On the back of Ryan's head, there's a very big, very ugly bump. No. A nipple then, a third nipple on the back of his head. Or no, an eye, an evil eye. And that's what he covers with his hat.

No.

Ryan uses his hat as a purse. It's simply a purse, his hat. Underneath, pressed against his skull, there's a little mirror, and a tube of foundation, and a shell with pale powder, and a lipstick the color of cherry blossom. Whenever he goes to the toilet he bows his head and brings down his hat. He folds it in two – both edges touching – and clasps it under his left armpit. He inspects his face in the mirror. He rummages in his hat in search for lipstick. That is why his lips are pinker than even his sister's. Hold on – no.

Actually, Ryan doesn't wear a hat at all – what you see is just another part of his sister, it's an extracorporal piece of Sharpay attached to his occiput like a parasite. If you'd touch it, if you should feel inclined to try the fabric, it would be like stroking Sharpay. I wouldn't do it.

Wait – he's coming here. Do you want him to hear us? He's going to the bathroom. You see? I told you so! I'm telling you. He's going into the bathroom to touch up his lips. You'll see. He's definitely rummaging in his hat right now, touching the contours of his make-up trinkets with his fingers, judging the scale of –

Hold on.

Yeah. Yes, I heard it too. Do you reckon we should call for someone? It could be – no. No, let it be. The bell is ringing. We should go. It's Frog Bladder right now and I don't want to be too late. Julie was too late in Frog Bladder's class once and he made her dust all of the stuffed animals in the attic – yes, biology has an attic – alone, at night, and then Frog Bladder turned off all the lights. Such a creep.

Come on. No, it's probably nothing.


Sharpay isn't feeling very well and stays home for rest of the day. Peter comes over. Peter says: this is your problem, not mine. Peter says: please don't tell your parents. Peter looks infantile, disgusting, weak. He begs. Please, now there's still time. Please, I can drive you there, but I can't get out of the car. You can understand that, can't you? Peter gets angry. I bet you did it on purpose. He goes. Sharpay waits until the sound of his car has gone before removing his phone number from her cell.

She sits on the couch for one or two minutes. She is strong. She doesn't feel anything. Then she stands up and walks to the kitchen. It's just past noon and there's a dish in the refrigerator for her. She places the plate in the microwave oven. Two minutes. She takes out the plate, removes the saran wrap, sits down, stabs the puree with her fork. The top layer steams with heat, but just underneath the food is still cold. She covers the plate with saran wrap again, puts it back into the microwave. One minute more. She takes out the plate, takes off the wrap. Steam burns her fingers and she almost drops the plate. It bangs against the table and some lumps of food jump out. Sharpay picks up a piece of meat and flings it back into the plate. It's far too hot. Her fingers hurt and she feels her eyes prickling with tears. She blinks until they are gone, sticks her fingers in her mouth. Her mouth feels too hot, which makes her fingers hurt even more. She runs to the fridge and grabs a bottle of mineral water. Her hands shake as she pours it, a stream of water flows over the glass and mixes with the sauce and puree that ended up on the table earlier. It turns into a slimy soup. Sharpay sticks two throbbing fingers into the glass of water. She takes her fork into her other hand. She tries a bite. The top layer is now dry and tepid, everything underneath still cold. The bite of food persists at the back of her tongue. Her mouth is dry. Before she fully realizes, she's sobbing. Fat tears gliding over her cheeks, dangling from the tip of her nose, dripping into her plate. Why does everything have to go wrong?

She is aware of how ridiculous she must look now, with her right hand in a glass of water, crying with a mouth full of puree she can't seem to swallow, the kitchen table smeared with muck, like a child, like a baby, oh god.

She feels stupid, hiccups from laughing, from crying. She thinks: they should see me like this.


Three quarters of an hour later she's fed the contents of her plate to the dog, she's cleared and cleaned the table, she's showered, rubbed her fingers with salve and re-applied her make-up. She sits on the couch with knees pulled up towards her chin. Her cell phone rests in her hand. She wants to tell him, wants desperately to have him tell her it's going to be all right, that he's going to be there for her, all the way.

She calls. Ryan does not answer.