Blade Silver: Color Me Scarred Page 6

  "Your pick," I tell her, even though I think the selection at the food court pretty much sucks.

  "Okay," she says. "I vote for the food court. That way we might see someone."

  I hadn't really considered this myself, since there's no one I particularly want to see anyway. Well, other than Glen. But then I sort of doubt that he'd come to the mall. Somehow I just don't think he's the type. He'd probably think this was a dumb waste of time. I usually think this myself, but at least it's something to do, and way better than being at home. Besides, Abby loves to shop, and in order to be her friend, I kind of have to play along. Normally, I don't mind trailing her around, although I plan to do some shopping of my own today.

  As we head toward the food court, the mere possibility of running into Glen brightens me up some. I'm glad I took time to put on something besides my overalls. Just in case.

  But we don't see anyone we know at the food court. We both get a piece of pepperoni pizza and a soda, and then find a table that's in a good location for people watching. Finally, our food is gone, and we give up on seeing anyone.

  "We can always come back later," says Abby. "Get some yogurt or something."

  "Sounds good." Then I hold up my purse. "And you may be happy to know that I actually plan to shop today"

  Her brows go up. "You mean you brought real money?"

  I kind of laugh. "Yeah, I thought my wardrobe could use a little boost."

  She grabs me by the arm and I try not to wince, but I'm sure it must show. Fortunately she's not looking. "All right then. Let's get going, girlfriend," she says with great enthusiasm.

  I take in a deep breath and wish the throbbing pain in my right arm would go away. By the time we hit the first store, it's lessening some. Once again, I promise myself that I will not cut again. It's just not worth it. I've got to stop.

  "How about this?" asks Abby as she holds up a pale-blue-andwhite striped T-shirt for me. "You'd look great in it, and it would go with your beads."

  "I'm not sure-"

  "Here," she insists. "Just try it on."

  So I add it to the several pairs of shorts and jeans that I've already collected. I am trying to focus my shopping on the lower half of my body. Because I know if I pick up a long-sleeved shirt, Abby will make some predictably lame comment about how I always wear long sleeves and it's summer, for Pete's sake. I just am not up for that.

  "And how about this?" She holds up a black cami. "You'd look fantastic in it."

  So I take the camisole as well. Just to appease her. Or maybe I might wear it underneath something with sleeves, like my linen shirt, if I can get the clay stains out of the cuffs. We both wait in line and finally get into the dressing rooms. I am so glad this place does not allow customers to share rooms!

  At first I plan to try on only the jeans and shorts. But one pair of jeans is perfect. In fact they look so great that I'm curious as to how the T-shirt would look with them. So I carefully remove my longsleeved shirt and slip into the T-shirt. Abby was right. It does look good on me. And it fits perfectly. Even so, I could never wear it. Not with these arms. I do my little squint trick where I try to imagine my scars all healed. But it's tough because of the white gauze bandage on my most recent-

  "How are you do-"

  Abby is hanging like a monkey as she peers over the wall between her dressing room and mine. I feel like someone just slugged one in the stomach. Her expression changes, and she looks just as horrified as I feel.

  "Ruth!" Her eyes go wide. "What happened?"

  And within seconds she is off the wall and opening the door to my dressing room and staring at my arms.

  I feel sick. Literally sick. Like I could lose my lunch right here and now, like I might just puke all over the bright pink carpeting that I'm staring down at to avoid her eyes. I sink onto the padded bench behind me and I just let my ugly, scarred arms hang limply between my legs. What can I say? What can I do? Have I ever felt more humiliated?

  nine

  "RUTH," ABBY SAYS IN A QUIET VOICE. "DID YOU DO THIS TO YOURSELF?"

  Without looking up, I just nod. I don't think I can speak even if I wanted to. I wish I could just disappear, vanish, cease to exist. Life hurts too much.

  Abby puts a gentle hand on my shoulder now. And this gesture alone makes me want to break down and sob. But I won't cry. It's bad enough that she's seen my scars. I can't bear to show her any more of my weaknesses.

  "Get dressed," Abby tells me as she picks up my long-sleeved shirt from the floor and hands it to me. "We need to talk."

