When Everything Feels like the Movies (Governor General's Literary Award winner, Children's Literature)

by Raziel Reid

  “Why is it every time I see you, you’re even more roughed up?” he asked.

  “I don’t have a portrait in my attic,” I shrugged.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” I sighed, looking back out the window.

  “Your scar’s not so bad,” he smiled. “Makes you look tough.”

  I didn’t say anything, and he took another sip of his coffee. I waited for him to slurp like Ray, but then remembered that my dad never slurped. He swatted me across the head when I was little because I was grating my teeth against my fork. He was crazy about table etiquette. I used to resent him for it, but I figured it would come in handy when I was in Hollywood, going to dinner parties in Beverly Hills with socialites and trust-fund hipsters.

  “Your mom says she kicked him out,” my dad said.

  I felt the blood dripping down the side of my wrist. “Like that’ll last.”

  “Yeah,” he nodded, tapping his fingers even harder. “I wanted to give you something,” he said, reaching into his pocket as Brooke brought us our toast and packets of jam. Once she was gone, he put an envelope in front of my plate.

  “Open it,” he said.

  It was a cheque. It wasn’t a fortune, but it was more than I had ever seen from him and enough to get me to Los Angeles in the back of a limousine. Arrivals are everything.

  “What is this for?” I asked.

  “I missed a few birthdays,” he said, silently biting into his toast. Not a single crumb fell onto the plate in front of him.

  “You missed all of them. How did you get it?”

  “It doesn’t matter how I got it. I got it for you.”

  “Stolen car parts?”

  “Don’t be a little shit,” he said, lowering his eyes and looking offended.

  “You don’t have to buy me,” I told him.

  “Good. Don’t be like your mother, only feeling beautiful when she’s being bought.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t expect me to put this into a college fund or something.”

  “No, you’re probably going to beauty school, right?” He looked right at me and didn’t say it exactly mockingly, but I still felt like I should be ashamed.

  “A cosmetologist? As if,” I said. “I’m most stereotypes, but not that one. Do I look like the help?”

  “No,” he sighed. “Just like you need it.” He looked down at his plate, and I couldn’t tell if he was being serious, but it didn’t matter; he was already starting to space out. “Use the money for whatever you want,” he said. “Just don’t blow it. Or blow it if you want. It’s yours.”

  I looked at him, and he took a bite of his toast, and I didn’t know what to say.

  “Thank you,” I finally said, folding the cheque and slipping it in my pocket. The action line in the screenplay told me to smile, but I ignored it.

  We finished our toast and then got back in his truck. His visits were always ephemeral; he didn’t get much screen time because he was terrible at remembering his lines and always missed his cue. He would hold up production, or stop it all together.

  The radio played as we drove, but we didn’t say much. He lit a cigarette and unrolled the window as I relaxed in my seat with blood dripping down my arm. I just kept thinking about how the truck drivers in the Day-n-Nite hadn’t checked me out once. I felt so ugly when I wasn’t being desired.

  My dad pulled up to the driveway of the house, and before I got out I said, “See you soon,” which felt like such a stupid thing to say. Fire the screenwriter! He took a drag of his cigarette and rested his elbow on the window.

  “See ya later,” he nodded.

  I didn’t watch him drive away.

  My mom and Keefer were sitting at the kitchen table when I walked in the house. Keefer was eating a PB&J, and my mom was circling listings in the newspaper with nail polish in “I’m Not Really A Waitress” red.

  “Job hunting,” my mom said as I sat down at the table. “I don’t want to be like Ginger Rogers, dancing beyond my prime.”

  “All you want is to be Ginger Rogers, Mom. But it’s okay. Who doesn’t?”

  “Who’s Ginger Rogers?” Keefer asked.

  “I didn’t expect you to be home so soon,” my mom said. “Is he gone?”

  “I guess.”

  “He didn’t say?”

  “Who’s Ginger Rogers?” Keefer screamed.

