Out of Blue Comes Green, page 7
Then I’m following her again, this time into a large room filled with panting and barking and everything wonderful. A brown-and-white dog lumbers toward me, rubbing his head against my leg. His fur is soft, his wet nose chilling my hand. A moment later, a guy about my age strolls over. “Sorry about that. Bandit loves people.” He ambles over, seeming completely carefree. Dressed in a V-neck T-shirt and jeans, he reminds me of a clean-shaven Shaggy from Scooby Doo.
Bandit licks my hand. A Golden Retriever and a Boxer come over to inspect me too. A giddy spark zips through me until I’m laughing, hovering over all of them in an attempt to pet all three at once.
The receptionist pinches my shoulder to straighten me up and present me to the guy. “This is the new hire your dad interviewed last month. Nathan.”
The guy raises an eyebrow, suddenly adopting a care of some sort. For too long he scrutinizes my face, then my clothes. He’s on to me.
He glances to the woman. “Jeanie, I thought that—” He stops himself, then extends a hand to me. “Hey, Nathan. I’m Troy.” His grip is firm, but not like those guys who drill their thumb into your flesh to see if you’ll say anything about it.
Jeanie heads back to the reception area, throwing words over her shoulder as she goes. “You better hustle. Nathan was half an hour late.”
When the door closes, I’m alone with Troy and the dogs. He holds a leash in his hand that he turns over and over as he watches me. As if providing me with a choice, he says, “What would you like me to call you?”
Tell him. Right now. Before this goes too far.
But I shrug and say, “Nathan’s fine,” trying to lower my voice as much as I can.
Troy whacks my shoulder. “Let’s get to work.” His long legs take him away faster than I can follow. I scamper after him, Bandit and the other dogs at my side.
We spend some time cleaning out the dog runs in the other room, though only a few of them are occupied right now. Change the water bowls. Fill the food bowls.
On our way back to the big room with the dogs, Troy gets me a copy of Nathan Ashur’s schedule for the week.
Apparently, Nathan agreed to work one day on the weekend and two nights a week. Not sure how my parents will feel about that. “You’ll be a great help around here, Nathan.” He says Nathan like it’s a foreign word he’s trying out.
He knows I’m not Nathan. But does he think I should be Natalie?
He’s too polite to say.
I wonder when his dad will come by and out me as an imposter.
Leading me back into the large dog room, Troy shows me where the water bowls can be filled, where the dog beds are, and warns me not to feed any of the dogs. “Some have special diets.” This room is the big dogs’ social room, the playroom. They try to keep as many of the dogs here as possible. Keep them acclimated to other living creatures. “We figure out pretty fast who needs their own space.”
Along one of the walls is a short series of doghouses, room for a single dog in each. “Some of the antisocial ones are fine if they have a habitat to themselves.” He gestures to the end doghouse where I can see two furry gray feet beneath a lounging gray and white head. Eyes closed, looking peaceful.
“Is that Dakota?” My surprised voice is annoyingly high and girly, so I clear my throat.
Troy meets my gaze. “You know Dakota?”
“I saw her on the website.” Wait. Crap. “I mean, I wanted to see the dogs I’d be working with.”
He sighs. “She’s been hard to get to know. We don’t even have her real name. She came in without a collar, but it really seems like she belongs to someone.”
When I start for the doghouse, Troy stops me. “Slow.” After I take only two steps, Dakota’s eyes open, shockingly blue. Another two steps get me a quivering left lip that becomes a quiet snarl in another step. I’m only about three more steps away, but she clearly is satisfied that I have progressed far enough, and I have no desire to see more of her teeth.
Troy is at my side. He crosses his arms. “She came in a few weeks ago. Someone found her outside, wandering around when it was below zero. Remember that blizzard we had on the weekend? Dakota was out in it.”
The night of the talent show. That was a really messed up storm. The wind was fierce, and the flakes kept piling up. Would’ve been a nice night to spend snuggling with a dog.
