Because You Love to Hate Me(77)

Slate undermines those expectations. Her scar-covered face does not fall within the prescribed ideas of “beauty” as defined by our present culture. Nor does the mask of rotted flesh she wears to cover those very scars. Slate’s mask’s purpose is not to fit in and conform to societal beauty standards and present an idealized image of the female face. The mask is Slate’s face. It is the image people recognize as belonging to the crime lord. Rather than attract, it repels and disgusts people. Most importantly, it is a trophy that also embodies Slate’s strength and control. Furthermore, Slate does not act like your typical eighteen-year-old girl. (I can’t say that I know any teen crime lords, but then again they wouldn’t reveal their identity to me.) She certainly acts in . . . questionable ways, which is what I find so fascinating. Slate is ruthless and unforgiving, having been hardened and shaped into a calculating and resourceful villain with really creative ways of obtaining what she desires without getting her hands dirty. But most of all, I love how she is her own knight in rusty armor. She doesn’t want or need saving from anyone, and she wears a mask all her own.

SO WHAT DOES YOUR MASK SAY ABOUT YOU?

Hero or villain, you must hide your identity when you are saving the world or trying to destroy it. You look at the masks lined up side by side. Your fingers trace a smooth jawline as you decide which will be your new face. You hesitate for a second before ultimately going with your gut instinct. You fasten the mask to your face. Was it . . .





THE EYE MASK


Some say the eyes are the windows to the soul, and you like to let people in . . . but only a little. You allow others to learn a bit of your deepest self before they get to truly know the everyday you. Maybe it’s a way to repel people from the start, to not get hurt down the track. Or maybe you are too afraid to open up to people on your own, so you give them the opportunity to look and see for themselves.





THE ANIMAL MASK


There is something within you that you are desperate to hide. Unfortunately, it isn’t so deep down that others can’t see it, so you wear the face of an animal just in case. If you slip up or reveal too much, you can blame it all on the beast. You are just in character, you say, merely playing a part . . . that’s all.

THE LACE/HALF-FACE MASK

You like to intrigue people and keep them on their toes. You maintain an air of mystery that only serves to entice people. They feel like they know you from the half-clear view they can see, but they don’t quite realize that you’re masking so much more beneath the thin veil covering your face.





THE ANONYMOUS MASK


You are a natural leader and like to control how others perceive you. More than that, you know how to influence how people see you, and this mask does the job just right. Perhaps it is the face of another, or perhaps it is a representation of one of your own many faces. Either way, you aren’t hiding behind the mask, merely using it to force people’s gaze.





THE PAINTED FACE


You are comfortable with who you are, and by manipulating the paint, you can highlight and accentuate the traits you want the world to see, front and center. No matter how vibrant or abstract that layer of color, it is entirely and completely you.





JULIAN BREAKS EVERY RULE





BY ANDREW SMITH


THIS IS NOT SPERM DAY


Steven Kemple would not die.

Maybe Steven Kemple wouldn’t die because I knew his real name. So every time I think of him, it’s always Steven Kemple, Steven Kemple, Steven Kemple. All my other victims—Crazy Hat Lady, Camaro Douchebag, Unfriendly Bicycle Meth Head—I just kind of naturally made up their names. This was Iowa, after all, and anonymity here was as rare as an ocean breeze. I preferred not to know anything at all about the strangers who lived on the streets around my house, especially the ones I’d killed.

Everyone else knew everything about everyone. That’s how small towns like Ealing are: we all go to the same church and the same school, shop at the same market, fire up the barbecues on the same days, shovel the same snow, step in the same dog shit.

And I hated Steven Kemple.

You probably already hate Steven Kemple, too, at least a little bit. You kind of hate the way his name sounds. And I haven’t even told you anything about Steven Kemple yet—about the oatmeal thing, or how he’d handcuffed me in my underwear to a drinking fountain when we were in middle school, or the party I had.

Who knows? Maybe Steven Kemple will die at the end of this story—which may or may not be foreshadowing.

Don’t skip ahead.

But the fucker would not die.

Last week—this was in biology class at Hoover High—my best friend, Denic, told me this: “You know what I hate most of all about you, Julian? You can break any rule and nobody gives a shit. You could fucking murder someone right here at school, and all the teachers would be like, ‘So what if Julian killed someone? We all love Julian.’ ”

In many ways, Denic was right. Also, it’s okay for guys to hate certain things about their best friends, like if you had a friend who was really, really good-looking and confident around girls, or if your friend, like me, could get away with anything.

I had always been like that—the getting-away-with-things part, not the confident and good-looking thing. I can’t explain it. I’d hate it, too, if I weren’t me. But you’re not allowed to. Your job is to hate Steven Kemple.