anger has left as quickly as it came, and now I just feel empty and tired. And sticky. I glance into the mirror above the sink and meet the brown eyes of Usha’s reflection. I make a face, feeling the skin and muscles pull into the shape I’ve told them to, but it’s my expression on Usha’s face, not her own.
That’s when I realize my mistake: I’ve become one of the only people I want to talk to. Now Usha is further away than ever.
I wrap my arms around myself, feeling Usha’s body, round arms, breasts, and stomach. It’s pleasant, this extra flesh, as if it were here to comfort me. I shake my head, and Usha’s bob swings against my cheeks and ears. I haven’t worn my hair this short since I was little. I feel young and then, suddenly, very, very old.
You’re only seventeen , I tell myself.
You’re only seventeen forever , my self answers back.
I exhale. I hadn’t expected to get so angry. I shouldn’t have yelled at those biblicals. They weren’t trying to hurt me. Maybe they’ll leave Usha alone now anyway. That seemed to be what she’d wanted. But she hadn’t wanted it enough to yell at them , I think guiltily. That was you .
Usha? I think as loud as I can. No answer, no stirring inside me, no shove. I wonder where she is now, if she saw the whole thing, hidden back there behind my eyes. Or maybe she’s gone to sleep and will wake when I leave her. Forget that I don’t even know how to leave her. Yesterday in physics, I’d only inhabited her for a second before I’d been pushed out again. As an experiment, I try to welcome it, the shove, but it doesn’t come. My feet stay in Usha’s red boots, planted firmly on the dirty tile. And I have to admit, I’m a little relieved that it didn’t work, that I still have her body for at least a little while longer.
I flick water at my reflection in the mirror. It’s all getting complicated. I’d been so focused on getting into Usha’s body that I hadn’t thought about what would happen after I was in it. And now I’d ruined my opportunity to stop the suicide rumor by making a scene. People would hardly believe Usha if she told them that my death wasn’t a suicide, not now that she’d acted so crazy in front of the whole school.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Usha’s reflection, but the words come out in her voice, not mine. “I’m going to make it better.”
But how? If only I could become more people, different people, then it’d be easy to reverse the gossip and set the record straight. To do that, though, I’d need more people to think about me more often. Or I’d need to predict when they’d think about me.
I stop.
I look in the mirror. Usha’s face is smiling at me. I’m smiling at me. And I deserve it, this smile, because I’ve just had the best idea.
Mr. Fisk is in the middle of another glazing explanation when I show up in the doorway to his classroom. When he sees me lingering there, he signals for the class to pause, setting the lump of clay on the mat in front of him and walking to me while wiping earthy streaks onto his pants.
“Usha, what is it?”
“I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“That’s all right. You look flushed.”
“I do?” I touch my cheeks.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m okay. But . . .”
“Yes? You’re okay?”
“I’m okay, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“I want to paint the memorial mural.” My words are answered with a shove so enormous that I nearly take a step back. I hold on tight, though, wrapping my arms around my body. (Usha’s body.)
“You’re sure?” Mr. Fisk asks.
“Completely.” I nod emphatically. “I want to paint the mural. I want people to remember Paige.”
11: PAINTING EYES
SMALL PROBLEM : I CAN ’ T PAINT .
During that afternoon’s illustration class, Mr. Fisk has me wait by his desk while he gathers the mural materials. I wait for more resistance to come, but it doesn’t. I know you don’t want to , I tell Usha silently, but you
That’s when I realize my mistake: I’ve become one of the only people I want to talk to. Now Usha is further away than ever.
I wrap my arms around myself, feeling Usha’s body, round arms, breasts, and stomach. It’s pleasant, this extra flesh, as if it were here to comfort me. I shake my head, and Usha’s bob swings against my cheeks and ears. I haven’t worn my hair this short since I was little. I feel young and then, suddenly, very, very old.
You’re only seventeen , I tell myself.
You’re only seventeen forever , my self answers back.
I exhale. I hadn’t expected to get so angry. I shouldn’t have yelled at those biblicals. They weren’t trying to hurt me. Maybe they’ll leave Usha alone now anyway. That seemed to be what she’d wanted. But she hadn’t wanted it enough to yell at them , I think guiltily. That was you .
Usha? I think as loud as I can. No answer, no stirring inside me, no shove. I wonder where she is now, if she saw the whole thing, hidden back there behind my eyes. Or maybe she’s gone to sleep and will wake when I leave her. Forget that I don’t even know how to leave her. Yesterday in physics, I’d only inhabited her for a second before I’d been pushed out again. As an experiment, I try to welcome it, the shove, but it doesn’t come. My feet stay in Usha’s red boots, planted firmly on the dirty tile. And I have to admit, I’m a little relieved that it didn’t work, that I still have her body for at least a little while longer.
I flick water at my reflection in the mirror. It’s all getting complicated. I’d been so focused on getting into Usha’s body that I hadn’t thought about what would happen after I was in it. And now I’d ruined my opportunity to stop the suicide rumor by making a scene. People would hardly believe Usha if she told them that my death wasn’t a suicide, not now that she’d acted so crazy in front of the whole school.
“I’m sorry,” I tell Usha’s reflection, but the words come out in her voice, not mine. “I’m going to make it better.”
But how? If only I could become more people, different people, then it’d be easy to reverse the gossip and set the record straight. To do that, though, I’d need more people to think about me more often. Or I’d need to predict when they’d think about me.
I stop.
I look in the mirror. Usha’s face is smiling at me. I’m smiling at me. And I deserve it, this smile, because I’ve just had the best idea.
Mr. Fisk is in the middle of another glazing explanation when I show up in the doorway to his classroom. When he sees me lingering there, he signals for the class to pause, setting the lump of clay on the mat in front of him and walking to me while wiping earthy streaks onto his pants.
“Usha, what is it?”
“I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“That’s all right. You look flushed.”
“I do?” I touch my cheeks.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m okay. But . . .”
“Yes? You’re okay?”
“I’m okay, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“I want to paint the memorial mural.” My words are answered with a shove so enormous that I nearly take a step back. I hold on tight, though, wrapping my arms around my body. (Usha’s body.)
“You’re sure?” Mr. Fisk asks.
“Completely.” I nod emphatically. “I want to paint the mural. I want people to remember Paige.”
11: PAINTING EYES
SMALL PROBLEM : I CAN ’ T PAINT .
During that afternoon’s illustration class, Mr. Fisk has me wait by his desk while he gathers the mural materials. I wait for more resistance to come, but it doesn’t. I know you don’t want to , I tell Usha silently, but you
Similar Books
