“Loser.”
I bristle at Alysa’s voice. Sitting back on my calves, I turn to look darkly at her. She narrows her eyes at me and shakes her head, gathering her long black hair at the nape of her neck and flipping it over one shoulder. Petting it like a ferret.
“Why don’t you crawl back into the hole you came from?” She says, then looks at Sarah standing to her right, and smirks. They’re matching in black yoga pants, white hoodies, and purple hairbands. I have the same outfit at home. Today is Yoga Thursday. Every week at four o-clock they go straight to hot yoga. I’d been the one to organize it the first week of school. It was supposed to be for the three of us. My gut turns as they roll their eyes and walk around me. I hear the buses drive out of the parking lot.
I know I should stand up for myself. I’ve heard all the sound bites. The anti-bully slogans. Be Happy – Bullies Hate It! Bullying is for Losers. All lies. I’m the loser. Seriously. Look at me. A senior kneeling in the middle of the school hallway fighting back tears because I missed my bus. Someone hand me a sucker and ask, ‘Where’s your mommy?’ and it’ll be complete.
“Are you okay?” I glance up to see the toque guy from this morning extending his hand. I groan. What little pride may have remained in reserve is officially depleted.
“Yeah. Thanks,” I mutter as he helps lift to me to my feet. We walk side by side. When he holds the door open I notice a tattoo on his left arm. A line of script that snakes around his forearm. I shift my eyes to his face. He’s looking intently at me, like he’s known me a lot longer than since this morning. It catches me off guard and I bang into the side of the door. Mercy.
“You missed the bus, too?” He asks.
“No. I have a drive home.” The lie rolls off my tongue effortlessly.
“Lucky you.” We stop at the end of the walkway. This is where I would wait if someone were to actually pick me up, so I drop my bag and look into the distance as if my drive will arrive any second.
“I had the worst day,” he starts, then looks sideways at me. “Well, maybe not the worst.” An awkward pause cues me to say something. Anything to alleviate the humiliating incident he’d witnessed minutes ago. I sigh.
“That honour probably goes to me today.” I look at my watch, wondering how long I have to pretend I’m waiting to be picked up. “You said you just moved here. Where were you before?”
“Brooklyn,” he replies.
“Really?” I stare at him, suddenly viewing him through a shiny lens of admiration. “Why would you leave New York City? No wonder you hate it here, living in this little pocket of dullsville.”
“My mom grew up in Toronto and wanted to come back to be closer to her family.”
“But Harristown is still a trek from Toronto. Not that Toronto is anything like New York City, but still, it’s better than here.”
He shrugs and kicks the toe of his shoe against the concrete. “A lot of shit happened last year. She needed a change. Brooklyn just wasn’t cutting it, anymore. But, me? I just want to finish high school and get out of here. How about you? What’s your story?”
“I don’t have a story. Born and raised here, the land of the lame.”
“So, girls just mess up other girls for the fun of it around here?”
“Something like that. I guess.”
“I saw that girl trip you. The mean one with the long black hair. Saw her take you down, then walk by. You didn’t say a word. Just sat there.” His brow wrinkles. You were pathetic. I’m sure that’s what he is thinking.
“Yeah, I know.” I twirl a strand of hair. This conversation is officially uncomfortable. “She’s my best friend, actually. But we’re not really getting along right now.”
“That’s your best friend?” he asks, incredulous. “I think you need new friends.” I breathe through my nostrils and slowly exhale. It’s slim pickings for me these days.
“Don’t you have to get home? Study the law of physics or something?” The words come out meaner than I’d planned. I watch a squirrel run circles around a tree, then race up its trunk.
“Ah, sorry,” he throws his bag over his back. “I didn’t mean to… what I mean is, if you feel like hanging out or something. I’m Demit, by the way. Not that you asked, but I’m in the book as the old folks used to say. The other book, now.” Silence hangs between us for a few seconds.
I cock my head. “In the book?” I ask.
“Phone book? Facebook? I mean… Forget it.” He shrugs as I stare at him. He’s a nice guy. I could use a bit of that in my life right now.
