“Hiii, Stevie’s fans!” My mom waves into my computer screen every time she knows I’m working on a video. She doesn’t seem to get that I edit her out later or that no one knows my actual name on there. I don’t really tell anyone about my channel. It’s like I have my own little YouTube secret identity, where I can live out all the movie obsessions I have.
Sometimes Mom rifles through my movies, which used to be hers, holding them up and offering her nonexpert opinions. “Oh, this one is soooo good,” she might say, and then yell, “‘Give my daughter the shot!’” in her best Sally Field voice, shaking the Terms of Endearment cover. My mom and dad and I used to watch movies all the time—tons of them from every genre, starting with their own pretty substantial stash, then moving beyond that. We had movie marathon nights where we binged on everything from well-known rom-coms to cult classics to more contemporary stuff. Mom’s favorites were always the cheesy romances and tearjerkers, but she also loved a good Friday the 13th sequel. She would dig her nails into my arm and scream at every predictable scary part. She grew to love Carrie after many screenings.
I’ll never forget her saying the last time we watched it, “Poor girl. She had no choice. They forced her hand.” She even helped me transform an old white dress we found at the Woepine Benevolent Fund into Carrie’s blood-stained gown for Halloween one year. Our bathroom floor still has red in the grout between the tiles.
It felt weird at first, having a “family movie night” without my dad, but Mom tried so hard to make it fun. She went all out. Bought so many kinds of popcorn that we both felt sick halfway through the movie.
Once, she got a “Detention Pack” of DVDs for cheap, featuring Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Some Kind of Wonderful, Heathers, and The Breakfast Club. We laughed at it but watched them all the time, quoting the movies at each other, singing the songs in snippets, making references that no one else got. Mom’s a hairdresser, with a salon in our basement, so sometimes she and I would get right into it: she’d crimp and style our hair like the eighties, hair-spraying it so much we could hardly breathe. During that time, whenever one of us wanted in the bathroom, the other would shout, “Keep your tits on!”—our fav line from Carrie.
Sometimes, in those early days, I felt guilty that Dad was missing out, but I figured I could stay at his place and have a movie night there whenever he wanted.
“Eleanor’s dying to get to know you better,” he told me, about his girlfriend, “and there’s a pull-out couch for you if you want to stay over.”
It’s never really worked out for me to do that yet. They’re busy running a coffee shop together a bus ride away from here, in his new place in Hamilton. But Eleanor’s nice, from what I remember. She’ll probably make a great mom when they decide they want to start a family together, which Mom has been preparing me for from the get-go: “Trust me, that child bride of his will want to have a baby,” she says, and I remind her that they’re not married, and she says, darkly, “Yet.”
When he left, he made a big speech about how he and Mom never went anywhere, never traveled, never went to Europe or museums or art shows. He didn’t ever strike me as the kind of person who liked art, especially if you took his clothes into account, although he does wear a slouchy toque pretty often now. Mom said the gig was up later when it was discovered that he had a “lady friend” who happened to work with him. I don’t know if they go to a lot of art galleries; when he comes to visit every few months, we mostly just go to Boston Pizza. I kind of feel sorry for him, but I miss him, too. I liked having him around, liked how he always joked with me, and tickle-tackled me as a kid. He was like having a much older brother, and then he was gone, having his own life. He texts me though and calls sometimes, and it’s like hearing from an old friend from camp. He’ll ask about Mom and tell me that Eleanor says hi. It always makes me smile, and we talk about how we should see each other, but then it fizzles out. He never seemed to mind that we did family stuff without him. If he called when we were watching a movie, he’d laugh and tell me he missed me and to call him when it was over.
Still, it was good when it just was us at home, before I started high school, before she started dating, before everything changed. Mom works from home, cutting hair in our basement in a room she’s outfitted with all her hairdressing gear. I could always count on her to be at home for me when I wasn’t at school or Lottie’s. It felt like it was the two of us against the world, hanging out and having movie nights. Sometimes Mom says we should do it again, but it never happens anymore. She’s hardly ever home. I started my own channel a couple of years ago so I can talk about films with other people like me out there. It fills up the time when there’s no one else around. It’s not totally the same, but it’s something.
