“You need to stop telling yourself that.” Demit shakes his head. “So what happened? How did you go from smarty-pants to failing?”
“Matching headbands.” I think about Alysa’s perfect hair. How struck I was by our mirror images today in class. “Being popular is hard work. The hair. The clothes. Getting the guy. Hell, getting every guy. Losing a bit of myself with every effort. Having a mom who can never let me forget how perfect she once was. Who cares more about my complexion than my marks.” I sigh, feeling my inner drama queen surface. “I’m rambling.”
Demit’s toque has slipped back on his head. A few curls have fallen to the side of his forehead. His blue eyes gaze at me. “What do you want now?”
I search for an answer. What do I want? My head floats. “I’m tired. I want out. I think I can honestly say I just don’t give a shit about anything anymore. Is that bad?” I lean my head back against the wall and look up at the ceiling. Notice a thread of web stretching from one end of my light fixture to the next. “Why can’t they all just leave me alone?”
“What if we changed the rules?” Demit asks, standing up. He moves to the chair at my desk and wheels it to the edge of the bed, facing me.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re still following the same rules. Waiting for them to free you. But they’re stuck in the same game, too. Get it? As long as they believe you want back in, they can control you. We have to show them that you’re breaking ranks.”
I’m mesmerized by his hypnotic voice. His crazy ideas. “What do you want me to do now?” I ask, dropping my legs off the bed, setting a hand on his knee. Breathing in his presence.
“It’s not what I want, Lana.” Demit covers my hand with his palm. It’s warm. Nice. “It’s what you want.”
“How do you become the complete opposite of yourself? That’s what I have to do.”
“What you want is to be true to yourself. Maybe go over-the-top at first. Make a big impression, right? Show them you’re done.”
“Like wiping the slate clean? Starting all over?” My mind is awhirl. I don’t know where to start. I can’t just reverse three years and go back to who I was. That girl is gone, too.
“Don’t worry about where you end and where you start. Just be.” Demit sucks back the last of his drink. “Each of us creates our own reality based on what we think is true. Change your thoughts, change your life. You know?” Raising his empty glass into the air, he says, “Be whoever the hell you want to be.”
I hiccup and we clink.
“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” I say. “How about bra burning?”
“You’re about fifty years too late. But I’m all for going bra-less,” Demit smiles.
“Well, that’s not exactly what I meant.” Jumping off my bed, I open my underwear drawer. Pull out all of my fancy push-up bras, one by one. Red and black, polk-dot, fuschia with black bows. Into the garbage pail. Grab all the thongs and add them, too. Panty-lines be damned, I was not going to suffer another moment of perma-wedge.
“That seemed pretty anti-climactic,” I announce. “Now what?” I’ve purged myself of two-thirds of my underwear. Not exactly a Lana revolution. I laugh at my pathetic attempt to re-make myself. This is all I can come up with? Demit studies me from his chair, an amused look on his face. I look in the mirror over my dresser. Photos of me and my BFFs taped along the sides. Matching smiles, yoga pants, and blonde highlights. Running my fingers through my long hair, I wonder if I can do what I’m thinking.
“I might need some help with this,” I say, motioning Demit to follow me. In my parent’s bathroom, I open the cupboard under the sink and rifle around until I find them. Mom bought a few Clairol colour kits last weekend. Big sale at the drug store.
“Not sure it’ll be as Nice ’n Easy as it says,” I say, holding up the box of hair colour. The model’s hair looks brown with a touch of red. “Natural medium auburn,” I read. “What do you think?” I hand it to Demit and turn to the mirror.
“I say go for it.” Demit stares back at me through the reflection.
“I’ll need two boxes for all this hair.” My blonde hair drapes to the top of my shoulders. I know I won’t look as pretty without my blonde hair. It’s a depressing thought, but I ignore it.
“You said you wanted to change,” Demit breaks through my thoughts.
“You’re right.” I clutch the counter for a minute while I wait for my head to stop spinning. The booze has kicked in. “This is big. I’ve been a blonde since grade nine. Barbie.”
“Barbie’s a ho.” Demit says matter-of-fact.
