Outer Layers Part II

Outer Layers Part II

The boy slides his headphones in my ears.

“Conform or be cast out.”  Just hearing the words reminds me.  I am supposed to hang with kids my own age.  But none of it, the typical “It,” doing typical, normal teenage stuff seems to work out right.  Grizzly and I are always passers through towns.  I know how to shuffle along and make imaginary friends but mostly what I know how to do well is slip away.  How long will it take this time?

I think about what Big Sister said about the wig.  But my head moves up and down in rhythm like I belong.  “I’m into this,” I say.”

“Really?”  Is that your real hair?”  He asks.

Everything stops.  Or at least it seems that way.  I point to my hair.  “Cancer," I say.   "Maybe we can listen to music together some time, you might even get community service for it.”

“Maybe,” he says.

I glance forward in line at Brownie and Oreo and consider that if I paid attention to fat grams, would a hot guy like him ask me out?

But I see nothing in his face that indicates that he minds the meal on my tray, or my Halloween store hair, or the fact that I’ve just told him I have cancer.

“I’m Mickey,” he says.  “What’s your name?”

I hand his headphones back and shrug like he and Rush are about as interesting as the stray lint on my jean jacket before I tell him my made up name.  He doesn’t seem to notice the hiccup of hesitation when I say it.

“You’re the stop before mine,” he says.  And then we make it through the line and I bypass the chance to add a fruit cup or reach for the water or ask him if the turkey tastes as good as it looks on TV and then it’s “see ya around,” as if “Subdivisions” never happened.  And I spend most of lunch trying to remember where he sat on the bus that morning. 

I see all those unfamiliar eyes.  I see their questions, “Who are you? What do you have?  What do you want?”  I wonder until the bell rings about his eyes and whether I will see him again.