Sucking Finhead

The first time it happened was at Southcenter, just bumming around the mall, shopping with Mom and Laura. My counts hadn't returned completely, and my legs were still scrawny and emaciated, but it felt so good to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

We'd split up. I couldn't keep up with their pace, and wasn't much interested in the shops they'd planned on hitting. We'd agreed to meet at the recently renovated food court. You go that way, I'll meander this way (maybe stopping to rest at a bench every hundred yards or so). No, no. I'll be fine. You go on ahead and I'll meet you there.

I've got to admit that I didn't have much swagger. I wasn't so much angry as I was still pretty drained. But I was trying to be observant, trying to pay attention to my surroundings. This was practically my back yard growing up, this mall, and it was entirely possible that I might bump into somebody from high school, or even grade school, and find myself trying to explain my appearances. I hadn't yet learned to lie about the hairless head, the scrawny pipes poking out from underneath whatever loose white tee-shirt I'd thrown on that morning, and I dreaded the questions, the pitying looks, the awkward silence that stretched as old acquaintances tried to figure out polite ways to end the conversation and move on.

"What?" I ask. Two girls have just walked past me. One is brunette, the other blond, well-dressed, each holding bags from Nordstrom's and The Gap. They're about my age. They might be even be former classmates. Maybe friends of friends who know me by reputation.

They'd said something about me as they passed by. I couldn't really tell, because I'm too busy being observant and paying attention, but they definitely said something.

They ignore me at first, so I say turn and follow them for a few steps.

"I'm sorry. Did you say something?"

They might be cute. I'm thinking that they might possibly be cute, and maybe former classmates or something, and I don't really have to get into a long explanation about the hair and the skinny arms or anything. They could just get all doe-eyed and say wow, you look, you know, really great, and I'll be all shucks and thanks and then we'll sit down together at Red Robin and talk about old times.

They turn on their tip-toes. It's weird. Kind of an outside in thing, timed perfectly, both pivoting at the same time, almost brushing shoulders as they stop and look back at me. Like something they've practiced. Like something they've totally done, like, a million times before.

The brunette speaks up. Her face is icy scorn.

"You heard me," she says.

"No, really. I ... "

"You people make me sick," she says. "f***ing skinhead. Why don't you just go f*** yourself?"

They turn again -- toes, timing, everything -- and casually walk away. Heads together, giggling, laughing. One last look back at me, the blond this time, slowly mouthing two words. She enunciates her silence, making sure that I'm able to read her lips: eff ing skin head.