  Then she leaves and I take off the pretty blue T-shirt, hang it back up and, careful of my sore arms, I slip back into the longsleeved shirt. I take my time putting my khaki pants back on. I hang up the jeans and the shorts and try to think of any other reason to delay what I know is inevitable.

  "Are you coming?" Abby calls out.

  I emerge with the hangers of clothing. But I'm careful to avoid making eye contact with my best friend. I just want out of here. The sooner the better.

  We give the attendant our numbers, put our hangers on the rack by the door, and then walk out, through the store and back into the mall. I consider telling Abby that I have to go now, that I'll catch a bus and see her later-like maybe next year or at our ten-year highschool reunion. But I have a feeling she won't buy that. And so we just walk together in silence.

  "Let's get something to drink," she says as we get closer to the food court.

  Feeling like a robot or a zombie, I follow her, mimic her order, pay for my drink, then pick it up and follow her to a table in a semiquiet corner. Then I sit and just stupidly stare at my soda cup. I wish 1 could think of something witty to say, something that would make this whole thing just blow over and go away. But nothing comes to mind except that I am so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Just like my dad's always telling me.

  "I've read about cutting," she finally begins, speaking slowly, as if she's trying to come up with the right words to lay this ugly thing on the table. "But I never really got it, Ruth. I mean, why would anyone want to intentionally hurt herself?"

  I say nothing.

  "Like, okay, I've accidentally cut myself when I'm shaving my legs, and, man, it hurts so had. And that's just a little nick. Why would you want to have that kind of pain on purpose, Ruth? I just don't get it."

  I look up at her now And she does look confused. She also looks perplexed and frustrated and uncomfortable, and something else-maybe angry. Like, not only does she not get me but maybe she'd like to knock some sense into me too.

  "It's hard to explain," I finally say, like that should solve everything.

  "Well, try" I can tell by her face that she's not about to let this thing go.

  So I take a deep breath, hold it for a few seconds, then slowly exhale. "Okay. It's kind of like you're already hurting, you know?" I look up at her to see if she's following this and she nods like she does know. "Like you're hurting so much on the inside ... but it just won't go away ... and you don't know what to do with it ... you know?"

  She nods again. "Yeah, I've felt like that sometimes. Like last winter when Derrick broke up with me and I thought I was going to die from the pain."

  "Yeah, kinda like that."

  "But I don't see how cutting myself would've helped anything."

  I nod. "I know. I guess it doesn't really make sense, does it?"

  "No. It doesn't. And you have to stop doing it, Ruth. You have to stop doing it right now."

  I wish it were that simple. Like I can stop just like that. "I know," I say to pacify her. More than anything else right now, I don't want her to be mad at me.

  "So you will?" She looks slightly hopeful now.

  "I want to stop doing it," I confess. "I really do."

  She seems to relax a little. "Good. So, you will stop it then?"

  I touch my right arm, going to my most recent cut. My fingers trace the shape of the bandage through the fabric of my shirt, and as usual this brings the confusing sensation
of comfort and guilt with it. "Yeah," I tell her. "I'll stop doing it."

  "Because it's really freaky, Ruth. It scares me."

  "Yeah, I know."

  "I mean, I couldn't believe it when I saw your arms. I couldn't believe that anyone could actually do that to themselves. I actually thought at first that maybe your dad did it to you. Like maybe you were a victim of some weird kind of abuse or something."

  I don't know what to say now. I'm still embarrassed and uneasy, and Abby continues to talk about cutting. Like it's some kind of therapy for her to go on and on about it, like she needs to get what she saw in the dressing room out of her system. Like someone who's just witnessed a train wreck and can't stop talking about it, like, "Did you see all the blood? Did you hear the screams of the injured people?"

  So I just sit there and take it. I nod and I say "I know, I know" about a hundred times. And finally I can't stand it anymore.

  "Can we talk about something else now?" I ask. I want to say, "Don't you think that I've been punished enough for this?" But I don't. I know this is all my fault.

  She looks a little surprised. "Well, yeah. Sure. Fine."

