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“What’s selfish is to demand another to endure an intolerable existence, just to spare families, friends, and enemies a bit of soul-searching.”
David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas
If scars tell stories, I have none. No bumps, valleys, or grooves. No blemishes to remind me of the damage I have caused. My skin is a liar. It is smooth. Unmarked. An empty canvas. One day, my sins will catch up to me, and when I die, it will be with a scar.
age thirteen
“Please don’t go out tonight. Puh-leaseeee.” I pressed my palms together, flashing Leah my best puppy-dog eyes from my position on her multicolored quilt. “Pretty please with a cherry on top.”
I crawled on my knees across her bed. My big, goofy smile hid the ball of panic hiking up my throat.
It felt like the world would end if my sister walked out that door.
In front of the mirror, Leah finished curling a lock of ebony hair with a flat iron. It bounced past her shoulder like a spring.
She ran her tongue over her teeth, wiping off a lone lipstick stain, glued to her flawless reflection. “No can do, kiddo. It’s my first college party, and Phil is super pumped. Raincheck for next weekend?”
Phil was Leah’s boyfriend. Things Phil liked:
Hogging her time.
Calling me Plan B in a totally serious way.
Glaring at me until I was sure he saw beneath my skin whenever Leah wasn’t looking.
Leah grabbed her little sparkly clutch. Her hips swayed as she exited her room. She wore a bubblegum-pink miniskirt that would garner a heart attack from Dad and indefinite dishwashing duties from Mom.
Luckily for Leah, they were both fast asleep.
“Penny!” I burst out, jumping to my feet, sounding as desperate as I felt. How’d I not think of it sooner? “Penny, penny, penny. Don’t go.”
Penny was our safe word. It meant business.
Penny trumped boys.
And parties.
And losing your virginity to a sociopathic tool.
I wanted so badly for Leah to not lose her virginity to Phil tonight. I’d overheard them discussing it on the phone the other day and hadn’t slept since.
Leah didn’t even slow down. My heart was a kaleidoscope of glass shards. What was the point in having a secret word if it meant jack shit?
“Sorry, Lottie. Next time, boo.”
I noticed she’d forgotten her pack of menthol cigarettes on her vanity. Out in the open for Mom to find.
My rage simmered, spilling over the surface.
Screw this.
I hope Mom wakes up and sees you.
Leah stopped on the threshold, swiveling her head in my direction.
“Oh, what the hell.” She shoved a hand into her clutch, rummaged through it, then flicked a penny into my palm, humoring me. “Hey, Lottie, a penny for your thoughts?”
Accepting defeat, I twisted it between my fingers.
I hoped she didn’t get pregnant. I would’ve told her to be careful, but last time I’d broached the subject of Phil, she’d nearly decapitated me. She knew I hated him.
They say love has no eyes or ears. They forgot the brain. That’s missing, too.
“I hope I never fall in love. Falling in love makes you so dumb.”
Leah rolled her eyes, ambling back into the room and dropping a kiss on the crown of my head. “I hope you do. Falling in love makes you feel immortal. Don’t you want that?”
She didn’t wait for me to answer, charging out to the hallway. Her footsteps turned into fast thuds as she torpedoed down the stairs before Mom and Dad could catch her leave. She blasted past the front door, straight into Phil’s arms.
I poked my head out her window, knowing seeing them together was going to hurt, but looking anyway. I watched him lean over the purring Hummer as he caught her.
He grabbed her ass, shoved his tongue into her throat, and raised his eyes, staring right at me.
A smirk formed on his face as he devoured her.
I gasped, turning off the lamp and sliding under Leah’s colorful quilt. The dread I’d felt all night rocketed, seeping out of my pores.
Falling in love makes you feel immortal. Don’t you want that?
No, I thought bitterly. Death doesn’t scare me.
age fourteen
I’m going to die without scars.
Without experience, battle wounds, signs that I’ve ever lived.
Without ever bungee jumping, learning a second language, or being kissed.
The thought lodged in my brain as I scowled at the couple in front of me on the subway. They’d been making out since I’d hopped in the car in the Bronx, and I was willing to bet they would continue until I got off in Manhattan.
He cupped her inner thigh, leaving scarlet dents on her flesh under her minidress. I pretended to read a book, watching them above the horizon of the softcover I held. On the Road by Jack Kerouac.
Their kisses were dirty. Greedy slurps laced with the unbearable screeching of the pink heart-shaped balloon he rubbed against her leg.
My eyes glided to the other passengers. Young professionals. A few corporate guys holding flowers and wine. Women reapplying their makeup. A couple in the corner in matching cherry-colored I’m With Stupid shirts.
Some were short, some tall.
Some large, some thin.
Some old, some young.
They all shared one thing in common, though.
They didn’t give a crap if I died tonight.
Not that I’d tattooed I’m suicidal on my forehead before I left the house.
Still…
I was a kid, alone, and I looked like a mess with my hair, which hadn’t seen a brush in weeks, haunted eyes, and the tooth gap Mom used to insist was endearing so she didn’t have to pay for braces.
The mascara streaks under my eyes were courtesy of my five-hour meltdown prior to hopping on this train. I wore striped knee socks, a short black kilt, hand-me-down Doc Martens, and a denim jacket on which I’d scribbled quotes of books I loved with a Sharpie.
“Her future needed her, so she turned her back on her past.”
“Perfection is profanity. Icy, hostile, and unattainable.”
“She believed she could, so she did.”
Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
I changed trains.
Platforms.
Stations.
The underground clung to my clothes. A whiff of earthy engines, cheap takeout food, and sweat. Hot wind blew from the train as it approached, fanning my hair over my face.
The idea of hurling myself onto the tracks and getting it over with crossed my mind.
I tsked to myself.
Nah.
That’d be hella basic.
First of all—worst, most painful death ever.
Second—I loathed people who did that. Especially during rush hour.
What was up with assholes who insisted on launching themselves down the rails when everyone was either headed to or leaving work and school?
Every time I got trapped underground, crammed between human sardines, their sweat so tangible I could taste it on my tongue, and the driver said we were stuck due to a person under a train, I wanted to bash my head against the plastic windows.