Some say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and you like to let people in . . . but only a little. You allow others to learn a bit of your deepest self before they get to truly know the everyday you. Maybe it’s a way to repel people from the start, to not get hurt down the track. Or maybe you are too afraid to open up to people on your own, so you give them the opportunity to look and see for themselves.
THE ANIMAL MASK
There is something within you that you are desperate to hide. Unfortunately, it isn’t so deep down that others can’t see it, so you wear the face of an animal just in case. If you slip up or reveal too much, you can blame it all on the beast. You are just in character, you say, merely playing a part . . . that’s all.
THE LACE/HALF-FACE MASK
You like to intrigue people and keep them on their toes. You maintain an air of mystery that only serves to entice people. They feel like they know you from the half-clear view they can see, but they don’t quite realize that you’re masking so much more beneath the thin veil covering your face.
THE ANONYMOUS MASK
You are a natural leader and like to control how others perceive you. More than that, you know how to influence how people see you, and this mask does the job just right. Perhaps it is the face of another, or perhaps it is a representation of one of your own many faces. Either way, you aren’t hiding behind the mask, merely using it to force people’s gaze.
THE PAINTED FACE
You are comfortable with who you are, and by manipulating the paint, you can highlight and accentuate the traits you want the world to see, front and center. No matter how vibrant or abstract that layer of color, it is entirely and completely you.
JULIAN BREAKS EVERY RULE
BY ANDREW SMITH
THIS IS NOT SPERM DAY
Steven Kemple would not die.
Maybe Steven Kemple wouldn’t die because I knew his real name. So every time I think of him, it’s always Steven Kemple, Steven Kemple, Steven Kemple. All my other victims—Crazy Hat Lady, Camaro Douchebag, Unfriendly Bicycle Meth Head—I just kind of naturally made up their names. This was Iowa, after all, and anonymity here was as rare as an ocean breeze. I preferred not to know anything at all about the strangers who lived on the streets around my house, especially the ones I’d killed.
Everyone else knew everything about everyone. That’s how small towns like Ealing are: we all go to the same church and the same school, shop at the same market, fire up the barbecues on the same days, shovel the same snow, step in the same dog shit.
And I hated Steven Kemple.
You probably already hate Steven Kemple, too, at least a little bit. You kind of hate the way his name sounds. And I haven’t even told you anything about Steven Kemple yet—about the oatmeal thing, or how he’d handcuffed me in my underwear to a drinking fountain when we were in middle school, or the party I had.
Who knows? Maybe Steven Kemple will die at the end of this story—which may or may not be foreshadowing.
Don’t skip ahead.
But the fucker would not die.
Last week—this was in biology class at Hoover High—my best friend, Denic, told me this: “You know what I hate most of all about you, Julian? You can break any rule and nobody gives a shit. You could fucking murder someone right here at school, and all the teachers would be like, ‘So what if Julian killed someone? We all love Julian.’ ”
In many ways, Denic was right. Also, it’s okay for guys to hate certain things about their best friends, like if you had a friend who was really, really good-looking and confident around girls, or if your friend, like me, could get away with anything.
I had always been like that—the getting-away-with-things part, not the confident and good-looking thing. I can’t explain it. I’d hate it, too, if I weren’t me. But you’re not allowed to. Your job is to hate Steven Kemple.
I’ll bet that just now, when I said “Steven Kemple,” it was like someone poked a rusty knitting needle slowly through your eyeball and into the center of your brain. And you’re probably, like, Man! I sure hope Julian kills Steven Kemple soon.
Because I’m like that. Denic didn’t know how right he was when he said I could get away with murder.
Oh, one more thing about saying names: “Denic” is pronounced “Dennis.” Don’t ask me why, even though now you’ll probably need to go back and reread the last page so you can erase the “De-Nick” or whatever your stabbed brain has been narrating to you. You’d have to ask Denic’s parents why his name is spelled that way. After all, they named him.
So, that day in Mr. Kang’s biology class when Denic griped about my talent for getting away with anything—and let’s face it, it really is a kind of superpower—we were doing a lab involving looking at epithelial cells, which was extremely gross and awkward because our lab group included Kathryn Huxley and Amanda Flores, who were easily the most all-around-together tenth-grade girls at Hoover. I’d never had the guts to talk to either of them, being the skinny loser that I was, and now here we were, thrust together in a compulsory assignment where we would have to discuss tissue samples harvested from our own bodies.
Like I said, it was gross and awkward.
Talking about my own personal epithelial tissue in front of Kathryn Huxley and Amanda Flores was every bit as humiliating as being handcuffed to a public drinking fountain in my underwear in the middle of Bloomer Park, which is something I know about but, naturally, did not get in trouble for.
Nothing, on the other hand, could deflate Steven Kemple’s self-image.
Steven Kemple, whom I hated immensely and who also would not die, was our fifth lab partner.
Kathryn Huxley was horrified. “He can’t actually expect me to do that!”
The “he” was Mr. Kang, and the “that” was scraping the insides of our cheeks (the ones on our faces) with a toothpick to goop out some of our epithelial tissue, which we would then smear like butter onto a glass slide and examine under the microscope.
“I’ll do it,” Steven Kemple said. Then he hooked an index finger inside his cheek and began mowing his flesh with the toothpick as he drooled and spluttered something barely intelligible that included the words “volunteer” and “sperm day.”
I was disgusted by two things: first, that Steven Kemple would openly talk about his own sperm in front of Kathryn Huxley and Amanda Flores—while he had his hands in his mouth, no less—and second, the size of the tissue sample Steven Kemple extracted from his face. It looked like a pale, miniature leg of lamb.
Amanda Flores’s mouth curled down so tightly it was almost like she could turn her face inside out.