  Then there's this long uncomfortable silence and I know we're not through with this yet. "This isn't easy for me," I finally say. "And it's not like I wanted you or anyone else to know. I mean it's pretty humiliating."

  Her expression softens a little. "Yeah, I can imagine."

  "And I don't want you to tell anyone, Abby. You won't, will you? I mean not even your mom, okay?" I know how close Abby is to her mom. She tells her almost everything. Well, at least everything about her friends. I doubt she tells her everything about herself.

  She seems to consider this.

  "Abby? You cannot tell anyone. I mean it. You're my best friend and I have to be able to trust you with this. Okay?"

  "Well," she begins slowly. "How about if I make a deal with you? If you really quit doing it, I promise I won't tell anyone. Okay?"

  My first response is to get mad. What right does she have to put this kind of pressure on me? This is my problem, not hers. But then I think maybe this is just what I need. Maybe Abby's pressure will help me to actually quit. "Okay," I finally tell her. "I really do want to stop doing this. And if you promise not to tell, I promise not to cut again. Deal?"

  "Deal." Now she looks seriously relieved. "That's all I want you to do, Ruth. I mean, you're my best friend and I really do care about you. But I can't handle this cutting business. I mean, really, it totally freaks me out. To imagine you doing that-that-" she kind of gasps. "I mean, it's so horrible. Please, don't ever do it again. I can't take it. Okay?"

  "Okay," I say. "And I know it's horrible. Now can we please talk about something else?"

  "Yeah. Sure."

  "Better yet," I say. "Why don't we go back to the Gap so I can get those jeans and those shorts if they're still there? I really liked them."

  "Okay. And how about that T-shirt, Ruth?" She looks really hopeful now. "I mean I know it looked pretty bad today, but it could be something you'd wear later on, like this summer, after your cuts heal up and everything. They will heal up, won't they?"

  "Sure," I tell her as if I know all about it. "And if I get a tan on my arms, you might not even notice them at all." Of course, I have no idea whether this is true. Some of my scars are six months old and I can still see them. But right now I'll say anything to get Abby to move off this subject. I'm even willing to buy that blue T-shirt if it will only shut her up.

  I guess shopping really is good therapy, because by the time we finish, Abby is acting like her old self again. And she's so excited about some of her purchases that she seems to have almost forgotten about my "little problem."

  Just as we're leaving the mall, her cell phone rings and she answers it. "Glen?" she says with a surprised expression. I feel a sudden jab of jealousy. Like why is Glen calling Abby?

  "No, that's okay," she tells him in a very sweet voice. "As a matter of fact, Ruth just happens to be with me right now. Do you want to talk to her?" Then she hands the phone over to me.

  "Hello?" I'm confused.

  "Hey, Ruth. Sorry to call you like this, I mean, on Abby's phone. But I tried your house and no one answered. And Finney gave me Abby's number and-"

  "That's okay. What's up?"

  1, uh, I wanted to know if you were busy tonight."

  "Tonight?" I echo.

  "Yeah. I wondered if you'd like to go to a movie or something."

  "A movie?" Okay, I realize I sound pretty much like an idiot now, repeating everything he says. But the truth is, I am caught so off guard. I mean, as embarrassing as it sounds, I haven't really dated. And I know my dad isn't too crazy about the idea of my going out with boys. So it's not like I've pushed it or anything.

  But Abby is nodding and smiling at me, wildly mouthing the word yes, yes, over and over.

  So I finally say, "Sure, Glen, that sounds cool. What time?"

  He tells me he'll pick me up around seven, and I hang up and hand the phone back to Abby. I'm kind of dazed.

  "Why were you stringing him along like that, Ruth?" She shoves the phone back into her bag. "I mean, why didn't you just say yes when he asked?"

  "I don't know ..."

  Then she smiles in that coy way of hers. "Oh, I get it now. Playing hard to get, huh?"

  I shrug. "Actually, I'm not sure what my dad will say about it."

  "Oh."

  "I mean, it's not like it's really come up before, you know."

  "But you're sixteen, Ruth. You're old enough to go out."

