Chapter 19

Heather at Her Tutoring

Since returning to school, Heather spent her lunch periods in the library. She’d always loved to read, and even though she had stopped posting blog entries, she spent time writing in her notebook. Spending this quiet time alone, she decided, was far better than spending her lunch period being scorned by the rest of the student body.

On her first day in the library, she sat at the table in the corner, but through the library’s big glass walls, she caught glimpses of students’ expressions grim enough to give her nightmares. At the check-out desk, the librarian and her assistant leaned together. From their stances, Heather could tell they were engaged in a captivating conversation. Every now and again, they would glance Heather’s way. Heather couldn’t be sure that they were talking about her—that is, until the librarian’s assistant, no doubt forgetting her sense of propriety, traced the invisible shape of a T on her forehead as if demonstrating a part of her conversation.

The kids were no different. Students passing by in the hallways would look through the library’s glass walls to stare at the bright scar on Heather’s forehead. Students searching for books would stare as well. After that first day, Heather sat with her back to the library and spent her time staring out the window instead.

But even when Heather turned her back to the world, she could still tell when others were staring: One of the English classes had read “The Devil and Tom Walker,” a story about a man who sells his soul to the devil in exchange for great wealth. After Tom’s encounter, the devil sears a scorched fingerprint onto Tom’s forehead as proof of the evil bargain—a fingerprint that would not wash off. Ever since the class read that story, rumors had been circulating around the school that Heather had made a similar deal. It was whispered—with all the truth that high school gossip normally holds—that Heather sold her soul in exchange for the journalism award that would guarantee her admittance into the college of her choice. The scarred T on her forehead, the students said, was the devil’s mark, claiming her soul as payment for a bargain of success.

Even Heather wondered whether the rumor were true. When she turned her back to others, she knew when they were staring at her: her scar seemed to burn as if it were on fire. At first when she got such a feeling, she’d turn her head just enough to confirm that someone was, indeed, glaring at her. Over time, she grew accustomed to the sensation. It didn’t matter if it was a teacher, student, or administrator; all glances caused the same burning upon her face.

All except one.

Whenever Heather passed Adam Hollowcast in the hallway, she averted her eyes. He was usually surrounded by friends. He was idolized by the remaining members of the football team, and he was desired by most of the school’s female population. Still, whenever Heather passed Adam in the hallway, she felt the distinct sensation of a sympathetic pair of eyes resting upon her. Whereas every other onlooker caused a scorching pain to flush upon her face, Adam’s glance was like the soothing balm Burton had made—as if Adam’s knowledge of the truth and his sympathies for her situation allowed him to take her pain away, at least momentarily.

Ever since the assembly, Adam hadn’t called or texted. Heather knew him well enough to know he was ashamed, and scared. And even though she went through periods of anger and frustration at him, in her heart she had already forgiven him. She couldn’t deny the comfort brought by his mere presence. It was at these soothing times that Heather wondered if there was any chance at all that she and Adam might attend the Homecoming Dance together as they had discussed in what seemed to Heather like a different life. Heather knew the chances were slim, but in her deepest heart she held out hope.

As the weeks passed, Heather’s solitary lunches in the library stopped being so solitary. At first Heather was paid a timid visit by the little freshman with the lazy eye.

“I got my highest grade ever on that essay you helped me with.” Priya sat at Heather’s table in the library without invitation.

“Congratulations,” Heather said.

“I was thinking you could help me with this next one.” The girl spoke as though she had a right to Heather’s help.

Whether lonely for the company, or whether she felt she owed the school a penance for spoiling another year’s worth of football festivities, Heather readily agreed. When she finished her session with the freshman, the girl said, “I have a friend. She’s also having trouble with an essay. I’ll send her to you tomorrow.” The girl turned to look directly at Heather’s face. Even her lazy eye, it seemed, stared right into Heather’s scar, setting it afire once again.

Nonetheless, Heather nodded. “Sure. Send her.”

It was in this way that Heather’s lunches passed quickly while she tutored students in writing. At first it was just freshmen. Then students in other grades approached. The first students she tutored shared one trait in common: they could not ask for help anywhere else. Some had to work jobs after school to help pay the family bills, and they could not afford to stay late with their teachers. Others were too shy or afraid of their teachers. In all cases, these students—so outcast in other elements of their lives—found comfort in Heather’s presence. Never did the girl with the scar judge them. Never did she question their motives. Some thanked Heather for help. Others seemed offended to have opened themselves so blatantly to the stigmatized girl, and they accepted her aid as if it were owed to them. Some brought Heather small gifts—dessert from the cafeteria, for instance. One girl even gave Heather a compact of makeup. Her mother sold cosmetics, she explained, and this particular type was designed to cover up unsightly blemishes—the label advertised, “It even works on scars!”

This Heather took with a nod of thanks and stowed it in her backpack, though she dared not even open it. The scar had seared itself to her. It was her identity now, for better or for worse. All in the school recognized the traitor who had been branded with the infamous T, and maybe they were right: maybe she had sold her soul to the devil for the prestigious award. In any case, the scar was not her business to remove.

Still, her reputation as a tutor grew, and before long even a few members of the newspaper staff sought her help. In fact, within a month’s time, Heather had helped members of all grades and social groups—the only exception being members of the football team, as they considered her bad luck.

Heather’s scar also gave her a heightened sense of sympathy. When a troubled student was nearby, her scar would not burn, but tingle. And she would turn around to observe an outcast, a lost soul, a student struggling to find her place within the school. Heather was surprised at how many of the more popular students caused such a reaction. One of the most popular soccer players, for example, whom Heather had just seen joking and laughing with other members of her team, came to the library and made Heather’s scar tingle more intensely than usual. Her name was Bethany Lyttle, and she had perfect hair and makeup and plenty of friends. Heather turned to watch Bethany out of the corner of her eye.

Bethany ducked behind a shelf of books, and when she thought no one was watching, her plastered smile melted into sorrow. She fixed her perfect eyes on a table of students in the corner: it was the school’s Scrabble Club, and they met during lunch. Bethany stared at them with envy and regret in her eyes. Heather watched Bethany, shocked at the forlorn expression on the girl’s face. So she didn’t like being classed off as a jock, a label forbidding her from joining the Scrabble Club. But such was the way of high school—students were often defined by a single characteristic and bound by that identity. If they wanted to fit in, they were not allowed to be true to themselves. Not completely. And if they were true to themselves, they would never fit in.

Not completely.

Despite her heightened awareness, however, Heather never approached another soul. She dared not impose her stigma on the lives of others. Instead, she waited for others to approach her; and when they did, she helped them with the utmost sympathy. Often when students approached for help with writing, it seemed they were in greater need of a friendly ear to talk to. So for half an hour each day, Heather felt like she had a niche, a place in the world. For half an hour each day, students sought her expertise even in the very skill that had cost the school its fame. For half an hour a day—dared Heather think it?—the scar on her face suggested her role as Tutor, rather than the role hated by all members of the community.

But as soon as the lunch bell sounded, Heather’s tutees stood up, often without thanking her, and hurried to live out the rest of their ordinary high school days—days in which Heather had no part. Aside from that half hour at lunch, Heather had only one other moment of actual human company during her solitary days at Orchard Valley. And that was the mornings she spent with Ruby.