LOVE, HEATHER
A Novel
Laurie Petrou
For all the kids hiding in stairwells. I see you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Stevie took a piece of me; she became a piece of me. That’s what writing is. Yes, she’s fictional, but I’d like to thank her anyway, for helping me reconsider things I thought I knew or believed.
The first real person I’d like to thank is my dynamo agent, Martha Magor Webb, who is wise and kind and damn good at her job. I owe you such a debt, MMW.
Thank you to my editor at Crooked Lane Books, Chelsey Emmelhainz, who never once doubted this novel and to the whole Crooked Lane Books team: I am so happy we found each other. Thank you for all your tireless work.
To Helen Reeves, Plot Doctor, my continual thanks for asking frustrating questions that need answering.
Thanks to Elan Mastai, Duana Taha, Sandra Ingram, and as always, Nicole Bell, for reading early drafts that ranged from ramblings to ideas to half-formed concepts. Love and gratitude to Celeste Taylor and Carter Weston. Your insight was invaluable and means so much to me.
To my support system: my girlfriends and my family—immediate, extended, and chosen. To Mom and Dad and Mike and more. I thank my lucky stars that I have you all in my life.
And finally, first, and always: Eli, Leo, and Jay. Ours is a house full of books, stories, readers, and storytellers. Thank you for all of it. May it always be so.
It sits at the bottom of her bag like an anchor and a parachute, this thing that will hold her steady and set her free. Over and over, she reaches in and touches it, weighs it in her hand, feels its cool potential, its power. She withdraws. Not now. Not yet. The school buzzes around her. Laughing, joking, pushing, shouting. No one knows what she can do. No one has ever known.
MARCH
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Episode 65 00:00
Hello, cinephiles, FlickChick subscribers old and new! I’m back, bringing you the best in rants and raves about classic and contemporary films, basically anything that strikes my fancy. In this episode, we talk high school films. That melting pot of cool and cruel, that place that will change you for the better and worse. It’s where memories are made, right? In my mind, the very best high school movies are from the eighties and nineties. Of course, that might just be because of the clothes and music. Let’s dig in.
Lottie and I are in her room, listening to records. She is sitting on the floor with her eyes closed, and I am flopped on her red-and-blue-checkered bedspread, looking through a pile of albums. I look around me at the assorted piles of crap.
“God, your room is a disaster,” I say.
She doesn’t move, but chuckles. “I like to think of it more like a statement of self-expression. It’s like an art installation.”
“Uh-huh. And what’s that cup of juice on the dresser, a science experiment?”
You could chart my life from the things in this house like rings on a tree. Lottie lives on a nice street, just one over from mine but prettier, happier. Huge trees, houses from the eighties. She has a great tree house that her dad built when we were kids, I think to make up for the fact that neither of us has siblings.
Lottie is not some hipster who just got a record player. It was in this room before she was, like a dinosaur bone found in a cave. The room still has some of the relics of their life before they had Lottie: an embroidered wall hanging of a bright-yellow bird, a small painting of a little creek and some shadowy trees, and a big poster for Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon.”
Over the years, Lottie and I have combed through all of her parents’ old records, laughing at the covers and playing songs from unheard bands. Now she buys new vinyl, too, and she spent her birthday money on decent headphones—not wireless, but still good. I’ll come over sometimes and she’ll be sitting in the room hidden behind a pile of crap, and I have to follow the cord to locate her.
I flip through a book from a stack on her night table. She looks over.
“You can borrow that if you want. It’s really good.”
“Okay, maybe,” I say, knowing I won’t, tossing it back on the pile. Lottie’s into books the way I’m into movies—these have always been our “things.” “Stevie and her movies,” my mom proudly tells anyone who will listen, “and her best friend is a reader. Go figure.”