“I don’t go on Facebook anymore,” I finally say. “But I’ll see you around at school. My name is Lana.”
“Nice to meet you.” Demit lifts two fingers to his forehead, then taps a salute and turns. I watch his back as he travels down the street and disappears around a corner. Wait another few minutes before I start my own trek home so that he has a strong enough lead. I don’t get very far before a silver minivan slows and stops beside me.
“Hey Lana,” Stu says through his open window.
“You’re late.” Translation: Asshole.
“I had something. Don’t go all bitchy on me.” His thick brown hair is swept to one side. Lifting an eyebrow, he throws a dimpled grin my way. My mind registers his ridiculously handsome face but my heart is unmoved. I walk around the front of the minivan and open the passenger door to climb in.
“What about football?” I ask, buckling myself into the seat.
“Yeah, we don’t have much time,” he explains, shifting the gear into drive. “There’s a park up here. We’ll just have to use the backseat.”
“I’d rather go home.”
“Babe, I don’t have time. The van is fine.” I roll my eyes at his stupidity. I’d rather go home and crawl into bed. By. My. Self.
I’m quiet as he pulls into the park driveway and finds a spot under a huge oak. A mother is pushing a carriage past our van. I sink deep into my seat. Stu has already slipped to the back seat.
“What are you waiting for?” His voice is laced with urgency. Taking a deep breath, I climb between the two front seats to join him. There are so many things I’d rather be doing. Watching paint dry. Scrubbing pots. Unclogging a toilet. My hand lands on a sheet of paper, which I pick up to flick to the floor. A quick glance at it and my heart stops. A music sheet. The name ‘Melanie’ is written in red ink in the top right corner.
“You trying out for the school musical?” I ask, my voice a shard of glass. Stu tries to grab the paper. I pull away too soon and he misses. Scrunching it into a ball, I throw it in his face.
“Is that why you were late getting me? Trying to score with the hottie in grade eleven?” Lunging at him, I scratch the side of his face before he takes hold of my wrists and pins me against the seat. Demoniac. I’m the definition of demoniac right now. Bulging eyes. Smoke coming out of the ears. Guttural noises.
“After all I’ve done for you, this is how you treat me?” The words slither out and I want to strangle him with them. “Did you take a picture of her, too? Turn her into the next school slut? Let me guess, you’re too nice to do that to her! Only I get that special treatment.”
“Relax, Lana.”
The rage that I’d compacted neatly inside my rib cage over the past two weeks explodes. Relaxation is not an option. “Don’t tell me to relax!” I shriek. Stu releases my arm to reach past me and slide open the door. I grab his hair and pull as he shoves me off the seat and out of the car.
“Psycho!” He uncurls my fist from his hair then pushes me so hard I stumble to the concrete, scraping my knees. The door closes and the van peels away.
“It’s over!” I yell over the squeal of tires. The van stops. Stu opens the door. An apology? My backpack is tossed to the ground. Then he’s gone. And I’m left with a handful of brown hair and a long walk home.
***
They say walks are good for you. It turns out they’re right, whomever they are. It takes me forty-five minutes to get home. Just
my luck that Stu picks a park in the opposite direction of my house. Inconsiderate jerk. I’ve called him every curse word I could think of, exhausting my supply and resorting to making up new ones. That took up the first half of my autumn stroll. But it’s hard to stay angry. I wonder if there’s a natural limit to how long we can be door-slamming, curse-screaming mad. For me? Seems to be about twenty minutes. It was around that time when I reminded myself of the new Lana rules. Be nice. Don’t judge. Don’t swear. (Not sure I’ll ever master that last one.) Which is why Stu is an inconsiderate jerk, instead of that long, curse-laden name I made up at the start of the walk.
By the time I turn onto my street, I’m even thinking that I may have overreacted to the music sheet. If I hadn’t tried to scratch his eyeballs out, he might have had an opportunity to explain why it was there. It is possible that he has a perfectly good explanation. Although it’s a desperate thought. One of many I’ve had over the past two weeks. And then there’s the whole issue of me telling him it’s over. I’m troubled by that. Not sure that I’m ready to let go of my final fabbie connection. Once he’s gone, it’ll be official. I’m a nobody.