  "Maybe according to you."

  "You really think your dad will say no?"

  I sigh. "I'm not sure what he'll do. But he's not exactly in a wonderful mood since Caleb left home. The timing's not the greatest, you know?"

  She seems to ponder this as she digs in her bag for her car keys. "Hey, maybe it would help if I came in with you. Kind of soften him up, you know? You could bring it up while I'm there. He's usually pretty nice to me."

  I actually consider this idea. And, while she's partially right-I mean, my dad might act nice when she's around-I can imagine him going totally nuts after she leaves. He'd accuse me of using her to get to him, and it would just get uglier and uglier.

  "That's okay," I tell her as we get in her car. "I better do this on my own."

  If shopping didn't do it, this new topic of me going out with Glen has really distracted her from the cutting. And to my relief, she doesn't bring it up again. In fact, I have a feeling that she'd just as soon forget about it. I know I would. So we discuss what I'll wear, how I'll do my hair, and important stuff like that.

  But the whole time I'm wondering if my dad will throw a fit and put his foot down. And if he does, what will I tell Glen?

  "I don't even have his phone number," I say suddenly.

  "Whose?"

  "Glen's. What if my dad says no? I'll have to call Glen and cancel."

  "It'll be on my caller ID. Get my phone out and write it down."

  And so I mess around with her phone until I finally figure out how to get the number, then I write it down on my palm. I hope I won't need it. But it does feel good to see those seven digits clearly printed on my hand. Glen's phone number.

  My dad's truck isn't in the driveway when Abby pulls in. It's always a relief to get into the house before he does. Especially today when I've got this bag from the Gap that I seriously don't want him to see. I have no doubt he would insist on plowing through it if he were home. I already hid the receipt in the bottom of my purse so he won't know how much I spent. But it wouldn't surprise me if he removed each item, one at a time, examining the price tags and doing his own mental math. Then I'd not only get a serious lecture on wasting money, but he'd probably drive me back to the mall and force me to return everything. How humiliating would that be?

  I thank Abby for the ride and promise to e-mail her after I get home from my date with Glen, that is, assuming I get to go. "Either way, I'll let you know
," I say.

  "Good luck!"

  I hurry into the house, taking my bag straight to my bedroom. I quickly remove the tags, put away the clothes, then stash the bag way back in my closet to deal with later. It's almost five and I figure I might have time to do a few things to help butter up my dad. I start by making chocolate-chip cookies, his favorite, even chopping and adding walnuts just the way he likes them. I check to see if he ate his tuna sandwich. It's gone. A good sign.

  Then I go around and straighten up our already spotless house. Everything looks pretty good. I don't see anything that should set him off. As bad as I feel about having Caleb gone, at least I don't need to worry that lie's left his muddy soccer shoes by the back door or something. Even so, I check, just to be sure. Then I go outside and actually sweep off the walk and pull a couple of stray weeds from the bare flower bed. I absently wonder who will plant flowers this year. Mom always did that in the past, and I sure can't imagine her doing it now. Maybe we'll just go without flowers this year. It seems fitting.

  I go back inside and start getting ready for my date. The house smells good from the plate of still-warm cookies that I've placed very visibly in the center of the kitchen counter. But now I'm starting to worry What if Dad doesn't come home in time for me to get permission to go out tonight? What do I do then?

  I slip on the new jeans and stand before the full-length mirror to admire how perfectly they fit from all sides. I'm tempted to wear the new blue T-shirt too, with a jacket over it, of course. But what if I get too hot? I'll be stuck wearing a jacket all night long. Besides that, I think this blue T-shirt should be incentive to reach my nomore-cutting goal. I will wear it when my scars have faded and after I've managed to get tan enough to cover them up. Maybe I'll even try some self-tanning cream, if I can keep it from looking streaky and fake.

  Finally I decide on a long-sleeved black T-shirt that looks pretty good with my new jeans. I put on silver hoop earrings and minimal makeup, since I don't think I look good with too much anyway. Also, it really bugs my dad. And I don't need him calling me any bad names or sending me off to wash my face-tonight of all nights.