“The guy who brought her in said she was curled up in a ball to keep warm, but her paws were frozen to the snow.” He exhales. “For a while we thought we’d have to amputate most of her back toes.”
Oh, no. I squint to see her feet better.
“Ended up having to take two. Poor thing.”
I step forward, longing to pet her and tell her everything will be all right. She slinks back, exposing teeth in a snarl.
Troy’s hand comes down on my shoulder. “It’s nothing personal. She hasn’t let anyone touch her. Not willingly.”
Her stark eyes gaze out at me, so I don’t let my stare falter. I understand you. I don’t like people either. She winks an eye at me. Probably a twitch. But it could be a sign.
I’ll be the one to coax her out. I’ll be the one to help her.
When Troy isn’t paying attention, I do a search on my phone for Nathan Ashur. Google wants to correct my spelling, but I resist. After Twitter and Instagram links, I find one for Caring Bridge. I skirt around the sign-in page, but I’m not able to access the information. Luckily, there’s a short article about him that I can access.
His parents are asking for support—spiritually and financially—for Nathan’s hospital bills. Doesn’t say what he’s got, but the picture of him with an IV and monitors hooked up everywhere makes me think he’s there for a while.
Which means he won’t be coming around here any time soon.
Chapter 11
I HAVE TO GO BACK TO school. I can’t skip every day until the end of the year.
All eyes must be on me the next morning as I trudge across the parking lot, into the school, and down the long hall to the locker room. I’ve seen a few more postings from my marvelous moves at the mall the other night. So far, it’s had similar views. But someone must have something worse. Why aren’t they posting it?
Anyway, there’s nothing worse Christine could see since she had a front row seat to my humiliation. But Madi is another thing.
Inside the locker room, a few sophomore girls are arranging their clothes to change. I avert my eyes, but not before they all glare at me. One whispers, “Just wait until she’s gone. Don’t change now.”
Fine with me.
I disrobe in an adjacent bathroom stall, straighten my binder—taking a moment to press down some of the welt-like bumps that sting when I pull the fabric away—and pull on my gym clothes. I need to get a binder that fits. On my way past the sophomore girls again, one of them is holding up her phone to show another. They both peer over it to me. “No way,” one says.
“My sister says that’s her. She was there Monday night.”
The first one grabs the phone and thrusts it in my face. “Is this you?”
As a reflex, I shove her arm away.
“God, you don’t have to be such a freak about it.”
Her friend calls after me, “Are you a girl, or aren’t you?”
I spin around, ready to scream at her that I’m not, but I catch myself. How is that going to go over? I don’t want to be in here with them and they don’t want me here, but to say I’m not a girl makes me a boy in the girls’ locker room. Which I am, but I’m not.
I charge out the door. I should’ve looked at the stupid picture. What if it’s a new one? What if it’s one where my face is completely clear, where my eyes bug out, where I’m falling in front of the girl I love?
As hateful images swirl in my head, I find myself already inside the weight room. Most of the class is here, and each of them stops what they’re doing as I come in. The whole world is on hold for a count of two, three, four, five, then everyone returns to their tasks.
Thank God. Maybe that’s the worst of it. Coach isn’t here, yet. I wonder if he knows.
I stroll to the loser free-weights across the room, grab the twenties, and lie back for presses, my knees coming up instinctively as usual. Over the clinking of metal, I hear gruff, obnoxious voices. They’re all a jumble until an abrupt stop, snickering, and some encouraging, “Go, go, go.”
This can’t be good.
I keep lifting the twenties, though I’m sure whatever is about to happen is about to happen to me. Breathe. Focus on the weights.
Before I complete five reps, I hear them return. They whisper inaudible things to each other, interspersed with laughter. They grow louder and louder, until I realize my time to be prepared is lost. I sit up with the weights and see Hunter, Dirk, and JT, all of them with clown-like makeup, exaggerated blush in too-round circles, messy lipstick that spreads into their chins and cheeks, and worse, each of them wears a makeshift dress—robes or towels, far too short. Their legs are like those of apes, furry and well-muscled and absurd.
