by Dianne Scott 

"Can I go to the washroom?" I ask. 

Mrs. Williamson makes a face at me, as if she is sucking on sour gum balls. She flaps permission with her hand and I vault from my chair out of the classroom. 

Bitch. She’d love it if I just kept walking and never came back to her boring crappy English class. All we did was read silently and answer stupid comprehension questions. Oh yah, and write in a stupid journal so that she could sit on her lumpy ass for the for the first fifteen minutes of every class blowing on her steaming coffee with her withered, wormy lips. I walk out, planning to take my time. It will show her if I come back in half an hour. 

On the way to the washroom, I peek out through a triangle in the wire mesh glass of the back door. There are a couple of students outside talking in a semi-circle. A girl with blonde hair looks at me through sky blue lined eyes; she forms her mouth into a taut flesh oval and belches a smoke ring in my direction. I step quickly back from the door, feeling like a Peeping Tom, an outsider. I turn and continue down the hall, my steps slower this time. 

I used to spend hours out back on that asphalt strip known as the Butt Lounge, letting guys beg smokes off of me, chatting with Tiffany and Sarah about how this girl or that girl was such a whore, or asking them if Patrick still liked me, all of us scattering when the vice principal appeared to bark us back to class. 

Today, I didn’t recognize anybody out there in the Butt Lounge. Not one person. Paul and Randy got kicked out of Sutton Park Secondary School last year. Sarah transferred to another school. Tiffany has a boyfriend so she hardly says hello anymore. Patrick is still around but who cares. Patrick. Thank God he wasn’t out there when I looked, chatting up one of the Gr. 10 girls, like usual, trying to get into her pants with his big, fat, wobbly dick. 

I bang the door of the washroom open. After I pee I wash my hands and shove my face close to the mirror, keeping one eye on the door in case anybody comes in. A bumpy stripe of pimples outlines my forehead. Disgusting. You have skin like your father, my mom told me once. Great. A father who’s never around but gives you skin like a French fry. 

I push out my boobs in my nylon top and suck in my gut, standing on tiptoe to see my profile in the mirror. Was I fatter than when Patrick met me in Gr. 9? Probably. That was over two years ago. I was turning into a cow this year. No wonder, since every day after school I stuff my face with crap my mom brings home from the bakery. 

As I walk back to class, I wonder why everything is so different once you hit Grade 11. If students skip or lip the teacher, they spend most of the time in the office or on suspension until they eventually stop coming. Owl, the principal, is always trying to kick out skippers who are over sixteen. The riff raff, as I heard him call them. 

My teachers are getting fed up with me, especially Mrs. Williamson. I get the feeling that she’d wish I’d disappear. She probably wants Owl to get rid of me too. She even phoned home once; thank God I got home and erased the message before Carol heard it. 

I go back to class and sit in my chair; no one, including Mrs. Williamson, seems to notice that I’ve left or that I’ve come back. Most of the students are talking; some have their heads face down on the desk, forehead resting on their hands, ears muffled by their biceps. Sometimes Mrs. Williamson lets people talk as long as you don’t bug her too much or yell or shove the desks around. I look at the clock. Fifteen minutes left. The group of girls beside me gossip about the party they went to last weekend. They talk extra loud so that we all hear what they wore, who fucked their best friend’ s girlfriend, who got charged when the cops showed up. 

Why can’t we just leave? I have to get to work for four o’clock. 

Thinking about Valuemart makes me feel better. Maybe Samantha is working tonight. If I hurry, I can catch her before our shift starts. You have to get to Samantha early if you want to have break with her cause all the guys hang on her and hustle her as soon as they see her. But sometimes Samantha comes out and has a butt with me out back by Receiving. She doesn’t really smoke, but every once in a while she feels like a drag on a cigarette. Valuemart isn’t half bad. It’s just some cheap discount store. But it sorta makes me feel better working there, even if I look dorky in my blue, polyester vest that has a pin with "Hi, I’m Paula" on it. Below my name is the Valuemart slogan: Lowest prices in town. 

At least I am doing something and getting paid. Robert Simms, the geeky manager with big burgundy glasses that he continually pushes back up his nose, stands by the door that says Staff Only at the beginning of every shift and lists on his fingers what he wants people to do: label inventory, stock shelves, tidy, organize, or set up end aisles for sales. Sometimes I am a cashier which is OK unless I get a crabby customer. 