  “A dancer,” I said.

  “A dancer?” He stuck out his tongue, which was covered with peanut butter. “I don’t want to be a stupid dancer.”

  “No one said you had to be.”

  “You didn’t ask him?” my mom asked, touching up her nails now.

  “Did too! You said everyone wants to be Ginger Rogers.”

  “He’s gone, Mom,” I said. “What else is there?”

  The next morning, I went to the bank. The cheque didn’t bounce. I stared at the balance until the numbers blurred. My fingers were so damp that they made the deposit slip transparent. I thought about putting my mom’s tips back on her dresser, but I figured I needed them. My dad’s money would barely cover my first Hollywood overdose. I didn’t feel guilty about taking my mom’s tips; I guess I thought she’d probably want me to have them, once I was really there and she knew I wasn’t coming back.

  I wanted to tell her I was going, but couldn’t. She’d never let me go, and I had no choice. I felt like I was being summoned. Like my whole life had been leading up to this point. Like I had to deal with so much hate just to make my skin thick enough so that the spotlight wouldn’t burn.

  I walked from the bank to the bus station and bought the ticket. The night bus out of town on Friday, February 12. I’d leave right after the Valentine’s dance. My A-list farewell party.

  When I got home, I put the ticket in the shoe box filled with singles under my bed, checking every couple minutes to make sure it was still there. I sat on the edge of my bed listening to Bronski Beat’s “Smalltown Boy” on repeat. Even leaving town was a cliché, but I didn’t care. I had been typecast in utero, and I was going to get an Oscar if it cost me my life.

  I was too excited to sleep, so I went for a walk at night and ended up on the side of the highway. I hadn’t realized how far I had gone until I looked up and saw the Welcome sign. It was chipped, and the wood was rotting. One look at it and you’d slam on your brakes and turn right around.

  It said “Welcome to hell.” Someone had crossed out the name of our town and spray-painted “hell” in red letters over it. I laughed, imagining my grandma’s expression when she saw it.

  It was snowing, and I could hardly see. It was like the air was white. But I could see the letters on the sign, dripping like blood. The snow was so deep it was pulling me under, seeping into my boots. I looked down the highway. It was a long black stroke of ink that told a never-ending story. I stood and I waited, and every time I saw a pair of headlights through the storm, I was sure it was him.

  17

  Hidden Feature

  “Lisa’s gone vegan,” Mr Dawson said. “Care for a pita and hummus?”

  “Sure,” I shrugged, taking his brown paper lunch bag. “What are you going to eat?”

  “I’ll run down to the cafeteria once the line dies down.”

  “Why does she want you to be vegan?”

  “Because she think it’ll make me—” He stopped and smiled. “Because she thinks it’ll help us conceive.”

  “Really?”

  “She read that vegan men have stronger sperm.”

  “A baby?”

  “Yes,” he laughed, “a baby.”

  “But think about how horrible it’ll be to wake up every morning and think about someone else before you think about yourself.”

  “You don’t think that would be liberating?”

  “Because then who’s thinking of you?”

  “I think it’ll be a nice reprieve.”

  “But if no one is thinking about you, then do you exist?”

  “What?”

  “It’
s like, the cat is dead and alive, but if you never think about it, it’s like it was never even there.”

  “Has Mr Hurst been drinking before physics again?” he laughed.

  “Hey, guess what?” I asked. “I’m ready to move to Hollywood and sell my soul to the devil! Will you miss me?”

  “Still on Hollywood, huh? Fame is your generation’s AIDS.” He leaned back in his chair and started playing with his tie. “But I’m glad you have a dream, Jude. I just wish you’d leave the devil out of it.”

  “Not possible,” I said. “Just ask the Kartrashians.”

  “Well, only a few more years and you’ll be free to move to L.A., where you can ask Kris Jenner for tips on how not to smudge while writing in blood on the dotted line.”

