Scars. Part 5

"I've heard that before," I say wryly.

Mrs. Archer looks at me quizzically. "It's a good thing, Kendra. You make the viewer feel something when they look at your work. We need art like that in this world."

I look into her warm eyes, eyes that take me in. I don't know how she knew I'd heard what she said as a criticism-heard my mother's voice echoing in hers-but somehow she did. And then she gave me the rea.s.surance I needed, without my even having to ask for it.

Mrs. Archer tilts her head. "I noticed you were having some trouble getting started today. Is everything all right at home?"

"Everything's fine!" I say quickly, my voice too bright-like my mom's.

Mrs. Archer looks like she doesn't quite believe me, but she nods, then goes back to my drawing. "The contrast works beautifully here. I wonder what would happen, though, if you heightened the contrast even more? If you brought these two figures"-she points to Meghan and me-"clearly into the forefront, and let the others take more of a backseat."

I look at the drawing, my interest quickening. That's exactly what I should do. The people Meghan's keeping away-they're peripheral, so they should look that way. And the man-I don't want him to be there at all, but he is. At least he's in the shadows, with his face obscured. He'll stay darker than the other figures-he needs to be; it's who he is. But the two girls will stand out like they're filled with light.

"I get it!" I say. "Thank you."

Mrs. Archer laughs as she stands. "It's all you, Kendra."

I go back to my drawing, working feverishly now, wanting to get it finished before the period ends. As I add the layers, the figures advance or recede, the way I thought they would.

The bell rings, snapping me out of my concentration. I shove my sketchbook into my bag, take my materials back up to the front, then stand waiting for Mrs. Archer to finish with another student.

She turns to me.

"It worked perfectly," I say. "Thank you."

Mrs. Archer shakes her head. "I just built on your idea. You're the one who took it there." She sets her notebook down on her desk. "I don't think you know how extraordinary you are, Kendra. I have several gifted students this year, though you're by far the most talented. But the others-they'd improve by leaps and bounds if they learned how to listen to suggestions other than their own once in a while. But you-you listen to an idea, figure out how and if it fits into your vision, and then you run with it."

She pauses, looks at me seriously. "I don't know if you know what you're going to do with your life, Kendra, but I hope you'll always create art. You've got a powerful voice and a lot to say. And I think, if you keep at it, you'll go quite far."

Wow. I take a step back, blinking. It feels wonderful and frightening, all at once, to have someone believe in me that much. I wish I could hang onto her voice instead of always hearing my mom's.

Behind me, kids are whispering and talking. The period has already started. I s.h.i.+ft my weight onto one foot, then the other.

"Goodness! I shouldn't have kept you talking so long!" Mrs. Archer says. She scribbles out a late pa.s.s and hands it to me. "My apologies to your teacher."

She turns around and claps her hands. "All right, cla.s.s! Enough chatter."

The rest of the cla.s.ses flash by, teachers' voices just background noise. When the last bell rings, I head over to the community center, the folded sheet of directions in my hand. I pa.s.s rooms 410, 411, 412, and stop outside 415. And that's when I see her, sitting in the hallway. An electric charge runs through me.

"Meghan," I say.

She turns around and looks up at me, a wide smile slicing through the boredom on her face. "Hey. What're you in for?"

"In for?" I sit down next to her, our legs almost touching.

"Yeah. The court ordered me here; it's either take art therapy or do some time, just for burning a lousy locker. Can you believe that?" She lights a cigarette and takes a drag. "You here because you wanna be?"

I shrug. "I like art."

"Good, cause you're gonna get a whole lot of it stuffed down your throat."

"Whatever they do, it can't be as bad as my mom."

"She into art museums and all that c.r.a.p?" Meghan blows her smoke away from me.

I try not to cough. "She's an artist."

"Oh." Meghan jiggles her foot. "So you must be really talented and all, with your mom an artist and everything."

"My mom doesn't think so. She says my art is too raw-that no one will ever want to buy it."

"Do they have to?" Meghan says. "I mean, that's not the point, is it?"

"No, I guess not. Not unless you want to make a living from it, the way my mom does."

"Yeah? What's she paint?"

"Landscapes. Scenery. Pretty pictures of cows in meadows with b.u.t.tercups."

Meghan snorts. "Like we need more lies telling us how perfect life is. I tell ya, what we need to see is the real stuff, stuff that shows what people usually hide. Maybe if somebody painted that, then we wouldn't all feel so alone."

Her voice drifts off, like she's not sure she should've said what she did.

I want to tell her that she can trust me, but that sounds like too much, too fast. So I just sit there, biting down on my lip, using the pain to keep myself quiet.

Meghan crushes the cigarette out on the bottom of her shoe, then pockets the stub.

Say something, idiot! But everything I can think of sounds stupid.

I look away from her and check out the hallway. It's like I never left school; the chairs lined up against the wall are an uncomfortable plastic orange like the ones in the cafeteria, and the speckled floor and cream-painted brick walls are just like the ones at school, impersonal and ugly. The building must've been designed by the same architect.

