Pulling my phone from my pocket, I stare at the screen saver of me and Alysa blowing kisses at the camera. Can’t believe I haven’t changed it yet. After everything she’s put me through. I try to throw the phone across the room but it rebounds off the corner of my bed and lands back at my feet. Sliding down the wall and onto the carpet, I stretch my legs out and pick the phone back up. Rub the fingerprints off the screen and scroll through my photos until I settle on a selfie that, not too long ago, earned over two hundred Facebook likes. I look pretty, thanks to the lash extensions I had done that day. It’s better than my fake friend screen saver. I replace it and hit Save.
Reading my messages, I see the last one I received was from Mom this morning telling me to have a great day (sideways smiley face!) Another reminder of my loser life.
I scroll down to Stu’s messages. I sent him five this morning. All variations of ‘Where the hell are you?’ He has yet to respond. I know it’s probably because he leaves his phone at home most days. Our school has a firm no mobile phone policy that most students ignore. Stu excepted. I’ve often wondered if he purposely leaves it elsewhere so that I can, also, remain elsewhere. Another hint that it’s time to dump him. I need another reason like I need a nail in my brain. It’s thanks to him that the photo went viral. I hate him almost as much as I hate the fabbies. Almost. But he’s my last connection to them, and by them, I mean the source of all that defines popular, beautiful, and worthy at Sacred Heart. Stu represents the single thread from which all my hope hangs that one day, soon, I’ll be back in the game. They say there’s a fine line between love and hatred, so I figure it wouldn’t be so hard to flip from the dark side, if given the chance. I type him a message.
What r u doing? My day has gone from bad to worse
Then I delete it before hitting send. Leave the phone on the floor as I crawl to my bed and climb under its covers. I know he’ll text me later when he’s ready for some action. He’s dependable, that way. It lessens the loneliness in the smallest way.
Chapter 2
Library Refugee
The bus is heavy with warm air and body odour. All eyes are on me as I stand awkwardly in the middle aisle, running my fingers through my damp hair. I wish I’d looked outside before leaving the house this morning. Then I’d have known to bring an umbrella. My shoes squeak against the rubber matting. Scanning for an empty seat, I try to avoid eye contact with the zombified faces pointed in my direction. I know they’re staring, not out of any particular interest, but from a simple lack of distractions. Find a seat. Find a freaking seat. They’re all taken save a couple half-empty ones. With a deep breath, I twirl and drop into the first free spot to my left, hugging my bag against my chest. The green leather seat in front of me has the words ‘School sux’ scrawled in black capital letters.
“Nice day, huh?” The guy beside me says.
“The worst,” I answer without glancing at him.
“You’re in grade twelve, right?” He asks. I nod and turn to face him. He looks about my age, but I don’t recognize him. A dark blue toque is pulled over his head with dark cowlicks curling out from under it. His face is thin and milky white except for the flush of pink on his cheeks. He smiles crookedly at me. I force my mouth to return the smile, but my stomach is twisting as I prepare myself for some kind of snide comment about the photo.
“Yeah,” I say cautiously. “You?”
“Yep,” he answers. When the bus suddenly jerks to a stop, we both instinctively grip the seat in front of us to soften the whiplash.
The bus starts rolling again and I look at him more closely. “Are we in any classes together?” He’s actually pretty cute, in a tortured-artist kind of way.
“No. I’m in the EC program,” he says before looking back out his window.
“The enriched stream.” I relax a bit. A science geek. Maybe he hasn’t seen the photo. “You’re new?”
“Yeah,” he answers. “We moved here at the end of the summer. Welcome to the land of the lame.”
I laugh. “We’re lame? Aren’t you too busy studying the Periodic table to party?”
“I wasn’t talking about partying.” He points his gaze at me for so long I start to squirm. “That’s the problem with this place. All anyone cares about is how many beers you can guzzle. Pathetic, really.”
I straighten my back against the seat and turn away. I hate this school more than anyone, but still his words offend me. Talking like he’s better than us. Even if it is true, he’s being an idiot.