Some of the staff are sort of cool. Not the old Italian women who shuffle around the store in their $2.99 Valuemart sandals and smell like B.O. if you get close enough to their armpits. But Darren and Lisa and Samantha. On Saturday, Robert tells me and Samantha to clear the shelves in children’s wear for the new spring and summer line. As we rearrange the shelves and box up the winter stock, Samantha tells me how she is almost failing math and her parents are going to kill her; they expect her to ace everything and go to university. I look at her as she stretches up to remove the baby blue fleece sleepers; she had this cute perfect body with small hips and nice boobs. As she turns around and smiles at me her brown straight hair swings around like a fan. I wonder what would it be like to be Samantha: so beautiful, so nice. Where everybody wants to be with you. 

Samantha holds one end of a long aluminum shelf while I fit the hooks on the other end into the bracket. On the count of three, I ram the shelf in. "Ow, shit!" I drop the shelf, which falls with a metallic clatter. 

"Are you OK?" Samantha asks. 

"Stupid piece of Valuemart shit," I yell, squeezing my hand to contain the pain. 

"Let’s see." 

I open my hand and watch blood drip into the basin of my palm. Samantha stares at my red, angry finger. 

"I don’t think it needs stitches." 

I drip red raindrops onto the cement floor. I grab packing tissue from one of the boxes and Samantha helps me wrap it around my hand. "Better talk to Robert," Samantha says. "I’ll get Darren to help me finish up here." 

I dutifully talk to Robert who freaks out, as usual, whenever anyone bleeds on the job. He seems peeved, as if I got injured on purpose. He sends me to the doctor’s clinic in the mall for a tetanus shot and then I go home. By the time the bus jolts to a stop in front of my apartment, I feel like I am going to throw up. I walk slowly up the gray concrete steps to my low rise, my feet scuffing on each step. The double doors of the lobby open and my mother Carol plunges through. Her dyed blond hair is carefully curled and her mouth is outlined larger in red to match her dress. I remember she is going to a wedding today with Ralph, her boyfriend who is a customer at the bakery. She touches a cigarette lightly to her lips so she won’t mess up her lipstick and when she exhales, she sees me on the steps. 

"What are you doing home?" 

I hold up my bandaged finger. "Cut myself at work." 

She walks over and looks at my hand as her eyes scan the road. 

"Well, take a few Tylenol and take it easy." 

A horn honks and Carol pats me on the back. As she walks away, she flits her hand at me goodbye; I watch her totter down the street in her high heels and awkwardly lower herself into the blue Oldsmobile parked at the side of the curb. The horn honks twice as it moves away. 

I go inside. My finger is sore and I feel a bit faint. I open up the fridge. I notice a lemon pie on the top shelf. Stupid woman. I told her not to bring crap home from the store. I’ll just stuff my face in one sitting and then feel gross and fat. And then I have to starve for two days so I can still fit into my clothes. Or else stick my finger down my throat. Well I can’t do that today. My hand is too sore and I already feel sick in the first place. I go out onto the balcony to have a smoke. I step over the old charred Hibachi barbeque and lean against the black metal railing. After three inhales I am woozy and have to sit on one of the beer cases that jingles with empties. I continue to puff on my cigarette, trying to feel better. 

Relax. Chill. Everything will be fine. 

I go inside and look in the fridge again. Nothing. I open and close doors, banging cupboards and rattling the dirty breakfast dishes in the sink. I open a drawer and push aside Carol’s cake decorating equipment that is stuffed into the lined wooden drawer: the cloth icing dispenser, tips and nibs, the different tubes of coloured icing and plastic discs for rosettes. A cake-decorating manual is open to the instruction: Hold the dispenser at a 45-degree angle using a No.98 nib. Squeeze with medium pressure, using a jiggling motion. 

I slam the drawer shut. 

I look around the kitchen. 

Baby Duck Merlot. 

"Well, what the fuck," I say out loud and grab the bottle of red wine on the counter. Screw cap, thank God. I grab it with my left hand and awkwardly turn it, watching the red liquid inside slurp around thickly. I take a big plastic McDonald’s cup, half fill it with wine, then grab a pitcher of fruit punch from the fridge and fill the rest of the glass. I walk over into the living room with my glass, sticking my bandaged finger in the air to avoid smashing it against anything. 

