Someone whistled and boomed, “Yeah, Pete!”
“All right, all right. Sit down.” Pete beamed at us, waving us back to our seats. “Thank you. You folks are great. I know that you’ll have lots of questions. Yes, I’ll be using the gender-neutral single-person staff bathroom, and no, I won’t be saying any more on that topic.” He laughed, and others did too. “I’m sure some of your parents will have lots of questions. I’m happy to hear them. Later. But for now, we are here in Media Studies! So, without further ado, let’s get back into the Hero’s Quest stuff.”
That day, and since, I have felt Dee there, buzzing like a fly, in my periphery. I see her smoking outside, listening to something on her earphones, ignoring everyone else, and she always knows when I’m looking. Her eyes will lazily find mine and she’ll wink. That girl. She is nothing like me. She doesn’t care what anyone thinks. A lone wolf, for the most part, although sometimes I see her talking to other people who are on the edge, other outcasts. I never see her with my former-friends-turned- current-tormentors. Did they excommunicate her as well?
And does she want to be my friend? I can’t trust it. I look at the mystery text. I don’t respond.
I can see her taking everything in. It seems like she’s in most of my classes, but I haven’t been paying a lot of attention until now. She’s in homeroom, where Pete is now starting to show signs of his public transition: his hair is cut into a sharp fade, and he’s been wearing some really cool blazers with a tie. He looks good and seems so happy, but the truth is that I do miss Rhonda, even in small ways, like seeing her name on the classroom door. She’s someone else now, someone better, but not really someone I know well.
Dee is there in Science, leaning back in her chair and twiddling a pen in her fingers like a magician when Matthew answers questions like a science boss. She whispers to me in class. She only volunteers to participate when I get called on and don’t know the answer. I see her scoff when Luke, with his posse of hockey goons, imitates Matthew, sticking out his teeth and raising his hand. I look at her when the gym teacher, Mr. Cavalier, tells the guys they’re throwing like girls and calls them ladies and Nancys. She stares him down, furious. Or when kids like Carol or Mahir get racist darts thrown their way, some of them really hitting the mark, others deflected and thrown back. She never laughs at cruelty. I know she’s watching what’s been happening to me, too. It’s like she’s keeping score.
9
At dinner tonight, Mom wanted to discuss Reg.
“Stevie, honey, I’d like to talk to you about something,” Mom said, while she opened the bucket of KFC she’d picked up for us. I was so happy that it was just us at home for dinner, that he wasn’t there, talking about his favorite concerts or trying to simultaneously be my best friend and my mother’s lover. Ugh.
“Uh-huh,” I said, picking up a piece of chicken in my fingers gingerly and taking a bite.
“Things with Reg are getting pretty serious,” she ventured, avoiding my eyes.
Oh. I froze. What was happening? I stared at her, the chicken hanging from my hand.
“And, well, it doesn’t make much sense for him to be paying rent at his own place since he’s here so often.”
I briefly imagined Reg’s house. He’d probably tried to decorate it like it was the green room at CBGBs where he was high-fiving celebrities and acting like God’s gift to everything, but really it was just a boring craphole.
“And God knows I deserve to be happy, and he makes me happy. You want that for me, don’t you?” My mom has this idea that she has been dealt a bum hand in life and is always going on about how hard it is being a single mom. “You know, he actually knows a lot about music and movies and stuff. You and Lottie should talk to him sometime.”
The rest of the conversation was a foggy blur of reasoning that began and ended with me having zero say in the matter. He was moving in. I provided her with what she needed to hear:
“Right. Okay. Whatever you want, Mom.”
My ears buzzed, and I decided I wasn’t hungry at all. My mom chose to believe this. I went to my room, where I listened to her calling Reg to tell him how our conversation had gone. Pretty well. I think it will be good for her.
I picked up my phone and texted Dad. There was always a way out.
Hey dad.
He answered right away. Hey kiddo! How are you feeling?
Fine. Question:
Shoot!