I send the latest episode of FlickChick out into the world and get dressed for Paige’s.
I text Mom, who is on a date with a guy she’s been seeing.
Hey mom. Going out. Won’t be too late
Kk hun. Think u will like this guy!!!!!! U can meet him soon! Where r u going?
W lottie to a friends house
Have fun. Can’t wait for u to meet new guy. He’s amazing
I don’t have high hopes for whoever my mom is dating this time. Ever since she put herself “back out there,” she has sent so many versions of that text—YOU’RE GOING TO LOVE HIM! HE CAN’T WAIT TO MEET YOU!—telling me the guy is a real winner and maybe the one, but they’ve all turned out to be douchebags. I feel bad for her. Her taste in men is shit, but mostly because she doesn’t have high enough standards. Even my dad, who I have to have some loyalty to, is honestly a bit of a loser sometimes. This new guy’s name is Reg, like in Riverdale, and that’s how I picture him, as the kind of guy no girl with a brain would like. I mean, maybe I’ll end up being wrong, but I bet I’m not.
I ride my bike over to Lottie’s house so we can go to Paige’s together. I ring the doorbell and wait, scrolling through Instagram until I hear the door opening.
“Hey kid,” Rhonda says, smiling. “Lottie’s already left for Paige’s.”
“Oh …” I say, dumbly. I just assumed we’d head over at the same time and now feel stupid.
“You guys get your signals crossed? Hard to imagine,” she laughs, gesturing at my phone, “since that thing is like another appendage.” Her voice softens. “Sorry, hon. Did Lottie say she’d be here?”
“No, no. It’s okay. I’ll just meet her there.” I smile and turn around, grabbing my bike by the handlebars.
I’ve never been to Paige’s house before, but she pinned it on a map in the text, so I study it on my phone before hopping on my bike and heading in the direction of the newer developments in the suburban maze of our town. The wind is whipping through my jean jacket, and my hands are getting cold, so I’m relieved when I find that it’s not that far. But her neighborhood feels like a different planet. Even the streetlights are stylish—they stand up straight like skinny supermodels with their noses in the air. The houses are big and the lawns have short green grass without any crap lying around on them. I pull my bike into her driveway and lean it carefully against the brick of the house.
“Fancy …” I murmur under my breath as I push the doorbell and a series of chimes ring out.
Paige opens the door while yelling and laughing at something over her shoulder. She glances at me, smiles, and gives me a singsongy “He-ay.” She turns around, disappearing into the house, her hair swinging at her back. I quickly kick my shoes off and follow her into the basement, which is huge and loud with music.
There are a bunch of kids there from school; I recognize a few of them, including this new girl, Dee, who I’ve been seeing around. She’s leafing through a paperback from a bookshelf behind her, ignoring everyone else. She doesn’t say much, like she’s too cool or something, but always seems to be watching, judging. She looks at me now and holds my gaze until I look away.
People are sprawled on chairs and sofas, arms and legs all over each other, hanging on and off on
e another’s words and bodies. Lottie is there, sitting on a couch and talking to some blond jock, laughing. I try to shake off the hurt feeling of her coming without me, but it’s got teeth and won’t go so easily. She looks so comfortable, and I wonder again if she’s been here before, and when, and what she and Paige did together, and why they didn’t ask me. God, why do we do this? I consider leaving, cutting my losses and bolting, but then I look at Lottie again, and a spurt of competitive juice surges in me. She waves briefly, happily, when she sees me, and then turns back to the guy.
If she can do this, I can. I get a couple of nods and some blank faces, and I sit on the floor and try to act normal. Maybe this is my chance to branch out a little, to reinvent myself, or at least experience a taste of what all those eighties movies were getting at. I look bored and bob my head to the music.