  “Ah, reality-show contracts,” I sighed. “But I’m not waiting. I’m way too interesting to wait.”

  “So what’s the plan then, you hitchhiking on out of here?”

  “No, I don’t want to get killed before I get there—my stalker would be so disappointed. I bought a bus ticket.”

  “Really?” Mr Dawson asked. “When are you going?”

  I was about to tell him everything; how they were rolling out the red carpet for me as we spoke. But I didn’t because, suddenly, I knew he’d try to stop me. He’d call my mom. He’d tell himself he was doing it because it was the right thing to do, but really, it’d be because he didn’t want to see me go. “Just for a couple days,” I said quickly. “I’m going to see my dad.”

  “You’ve never mentioned your dad before,” he said, like he already didn’t believe me. “Where are you staying?”

  “The Chateau Marmont, of course.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah,” I nodded, even though I knew I had gone off script.

  “With your dad?” he asked, and we were just improvising now.

  “Yeah, he’s a movie star. A really famous one.”

  Mr Dawson didn’t say anything, didn’t even blink.

  “He was filming a movie around here, that’s how he met my mom,” I said, and I could see it. I could believe it. My Hollywood father with wavy blond hair and chestnut eyes. “He had to keep me out of the tabloids because he had a wife at the time. America’s sweetheart, you know—the whole deal. She was in the movies too. So I never really got to see him much. But this is going to make up for it.”

  “Sounds like a dream,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I smiled, believing it, really believing it. I looked out of the window. It felt like it had been snowing forever. “So what are you and Lisa doing for Valentine’s Day?” I asked.

  “Not much, I’m afraid. We’ll have to try and squeeze something in. She has to work on the weekend, and I’m chaperoning the dance on Friday. The school was short on volunteers.”

  “I’ll save you a dance,” I said, and he chuckled as he stood up, grabbing his wallet off his desk.

  “I’m going to run down to the caf,” he said. “Hopefully the hormone-raging freaks will be eating their hormones, not waiting in line for them.”

  “Are you going to get the chubby cancer burger?”

  “No,” he shook his head from the doorway. “I think I’m in the mood for a ham and disease.”

  He left the classroom, and I was sitting alone when I saw Angela and Luke walk past the door. They didn’t notice me, but I almost fell out of my desk because I hadn’t seen Angela since we were at the Day-n-Nite with Keef. I called and texted her, but got no reply. She’d been skipping the classes we had together.

  I understood why she was ignoring me. It was easier. I thought maybe I should just let her push me away, but I couldn’t. I loved her too much. So I stuck my head out the door and was about to call her name before she turned down the stairwell. But someone pressed pause, and I remembered what she’d told me.

  “I would never do that to you,” she’d said.

  I followed them. I ran to my locker, got my coat, and stepped in their footprints as they cut through the field to Luke’s house. They didn’t turn around once. I almost wanted them to because then I could stop following them. I’d already know, I’d see it all over their faces.

  When they reached his house, I stayed back and watched them go through the front door. I waited behind a tree and then walked up the front steps. An icicle hung from the roof and dripped onto my head. I looked through the window but couldn’t see anyone inside. Breaking and entering isn’t as glamorous as a DUI, but I thought maybe I’d start a new trend. I took a deep breath and opened the door, stepping inside. They were already upstairs.

  The house looked different without people partying in it. It felt warm, and not just because I was coming from outside; it smelled like leftovers, like meat and potatoes. The carpet needed to be vacuumed. There was taxidermy mounted on the walls. The fridge was covered with pictures and magnets. A schnauzer stood up from its mat near the back door, and I was worried it was going to bark, but it just wagged its stumpy tail.

  Hearing them together upstairs wasn’t enough. Maybe I was a masochist; I wanted to know without a shred of doubt. I’d hold onto the pieces and keep trying to put them together.