They line up before me. JT reaches between his legs, under his dress, exaggerating scratching his balls. “I can see why you like this. So much easier.” He puts his head back as if he’s found a particularly satisfying place. “Oh, yeah.”
Repulsive.
My fingers tighten on the dumbbells. I could shove one of these right where he’s scratching. That would shut him up.
Dirk flips the skirt of his dress back and forth. “Don’t you want to play dress up with us?”
I stand, raising the dumbbells in front of me like I’m willing to box with them. “I’ll leave that to you guys. It’s more your style than mine.”
JT’s smirk disappears. “But it looks so good on you, princess.”
Behind them, not ten feet away, Tiyana works a rowing machine. Her gaze is firmly on the three dirtbags. Do I want her to step in? Would she?
Dirk runs his fingers over his cheeks, smearing red lines through his Amish-style beard. “We could do our makeup together.”
Hunter snickers.
JT’s eyes drift to my chest. “Why’re you hiding your tits? Huh? They looked so nice the other night.”
My forearms shake with the burden of the twenties. I will myself to hit him with one, but I hold back. “Shut up.”
Hunter grabs Dirk’s towel-dress. “Dude, let’s go change before Coach sees us.”
Dirk and Hunter skip off to the boys’ locker room. JT doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.
I do a quick scan of the room. Still no Coach. No adults at all. But everyone is paying attention. Tiyana has stopped rowing, but she’s silent. Most of the class looks away while I look around, some before I even reach them.
“Leave him alone.” Danny is behind me, facing off with JT.
I don’t need—wait, did he call me “him”?
JT’s eyebrows rise. Specks of whatever he’s painted on them fleck off onto his cheeks. He tries to speak out of his lip-sticked mouth, but only chuckles.
I take a few steps back, so Danny and I are shoulder to shoulder.
Danny clenches his fists. “Why do you always have to be such an asshole?”
JT shakes his head. “Kayla needs to—”
Coach blows his whistle as he comes in the room, blabbing about setting goals and other nonsense I can’t focus on.
JT crouches down to put his face in Danny’s face. “Mind your own fucking business.”
Danny’s cheek ripples as he clenches his teeth.
So Coach won’t see his outfit, JT ducks behind some of the equipment and manages to sneak out of the room.
When JT is gone, I let go of the weights, my arms like deflating balloons. Danny and I stand side by side, just breathing.
Then he says, “Spot me?”
I follow him to the bench where he loads a barbell with twenty-five pounds on each side. Twenty-five plus twenty-five plus the barbell at forty-five. “I think you can do more than ninety-five,” I say.
Danny meets my eyes. “I don’t.”
“All right. Just do a set with this. You’ll see how easy it is for you.” If Danny wants to be a tough guy, he’d better bulk up.
Danny squirms under the bar and circles his hands around it. How long has he had his nails painted black? Why didn’t I notice that before?
He fights bringing the barbell down, wobbles bringing it back up, but he seems to have it. I place my hands near the bar as it moves, just to give him peace of mind. After eight reps, he lays the bar back on the rack and sits up, rubbing his pecs. With his black-nail-polished hands.
“See what I mean?”
He shakes his head. “No. I think that was plenty.”
I’m about to insist we add about forty more pounds, but then I look at his face. “That’s cool.”
He gets up, still rubbing his chest. “Your turn.”
I nearly laugh and say we need to add more weight, but then I stop. I’ll just do ninety-five like he did. I don’t need to make him feel bad. I wiggle under the barbell, bringing up my knees.
“All right,” he says, “I can add the rest of the weight if you want.”
“No, I—” I don’t correct him. I want more weight.
He moves plates on and off until he’s secured a total of a hundred and thirty-five pounds for me. While I’m doing my set, he encourages me. Then he says, “You know it’s okay with me that you can lift more.”
Luckily, I’m pushing the barbell up and can’t talk.