“You sure you’re not just jealous?” I ask. It’s a weird knee-jerk reaction and I want to kick my own butt for saying it. I run my hands over my damp hair and twist it into a ponytail before letting go. Why am I defending these people?
“No, I’m not jealous. Just stating my thoughts, that’s all,” he says, nudging his toque higher up his forehead. “Maybe I just don’t get this place. Well, that’s not right. I definitely don’t get this place. But that doesn’t matter much. I just have to stick it out for a year. Ten months and I’m out.”
I smile. So, I’m not the only one counting down the months, the days, sometimes the minutes until I can leave this school for good.
“I hear ya,” I nod, catching his eye. He laughs. It’s a quiet chuckle, but his eyes crinkle softly at the corners and I find myself disappointed by how quickly his face turns serious again.
“Pretty sad, isn’t it? To live so many days just waiting for them to be finished? Seems such a waste.” He sighs and looks ahead. Shrugs.
“I guess,” I add. “But you’ve got to get through the day one way or the other. Use whatever works, right?” I press my lips together. I’m saying too much. He doesn’t need to know I’m miserable. Next thing I know, he’ll be asking why I have no friends. Why I can’t wait to graduate. And why aren’t I having the time of my life this last year of high school? I tighten my bag against my chest.
“Why are you so eager to graduate?” he asks. Right on cue. My stomach grinds.
“Oh, I’m not. Just hate the school work, you know?” I force a laugh that has me sounding more like a donkey than the sexy thing that I like to think I’m capable of being. I clamp my mouth shut. This is an awkward moment I could have lived without. Thank goodness the bus is rolling into the school parking lot. I open my bag pretending to look for something, then zip it shut just as the bus doors slide open. Mercy. Jumping from the seat, I try to race ahead of him, but instead find myself waiting for the three rows ahead to file off first.
“See you later?” he asks, standing next to me. His arm brushing mine. With a quick nod, I raise my eyebrows and mutter something that sounds sort of like yes. When I step off the bus, I rush ahead. Don’t turn around to say good-bye.
Mr. Zinsky, the school principal, is holding the front door open as I step through it. “Good morning Miss Tiller,” he says in an annoyingly triumphant tone.
“Morning Mr. Zinsky,” I mumble with a brief lift of my eyes. His black unibrow dips as he lets the door close behind us and shakes his finger at me.
“I hear you’re taking your studies more seriously.”
I nod, my eyes focused on his blue and red striped tie. “I guess.”
“Good for you. All that time in the library will pay off. You keep up that attitude. There is no substitute for hard work.” He’s known for his motivational one-liners. And, by motivating, I mean annoying. Rumour has it he keeps a book of quotes in his office, memorizing a different one every day to try out on his flock.
“Okay,” I say, but I’m not sure he hears me because he’s already barking at someone for throwing a basketball in the hallway. I assume he’s referring to my new survival technique. Sitting by myself in a library cubicle during the lunch hours that I don’t take off in my car. It’s just easier some days to stay at school, eat my sandwich and count down the minutes until the bell rings. Of course it’s no surprise that he thinks I’m doing homework the entire time, but I can’t seem to focus long enough to get much done. I’ve t
aken to reading the thesaurus when I’m super bored. Picking out words that I’d never think to use on my own. Like calumniator. Someone who makes malicious statements about another. I found it in the list of synonyms for ‘bitch.’ Zinsky is bound to be more impressed soon, now that my escape vehicle is gone for good.
I turn the hallway corner and see Stu’s broad back leaning against my locker. This is a surprise considering I bailed on him last night. Call me a prude, but it’s hard to get into a pleasing mood when your boyfriend sends a text that reads Im horny. Want to com over? At least I was kind enough to delete my first response – Want to kiss my ass? But even after my gently phrased Not tonite, the stench of girlfriend guilt stuck to me for hours. Keep Stu happy or risk losing him to the next girl in line. That’s how it works with a guy like him. And by that, I mean hot guys. It’s a daily struggle to adhere to it when his capacity to be a jerk grows ever apparent. I’m exhausted just thinking about it.