  Careful not to make any noise, I slowly climbed the stairs. I didn’t have to go all the way up. I could see them through the banister. Luke’s bedroom door was open, and they were on the unmade bed. His hand ran up her back and undid the snap of her bra. Angela’s nipples were pierced. He grabbed one with his hand and put it in his mouth. Her head fell back, her eyes closed, and her mouth opened. If she moaned, I didn’t hear.

  I ran back down the stairs and out the door, leaving it open behind me. I could hear the dog barking all the way down the block.

  I didn’t drop to my knees, gasping for breath, until the director called “Cut!” and everything faded to black.

  18

  Rewrite

  W hen I got home, I found all the pictures of Angela I had, including the pictures she had taken of me, and started burning them with my lighter, letting them turn to ash on the basement floor. I thought watching her burn would be satisfying, but it just made me sad. I couldn’t hate Angela. If it hadn’t been for our friendship, I wouldn’t have had anyone to write my suicide letters to.

  When my head healed from Matt’s skateboard attack and I got out of the hospital, I don’t think I would’ve been able to show myself at school if I hadn’t known Angela would be by my side.

  Before the first day back, I put a ton of makeup over my scar, trying to make it disappear. No matter how much vitamin E I had rubbed on it, it was still purple. I thought about giving myself bangs, but decided I’d rather be teased about the scar.

  My mom was home from work and still awake. She was standing in the kitchen smoking a cigarette when I came upstairs. She asked if I wanted breakfast and pointed to a box of cereal on the table. I could hear Keef watching cartoons in the living room. I told her I wasn’t hungry. She nodded and offered to drive me to school. I told her I wanted to walk and she didn’t say anything, but I knew what she was thinking. The cigarette between her fingers burned, the ash grew long. She hugged me before I left, but I didn’t hug her back. My whole body stiffened. I didn’t look at her because she was crying, and I was embarrassed that she’d stayed awake for me.

  I met Angela outside the Day-n-Nite. She was sitting on the sidewalk, making more rips in her tights with a razor that had dried blood on it.

  “Nervous?” she asked.

  I shook my head but could tell she didn’t believe me.

  We smoked a joint as we walked the rest of the way to school, but it just made me paranoid. Angela was chill. Her head was back and she smiled with her eyes half-closed behind her orange-tinted glasses.

  Nothing out of the ordinary happened in the morning. People stared and talked about me, but I was used to it. I told myself I was Lilo. People always stared and talked about me. When I was in line for a juice in the caf, the girls behind me talked about me like I wasn’t standing right in front of them.

  “
I thought he killed himself?” they said, sounding disappointed.

  Colin cut up his eraser into tiny pieces and threw them at me all through math whenever Mrs Kennedy turned her back. I sat so still I wasn’t sure I was alive. A piece of eraser whipped my ear and it stung, but I didn’t react.

  I loved my haters.

  At lunch, a big crowd hung around the bleachers. They all turned and stared as I walked by with Angela, who was smoking a cigarette. Luke looked down so that he didn’t have to look at me, and Matt yelled, “Whoever helped you to the hospital should be shot!”

  I stopped and turned around. Angela said, “Fuck him, Jude,” and rolled her eyes.

  “You should’ve been left to die,” Matt said, shaking his head and laughing.

  “Eat shit,” Angela snapped, flipping him off.

  I waited for Luke to look at me, but he didn’t.

  “Say goodbye to your friend,” Matt taunted Angela, making his hand into a gun and pointing it in my direction.

  Angela would have jumped onto the bleachers and strangled Matt if I had let her. That’s why reducing her to ashes didn’t appease my rage. I gave up on her, taking Luke’s grade school photo off my mirror instead.

  I flicked the lighter in my hand, on and off, losing myself somewhere between light and darkness.

  I kissed the picture, then held the flame to the edge and watched it burn.

  I wanted to kiss it again, once he was gone. But it was too late.

  He was already ashes.

  I fell asleep on the cutting room floor and woke up with fragments of Luke and Angela stuck to my cheek.