Sometimes Lottie will start reading a book while I’m there, and I’ll just go hang out with her mom. Half the dinners we have together I have helped prepare. I know where they keep their peeler and their measuring cups. My dreams take place in this house. I know its nooks and crannies, the scary basement that still has drawings on the unfinished drywall that Lottie and I did as kids, and the cupboard where all the board games are kept. I know the smell of her room like it’s part of me, and until she got taller than me, I used to see her closet as an extension of my own.
“Are you going to Paige’s Saturday night?” she asks me now, turning around.
“Yeah, for sure,” I say quickly, then pause, picking at a thread on her comforter. I have been nervously looking forward to it all week. I’ve never been to Paige’s before, but the way she says it, I kind of wonder if Lottie has been there already. The hierarchy of the high school status system is always shifting on me lately, and Paige is definitely higher on the ladder than either of us. I try to make up some ground. “I didn’t know you were, too,” I say. “That’s cool.”
“Yeah, she asked me ages ago,” Lottie says, turning back. “She told me to make sure to invite you.”
I nod and look at an old Dolly Parton album. “Yeah, no, she already told me. A while ago, actually.” Tit. Tat.
We don’t say anything for a bit, just listen to the record reach its end, the needle skipping over and over with a tic tic tic until Lottie gets up and presses the return button. The needle moves sleepily to its start position and I wonder when they were hanging out without me, what they were doing. I picture Paige telling Lottie to invite me, and wonder if it really was ages ago, and how long exactly.
We just started hanging out with Paige and her friends a few weeks ago. At one of the school dances, Lottie and I were standing like ninth-grade nerds off to the side, near the exit, when Paige walked in from outside and kind of lurched into us, spilling some Coke from a bottle she was carrying.
“Oops!” She laughed, while I shook out my sleeve. She smelled like booze, so I figured it wasn’t actually Coke. Breanne Davis called her over from a few feet away, where she was standing with a bunch of guys. Paige ignored her and came up really close to me with a pained look on her pretty face. “I am so sorry,” she said, her voice solemn. Lottie laughed, but not meanly, and Paige looked at her shyly and said, “Do you guys want some?”
“What the hell,” I said, and Lottie stared at me, surprised. I shrugged, taking a pull of the bottle. She grabbed it from me and did the same.
Woepine High is like every other school: there’s a hierarchy. The cool, the pretty, the athletic, the slim, and sometimes, if all else fails, the kids with hustle and brains and chutzpah—they rise to the top. If they are cruel, they punish people for what they wear and how they talk and who they hang out with. They troll kids behind the curtain, throw shade grenades in the backstage life of their little handheld war zones: on social. And if they are displeased, they will drop you, ghost you, and swipe you into nonexistence; they do things that no one can really put their fingers on, because they are slippery. But when they are nice, they bless you with a smile, a dazzling sparkle of glitter that you find later in the cuffs of your pants, pick out of your teeth, and choke on if you’re not careful. I know all this. I knew the risks of falling from a height if I tried to climb the ladder. And yet.
By the end of the night, we were dancing with Paige, Breanne, Aidan, and
a bunch of other popular kids I’d only ever watched from a distance. It was the best time I’d had so far in high school. We shared the drinks, hid from the teachers, stumbled into the bathroom laughing, danced until we were gasping and holding each other up.
“I like this girl!” Paige announced, holding my hand up to the others like a boxer who’d won a match. “She is so funny!”
And I preened in the spotlight in spite of myself, hamming it up, being a goof, being funny and fun and up for anything. I winked at Lottie, who rolled her eyes and laughed at me. She knows how insufferable I am. Our whole lives, it’s been me looking for a spotlight and Lottie calming me down. Lottie danced with her hair in her eyes, her long body bending and swaying; she was careless and happy and drunk. We walked home that night, the two of us, laughing at how funny life was. I mean, what were the chances that Paige would crash into us in the first place?
“They aren’t that bad,” I said, looking at Lottie’s flushed face. “I always thought they’d be total bitches, because … I dunno …”
“Yeah, they were cool. Who knew?”
And we grinned our rummy grins, the darkness of the night pouring out in front of us.