“Nice,” I roll my eyes. “I used to play with barbies, you know.”
“Start the brainwashing early.” I’m sure he’s joking, but he makes a good point. “You could always dye it back if you don’t like it, right?”
I open the box and empty the contents onto the counter. “Yeah, dye it back.” It sounds like a sensible backup plan. Steadying myself against the counter, I squint at my reflection. Last look at the blonde girl.
“Time for change,” I announce, pulling my sweatshirt over my head and immersing my hair under the running faucet. Once my head is soaked, Demit pulls a towel from the rack and hands it to me.
“Did you read the directions?” I ask. A large white sheet is unfolded beside the sink. Demit is wearing the clear plastic gloves that come with the kit.
“Are you gay?” I ask. I’m sorry I say it the second the question comes out of my mouth but he’s standing in a pink t-shirt wearing plastic gloves and holding a bottle of hair colour. “I mean. Not that it matters.”
Demit’s mouth drops open. “Really?” He lifts the bottle into the air. “No, I’m not gay. Now comb your hair so I can rub this colour in.”
Chapter 10
Not Alone Anymore
The damage is done. I’m blow drying my hair and it’s looking more red than brown. Pink, actually. And not a pretty pink. A mix between cotton candy and jack-o-lantern. I’d stupidly lost track of time picking out music with Demit and left the dye in an extra 10 minutes. Okay, maybe 15 minutes.
“I think it looks good,” Demit says.
“Easy for you to say. It’s not on your head,” I snap. Taking a deep breath through my nose, I slowly exhale. Try to get used to the girl in the mirror. “I look like a freak.” I turn the blow dryer off and brush my hair. Already missing my blonde locks. What was I thinking?
“I don’t look anything like myself anymore.”
“Isn’t that the point?” Demit asks cautiously.
I look at him. Searching for a sign that he’s just trying to make me feel better. But his straight face doesn’t betray that. I guess he’s sort of right. I stare at my reflection and scrutinize the girl looking back at me. Maybe she looks a little cool. I take an elastic band out of a drawer and pull my hair into a ponytail. It tames the look a bit. Standing taller, I pose for the mirror.
“You don’t mind it,” Demit says. I shrug. It’s too late now to do much about it.
“I’ll get used to it. Eventually.” I have to admit, I can appreciate feeling like someone other than myself. Like I’m playing dress-up. I wonder if I can pull this off come Monday. My stomach turns thinking about it.
We return to my room and flop down on the bed. Somehow, I end up resting my head on his chest listening to his heart gently beating. He’s playing with my ponytail. A distant voice reminds me we’re just friends, although at this moment, that feels fuzzy.
“What’s next?” I ask. My phone rings before he can respond. Lifting myself from the bed, I answer it.
“Hello?”
“Hi Lana.” My mom’s voice is chirpy on the other end. “I’ll be a touch later than I’d planned. Kerry has asked me to work out some inventory issues before I go.”
“Okay, Mom,” I answer. Demit pokes me in the ribs and I break out in a giggle.
“What are you doing?” Mom asks.
I look at Demit and put a finger to my lips. “Say hi to your
mom,” he says loud enough for her to hear.
“Is there a boy there?” Mom asks. “Is it Stu?”
“No. I mean, yes. There is a boy. And, no. It’s not Stu.”
“I don’t want strange boys in our house when Dad and I are not there, Lana.”
“Well, he certainly is a strange boy, but he’s just a friend,” I say, emphasizing the last word.
“Does Stu know about this?”
“Oh Mom! Stu’s a douche.” Demit doubles over laughing.
“Lana, watch your language.”
“We broke up, Mom.”
There’s silence on the other line. “I gotta go, Mom. I have a friend here. See you later, okay?”
“Please stay out of trouble, Lana.”
“Yes, Mom. Bye, Mom.” I pick up the bottle of liquor and shake it. Empty.
“Will they notice it’s finished?” Demit asks as I’m heading out of the room.
I shrug. “Probably not. Mom’s too drunk half the time to notice anything. And Dad’s a lot more concerned about Mom’s drinking habits than mine.”
“Your mom drinks a lot?” Demit asks.