I am nothing if not an overachiever. I have always gotten top marks, excelled at everything I decided I wanted, even if it elicited eye rolls and exchanged looks. Me, Stevie, holding up an award with a shit-eating grin: that is the essence of every photo in our house. Lottie, on the other hand, has some kind of genetically blessed blasé, an effortless ease that has only ever made me look like I am trying too hard. You can’t really overachieve while being cool, which is the terrible paradox for people like me, but I’ll be damned if I won’t give it a go. I’m here, aren’t I?
Nothing really seems to be happening, but everything matters. We watch YouTube on the gigantic TV, one video leading to the next, from silly to gross, unpredictable to funny and back again. People call out vids, take over, type in their favorites. I laugh loudly and throw out a couple of corny jokes. I relax, sort of. I drink a beer handed to me and try not to worry that they’ll find my channel, which I keep pretty secret from my real life. I wonder if Lottie has ever mentioned it, or if she will. I mean, not that I’m hiding it, but I don’t publicize it to anyone else in my real life. What would they say if they learned I have a super-geeky cinephile channel that I’ve been operating since I was twelve? I sip my beer and keep my eye on the exit. People scream and laugh. Someone spills a beer on a rug, and Paige freaks out, and there is momentary drama. I catch Lottie’s eye and she laughs and shrugs, and so do I. Easy peasy.
Breanne is there. She’s Paige’s best friend, I guess, but sometimes it’s hard to tell. She is the unspoken grand pooh-bah of this gang. Paige is more like her second in command than her friend, it seems.
“You look different,” I hear her say to Paige, who kind of freezes.
“What do you mean?”
Breanne purses her lips and cocks her head. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re just tired.”
Paige’s hand goes to her face. She is pale and delicate and looks like you could blow her over.
“Or maybe it’s just me!” Breanne laughs. “God, I have been up for practice like every morning at five.”
Breanne is on the rowing team. Her toned arms, sun-kissed hair, and freckled face—she’s like Athlete Barbie. Sometimes she arrives in the cafeteria with her teammates after a competition, laughing loudly and cheering. They’re celebrities.
Paige smiles weakly and asks if anyone wants anything. Lottie swallows the end of her beer and raises the can, shaking it back and forth. She is so comfortable here. Not like—
“Stevie?” I hear someone say, and I look around and it’s Breanne, smiling, and everyone is laughing. I didn’t hear what she said, but I laugh, too, taking a sip of beer, feeling my face go red to my ears.
Paige scoots back into an oversized chair and snuggles up under the arm of her boyfriend, Aidan. She keeps swatting away his hand when he grabs her boob. He laughs at her and does it over and over again. He looks over and winks at me. I grin like we’re friends in on the joke, but then kind of hate myself for it, because he seems like that kind of likable asshole who can get away with anything. But I’m working so hard here, determined to fit in. Anything goes.
And then, in a moment straight out of a movie, someone suggests we play truth or dare. There is oohing and ahing and giggling, and I say, maybe a little too loudly, “Oh yeah!” and everyone laughs.
I catch Breanne’s eye and she stonewalls me, then switches gears and says, all bubbly, flipping her hair, “Okay, let me go first!” She points a hand at Aidan, who hams it up, pretending to choke on his beer, and she demands, in a booming voice like some evil queen, “Truth or dare?”
“Truth, always truth,” he laughs, shrugging at this no-brainer.
Breanne strokes her chin, appraising him. Someone tells her to bust his balls, and another says, “Go get ’im, Bree!” She looks around the room now, sizing everyone up. I squirm a little when her eyes rest on me but hold her gaze, smiling. She nods now, arriving at a question.
“Okay, okay, Aidan,” she says, and there is nervous giggling. “Do you vow to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
He puts one hand on his heart and another on his crotch. “I swear,” he deadpans.
“Okay.” She leers at him, then darts a glance at Paige. “Where is the most public place you’ve had sex?”
A whoop blows up in the room, and I notice that Paige looks uncomfortable, like she is actually shrinking. He looks at her with a scamp’s smile before saying, “Sorry, baby, but this is for research purposes. Gotta be honest.” There is a long pause, then, “And I can honestly say that the supply closet in the art room is very small but does the job. Or … has enough room so someone can do the job.”