I woke up with my first hangover, and thought it had been a one-time thing, spending the evening with those people, but then I got some texts from Paige. I guess I’d given her my number. She sent a lot of barfing emojis that made me smile to myself like I’d gotten a gift. That one night turned into others, and they’re my friends now, and Lottie’s too. And yes, I know that it could be short-lived, that it could be pulled out from under us, but so far, so good, although it feels like Lottie has more leverage with them than I do.
Maybe it was a fluke that they happened to be together without me. Still, I hate being left out, and I have to remind myself to keep it in check. I think back on whether there were times when they asked me to do something and I couldn’t. There is a yawning space between me and Lottie. She hasn’t seemed totally herself lately. She’s quieter, distracted, and every time I ask, she says she’s fine. I dunno. Things seem different. I can’t get a read on her, and I feel a creeping uneasiness.
Lottie stretches her long arms over her head. She is tall and lanky, and she would make a great model or high jumper, not that she wants to be either. Her features are a bit weird, some people say: her nose is very long and straight, her eyes wide apart and kind of big, her lips unintentionally pouty. But people are noticing her, whenever we’re out together, and usually they look like they can’t quite make up their minds if she’s pretty or not. She has this exotic look about her, like a doll made of buttons and string, nothing exactly where it should be. My mom says she will grow into her face eventually and be a real looker. She also says using a brush wouldn’t kill her. Even now her hair is a pattern of knots running down her back like angel-hair pasta that’s been sitting on the stove too long.
She presses her hands on her lower back and lets out a groan. “I have a ton of homework.” She sticks out her tongue and rolls her eyes, and I smile.
“Yeah, me too. I should get going.” I remember when we would have begged her parents to let me stay later. I look at her, her face relaxed into something distracted and a bit sad. “You okay?” I ask.
“Hmm? Oh, totally, yeah.” A weak smile. Not totally okay. I know her enough to know this, but not why she’s not telling me.
“Okay … well, talk to you later,” I say.
She nods, grabbing her phone, already lost in whatever is on there—Paige?—as I leave her room. I catch my reflection in her mirror as I leave and see a girl, anxious and worried. I run a hand over my hair and shake off the feeling that a door is closing on me.
On my way out, I pass Lottie’s parents, who are sitting at the kitchen table, drinking wine and talking about something in low voices. Her mom, Mrs. Sherman—or, when we’re not at school, Rhonda—waves to me. Her short messy hair is sticking up all over, and her shirt is unbuttoned at the top. This is what it looks like when you unwind after teaching at a high school all day, I guess. None of the other kids get to see this version of her, and I like that. Except Lottie, of course. But I know Rhonda personally; they only know who they see in the classroom. She’s my homeroom teacher. Maybe most kids wouldn’t want their best friend’s mom as their teacher, but she’s more like my favorite aunt, or like a mom I sometimes wish my mom was like.
“You leaving, kid?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, looking at them both. Usually they invite me for dinner at this point, but there is an awkward moment when no one says anything and then Rhonda pushes her chair out and says, “I’ll walk you out.” She’s never “walked me out” before, and this weird formality seems like one more person just trying to get rid of me, like she doesn’t want to risk me overstaying my welcome.
Jacob smiles vaguely. “Bye, Stevie,” he says, his voice quiet. “Sorry, we’re just …” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but shrugs, and rubs his face.
I’ve never seen them like this; they are usually pretty cheerful and happy, at least for the most part. I mean, they’re not perfect. I’ve known them my whole life, so I’ve seen them grouchy and irritable with me and Lottie and each other. Sometimes Rhonda hangs out in the garage by herself late at night, the smell of weed and the sounds of Van Morrison wafting through the vents. Jacob says she has an artist’s temperament, which I guess means she sometimes gets really down and needs to hang out alone. Occasionally she goes on weekend “retreats,” whatever that means. But she always comes back smiling and refreshed, her old chipper self. As a couple, they are happier than most people I know. They laugh, they spend time all together as a family, they seem to actually enjoy each other.