I watch TV most of the afternoon, sprawled on the natty brown and beige couch, alternately smoking and taking sips from my drink. I flip the channel and watch a guy driving a station wagon who reminds my of my Grade 10 math teacher, Mr. Gonzales; he was really cute and looked at all the girls’ legs when they wore mini skirts. Patrick used to like me in mini skirts. Patrick. 

I get up and refill my glass. 

We only went out for three months and the bastard was screwing around on me with this girl Beth the whole time. 

I stare at my glass and watch the arches on my cup blur into two yellow lines, like seagulls flying. Canaries maybe. 

When I was five my father took me to McDonalds. That was the first time that I remember seeing him. 

I lie back on the couch and place my cup on my belly. How many times did I see my dad? Twice? Three times? 

"What the hell?" screams a voice. 

I scramble into a sitting position on the sofa and slosh the red wine onto my white shirt. The wine spreads in a big burgundy stain above my heart. 

"Paula!" Carol yells. 

"What?" 

"You stupid idiot. Look what you’ve done." 

I follow the direction of her pointed finger and touch the round black burn spot on the couch that is still warm. I look back at my mom. Her hair is in little cylindrical tufts and her lipstick is gone, making her mouth seem invisible. Her dress now has permanent wrinkles across the stomach. 

"Sorry." 

"Yeah, I bet your sweet ass you’re sorry. Just like you’re sorry for drinking my whole bottle of wine." 

"Mom… Carol, sorry, I had a bad day." 

"Well, welcome to the real world." Carol clicks into the kitchen, opens the refrigerator and takes out a six-pack of beer. Ever since she started seeing Ralph six months ago there was lots of booze around the apartment. She comes back into the living room and stands over me on the couch. I lean away from her. 

"You’re going to fix the couch and you are going to pay for the wine. Got it?" 

"Yeah." At least she didn’t say that I couldn’t smoke anymore in the apartment. 

"I didn’t hear you." 

"Yes," I say in a louder voice. 

"And clean up this mess." She clicks over to the door, beer in one hand, and awkwardly turns the knob with her other hand that holds a lit cigarette. She slams the wooden door behind her. I can’t believe it. She didn’t even give me shit for drinking. 

I sit there for a minute. I hear the Vroom of a car engine from the street. I look down at my shirt. The fingers of the wine stain have spread out as if it were eating into the white of my shirt. It looks like I have been stabbed. I wipe my hand across my face. My palm comes away oily and sweaty. 

Shit, I feel like crap. 

I stumble into the bathroom and kneel before the toilet, trying to get sick but just retching air. I have a killer headache. 

God, everybody has someone on Saturday night, something to do, someone to be with. Even my mom. I lean to the side and slide to the floor until my cheek presses against the coolness of the one inch black and white tiles. I lie on my back and look at the grill at the top of the bathroom, the cracks in the ceiling, the shower curtain rod, the door handle. Everything looks big and yet far away. I hold my right arm in front of me and look at my bandaged finger. My cut throbs. Maybe I should put some ointment on it or something. I kick the cabinet underneath the sink with my foot and one door opens, dumping a roll of toilet paper, a comb and a disposable razor onto the floor beside me. 

Boy, wouldn’t it be nice to have someone right now, someone to take care of me, to cheer me up. A boyfriend to bring me water, to rub my back, like I always wished Patrick would do. A friend to knock on the bathroom door to check if I was OK. Someone to put a new bandage on my cut. 

I thought of how Samantha held my hand in hers when I cut myself. That was nice. 

I try to sit up. Once I get to a kneeling position I place my elbows onto the counter on either side of the sink and push myself upright. I hear a crunch as I straighten. 

I pick up the cracked razor and break away the pink plastic covering around the blade. I stare at the razor between my fingers. It is a perfect rectangle, shiny and clear. So simple and light. 

I hold the blade delicately between my thumb and third finger, my bandaged second finger standing up and out of the way, and shift it so that the light bounces off of the metal. I extend my left arm so that the white, clearness of the underside is showing and place the blade’s edge against my skin. I try to steady my hand, which is shaking because I’m breathing a little funny now. I press the razor blade into my arm, using medium pressure. 

It feels so good, like when I was with Patrick and he was being nice. Or once when we were in bed together and he was so good to me, so right, so panting. 