I force a smile on my face as I move toward him, ready to wrap my arms around his waist and act all pretty when I realize he’s not waiting for me. I watch Melanie sidle up to him and grab his wrist. She stands on her tiptoes to whisper something in his ear. He laughs. I can’t remember the last time I made him laugh. Even longer since he made me laugh.
“Move, please,” I mutter, pushing my hand behind him to reach my lock and lightly shove him away.
He steps away from my locker and looks at me, his face contorted into a sneer. “Someone got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning.”
“Shut up,” I mutter. So much for my plans to please him.
“You shut up,” he responds. We sound like my parents.
“Hi Lana,” Melanie interrupts. Boyfriend thief. I have to watch out for these younger girls. They’ll do anything for a senior. I should know.
“Hey,” I say, finally turning to look at them both.
Stu laughs, his knuckles folded against his mouth. “Holy crap! What’s with your face?”
“What’s with yours?” I stupidly retort. Whipping the locker open, I glance at my reflection in the mirror on the inside of the door. Black mascara has smudged below my eyes, presumably from waiting for the bus in the rain. I think back to the cute guy on the bus and cringe with embarrassment. I wonder why he didn’t say anything. Is that a nice guy thing? I wouldn’t know.
“Want this?” Melanie hands me a tissue. I grab it and wet it with my tongue before dabbing my face.
“Thanks,” I muster, stealing a glance at her. Her wheat coloured hair shimmers in thick waves past her shoulders. No black roots. Probably just got her highlights done. Or worse, it’s natural. I shouldn’t hate her. Melanie is one of the only girls who has not succumbed to hurling insults and backpacks at me. I don’t get it. Why doesn’t she hate me like everyone else?
“Melanie’s trying out for the lead in the school musical. She’s nervous,” Stu says. Just the thing I want to hear. Not only does she look and act like an angel, she sings like one, too.
“Good luck.” I say woodenly.
“Thanks,” Melanie nods her head and waves, her long fingers tickling the air. “Talk to you later.” Stu stares at her walk down the hallway. My face now clean, I rummage through my locker for a spare cardigan to replace the soaked one, and grab my math books. The bell rings.
“She’s too sweet for you.” I hear a knife edge in my voice.
“Huh? What are you talking about?” Stu looks at me. I bite my lower lip. He’s all I’ve got left here. The only person who still talks to me. The last thread tying me to the fabbies. I take in his light blue eyes, full lips, and dark brown hair cascading perfectly across his forehead. And, God, he’s just so beautiful to look at.
“Nothing,” I answer quickly.
“Later,” Stu winks. “I have a free half hour after school. Your place or mine?”
“Can you drive me home?” I ask, ignoring his question. I’ll do anything to avoid taking that awful bus again. I guess, even that. If I have the energy. I know I don’t have the desire. Not these days, anyways.
“What’s wrong with your car?”
“It’s gone.” I don’t feel like talking about it, which is fine with Stu. He stares at me with his usual nonchalance. Like he’s picking out toppings for a burger. Even still, he’s stunningly good looking. A face worth admiring no matter how dense it appears. That’s why I worked so hard to get my claws into him this summer. Learning his work schedule to coincidentally appear at the end of his shifts. Laughing at all his dumb jokes. Dropping hints at what I’d do for him if he gave me the chance. Exhausting, yes. But effective. Unfortunately, he came complete with a steady line of girls ready to carry the girlfriend torch the second I stumble out of favour. It’s nothing short of tragic that the excitement that once fluttered like a butterfly in my stomach whenever I saw him is now dead. Suffocated the night he took the photo. Still, I hang on.
“So, your place,” he says as one of his football buddies punches him in the arm. Twirling toward him, he attempts to return the favour, but misses.
“So, you’re driving me home,” I say to his back as he disappears down the hallway chasing his friend, knocking down a skinny student in a red baseball cap along the way. I’m going to assume that’s a yes for both of us.
***
I miss looking forward to things. Those quiet boosts of anticipation that drive you through the shitty parts of life. I used to get them so often that I never noticed them until they were gone. Now, my emotions flip between dread and indifference. One miserable experience rolls after the other. Like lunch period. A perfect example of something I used to look forward to.
