hard for me to keep my attention on Mrs. Archer. But I hear enough to know that we're drawing in black, white, and shades of grey today. It's a challenge that would normally have me leaping up to get my supplies before everyone else, but today I hang back, picking up whatever's left over.

Back at my seat, I stare at the blank page. The greys and blacks of charcoal and graphite remind me of the shadows, of him-and I can't let myself go there.

I clench my pencil, unable to make a mark on the page. Mrs. Archer walks past me slowly. I know she's noticed I haven't even started, but she doesn't say anything. She always seems to know when to push me and when to leave me alone.

I sketch a few light lines, erase them, then start again. Meghan. Think of Meghan.

I keep my mind focused on her as I work, shutting out everything else.

I draw Meghan's face, grinning c.o.c.kily at me. I draw her with att.i.tude, the tendrils of her hair becoming whips, keeping other people away. And I draw myself, coiled in one of her tendrils, her hair flowing up to join with mine. I rough out the background, filling it with texture that overlaps and intertwines.

Someone leans over me.

I jump.

"I didn't mean to startle you," Mrs. Archer says, touching my shoulder. "Do you mind if I take a look?"

"Of course not!"

Mrs. Archer sits down beside me, studying my drawing. I lean back and try to see with unclouded eyes.

The pencil strokes that make up Meghan's and my hair are soft and winding, sharp only at the tips, but the background is harsh, almost chaotic in pattern. The contrast works well, but it's somehow disturbing.

I stare harder and suck in my breath. The figure of a man, like a shadow, hovers in the background, his claw-like hands reaching toward one of the girls-towards me.

I glance quickly at Mrs. Archer, but I can't tell if she's seen it or not.

"This is very powerful, Kendra," she says. "The emotion, the depth-it truly affects the viewer."