I shrug. “Yeah. I mean, she hides it all right. It’s not like she’s stumbling around the neighbourhood with a bottle in a paper bag. She just drinks a lot of wine mostly. Passes out on the couch a lot. Burns dinner. That sort of thing. It’s mostly annoying. How about you? Your mom a dead beat?”
Demit shakes his head. “Not really. My mom’s gone all holy roller since Dad left. Church every Sunday. Lights Jesus candles. Just bought some stone statue of Buddha for our garden. Mid-life crisis, I guess.”
“Pfff.” I roll my eyes. “I think I’d rather have a boozer.”
Demit shrugs. “It’s not so bad. Better than her crying every night, which is what she did after Dad left. Now that she’s got her cupcakes and bible, she’s doing a lot better.” He stands up and stretches his arms over his head. “What’s with all the BFF pics on your mirror? I thought you hated all these girls.”
“I don’t want my mom to get suspicious. As soon as I trash them, she’ll start asking questions. It would kill her to learn I’m not miss popularity anymore. That shit means the world to her.”
“That’s too bad,” Demit mutters as he picks up an old snow globe of the Eiffel tower sitting on my dresser, and shakes it. When he puts it down, he looks at his phone and gasps. “I’ve got to go! I didn’t realize how late it was. My mom just texted me. I was supposed to be home by now and she’s ticked.”
“Aw.” I don’t hide my disappointment.
“Write up your post tonight, ok?” I nod as he races out of my bedroom. I follow him down the stairs where he grabs his jacket and stops, one hand on the door knob.
“I’ll see you tomorrow” he says, staring intently at me. For a second, I think he’s going to lean over to kiss me. His face is only inches away. But he doesn’t. My buzz is turning to a headache, anyways. I need a nap.
“Meet at the coffee shop in the morning?” He asks as he steps outside. I agree, then watch him walk down the driveway before finally closing the door. Mom will be home in about an hour, so I better get that pizza cooked. I wonder how she’ll react to my new look. Change that. I wonder how seriously she’ll flip her lid. How hard she’ll beg to take me to the salon to fix it.
With the pizza in the oven, I decide to lie on the couch. My phone rests on my chest. Demit has already texted me three times to tell me how awesome I look. Every time, it makes me smile. I eventually doze off, waking up when I hear a loud bang. Something falling? Or was I just dreaming? Holding my breath, I listen for a few seconds. Nothing. Probably something fell in a cupboard somewhere. I close my eyes again when another text dings. I lift it into the air to read it. Every muscle in my body tenses. Although it’s from an unknown number, I immediately know it’s Fitz.
U little bich. I know u did it
I want my phone back. Tonight
My heart jumps into my throat. Did I lock the front door after Demit left? Springing off the couch, I run into the hallway. The bolt is locked. A sigh of relief. I’m being paranoid. Shaking my head, I send Demit a text to tell him about Fitz’s message.
He knows
A new text pops up as I hit send.
I’m here
A tremor races across my neck. I look around the hallway, and quietly step across the floor into the kitchen. Looking carefully around me. This is ridiculous, I realize. I let my shoulders drop and laugh, shaking my head. He’s bluffing. Turning around, I walk back into the hallway to grab my school bag when suddenly, Fitz steps out of the living room and into the front hallway. I scream, then slap my lips shut.
“Fitz. What the hell? You scared the heck out of me.” I clutch my chest and breathe deeply. Hope that I’m not looking as terrified as I feel.
Stepping backward, I slowly inch into the laundry room. Should I make a run for it? Every cell in my body is telling me yes. But I don’t. Take a breath. Keep cool.
“Surprise,” he says, following me into the laundry room, cluttered with coats and shoes. Beneath his red baseball cap, his eyes glisten with determination. He shuts the door behind him, leans his hand against the counter not far from a stack of my mom’s neatly folded underwear and a pile of unmatched socks. I feel oddly embarrassed for her, like it’s an unnecessary invasion of my mom’s privacy. My hatred for him grows.
“Orange hair?” Fitz snickers. “That’s an interesting look.”