I lift my hand away and blood surfaces in a thin red line. I watch it ooze. The line becomes fatter, thicker, until it overflows and trickles down the inside of my arm into the sink. 

I remember when I was twelve years old and I was over at my friend Sita’s apartment when we both lived in the same building. Sita had just had her first period. While we were sitting on her bed talking, Sita’s mom, who was a nurse, came in with sanitary pads in a white package that had EASTERN GENERAL HOSPITAL stamped on the side. She sat down beside us and stroked Sita’s hair. I remember thinking that was something parents only did to little kids. 

"Blood is good. It bathes. It is clean. It means life," Sita’s mom said. I thought it a bit weird at the time. Nice, but weird. 

I hold out for three weeks before I cut myself again. I make a cut at a forty-five degree angle from my first cut, which is now a thin beige-pink line. 

Somehow, it begins to be every week. That is as long as I can go without it. I start wearing long sleeves to cover my arm. Twice I cut myself on the hip and once on the top of my leg so I can hide the scars easier, although no one is really noticing. 

I am at Valuemart lifting piles of women’s bathing suits out of a cardboard box, sweating because Robert won’t put the air conditioning on until June and it is only the end of May. Samantha walks by and pauses in the aisle way. She is in a white tank top and pale blue Lycra pants and she looks beautiful. 

"Time for break?" I ask hopefully. 

Samantha nods. "Just looking for Darren." 

I guess I can’t expect Samantha to always have her breaks with me when she has people lining up to be with her. Including Darren, the really cute stock boy who is nineteen and legally drank. 

"What happened to your arm?" Samantha asks. 

I quickly pull my white sleeve down. 

"C’mon, let’s see." 

"It’s nothing." I drag a brown cardboard box over and begin opening it. 

"Are...Are we still on for lunch? How about the Bagel Shoppe?" I ask Samantha over my shoulder. I hope she remembers that she promised me on Thursday night that we would go for lunch together today. 

"Sure." 

Samantha leans over and helps me rip open the box. She grabs my arm as we straighten up and holds the underside to the light. 

"Cool," Samantha says as she looks at the scars in varying stages of healing. 

"I like cutting," she adds. 

"What?" 

"I’ve been thinking about scarification myself. I just don’t know if I have the guts. " 

I look at the smooth skin on her arms and at her clear, makeup-free face. 

"And my parents would kill me." 

She drops my arm and looks at her watch. 

"Gotta go." Samantha smiles and walks away. 

I sit on the toilet lid in the bathroom at home. All week long I sat at my desk in school and no one talked to me. I skipped my afternoon class three times just so I wouldn’t have to figure out what to do for lunch. I missed two tests. My mother yelled at me when the school phoned but then she said I was a big girl and she couldn’t tell me what to do with my life or take care of me. 

I can’t stop thinking about Samantha. How beautiful she is. And how cool she thinks my scars are. As if they are tattoos. Or cake decoration. I reach into the cupboard for a disposable razor and wipe away some tears with the back of my hand. 

Mom. Dad. Patrick. Samantha. 

I turn my arm over and look at it. Maybe it’s because I cut myself in one-inch lengths that it looks intentional. Like I connected the cuts. They did sorta make a pattern. Like a scar bracelet. 

I place the razor against my arm, the silver edge against the pink criss cross of scars. I try to think of a cut that won’t add to the pattern, that won’t make my cuts seem pretty. 

I throw the razor down on the tiles. 

After a few seconds I bend and I pick it up and hold the blade awkwardly with my left hand and press it against the unscarred skin of my right arm. But I feel nothing. 

No excitement. No relief. 

Nothing. 

What the hell will I do now? 

I am meeting Samantha at the Main subway station at nine o’clock and we are going to walk to Darren’s house together from there. Samantha says that Darren can get us the beer. Before I leave, I take out Carol’s bottle of vodka from underneath the sink and make myself a screwdriver. Carol is going out right from work with Ralph. I walk around the empty apartment with the music blaring and get ready, putting on some new eyeliner (Patrick always said my eyes were beautiful). I change my clothes three times as I look in the mirror and toss shirts and pants onto my bed. I finally choose a black low cut top that shows off my boobs and black Lycra pants. I hope they make me look skinnier. I make myself another drink before I leave, carefully marking the level in the bottle and refilling it with water. I am pretty excited that Samantha has asked me to the party. After meeting up at the subway we walk along the Danforth, chatting and smoking, and I feel the warmth of the booze spreading through me and I think, for once, I am happy. 

