Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [87]
I’m tempted to leave the bunny slippers, but I’m afraid people won’t get my sense of humor. Sandals are never worn in the arena. Tommy preferred Nikes, but I’ve decided to go barefoot since it will be an evening match and the sand will be fairly cool by then.
When I walk, I move in an almost fluid way but I’m concerned that my eyes are too scary so I go for sunglasses, for now anyway. I select the mirrored type, hoping Uber will have a narcissistic moment and forget about me.
I have to call him. But I keep putting it off because I don’t know how to tell him yet. He’s left lots of messages on my phone, most of them pretty nice but the last one a little despondent.
It’s hard to know how to approach him. Maybe a couple of years ago, I would have taken this up with Sam and Callie, and we would have sat around like complete idiots, trying to strategize. And they probably would have given me plenty of bad advice, so I’m better off with my own sense of cluelessness.
When I first created my avatar, the makeup streamed down her face. I don’t cry a lot so maybe I wanted to express something I tend to stuff. But Tommy said, You have to be tough to decipher when you fight.
It’s not hard to make her bald, but it’s putting the T in the back of her skull that takes forever. In between, I run up and down stairs getting beverages for Thad, watering the security force, checking on the paparazzi, dawdling by the library.
Thad sits up for a while and I fluff a bunch of pillows behind his back. He asks to see what I’m doing.
I turn my computer around so it faces him.
—There’s a spear in your chest, he says.
—Oh, yeah. It’s just a decoration.
—I want a decoration.
—Later, I say. —Later we’ll make you your very own avatar. And I’ll make some wings for you. And you understand that real spears don’t belong in our chests, right, Thaddy? It’s always very important that we take good care of our real bodies.
—Our real bodies, he says, and curls up.
—And after that, we’ll go on the treadmill down in the basement for a while. I’ll let you do all of the walking.
—I’ll do all of the walking, he says, slowly drifting.
I’m down to the wings and spear now. Those wings took me three days to perfect. I know that sounds lame, but I got lost in the beauty of engineering. I threaded each strand like tatting a fine French lace. So I have to unravel them strand by strand.
I think Thad’s on his seventh anime show when I lift that last feather from my back.
The spear looks dangerously close to the heart but it’s actually running through the breastbone—lodged firmly there. I can run, fly, use a hover board or jet pack, and that spear remains fixed in place. I do not bleed. If I went into a state of convoluted metaphor, I could try and make something out of this idea that I’m walking around with a spear through my chest. Or I could keep it simple: it’s just a form of adornment, like scarification or piercing. It’s something you get up to in another state of mind. I realize the afternoon is getting late, and I should clean up and get ready for the changing of the guards, dinner, and Mark. I’ll work on the spear tomorrow.
Thad snores lightly now. He’ll nap for a couple of hours. I slip the remote from his open hand, putting a wrap on the marathon. I get up to stretch and go over to Allison’s garden windows that look down to the backyard and out along the treetops and neighboring homes. I often found her standing by the windows like this, taking in the view, sometimes shaking her head as if she couldn’t believe this was something she owned. I wonder if she stood here and considered the way the light slips through the trees the night she suicided.