Like Lana

by Danielle Leonard

  He’s dead. And I’m not crying.

  U?

  LANA: No.

  DEMIT: Stop worrying. The guy OD’d. All evidence will point to suicide. Or too much partying. WE did nothing wrong. Remember that. Last we saw him he was alive and well.

  LANA: I know. Sorry to be so paranoid

  DEMIT: Don’t be sorry. You did nothing wrong, remember

  LANA: I know. Y do I feel so guilty?

  DEMIT: IDK. Relax

  LANA: Ok. See you on bus

  DEMIT: Maybe. Not feeling so good. Threw up last night

  LANA: No!!! Don’t do this to me. You have to come to school! I need you!!!!

  DEMIT: Ok. I’ll try to make it out my door

  I should have known the day would only get worse when I found our usual seat on the bus empty. My first day at Sacred Heart as the pink-haired-freak, and with Fitz’s death only two days old, I’d been about ready to melt from the stress on my nerves. Where are you? I’d texted him. It wasn’t until the bus had pulled into the school driveway that he responded. Sorry. Can’t move.

  I try to not be so angry with him, but I can’t stop myself. It was he who put a gun to Fitz’s head. If he hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t feel so guilty over Fitz’s death. And now, he’s at home and I’m at school. Mercy.

  I’d been expecting to have a miserable day, and destiny delivered it. I’m not at all shocked when the secretary announces over the P.A. in social science class that the office would like to see me at the end of the period.

  “Did you hear that?” Mrs. Hendricht asks me. “They want to see you after class.”

  I nod my head. “Yes, ma’am.”

  It’s about Fitz. I know it. Well, I don’t really know it. But I’m pretty sure I know it. And, now I have the next twenty minutes of class to ping pong between yes, you’re screwed and no, you’re not screwed. I try to drown it all out with my latest mantra, courtesy Demit: We did nothing wrong. We did nothing wrong. If I say it enough, everyone will believe it. Including me.

  Mrs. Hendricht lets me leave a few minutes early to avoid the crowded hallways. She’s a stickler for promptness. I’m not so keen on playing the eager beaver. Something in my gut tells me that Fitz will haunt me as much in his afterlife as he did while living.

  “Miss Tiller! Thank you for coming,” Mrs. Brullo’s voice is exceptionally peppy as I step into the office. “I’ll let the guidance counsellor know you’re here.”

  Guidance counsellor? I don’t remember requesting any counseling. I steal a glance at the office door and am about to scoot out of here, but the secretary is back before I can take more than two steps.

  “Miss Tiller!” She announces as her short round body rolls toward me. Behind her is the counsellor. It’s Crumbstache. Well, that’s not his real name, but it’s what everyone calls him on account of his thick brown moustache that is rumoured to be dusted with crumbs every time he’s sighted.

  “This is Mr. Retroski,” says the secretary before returning to her chair behind her desk.

  I nod. He lifts his hand. The ‘welcome to adulthood, it’s time you learned to shake your hand’ lesson. His palm is warm. Sweaty. I resist wiping my hand against my kilt when he releases it.

  “Hello, Lana. Nice to meet you. You can call me John.” His moustache stretches as he smiles. I don’t detect any crumbs. He leads me past the front desk and opens the door to an office tucked in a corner at the end of a short corridor. When I step into the room behind him, my heart lurches. A policewoman is sitting in a chair with wheels. She rolls a couple inches on the seat before getting up and extending a hand.

  “Thank you for meeting with me, Lana,” the officer says. “I’m officer Maloney.” She’s young. Maybe five or six years older than me. This is good news. I’m hoping the cop shop sent the rookie because it’s an open and shut case, like they do on TV. Unless she’s one of those genius rookies trying to claw her way to the top and will stop at nothing to turn Fitz’s death into her pet project. I’m worried when I noticed the dark red slash across her cheek. There’s a badge of badass if ever I saw one.

  “Have a seat,” she gestures me to sit on the couch across from her chair. Crumbstache sits on the other end.

  “Clearly, you’ve heard the news about Fitz,” she says, pursing her lips. “That he died two nights ago.”