Chapter 4
A Glimmer of Hope
The room is dark. I napped longer than I’d planned. A door slams downstairs and heavy shoes step across the hardwood floor. Dad is just getting home, which means it should be dinner soon. Without flicking on the light, I peel off my uniform and slip into pyjamas. I debate whether I want to venture downstairs or climb back under my covers. Opening my door a crack, I listen to their conversation.
“Where’s Lana,” Dad says. Clattering of dishes as he pulls out plates and cutlery for dinner.
“In her room. Where do you think?” Mom sounds irritable. “You took away her car. Do you think she wants to even see us?”
Fighting words. I grimace. So, the car was all Dad’s idea. Just as I suspected. I open the door a bit more and tiptoe to the top of the stairs.
“Did you tell her that?” His voice is gritty. “That this is all me? For Christ’s sake, Cynthia. You need to grow up, too. One kid is enough in the house.”
“How da-a-are you!” The way she draws out the word dare, I suspect she’s had a few. Helps explain why she was asleep on the sofa when I got home. Silence. More clatter. Microwave door opening and closing. Beeps. Hum.
“I don’t want to fight,” Dad’s voice is low. I strain to hear it. “Please, Cynthia. Put that away.” She’s having a drink. Microwave door opens and shuts.
“Don’t tell me what to do, Kevin.” Her voice is shrill.
“So you’ve spoken to Lana?” Dad uses his patient voice. Like he’s speaking to an eight-year-old. “Of course she’s going to be upset. I understand that. But it’s not just about teaching her to be more responsible. Which we are failing miserably at. It’s also about money. We can’t afford the car. We’re broke, for God’s sake. We spend more than I earn. Well, let’s be honest here. You spend more than I earn. The money tree has dried up. And fixing a beaten-up car that we couldn’t afford in the first place is just plain dumb.”
“Don’t start blaming me for everything.”
“I’m not… Forget it. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. Did you just open this bottle today? It’s empty.”
“Don’t you try changing the subject.”
I don’t want to hear anymore. Slipping back into my room, I quietly close the door. We’re broke. This would have crippled the old me who had a mental list of must-have items to slowly check off through the Fall. Coach purse, yoga pants, sparkly slip-on shoes, jeans, two bracelet charms. None of them matter now. My uniform, rumpled on the floor, is all I need these days. And comfy pyjamas.
I flip open my laptop. Click on Facebook. Stupid idea, of course. I’d last visited the site five days ago. There were fifty-seven notifications, kindly alerting me to a list of ‘we-hate-Lana’ comments and threats. That was partly my fault, though. I get it now. Lesson learned. Never try to defend yourself online. You can’t win.
I’m going online for one purpose only today. Delete my profile. My friend count has been dwindling. Seventy-three unfriended. The other seven hundred and three friends don’t know me beyond my selfies and ‘Aren’t I amazing?’ posts. Not that it stops them from taking a ride on the Lana-sucks-ass train. That’s the other lesson I learned. Don’t accept every friend request, especially those with photos of men in their thirties. Turns out they’re creepy.
A friend request is waiting. I haven’t had one of those in a while. Demit Solokov. A pocket of sweetness unwraps somewhere deep in my chest. I have a new friend. I click accept before remembering why I’d come online in the first place. Burying my embarrassment at being so smitten by a single friend request, I wallow in the pleasure of knowing somebody out there likes me. Then the reality of what I’ve done smacks me squarely on the forehead. I’ve just given Demit full access to my posts. Not. Good. Recommitting to my Facebook suicide, I click on settings when his name pops up on chat. He’s such a welcome change from the solitude, I respond immediately.
DEMIT: Hey Lana. Did ur ride come?
LANA: Yep.
DEMIT: Lucky u. Took me forever to walk home.
LANA: Its a long walk. Hate that.
DEMIT: U taking bus tomorrow?
LANA: O ya.
DEMIT: I’ll save u a seat.
LANA: Bus sucks. Almost as much as walking but what can u do?