Everyone is howling, except Paige, who has stood up and left the room, which just provokes more laughing, and Aidan shrugs, his hair falling in his eyes. Breanne nods her approval, sitting down with her long legs open, her elbows resting on her knees. She lazily gestures to him, a queen on a throne; it’s his turn. He surveys the room, hardly noticing when Paige returns and sits somewhere else. His eyes rove around, and I see them rest on Lottie, and he smiles wickedly. She throws her head back in acceptance, defeat, groaning. He lifts a finger and points at her. “You know the drill, blondie. Truth or dare.”
Lottie sighs and sits up, ready. “Okay, fine. Fine, you know what? Dare. Let’s go,” she laughs, making a come at me, bro gesture with her arms.
Without missing a beat, Aidan says, “Kiss that girl.” He jerks his thumb at me over his shoulder without looking at me. Unmistakably me. Lottie’s eyes bug out and then close in exaggerated agony. I feel the sound of the room, the wild booming commotion surge in my ears and then quiet.
“You are such a pervert, McFear,” I hear someone say, as from a distance. It is Aidan’s nickname version of his last name, McPhearson.
I am suddenly standing. An opportunity, a stage, a chance, held out to me like a bright thing. Lottie is still on the couch, looking horrified, when I raise a beer bottle to my lips and take a long haul while the room cheers. I cock my head at her, challenging, waiting. I’ve won already, before she knew it was a contest.
Lottie drags her feet, her eyebrows up up up, moving slowly toward me.
“Come on, I won’t bite,” I say, swaggering like a cowgirl, bravado making my cheeks sweat with the glow of the perfect spectacle.
I catch the eye of Dee, still in the corner, sitting up now, paying attention, her eyes full of a kind of lusty fire you only get from these charged moments. She tips her head, a smirk of approval on her face.
When she’s in front of me, a foot away, Lottie, my oldest friend, my sister from another mister, closes her eyes and purses her lips in a grimace. I seize my opportunity by robbing her of her own. Grabbing her face, taking my cues from all my favorite movies, I plant a passionate, juicy kiss on her, making her arms fling out in surprise. With a smacking sound, I pull back, and over the riot in the room, I look at Aidan and shout, “My name. Is Stevie.”
3
Episode 65 2:10
The thing about female friendships is the intimacy. It’s not all chummy-chummy-back-slapping bro culture. It’s deep. It’s real. Intense. They go from 0 to 1
00 in no time and can fall apart just as fast. They are allies and competitors, each other’s biggest fans and liabilities. And, at least in the movies, friends urge the heroes on, push them to do things they maybe wouldn’t have done otherwise.
Sunday: It’s probably too cold to be at the skate park, but Lottie and I go anyway, pushing our skateboards along the sidewalks on our way, making that rhythmic and satisfying kajunk over the cracks as we go. We’ve been going there since we were old enough to explore the town beyond our streets.
We don’t say much for a while, and I need to break the silence.
“Dude, I had to do something! It was just a joke.”
“No, I know.” She laughs. “I know.” We exchange looks and she smiles. “You freak.”
I laugh, relieved.
I wish I’d worn gloves. I stick my hands in my hoodie pockets. Lottie sniffs a few times, then wipes her nose on her sleeve.
“Who was that guy you were talking to last night?” I ask.
“Oh. Um, Luke. He’s a junior. He’s cool.”
“Nice.” I know who he is, and that he’s got a sister in our grade, but not much more. He’s one of those hockey guys. Part of a gang of goons I never thought Lottie would be into. I wonder if she likes him but feel I can’t ask for some reason. Some kind of wall went up when we started hanging out with all of them, and I’m not sure where the door is.
Kajunk kajunk.
“What’s the deal with Breanne?” I ask, feeling my way around for an opening, fumbling for a key.
“What d’you mean?”
“Like, don’t you think she’s mean to Paige?”
Lottie shrugs, flipping her board up into her hand as we arrive at the park. “Not really. She’s all right.”
“No, I know. But I guess she seems kind of bitchy sometimes.”
“Nah, that’s just how she is. She takes some getting used to. You’ll see.”
Love, Heather Page 2