“Ah,” Cade says, even though he probably has no clue what I’m talking about.
“Still just as boring as ever.”
Now he understands. “Totally. No wonder you’ve never been kissed.”
“Oh shut up,” I hiss again, then I punch him in the arm for good measure.
“I’m telling Mom!”
“Go ahead. You’ll just get in trouble for making me mad.” I know it’s unfair that I use my parents’ sympathy for me against my siblings, but sometimes I just can’t help it.
He rubs his shoulder and sighs. “You’re right. You really are lame.”
When we get home, I head straight upstairs and flop on my bed. Bree wants to know what’s wrong, but I ignore her. Then I cry myself to sleep.
When I wake up, I am all alone in the room. From my bed, I glance at the door. It is closed, but I can see myself staring back at me in the full-length mirror that hangs on the back of the door. I used to love mirrors, but nowadays I could really do without them. Not that I don’t need them to do my hair and stuff, but I hate how honest mirrors are. This one, in particular, is brutally honest; when I’m changing my clothes, it shows me more than I want to see.
I see the scars, and I hate how they make me feel.
Usually I can make myself forget my flaws, but when I see myself in the mirror, it’s impossible to ignore them.
I’m sure if Tanner saw me as I see myself in that mirror, he would be repulsed. If he knew anything about the fact that I’m waiting for a new heart, he would never have offered to hang out with me this summer.
I lay in bed for a few minutes after waking up, still lamenting my lameness at the candy store. Then Bree pops in to check on me. Seeing that I’m awake, she says she’s getting in the bathtub. With the room to myself, I get up and cross to that mirror.
The stupid, awful, brutally honest, full-length, impossible-to-ignore mirror.
I lock the door, just to make sure Cade doesn’t come in unannounced. Then I lift my shirt to my chin, examining my hideous red scar for the millionth time. I trace it from my collarbone to my sternum, feeling the fleshy ripple of skin beneath my finger.
I hate this mirror! I hate all mirrors.
But mostly…I hate scars.
The funny thing about scars, though, is that not all of them can be seen. I don’t just mean because they’re beneath clothes, like mine. I mean because they’re deeper than that. They’re ingrained on the heart, or etched in the soul.
Later in the evening, while we’re at a restaurant, I am reminded that my parents probably have scars too—things about themselves that they don’t particularly like anymore. At first the dinner is going fine, but then the scars of their relationship start to itch and swell.
The first thing I notice is that Mom isn’t smiling. I guess I wasn’t paying close enough attention to their conversation, because I was too busy watching a seagull dipping and diving around the kites outside, but whatever Dad said to her, it’s not sitting well at all.
And her pouty silence isn’t sitting well with him either. My ears perk up when he says, “That’s it? You’re going to stop talking now?”
“We’re in a restaurant, Dell. I don’t want to talk about it here.”
“What’s to talk about? This has been the plan for several weeks now.”
“I just thought…now that we’re here, you might like to stay. At least a few days.”
“I’ll be here on the weekend, Emily. We both agreed that a little space will do us some good right now.”
“You agreed.”
“Fine! If you want to pin this on me, go ahead. I don’t want to argue with you anymore. If we’re not together, at least we can’t fight.” He looks around the table. “Kids, before you ask…no, this doesn’t mean we’re getting a divorce. We just…need some space. And this summer is going to allow that.”
Mom checks her watch. “Well, you better hop in the car and get going, then. No time like the present to give you the space you need.”
“The space WE need, Emily.”
That’s when Mom starts crying. They aren’t big tears, like you might get from a brand-new wound. They’re just the misty little drops you’d expect from scratching an old scar. “Just go,” she whispers. “We’re close enough to walk back. We’ll see you on the weekend.”
He throws two twenties on the table and leaves without saying good-bye.
“You OK, Mom?” I ask as soon as Dad is gone.
“Yes,” she replies softly. “Let’s go.”
Like I said, Mom and Dad have scars.
Cade and Bree probably have scars too, just from listening to Mom and Dad fight, or from dealing with me for the past year and a half.