“You’re a different kind of guy than I am.”
I clunk the weights back on the rack and scramble out from under them. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He doesn’t see the fury in my eyes. “I don’t know. You’re more athletic. It’s not really my thing.” He smiles. “I’m just in here because of my dad.”
“Your dad?”
He pokes at the weights on the bar, trying to get them to spin. “He was hoping for a wrestler, and he got me.”
Should I feel bad for him? At least he was born a boy. But that’s not what I want to say, and I do feel bad about being more athletic than him. “Well, if it helps at all, I know a thing or two about not living up to parents’ expectations.”
He laughs. “But you’re so … talented. You’re good at basketball and you write music, and you sing.”
A hundred things come into my head all at once. Answers for why my parents would be disappointed in me. But I can’t say them. I can’t put them out in the world. So Danny’s words just sit in the air between us.
Once I’m back in my regular clothes and on my way to Art, I pull the front of my flannel closed. I’ve always left these shirts unbuttoned over my tees so they could billow out, create uncertainty about my chest. But if JT knows, does everyone know? I don’t want them to think I’m binding my chest, but I don’t want to think I’m not binding my chest. They shouldn’t be thinking about my chest at all.
Readjusting my shirt all the way to Art, I try to find the perfect way for it to lie. Throughout the hall and at the lockers, there is judgment in the faces of everyone I pass. Based on the multitude of ways I’m lacking, I can’t imagine what I’m being judged on.
A few steps from the art room, I stop and wait for my bravado to kick in. Perhaps it’s back in the weight room with my self-respect. Wherever it is, I need it to be able to face Christine. A hand presses down on my shoulder and I shudder.
“Hey.” It’s Libby. “Feeling better today?”
I try to grin.
“You don’t look so good.” She tugs both sides of my shirt collar, delving into my eyes. Does she want me to cry right here in front of the whole school? As if she hears my thoughts, she wraps an arm around my shoulders and steers me toward the art room. “Let’s do this class thing. Whatever’s bothering you won’t look so bad once you’ve got a pencil in your hand.”
Maybe she’s right. Since this semester started, Libby’s been working on something top secret. No idea what it is, but I know she likes to use art to process her feelings. I’m not like her, though; I can’t lose myself in my drawing when I can’t suppress all the feelings I had that night. My fancy, beautiful self. And there she is, at her desk and so lovely. I don’t want her to know I’m here. She’s covering the paper in a light coating of charcoal, and I imagine her chalky fingers covering my face with smudges of gray—
Dirk’s ugly face invades my daydream, Dirk with his lashing tongue and smeared red blush in his Amish beard.
“What is it?” Libby scowls.
“Bad thought. It’s nothing.” I let Libby go into the room first, screening myself behind her though we’re the same height.
When she stops abruptly, I nearly slam into her, which makes her laugh. “Here.” She hands me a piece of paper folded into a tiny rectangle. “Our playlist for the prom,” she says to my questioning look.
She misses my disgust as she goes to take her seat.
Christine hasn’t noticed I’m here yet, which is just fine with me. Maybe I could just sit in someone else’s spot.
I check around for an open stool, but there aren’t any. If I’d just sat next to Libby before …
“Kinkade.” My name from across the room. It’s Ms. Horvath at her desk.
I report to her summons. “It should’ve come up excused. My absence yesterday.”
The loose skin under her chin waggles as she turns her head sharply to me. “That’s not what this is about.” She lays down my art portfolio that I usually leave in the classroom. From inside she pulls a few of my sketches from last semester. Sasha lying in the sunlight. Sasha running in the grass. “I recorded everyone’s goal for the semester yesterday. So I’d like to discuss yours.”
This is so false. My goal in this class is to draw, to let my mind focus on something that isn’t dark, hopeless, and infinite.
“What will your portfolio be based on?”
I trace Sasha’s face with my eye. I make her mouth turn up ever so slightly so she looks like she’s grinning in all my drawings.