  I swallow, “Yeah, I heard about it on the weekend.”

  “Of course,” she lifts her hands in a surrender. “Social media spreads the news pretty fast these days. I just want to start by saying I’m sorry for your loss. It’s always a shock to lose someone you know at such a young age.”

  Crumbstache leans his face toward me. “I’m here for you if you need to talk.”

  “Thanks,” I say, rubbing one eye. It must look like I’m starting to tear up because they give me a moment.

  She straightens her back and presses her finger tips together. “I need to ask you some questions to clear a few things up. You are welcome to call your parents if you want them here with you.”

  I shake my head. “No,” I blurt. “I don’t need to call them, I mean. I’m fine.”

  Maloney leans back against the chair and crosses an ankle over a knee, then pulls a small notepad out of her breast pocket.

  “Why don’t you tell me about your relationship with Fitz?” she says.

  “There’s not much to tell. We went out a couple times in the summer. That’s about it,” I answer.

  “Some racy messages sent between the two of you.” Maloney reads from her notepad. “I’m wearing nothing right now.” She lifts her eyes. “That one’s from you.” I feel my face redden. Stare at my knees. “Here’s one from Fitz to you.” She clears her throat. “I’m fantasizing about you...”

  “They were just jokes,” I cut her off. “I swear.” My chest tightens. I’d deleted all those texts ages ago and had completely forgot about them, until now. “It was stupid. I shouldn’t have sent them. But, you know, they meant nothing.”

  Maloney turns to Crumbstache and nods her head. “Can you give us some time alone?”

  “Of course,” he walks out the door, shutting it behind him.

  Her voice grows soft. “Did you know his phone went missing? His mom says it was stolen. He accused you of stealing it. One of his last texts.”

  I wrap my arms around my stomach to stem the impulse to retch. How did she get his texts? Can the police get data just from a phone number? My mind races to the bathroom stall. I wonder if someone found the smashed phone pieces and handed it to the school office. Would it still have the photo I deleted? Probably. Nothing is ever truly erased in any of these damn devices. Why didn’t I just bury it somewhere?

  “I’m sorry to dredge all this up for you, but it’s my job. To fill in the blanks.”

  “I heard it was suicide,” I say, trying to change the subject.

  Maloney scrunches her nose. Sniffs. “Looks that way, but we want to be sure. Usually there’s a note. Some kind of sign.” She breathes deliberately out her nostrils, flattens her lips together.

  My temple pulses as she pauses.

  “You were probably the last person to see Fitz alive,” she says. I stiffen as she reads from her notepad again. “You little bitch. I know you did it. I want my phone back tonight.” She looks at me. “Sound familiar?”

  “I didn’t have his phone,” I say.

  “He later texted you, I’m here.” She clears her throat. “He was at your house, wasn’t he? Come to get the phone you stole from him. Maybe you got into a fight. Maybe he attacked you. Might explain the fresh scratches on his face.”

  “No.” Did I scratch him? I don’t remember doing that.

  “Did you have anything to do with the text about him and his mom?”

  “No. I swear.”

  “A witness saw him enter your house, so I know you’re lying about something.” She smirks.

  “Well, he did come to my house.” My collar feels tight. A witness? Who was spying on my house that night? �
�But no. I didn’t have his phone. I told him that and he left. That’s all that happened.”

  Maloney does the slow nod. Up and down, up and down. Her pupils drilling into mine. “There’s something else.”

  My left eye is spastic with twitching. I hope she can’t see it.

  “He has a photo of you. It’s not a nice picture, if you know what I mean. Were you aware that a naked photo of you was being circulated?” She narrows her eyes.

  Shifting my gaze downward, I stare at a crumpled ball of yellow paper resting a foot from the wastebasket. Overthrow. Do I tell her the truth? Say that I know all about my photo?

  “I know the photo.” I meet Maloney’s gaze. “My boyfriend took it. Well, ex-boyfriend now.” I shrug, like it’s no big deal.

  “What’s his name?” She asks. I blink and turn to look at the ball of paper again. “You can lay charges against him,” she continues, leaning forward. “Distributing photos like this is a crime. You can make him pay for this.”