“I don’t have it.” I stand firm, trying not to betray the terror I feel but my voice is trembling. “And you shouldn’t be in here! You’re breaking and entering. I’m calling the police.” I don’t remember where I left my phone. Is it in the kitchen?
“You’re funny, Lana. Pretending you didn’t do it. Very cute.” He scratches his jaw with a scowl. I hear the slight grating of stubble against his fingers. “I dropped the phone in the bathroom. By the time I realized it was still there, I was in class and the test had started. There was no way for me to get it until school was out. But funny enough, before I’d even had a chance to find it, people were giving me all these weird looks as I left the classroom and walked down the hallway. Making stupid comments about me and my mom, who by the way, got the text too.”
“I didn’t send that text. I swear.” I back into the laundry room door that leads outside. With my hand behind me, I turn the lock slowly and twist the knob.
“You sent the text.” He grabs my arm, pulls me tight against him and stabs his finger into my chest. “Admit it.”
“You’re hurting me,” I try to loosen my arm. “Let me go and I’ll tell you.”
He drops my arm and folds his arms in front of his chest.
“I did it.” My voice is surprisingly hard. “What did you expect me to do? You drag me into the bathroom and do what you want with me while I’m forced to listen to my girlfriends shred me apart.” I push my hands against his chest and shove him. Let my hatred overwhelm my fear. “You think I’m going to just pick up your stupid phone, wrap it in a fucking bow and give it back to you?”
Fitz jerks his head slightly. “So, where is it? I want it back.” He wobbles a bit. I wonder if he’s on something.
“I took a hammer to it and pounded it to itty bitty pieces.” I stare straight through his eyes and laugh when his jaw clenches. His left eye twitches. The back of his hand swings so fast, I don’t have a chance to react. It lashes against my cheek. My head sways toward the wall, landing against a winter coat. Fitz grabs me by the neck and slams my back into the counter.
“You shouldn’t have done that, Lana. You’re going to pay for what you did. Dumping me for Stu. Like I’m not good enough for you. Forcing me to settle for Alysa, instead.”
I knee him between the legs. He groans in pain. Reaching for the door knob, I grab it and turn. But my head jerks backward as he pulls me by my ponytail then tightens both hands around my neck.
“How tight do you like it?” He asks, tightening his fingers around my throat.
>
“No. Please don’t,” I try to dig my fingertips beneath his hands.
“You’re going to pay.”
“No,” I whisper. My mind falls away into a hazy place. It dawns on me that Fitz might kill me. I will die here, in my own home, beside my mom’s folded underwear. I faintly hear the door open and suddenly I can breathe again. Leaning against the counter, I gasp for air when I realize it’s Demit who has entered the room.
“It would be all sorts of awesome to shoot you in the head right now.” Demit’s cool voice cuts through the room like a blade. His arms are outstretched holding a gun in his hands, aimed at Fitz’s face.
“Whoa.” Fitz raises his hands. I wrap my arms over my chest and move to a corner, dropping onto the floor to catch my breath.
“I wasn’t going to hurt her.” Fitz says, shrugging with a nervous laugh. “It was just to teach her a lesson.”
“Shut your hole, you piece of shit.” Demit eyes glow black. His jaw is rigid as steel. “What’s your name?”
“You’re crazy. Put that thing down, man,” Fitz says in a shaky voice.
“That’s not your name. I asked what’s your name.” Demit points the gun at Fitz’s chest.
“Fitz,” he answers.
“Okay, Fitz. You’re going to repeat after me. If you don’t, I will blow a hole through your heart. Do you understand me?”
“You’re crazy!” Fitz howls.
“I may be,” says Demit, taking one step closer to Fitz. “If I were you, I wouldn’t want to find out just how crazy I am.”
“Okay, okay,” Fitz backs away, his eyes darting from the gun to Demit to me.
“Demis, stop,” I gasp.
“Now, repeat after me,” Demit continues. “I am sorry, Lana, for treating you with disrespect.”
“I am sorry, Lana, for treating you with disrespect.” Fitz says.
“You deserve better than this and I promise to never treat you with such utter disregard for your worth again.”
Fitz stumbles over the words, but eventually says it.
Like Lana Page 8