DEMIT: Ya. I saw some of the mean girls on my way home. Drove by me. One of them gave me the finger.
WTF? Haters gotta hate.
LANA: Sounds like them, all right.
DEMIT: I know you call them friends, but that’s messed up. IMHO.
My mom opens the door. “Lana?” She peeks into my room.
“Hmm.”
“Can I turn on the light?” She doesn’t wait for a reply and the lights flick on. I quickly type my last message to Demit.
PIR. CWYL.
I type my cell number and shut the laptop before Mom gets too close.
“I know how upsetting it must be to lose your car.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So, I got you something.” A plastic bag rustles. “To sort of make up for it. I know it’s not your car, but…”
I’m silent. Dad just finished telling her that we’re broke and this is where she takes it? Beaming, she drops the bag on my bed, waiting for me to reciprocate her big fake smile.
“I don’t want it.”
“You don’t even know what it is.” Pulling the bag handles apart, she lifts the purse I’d begged her to buy all summer. Dropping it on top of my laptop, she waits, holding her breath.
I can’t remember why I wanted this. It’s a hideous pink with a gold buckle across the middle.
“I don’t need it. But, thanks.”
Mom grabs it and frames it between her hands like she’s on The Shopping Channel.
“All your friends will be jealous.” Wide-eyed, she looks at me, almost nervously, like I’m forgetting my line. Her shoulders hunched in expectation.
“Return it, Mom. We don’t have the money.”
“Of course we do. It’s just a little bag.” She drops it on my bed and runs her fingers through her short blonde hair, then smiles stiffly. “But, whatever you want.”
It’s hard to get Mom to act angry. It’s not in her repertoire because, believe me, she’s always acting. Wearing the smile. Making up for the acting career she never had. She’d moved to California before I was born to pursue her dream. The way she tells it, she scored a gig in a toothpaste commercial within two weeks of arriving in Hollywood. “Make your smile shine.” It was the first line she’d ever said in front of a camera, and everyone back home had been giddy with small town pride that she’d be the next big thing. Still says it every time someone takes a snapshot. Christmas dinners. Graduations. Amusement parks. Cocks her head to the side and smiles like she’s got the whitest teeth this side of the Atlantic. It had been both her debut and her pinnacle. Nothi
ng followed.
I found the video on YouTube a little while back. Finally got to see what all the fuss was about. Her long blonde hair is flipped back. Little red shorts, white tank top, and tanned shoulders. She walks toward a tall hunk of a man, sets her hands on his shoulders, and turns to flash her dazzling ivories. “Make your smile shine.” She looks beautiful. I’ve watched it hundreds of times, trying to pick out at least one feature that I share with her. We both have straight, white teeth. That’s about it. Thank you, braces and Crest Whitestrips.
“Mom?”
“Yes, Lana?”
“Why did you leave California?” It seems an odd time to ask about this, but I feel this pressing need to know her better. Like, right now. Tell me a bit about you, I think. And I’ll tell you a bit about me.
“You know why,” Mom says. “I missed your dad too much. He wouldn’t move south, so I came back.” Her voice is wooden. She’s either lying or sanitizing regret from her tone. “Then we got married.”
“Really? You missed him that much, eh?”
She stifles a yawn and stares past me. “It’s dinner time. Dad is waiting.”
***
Midnight. I can’t sleep. Pulling my phone out from under my pillow, I stare at the screen. Tap on messages. Tap on photos. Tap on Candy Crush. I should take up smoking. It would give my antsy fingers something to do. I wonder if Demit is awake. A clear act of desperation to be texting a guy I just met, but I like him. There, I admit it. I like the guy. So why should I feel weird about wanting to text him? I read the message he sent two hours ago.
Waddup?
I type in Hi and hit send, then stash the cell phone back under my pillow and try to forget about it, hoping it will force patience into my fidgety mind. My phone beeps. I’m so excited, I actually clap.
DEMIT: Hi Lana. Sup.
LANA: Cant sleep. U?
DEMIT: Doing homework still.
LANA: Yuck.
DEMIT: Why cant u sleep? Stressed out?
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