I glance at Meghan. I'm so aware of her shoulder almost touching mine, of the flowery smell of her shampoo, of how pretty she is. And how nervous. She's picking at the skin around her nails, the same way I do.

I touch her arm. "I like what you said."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Whew." Meghan nudges me with her shoulder. "Thought I'd struck something there."

I shake my head. "I just-I know that feeling. Like I'm alone, even though there're people all around me."

"Yeah," she says softly.

"Did you get my note?" I ask.

"You left me a note? What'd it say?" Meghan's eyebrows go up, her eyes bright.

"Uh-not much-I was just thanking you for standing up for me the other day."

Meghan laughs. "It was worth getting busted just to see that look on Danny's face. He deserved to get taken down." She touches my hand. "And it was worth it to help you. Definitely worth it."

We sit there, grinning at each other, and I feel that closeness again, that connection. I want to show her what I hide from others-want to show her my art. I unzip my backpack and feel around-and my hand closes on something small and hard. Something unfamiliar.

I pull it out of my bag, dreading what I'll see. It's a red flash MP3 player. And it's definitely not mine.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

I look closer. There's a printed label on the drive, but I can't get my eyes to focus. I blink, then blink again.

Meghan takes the MP3 player from me, rotating it in her fingers. "Nice. You don't have to worry if you lose it. You had it long?"

"No." My voice cracks.

Meghan hands it back to me. I stuff one ear-bud into my ear, press play. "You will learn to be silent," a deep, computer-generated voice intones.

I yank the ear-bud out, throw the player against the wall. The air is so stuffy and close I feel like I can't breathe.

"Hey." Meghan gets up, grabs the player. "Don't you want this any more?"

Weight presses down on me, heavy like his body, pus.h.i.+ng out my breath. "You can have it," I choke out. I close my eyes. It's from him-I'm sure of it. I swallow down bile at the thought.

I hear the tinny, robotic voice faintly. I jerk my eyes open. Meghan's got the buds in her ears.

I tear the MP3 player out of her hands.

Meghan looks at me, her eyes all serious and worried. "Someone threatening you?"

"No. Just a joke," I say, trying to smile.

Meghan looks at me uncertainly. "Some joke."

I shrug.

She hands me the MP3 player, but I shove it back at her. "Keep it. Really."

"All right." Meghan drops it in her backpack, then hesitates, looking at me. "Seriously-is someone bothering you?"

"No!" I shake my head so hard I can almost feel my brain rocking around inside my skull. "I'm fine, okay?" I force the tears back.

"Okay," Meghan says, "I've forgotten it." Her voice is soft, almost hurt.

I want to tell her that she's not the one I don't trust; it's him. I'm scared he'll find out somehow. But the words stay lodged inside me like pebbles, cramping my stomach.

Meghan flips her hair over her shoulder, and I catch a glimpse of purple yellow brown, the colors so startling there on the back of her neck.

"Who did that to you?"

Meghan's gaze snaps to mine. "n.o.body," she says, trying to cover the bruise. "It's nothing, all right? She doesn't always know what she's doing."

"Who doesn't?" But I already know: the booze-drinking mother. "I'm sorry."

"It's no big deal." Meghan's eyes are wary. "Don't say anything, okay? Promise you won't." She grabs my hand. "I know what it's like in foster homes. It can be a h.e.l.luva lot worse than what I have now. I'm just waiting, saving up money till I can get out. So don't blow it for me, 'kay?"

I nod slowly. I'm not sure it's the right thing to do, but I think of how she let the MP3 slide, think of how I'd feel if she knew about him, and I nod again.

Meghan releases my hand, and I'm almost sorry she's let go. She rocks her chair back against the wall and sighs loudly. "G.o.d, when are they going to start this thing? It's worse than the first day of school."

Footsteps click-clack down the hall. I look up to see Mrs. Archer appear around the corner. "Hi, Kendra; hi, Meghan."

Mrs. Archer? I sit up straighter, my heart racing.

Meghan sets her chair down with a thud. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm training to be an art therapist," Mrs. Archer says, her smile faltering.

Meghan crosses her arms. "Oh, great. Now I have school after school, too."

"I didn't realize you'd both be here. If it makes either of you uncomfortable, I can talk to the instructor and get rea.s.signed."

"It's okay with me," I say. "I'm just glad it's you and not Mr. Blair."

"Yeah," Meghan says. "Sorry, Mrs. A. It was just the shock-seeing a teacher and all."

Mrs. Archer laughs. "Not too big a shock, I hope." She looks around. "Where are the others?"

"The others?"

"There should be six of you."

"I've been waiting here since three, and there haven't been any others," Meghan says.

"That's strange." Mrs. Archer purses her lips.

I get this sinking feeling in my stomach. What if we're in the wrong place or everybody's gone in already? "Maybe there's another entrance?" Meghan and I look at each other. I know neither of us wants to walk in there-not with everybody staring.

But at least we won't be alone. There are three of us now: me, Meghan, and Mrs. Archer.

10.