But right now, there’s something in the air between them. Jacob gets up and leaves the kitchen. Rhonda watches him go, then looks back at me with a tight smile.
“Sorry, having kind of a serious talk here.” I don’t know what to say, but then she changes tack quickly, taking a big breath and blowing out her cheeks. “So!” she says brightly, “Everything good? Other classes at school treating you all right?” She follows me down a few stairs to the front door. What is going on?
“Oh yeah. A-okay.”
“You been hanging out with that Paige and her girl-boss Breanne, too?” Rhonda looks back toward the kitchen distractedly.
“What? Oh, ha. Yeah, a little, I guess.”
“Yeah, they’ve been coming around here to see Lottie. Well, Paige comes, mostly.”
“Oh yeah?” I put on my shoes and feel my face flush with jealousy, but I’m not even sure of whom. My house is so close, but Paige has never come by, and I am surprised that Lottie’s been having Paige over without me. My thoughts are interrupted by Rhonda’s chatter.
“Are they good people? I mean—are they ‘our people,’ Stevie?” She laughs. “I don’t want you or Lottie running with a bad crew.”
Rhonda has always treated me like one of the family, so of course she’s looking out for me. These parents are like better versions of my own, and Lottie has always been like my sister. For good or bad, up and down, we’ve just always been together. Our parents are friendly, if not friends, and for our whole lives they’ve driven or walked us together to sleepovers and dentist appointments, to movies and parks. I have gone stretches of having dinner at Lottie’s house more than my own, and when my dad left two years ago, Rhonda and Lottie doted on me like I’d lost a limb.
A couple of months ago we were all playing a semiregular round of Settlers of Catan—Rhonda, Jacob, Lottie, and me—and Lottie and I teamed up to beat them, using whispered strategies and hard-won tactics. Rhonda threw up her cards in defeat and said, “You beat us again! God, you’re thick as thieves! Jacob, hide the valuables; I think they’re old enough to perform a coup.”
Lottie fist-bumped me and said, “Slinky.”
“Rex,” I said, both of us referring to our nicknames that had originated after our first viewing of Toy Story as kids.
Jacob started t
o disassemble the board and said, “I have seen our future, Rhonda, and it is bleak and involves us working for these two.”
That feels like a long time ago now.
Are they good people? Rhonda just asked.
I look up and say, “Yeah, they’re cool.”
“Yeah,” she says, almost to herself, “that’s what I’m afraid of.” She looks at me closely and cocks her head. “You okay, short stuff?”
Rhonda and her goddamn sixth sense.
“Yep, for sure.” I grin moronically, trying to reassure her. “I’m just a little tired.” I watch her taking in this excuse I’ve been trotting out to parents for years. I expect that she’ll push me on this, but then Jacob calls out to her in a flat voice:
“Rhonda? Are you coming back?”
She looks back up into the house and bites her lip. “Sorry, yep, I’m coming,” she calls, and turns to me, and looks like she’s forgotten what we were talking about.
“Well,” she says, hands on her hips. “Have a good night, Stevie. Don’t forget you can go your own way,” she says, quoting a Fleetwood Mac song that she never tires of singing to me. I look back toward the kitchen and see Jacob with his head in his hands. I don’t like the looks of this.
I smile at Rhonda. “Ha. Yes. Well,” I say, opening the door. “See ya tomorrow.”
“All right, kiddo. See you. Bright and early!”
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Episode 65 1:25
Friendships in the high school film arena are some of my favorites. You’ve got your jocks, your nerds, your goths and art freaks. Best friends are the glue that holds our heroes together and helps them navigate the social ladders, like Tai and Cher in Clueless and Cady, Janis, and Damian in Mean Girls. People always say that these will be the best time of our lives, and that the friends we make now will last a lifetime. Well, here’s hoping, right?
I love old films—the ones between 1975 and 1995 are the best. They are my passion. My raison d’être, but also the reason for my YouTube channel, FlickChick.
Love, Heather Page 1