***
He sat on his bed after school and opened the notebook—a journal he kept diligently for the past three years. It was his only confidant. The spiral notebook was one of those really thick ones—the kind used for multiple subjects. He tore out the dividers so the pages flowed seamlessly. There was no need to categorize his life stages with dividers because he had none. Every day was the same since sixth grade. Well, most of them.
This journal entry was an exception—a day remarkably different from all the rest. The vision of Regan at her locker this morning compelled him to revisit it. She looked like sixth grade Regan, and he wanted to remember her.
He took a breath. And read.
The divorce happened in fifth grade. My dad’s accident followed soon after. In sixth grade I went to school with the ugliest gash on my face. My father had punched me, split my eye wide open—that flimsy, thin skin that hugs the outside edge of the eyeball. He got me good—a blood-red crescent that started under my brow, curved around my outer eye, and stopped right on top of my cheekbone. It was a nasty wound that needed stitches. But he didn’t take me to the doctor. He did help me bandage it, though—a mess of gauze and tape that looked like the work of two five-year-olds. He told me to lie. That was the first time. I’d lie for my father throughout the next five years.
It was a baseball injury. And I thought it would impress the kids at school. Well, at first it did. But as the weeks and months passed, the wound healed into a Halloween-costume scar: thick and purple. Ghastly. Like a small alien creature suctioned onto my face and decided to stay permanently. I looked like a little monster, and when something upset me, the scar would pulse against the side of my face—my heart pounding in that silvery, purple lump—reminding me of my weakness and ugliness.
The girls cried, “Gross!”
The boys liked to use “Sick!”
I preferred “gross” over “sick.” “Sick” has this underlying caustic feel to it, like an angry, old man spitting tobacco. Made me feel even more like a freak, and I really hate my dad for it because up until the Halloween-costume scar, I was just a regular-looking kid. Nothing special. Nothing awful. No one paid attention to me, and I liked it that way. Because I’m a turtle. I’m kind of closed up inside myself. Shy. After the scar, it became harder to be a turtle. Kids didn’t ignore me anymore. I turned into the sideshow freak at school. Bullying ramped up. Everyday insults, shoves, laughter.
One day was particularly awful. The boys started pounding me on the playground. They’d never done that before. I’m no pushover, though. I fought back. Or, at least, I tried. Five against one is hard. But then, there she was. Come to save the day. She shoved her stick-frame body between me and the boys, and she yelled at them.
“You’re a jerk, Brandon! A big, fat jerk! No one’s beating you up for being big and fat!” she screamed. “And I mean FAT!!!!”
The boys sneered. Brandon fumed.
“Leave Jeremy alone!” she barked. “So what that he’s got an ugly scar down his face?”
Well, whatever. She was still defending me.
“You like him,” spat Ethan.
“You’re an idiot,” she shot back. “Go away. All of you, or I’m telling Mrs. Duncan.”
“And a narc,” Brandon added.
“I don’t care. I’ll tell the police, too,” Regan said. “Stop being jerks and go find something else to do.” She paused. “Here’s a suggestion: Beat each other up.”
“Whatever, Regan,” Brandon replied. He dismissed her with a flippant wave of his hand, then sauntered to the edge of the soccer field with his gang.
Regan turned to me. “You okay?”
“Sure,” I croaked. My voice was in the process of changing, and, unfortunately, I sounded like Scooby-Doo.
“Those guys are total morons,” she went on.
I shrugged. I wanted to agree with her, but suddenly I didn’t know how to speak. I mean, here she was. Freaking Regan Walters talking to me for the first time ever. Silly, neon green earrings. Ridiculous pow!-punch purple eye shadow. Big glossy red lips.
She was beautiful.
“I think your scar is cool, by the way,” I heard her say.
Huh? Cool? I looked like I was on permanent trick-or-treat assignment.
“Yeah?”
“Mmhmm,” she said.
And then she reached out and touched me. Yeah. She touched me. She pressed the tip of her index finger on the top of my scar and traced the jagged, offensive line all the way to my cheekbone. She did it slowly, carefully. Like she was studying me or committing the feel of my scar to memory.
“Do you ever try to press it in?”
“Huh?”
“You know. Press it in. See if it’ll stay that way.” Her finger lingered on my cheekbone, and then I felt its pressure on my face as she worked to push in my scar. She screwed up her face in concentration.
“Never tried,” I replied.
“No use, anyway,” she said, dropping her hand. Suddenly my face went cold. “It’s a thick, hard one.”
I nodded. She stared at me for a moment.
“You like my earrings?” she asked. She fingered the one hanging from her right ear, pulling gently on her lobe.
I nodded.
“I’m trying to collect enough so that I have a different pair for every day of the school year.”
I kept nodding.
She grinned. “You don’t say much, do you?”
I shrugged. God, what an idiot! Say or do something!
“Don’t let people get you down about your scar. If I were you, I’d dress it up,” she offered.
“How?” I managed.
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe when you’re older you can get it pierced or something. That would be totally cool!”
She flashed a smile, revealing metal braces. Her bands were always the colors of the current season or holiday. Since it was March, she sported alternating shades of green.
She was the coolest.