If I wanted to could I come live with you
Ellipses, on, off, on, then: Wow. I would love that. But I don’t think makes sense. mom would be pissed. would be hard. school and friends are there. Are things really that bad? Give it time?
I didn’t respond. He texted a few more times; then he called me, but I didn’t answer.
Its fine dad. just wondering. Not a big deal.
Nothing’s a big deal until everything is. I watched my phone humming as he tried to call again, and then stopped. Gave up just like that.
Ok kiddo call me later if u want xo
And then: You know me and eleanor would love you to visit again
Right. Eleanor who doesn’t even remember who I am. And so I have spent the evening editing, commenting, dissecting the rare, the camp, the cult films I love.
I’m alone. I know that the storm rages on against me online. I try not to check, but then I do. Each time, there are more—people I’ve never heard of trolling me, which isn’t all that unusual—but I thought it would have died down by now. But it keeps up, steady, unstoppable. It never sleeps. Ever since Lottie and Paige screamed at me, then ghosted me, dropped me like they never knew me and made me feel invisible, they passed the torch: I have become visible to the rest of the school, fun to play with, just a joke. At the least, no one wants to be my friend; at the worst, everyone wants to be my enemy.
I decided to continue making my videos about old movies. I can’t help it. It’s always made me feel better, but I guess it’s different now. Maybe it’s kind of like I’m making a target for myself, but some part of me can’t shut it off. These old flicks are what I’ve always used to distract me from anything bad. I considered starting a new channel, or disabling the comments, but I haven’t because there are, even among the harshest and cruelest comments, sweet ones from strangers.
I DON’T KNOW WHATS GOING ON WITH THESE COMMENTS BUT YOU DO YOU GIRL KEEP IT UP
I LOVE YOUR CHANNEL DON’T LISTEN TO THESE TROLLS
KEEP MAKING GREAT VIDS YOU MAKE ME HAPPY YOUR FUNNY AND CUTE
Because of them, I keep going and keep looking at the comments. It’s a reflex, it’s a drug. I never reply to the comments, but I hope for them, I wait for them to reach me across the void.
I look out the window and see Reg’s car, shining in the pouring rain. I take off my headphones and then I hear him, chitchatting with Mom, making himself at home, keeping her away from me. I think of Lottie, at home, probably about to play a board game and hold hands around the table with her two dads and Paige. Assholes.
I lie on my bed, and with a sick feeling, I do what I can’t stop doing: I scroll through my phone. Insta, Snapchat, pictures, comments, likes, memes, videos, more, more, more, more. Our entire school is like a social media creature that never rests. They won’t forget me; their memories are long. I drop the phone beside me, where it pants and throbs like a living thing. I swallow a sob.
I am still, listening. The rain thuds, pounding and rattling, the best noise. Cars cutting through it with their wiiishhh wiiiishhhhh. I close my eyes. I remember being sick as a kid, lying here in the summer while everyone else was outside, and my room felt close and small and comforting while the noise outside was just background cushioning. Skateboards and scooters and feet on the sidewalk, all the kids yelling, summertime. Comfy and happy. I try to bring it back, that feeling, but it slipped out and went to another, younger kid’s house when I wasn’t looking. You can’t get that back, that kid stuff. I remember trying to play with my toys in the bath one day and realizing I didn’t really
know how to do it anymore, and so I just lined them up on the edge and knocked them off, one by one.
I hear footsteps, and my mom taps on my door, pushing it open as she does.
“Hey Stevie, honey.”
“Hi.”
“Listen,” she says, pushing her bangs out of her face, “Reg and I are going out to see a movie. You okay here?”
I think for a minute of what it would be like to try to tell her how I feel, about what’s happened. I worry that she’d bring Reg in, that she’d share it on Facebook in some attempt to protect other kids, that somehow she would make matters worse. She’s just like all the parents who think they’re keeping an eye on what we’re doing by being on Facebook or reading articles, but we’re slippery and fast. We’re so far ahead that they couldn’t catch up if they tried.
“Yeah, sure.” I smile, because she needs me to, because I am careful.