When we get to Darren’s house we shuffle downstairs into a mildewy basement. Samantha waves at a group of people in the corner and several voices call out her name. Samantha knows some of Darren’s friends because she parties with them on weekends. As Samantha walks over to the group, I scan the crowd, looking for someone from Valuemart. I can’t see anybody I recognize. I meander over to Samantha who is busy talking to Darren and putting the beers he bought us into a Styrofoam cooler. I smile at Darren and take the beer that Samantha passes to me. 

I drink a lot in the first couple of hours. Samantha keeps disappearing as different people come over to talk to her, especially the guys. I haven’t really eaten any dinner so I am feeling a bit dizzy. I decide to get up and walk around for a bit. I cruise the upstairs, hoping to see someone I know. Darren is laughing loudly with three guys so he doesn’t notice me. People are grouped in the kitchen and about ten people are sitting and yelling to each other over the music in the living room. I stumble down the stairs and go out the side door to see what is happening in the yard. I smell the marijuana before I reach the backyard. Faces momentarily appear as joints are lit. I squint and make out several different groups sitting around the long, narrow yard. I sit down at the empty picnic table by the barbeque and search in my bag for a cigarette. I smoke and drink there for a while, listening to the sound of voices and laughter and music, still hoping that Samantha might miss me and come out to look for me. Or that a good looking guy will break off from a group and think I’m beautiful and want to talk to me all night. After a while, I stand up and approach the nearest group of people sitting cross-legged on the lawn. 

"Hello," I say and they look at me as I sit down. Two people nod and the group continues talking. Three cigarettes later, I stand up, sway and stagger into the house. 

I look around for Samantha. I can’t find her so I grab two beers from the fridge and squeeze into the living room, finding a seat on the floor. I smoke and drink while I watch other people talk and flirt, nodding my head and smiling every once in a while, although no one is talking to me. I push on the edge of the couch and nudge my way out of the living room; I need to pee. When I come out of the bathroom, I squint at my watch. It’s two o’clock. Christ. I better find Samantha. 

We decided before hand that we were going to cab it home together. But I can ’t find her in the kitchen, living room or basement. My stomach churns the vodka and beer nervously. I go upstairs to the bedrooms. One door is locked and I can hear voices behind it. I open the door to the second bedroom and see a bare foot sticking out from under a blanket. I creep forward and peer over the yellow-blue plaid edge into Samantha’s face. She is completely passed out. 

I slide down the side of the bed to the floor and put my hands over my eyes. Now I have to somehow make it home on my own. I don’t have enough money to cab it home alone and the subway has stopped running. My mom is probably staying at Ralph’s, and she doesn’t have a car anyway. I stare down at the ground as tears drip down into the blackness of my new top and make it shiny. I grab the edge of the faded blue chenille bedspread and wipe my face, leaving black mascara moons. I notice Samantha’s thigh stuck out over the bed beside my face. I look at the smooth shaved leg, the tanned skin, its purity and clearness. 

Quickly I jump up and go into the bathroom. I crank open the medicine cabinet above the sink. I scan the shelves above the toilet, pushing aside deodorant and a bottle of mouthwash. Finally, in a basket underneath the sink, I find a disposable razor. I exhale slowly, trying to calm down, as I grab the head and snap it, pricking my thumb. I throw the casing back in the basket and go back down the hall into the bedroom. 

I approach the bed, slowly, watching the rise and fall of Samantha’s chest. Samantha is snoring, making low, whistling noises through her nose. I sit down on the edge of the bed beside her. I look at her beautiful body, toned and lean in a white tank top and denim mini skirt, slack and welcoming in sleep. 

I lean over and spread my palm on Samantha’s right thigh, lightly at first, and then with added pressure. I look up at Samantha’s face. 

No response. 

I take the blade between my fingers. Quickly, ecstatically, I press the edge of the blade into Samantha’s thigh and make an incision.

Dianne Scott writes: "I am a Toronto writer and teacher living along side Lake Ontario. My poetry has been published in The Prairie Journal, Intangible, Pan del Muerto and Other Voices. My fiction has been featured in Tupperware Sandpiper. I was also a finalist in the Writers’ Union of Canada Postcard Fiction Contest 2000."