*
School is many different things to different people. It makes Juniper nervous, I know that. School is something she worries about constantly from the minute she goes to bed at night to the moment she returns home. She feels uncomfortable, restricted, maybe out of her depth. She can’t wait for it all to be over so she can get on with what she considers the more important parts of her life. She worries about homework, about getting answers wrong in class, about her exams, and about what to wear. Her worrying isn’t because she’s lazy and doesn’t try or that she’s not clever. She’s smart. She is constantly working. She constantly talks about studying, trying on outfits, laying out clothes, starting again. She has one close friend, and they are glued to each other as they walk around the halls, heads together, sticking to themselves. They don’t want anybody else, they don’t need anybody else. They just want to get through it and be done with it.
For me, school is solid. I like going. I feel comfortable there. I look forward to each day. I don’t have any fears about it. I work hard but not so hard that I get bogged down or overly stressed. My teachers like me, and I like them. I don’t give them any trouble. I have a great group of friends. Six of us, three girls and three guys including me and Art, and one of which is Marlena, who spoke for me at the Guild. We have fun. We are neither nerdy nor jocks. We might be remembered, we might not. We just are.
But for the first time in my life, I am experiencing what Juniper must feel every morning. I debate long and hard over what to wear. Everything in my wardrobe represents carefree to me, bought and worn by someone who blended in and had nothing to hide. I am not that person anymore.
I stare at the three outfits Mom has helped me to assemble. None of them feels like a place for me to hide in.
According to the rules, outside my home, my temple and hand must not be concealed. I must not hide my Flaws. Nothing can obviously be done about the sole of my foot. But when I am home, I have a list of clothing preferences now. My braids must stay down to hide my branded right temple. My sleeves must be long enough for me to hide the brand on my right hand. The neckline must be high to hide my seared chest. The sole of my foot and my spine will be okay unless I’m on the beach or in swim class, and I cannot wear flip-flops. I have a checklist of places on my body that I want to hide. I hate my body.
I look across the hall at Juniper’s room.
I knock on her door.
“Hi,” she answers, surprised. She looks tired, and I wonder where she’s been going at night. There has been a funny mood between us lately, and I don’t feel close enough to ask her this. Mostly because I think she’d lie.
“I need something to wear,” I say, conscious that when I talk, my tongue feels oversized in my mouth and I sound like my friend Lisa after she got her tongue pierced. Though my speech is a lot clearer than it was days ago, when I felt like it would barely move.
“You want my clothes?” she asks, confused.
“None of my stuff is right.”
“Oh. Right. Sure. Um. Come in.” She opens her door wider, and I see the bomb site, her clothes are scattered everywhere. “I couldn’t decide, either.”
I feel like snapping at her that, clearly, this is for very different reasons, but I don’t. I swallow it. I swallow it all. My eyes survey the mess. I know what I’m looking for and see it immediately.
“Thanks,” I say, backing out.
“Are you sure?” She eyes the items in my hands. “I’ve other stuff you might like.”
“No, this is fine, thanks.”
I go back to my room and try it on. When it’s on, I look in the mirror and start to cry. Black long-sleeved cotton top, high neck. Black skinny jeans. Black boots. I look like Juniper.
But the outfit isn’t complete.
I slide the red F armband up my arm, removing the sticky tape from one side to secure it tightly to the fabric. It’s supposed to be tight.
Like a second skin.
THIRTY-ONE