“That’s my girl.” She looks so relieved. “Okay, gotta get ready!” And she’s gone, and I hear her in her room, humming and getting changed.
Later, I watch them get into the Reg-mobile and drive away on a date, and the ground opens up like a gaping mouth and swallows all the birds and worms and raindrops until the street is empty and quiet except for the rain. I let the curtain fall back.
I play around on my laptop, editing for a while; then I look at the comments on my last vid. There’s a new one:
SHOW US YOUR TITS.
And another:
GOD NO PLEASE DON’T
LOL
LMAO
My phone buzzes. There is another message from that same unknown number.
Let’s meet up. I won’t bite.
My curiosity is piqued. But no. Too risky. I need to think. Because I know that everybody bites.
10
The next night, I go to the bathroom and turn the tap on for a bath. I sit on the counter and chew my nails until the tub is full, then step in. It is boiling hot, but I keep lowering myself into it, loving and hating the heat. I always make my baths scalding hot, so hot it feels cold. I freeze in position with my ass half in, holding on to the sides, making some oh oh oh oh sounds, but then get all the way in. When I get out, there will be a red imprint like a sunburn over most of my body. I love how everything seems to shrink back, like my nails separating from my fingers, when I get in. It’s the best, that terrible heat.
Let’s meet up. I won’t bite.
The radio on the counter is playing some weird station I found. It’s old sixties-sounding French music.
I sit quietly for a while, thinking about the text, then wet my hands and run them over my face. I lift my feet out and put them on the edge of the tub, relishing the cold air. Close my eyes. I am just starting to relax, so naturally, there is a sudden pounding on the door.
“Stevie.” It’s Mom.
“Hmmm?” Eyes still closed.
“Stevie, I need to get in there.”
“Well, it seems that the door is locked.”
She turns the knob several times to prove my point.
“Stevie, come on, please. Open the door.”
Jesus. This house, I tell you. I don’t even know why we have a bathtub.
I lean my head back and put my ears under the water. I can’t hear her or the French music, but I can feel the thudding of her knocking, and my ears are burning. I come up for air.
“Okay, okay, keep your hair on.”
I splash out, unlocking the door, and then almost break my neck getting back into the tub and pulling the curtain across before she comes rattling in like a tornado made of cigarette smoke and instant coffee grounds. Part of the shower curtain falls down, and the shower rings clatter all over the floor. She turns off the radio with a click and starts rooting around her enormous makeup bag, pulling out mascara and lipstick.
“You know, it’s really hard to relax around here,” I grumble.
“Oh, I feel so sorry for you. It must be really stressful being a fifteen-year-old with no responsibilities.”
I give her a stink-eye because she has obviously forgotten what it’s like to be fifteen, but it hits the remaining curtain, so she doesn’t see it.
“I have a client coming in this evening. I’ll be downstairs. You can have someone over if you want.”
“No thanks,” I say.
“What about Lottie? I haven’t seen her in a while. You two okay?” she asks.
She has no idea what is going on or that I no longer have a best friend. “I guess.”
“Teenage friendships. God, I remember those.” She pauses, and I hear her snap the cap on her lipstick. “You know, I ran into her dad today.”
“Which one?”
“What?” She clues in. “Oh God, Stevie, her dad, Jacob. God. Anyway, he told me that Rhonda is moving out, like soon.”
I sit up. “What? Already? Pete’s moving?”
“Right. Pete, my apologies. Didn’t Lottie tell you? Yeah, apparently, things are bonkers over there. Her dad said that ‘Pete’ is trying to find out who ‘he’ is.” I could hear her making air quotes around words out there. “There might be a woman on the scene, too, just to make matters even more complicated.”
“A woman for Pete?”
“I guess. I think that’s what he said. I don’t know, maybe Jacob just thinks there is. I can’t even figure this stuff out, and I haven’t seen any of them for ages. He looks like a wreck, that’s all I know.” I hear the doorbell from the basement door. “Oops,” Mom says, “I gotta go. Bye, hon. I’ll be downstairs if you need me!”