  “No way.” I stare straight at her this time. My parents don’t know a thing about my life, and that’s how it’s going to remain as long I have a say in it.

  The officer rests her back against the chair and shakes her head. “I can’t do anything to this guy without your help, you know. We can make him pay.”

  “No thanks.” Fitz is dead. That’s all the help I need to move on with my life. Put all this viral photo hell behind me.

  Then she slaps her notepad shut and stuffs it in her pocket. Stands up and sighs.

  “Thank you for your time, Lana. And, be careful about those selfies. You never know where they’ll end up. Or when they’ll appear. They can ruin a person’s life.”

  Preaching to the converted, I want to say. “Yes, I will,” I respond, standing and rubbing my sweaty palms together.

  “By the way,” she adds, her hand on the door knob. “Do you know if Fitz took study drugs?”

  “Study drugs?” Fitz was a year below me, so I’d never been in any of his classes. But he didn’t strike me as someone who cared much about academics. If she’d asked about other drugs, I’d know the answer. Not that I would tell her though.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Maloney opens the door. “Have a nice day.”

  I step past her.

  “Thanks.” I wonder why she’s asking about study drugs. Did he overdose on ADD meds? Although I’ve known a few students to pop pills for learning disabilities or to cram for exams, Fitz didn’t seem the type.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Maloney calls out as I pass the secretary’s desk. I stop for an instant, nod, then walk out into the hallway and almost bump into Alysa.

  “Watch it,” she says, flipping her hair back.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t see you.”

  “I couldn’t miss you if I tried with that cotton candy hair.” She laughs. “Is this the new Lana look? Nice.” She draws out the end of the word like a hiss as she opens the door to the office and lets it shut behind her. I watch her through the glass wall as she casually leans her elbow onto the secretary’s desk. Flips her hair both ways, then turns to shake hands with Crumbstache. Her fake smile wide. Charmed, he smiles back, then catches me staring. Clearly, she’s no longer mourning Fitz’s death. I turn away and hurry to my locker. What has Maloney learned about Alysa and Fitz? I pull out my cell and text Demit.

  Police here today abt Fitz’s death. Just got questioned. Alysa up next. Im freaking out!

  I stare at the screen for a full minute awaiting his response. My body twitches like a bundle of live wires. I take some deep breaths. No text pops up, so I conclude he’s asleep. I drop the phone back in my cardigan pocket and take a detour to class, stopping at the bathroom stall to take a peek in the tampon disposal. Empty. A cocktail of bleach and fake lemon fills my nostrils. A sure sign the bathrooms were recently cleaned. I step into every stall and peer inside the disposal boxes. All empty. This is a good sign. The custodian threw the phone away with the trash. Unless he got suspicious and handed it to the office. How long would it take for them to uncover the deleted photo? I look in the cracked mirror. The girl with the pink hair looks back at me.

  “You did nothing wrong,” she tells me. I nod. Well, we both nod. I am the girl in the mirror. Hard though it is to believe. Girl Unformulated.

  Chapter 13

  Prescription for Disaster

  Demit is in pyjamas when he opens the door. Red and blue plaid flannel bottoms and a faded black t-shirt. Hair is rumpled, no toque. Skin like white plastic.

  “You’re sure you feel better?” I ask, stepping into the front entranceway.

  “I haven’t puked in six hours,” he answers, leading me into the basement where the TV is playing an episode of Hoarders. One of my favourite shows to watch when my life is sucking because it reminds me that someone always has it worse. “So, yeah. I feel all sorts of better.”

  He grabs me a soda and leans against the wall as I tell him about my interview with the cop. When I’m finished, he shrugs.

  “I don’t think you have anything to worry about. It’s not like she’s going to think you force-fed the guy drugs. I mean, he’s twice your size. What would you do? Tie him up and jam pills down his throat? She’s probably filing the case as an overdose and you’ll never see her again.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one being investigated,” I retort. His casual demeanor is irritating right now. “What about the witness who saw him enter my house?”