Standing outside the cafeteria, I lean my back against the wall in a lame attempt to go unnoticed. A group of students walks by me, slowing to open the doors. I count eight feet. Four girls. Their voices drop to a hush. I feel my cheeks warm.
“She’s that girl,” says one, loud enough for me to hear.
“The one in the photo?” This one is a bit quieter. Thanks for that.
“Gross!” Two in unison.
Legs finally shuffle past the door into the lunchroom. I stare through the gap between the door and the wall, looking beyond the girls to see throngs of students seated around the tables, chatting and eating like they haven’t a care in the world. Is it worth the risk for some food? I wipe the perspiration from my forehead. Lift my arms to let some air into my pits where I feel it growing sticky with wetness. I picture my lunch bag sitting on the kitchen counter where I’d left it. My stomach growls. I haven’t stepped foot into the cafeteria in almost two weeks. Swallowing the knot rising toward my throat, I turn away. I’d rather starve, I decide, than walk through that crowd. Head down, I beeline it to the library and ram into someone’s chest.
“Whoa!” Arms wrap around my shoulders, pulling me close. I look up and groan. Fitz.
“Sorry,” I mutter, trying to shake his hands off of me. He hangs on to both my arms and looks me up and down.
“Hey Lana. What’s the hurry? Got another photo shoot?” He laughs, jabbing his buddy next to him.
“Go to hell, Fitz,” I hiss. I try to avoid him almost as much as his girlfriend, my ex-BFF, Alysa. Talk about the couple from hell. Predators, the both of them, set to the task of annihilating the self-worth of anyone who hovers near.
“I don’t remember you posing for me when we went out,” Fitz says, letting go of me so that I can rush past him.
I groan for lack of a better response. My gag reflex is activated every time I’m reminded of our short, yet highly regrettable, stint as sort-of-boyfriend-and-girlfriend. It was only a few dates, most of which involved going to parties together. And, to be perfectly honest, my only reason for putting up with him as long as I did was to make Stu jealous. A brilliant strategy that worked exactly as I’d hoped. The constant reminder of it is a downside I have yet to overcome.
His laugh echoes down the hallway as I rush toward the library, and step into the quiet room. A few heads turn my way.
The regulars nod at me and I smile weakly. I’ve always assumed everyone else was here because of their steely dedication to academics, but when I notice a bruised eye on the Asian guy who always sits at the second table to the left, I think twice. Perhaps I’m not the only using this place as a refuge. Library Loners. There’s an idea for a reality show. Revealing the secret lives of library kids one loser at a time.
On the way to my usual cubby, I glide by the shelf that holds the thesaurus. Grab it and lug it up to the second floor and thumb through the P’s. Psychopath. What a disappointing selection. Maniac. Nutcase. None of them worthy of Fitz. Running my finger through the list, I finally settle on one. Demoniac.
I write it on the inside back cover of my English binder beneath calumniator. This probably wasn’t what Ms. Laccetta had in mind when she wrote on my report Expand your vocabulary! It’s a start, anyway.
I rub my arms vigorously with opposite hands, trying to remove any lingering Fitz touch from my body. There was something in the way he looked at me. I don’t want to admit it scared me because that would make me paranoid. But something made me feel very uncomfortable. Even nervous. Deep down, a voice is warning me to stay away from him.
Chapter 3
Pride is Overrated
I’m tearing through the hallway to catch the bus, vaguely aware of the students shifting out of my way, thinking this is not how a person blends into the background. But I’d waited for Stu to show up at my locker, just like we’d agreed. Okay, I’m stretching the definition of agreed. We mutually, silently, sort of made a deal that he would drive me home in return for certain favours. I waited seven minutes. Too long. My only other ride will be rolling out of the school lot any second now.
Turning the corner, I can see past the doors where the buses are still lined up. I’ll make it, I think, when I feel my right ankle hit something and lift into the air. I stumble to my knees and smack my hands against the floor to prevent my face from smashing against it.
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