I sigh for years and lower my mouth to the water and make bubbles with my lips. It is deliciously silent. A deep quiet, where you can hear the hum of all the whirring things in the house, everything waiting to be used. And I feel in that moment that I could sink down, down, below the surface, into the hot center of the earth. Raising my arms in surrender, my body buzzing like an engine, like another thing to be turned on and up and into something else. I could just melt into the silence and loneliness.
I lie like this for a long time. A song runs through my head and I nod to the rhythm, and eventually the water feels cold and a chill runs across my arms, making the skin rise in tiny goose bumps. I pull the plug and stand, shivering, grabbing a towel that smells faintly of mildew.
In my mom’s room, there is a long full-length mirror that swings on a frame. I stand in front of it in the buff. I’m not hairless like most of the girls I know. You’re going full bush, Lottie said once. She shaves herself, but I’m afraid of putting the razor down there and have no intention of waxing. I’m just getting the hang of shaving my pits without cutting myself; I’m not risking any injuries to my nether regions. It’s not like anyone is seeing them anyway, despite what anyone says.
I think about how earlier today, Luke was all over Matthew for answering a question about black holes in Science.
“Yeah, you know that, but could you find a real hole?” he muttered, loud enough for a few of us to hear. Would I have laughed at that a few months ago?
“What?” asked Matthew. Luke and his buddies scoffed.
Then I heard Dee, who sits beside me, say under her breath, “Why doesn’t anyone ever stop these guys?”
Without thinking, I grabbed an eraser and threw it at Luke. It hit him squarely in the head and he whipped around, his eyes angry as hell.
“What the fuck?” he snarled.
“Stevie!” our teacher called, surprised. “Settle down, please.”
Luke rubbed his head and leaned toward Matthew, whispering, “You could find Skeevie’s hole, because it’s all stretched out and overused. But it probably has teeth. It’d probably bite your hand off.”
“Shut up,” said Matthew quietly, looking back at me apologetically.
Dee leaned over and picked my eraser up off the floor. She tossed it onto my desk and said, “Nice.”
* * *
The next morning, on the way to school, I am thinking about what Dee said. Why doesn’t anyone ever stop these guy
s?
How different would the school be if they were as afraid as I am, if there were actual consequences for their actions, if they were somehow kept in line?
I text the mystery number back. I know it’s her.
Ok. Let’s meet.
And it begins.
11
Episode 70 2:01
Some of my favorite movie heroes are just searching for someone who understands them or who can help them reach their potential. And when they find someone? That’s when things really get interesting. Look at Veronica Sawyer, from Heathers, for instance; look how JD lights a fire under her ass, how she gets caught up in his energy.
“My specialty is teen revenge films,” Dee says.
I nod, but I’m just taking her in. Until now, I’ve mostly avoided her, but now, sitting here, I can’t take my eyes off her. She is tall, confident, wild haired, like she’s made of steel wool and leather, Pop Rocks and gasoline. A stranger-cowgirl. She looks right into my eyes when she talks, like there is no one else.
She is nothing like me.
And I realize it’s something else: I don’t feel alone.
“I like your channel. You know a lot—like, a shit-ton, actually—about films.”
I smile. “Uh, thanks. So … why did you only join partway through the year?”
“Dad changed jobs. You know,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Lucky me.”
We met at the spot where I used to meet Lottie before school. Lottie, who is never there anymore. Dee met me here, knew right away where to find me. I steal a look at her, and she catches me and grins. A shiver, a ripple runs through me. We are approaching the school parking lot, where kids are pulling up in all manner of nice and shitty cars; others are outside smoking and gathering in groups. Dee stops, and I look over at her.
“So, hey,” she says, tugging my arm, looking up at the parking lot, a little surreptitiously. “Do you wanna have some fun?”
“What do you mean? We have school.”
Luke and his friends walk by, and he knocks into me and mutters, “Fucking weirdo.”
Love, Heather Page 8