  “Unless this so-called witness was inside your house and saw what we did, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “And the drugs? Why would she ask about the drugs?”

  “Maybe he took some Ritalin for kicks. If it was his first time, who knows what the side effects might’ve been. Most of us start it in small doses when we’re too young to know shit all.” He stops suddenly. Turns away.

  “What do you mean by most of us? Do you take them?” I ask. He rubs his hand over his mouth, then swipes it across the back of his neck and looks up at the ceiling.

  “Not anymore. Well, just once in a while. I was diagnosed LD when I was eight and was taking Ritalin for about five years. Once I hit high school, I stopped. I never felt like myself on that shit. But it prevented the teachers from wanting to beat me with rulers.”

  “So, you’re not LD anymore?” I ask. “Not that it matters,” I rush to add.

  “I don’t know.” He raises his voice, waving his hand in the air. “When I started high school, I told my parents I’m done with being identified. I wanted to just be me. Didn’t want a label. I figured I should be able to just be myself. It freaked my mom out so much that she enrolled me in a private school for gifted students. I hated it. Too many weirdos in one place is not healthy. People like us need to be spread out in the world.” He laughs. “By grade ten, I was back in public school but not until I agreed to go back on the meds, which I did. At least for a while. My mom got off my case during the split. That’s when she started taking her own happy pills. I guess she figured one doped up person per family is enough.”

  “Wow,” I breathe. “So, you’re not taking Ritalin anymore?”

  “Nah,” He flips through TV channels with the remote. “Once in a while I might if I really need to concentrate on something for school. But I haven’t done that in ages.” He turns the set off, then drops the remote on the table, and looks at me.

  “It’s not a big deal,” he says, hunching his shoulders. “You’re looking at me like I’m the freak show guy who can lick his own ear wax.”

  I blink and shake my head. “I’m sorry.” I hadn’t realized I was staring.

  “Are you worried that I poisoned Fitz with my drug supply? In a stupor of hyperactivity?” He laughs and rolls his eyes. “I could’ve killed him at your house. Trust me, if I was going to kill him, it would have been then. It took all my self-control to not pull the trigger.”

  “I thought you said the gun wasn’t loaded?”

/>   “Well. Turns out it had one bullet in it.”

  “Shut up! Are you crazy?” I practically jump off the couch. How can he be so relaxed about this?

  Picking up his guitar, Demit settles into the chair across from me and strums it. “Crazy, yeah. I couldn’t believe it when I checked at home. I shouldn’t have told you. Forget I said anything. It’s no big deal. I took the bullet out as soon as I realized it was in there. Hey, nobody got hurt.”

  I drop my head into my knees. “This is insane.”

  “You’re acting guilty. We did nothing wrong, Lana.”

  I do feel guilt. That we are sitting in his basement talking about Fitz’s death like it’s an everyday occurrence. Death is rare. Death is big. And, murder? I don’t even want to think about it. His calm reaction to all of this is causing my own freak-out radar to spike. I can’t fight this weird feeling that somehow, we are responsible for his death.

  I feel him sit beside me, his thigh against mine. He rubs my back and leans his mouth against my ear. “The worst is over. Fitz is gone. I don’t know what he did to hurt you, but it’s all past. Let him have the past.” I straighten my back and turn to look at him. His eyebrows bend with concern.

  “You’re free,” he says. “It’s a gift.”

  I know in that instant, I need Demit more than I’ve ever needed anyone in my life. There’s no one else I can trust. He’s right. It’s over. I sink my body into his and let the worries fade to black.

  October 21

  Take Back Your Power

  I’m growing stronger every day. The BFH’s have less control over me now that I no longer care about being their friend. Do you get what’s happening? I was giving all my power away to them. I’m taking that power back. I was judging myself through their eyes, which is a recipe for misery. The BFH’s feel good by making me feel bad. But guess what? Nobody has the power to make you feel bad but yourself. That’s why you need to cut out the friends who hold power over you. Easier said than done, I know. But it’s worthy of an attempt.

  I realize I only need one good friend. One person who likes me for who I am. I’m lucky I have that. Do you? I suggest you filter through your friends and find that one special person.