Like Lana

by Danielle Leonard

  “I don’t,” I say.

  “Does that make you crazier than me or more sane than me?” Demit pulls me to him and wraps his arms around my waist.

  “What if it just makes me me, and you you.” My heart is blanketed in warmth as I draw myself deeper into his embrace. He lowers his face and softly brushes his lips against mine.

  “Hmm, that’s nice,” he says.

  “So nice,” I say as I press my mouth against his and our tongues meet. I realize I’ve been wanting this for a long time, without really knowing until now. It’s a long intoxicating kiss that lets me forget that a world exists outside of this moment. I don’t want it to end, but my mind allows thoughts of Alysa to creep back in. I guess, Demit has the same problem. He pulls away and sighs.

  “So what are we going to do about Alysa?”

  “Ugh,” I grab his hand and we start walking again. “I don’t know.” The question is a stark reminder of my disastrous life and I feel the familiar sense of desperation swell inside of me. We continue in silence for a long time, stealing sips of gin every few steps.

  “I can fill the prescription and give you the pills,” he eventually offers. “Then she’s out of your hair for now, at least.”

  “Then what? We wait until she runs out again and comes asking for more? The school year is only two months in. I don’t want to be her little pill bitch for the rest of the year.” I don’t even realize how fast we’ve been walking, or where we’ve been going. But suddenly I realize we are on Stu’s street. I must have led the way without thinking. My chest tightens, gripped with hatred for the person who started this mess in the first place.

  “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath.

  “What?” Demit asks, pulling his hand away.

  “Not you,” I point the house in front of us. “Stu.”

  “Ah, okay.” Demit waits silently at my side while I stare at the dark home. My eyes narrowing in on his window to the left. His back door is almost always unlocked. I would bet my sullied reputation that it’s open tonight.

  “I’m going in,” I announce.

  “What?” Demit grips my arm. “Are you crazy? Why?”

  “I don’t know. I need to see him, or something. Tell him what an asshole he is and how he has destroyed my life.” I glance at Demit. “It will only take a few minutes. You wait here, okay?”

  “Lana, it’s a bad idea. Don’t do it. Please. You’ve been drinking, you’re not yourself.” I’m already walking away as he pleads. Not sure what I’m going to say, but I feel like this will provide some sort of closure. Or I’ll get charged and end up in jail where, it appears, I may go regardless of whether I break into Stu’s house or not. I shake the thought out of my head and check the door knob at the back of the house. It turns. My heart jumps. Am I actually going to do this?

  I sit on the step and open my bag to pull out the bottle of gin. Unscrew it and take two big gulps. A stern voice in my head tells me to turn around now and go back home. I tell it to shut up and get back on my feet, leaving the empty bottle on the ground.

  Opening the door, I stealthily step into the hallway. My head feels a bit dizzy, so I lean against the wall for a few seconds. Chances are high that Stu is home alone. His parents are divorced and his dad spends half his nights at his girlfriend’s apartment. At least, that was how things went when I was dating Stu. I still have no plan as I ascend the stairs and eventually find myself standing outside his bedroom door. It’s almost one in the morning and for all I know, he may still be out for the night.

  I slowly open the door and peer into the dark. Not able to focus yet, I tiptoe into the room toward his bed, until it is clear that he’s not here. His bed is empty. I sigh. Is it relief or frustration? Sitting on his bed, I wonder what I actually would have done had he been here. I honestly don’t know what I was thinking coming here. My cheeks are heated, and my body warm. I unwind my scarf from my neck and whip it off. Feeling cooler now, my mind grows clearer and I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the need to get the hell out.

  As I’m walking down the stairs, I hear the front door unlocking. My heart drops to my feet and I race back to the upstairs landing, and into a spare bedroom. Hold my breath behind the door and peer through the crack.

  He’s alone, thank goodness. I watch him read a text and laugh, then step through the hallway and enter the kitchen where I hear him open the fridge. This is the best time for me to get out. I take my shoes off and walk down the stairs very slowly. Mercifully, he turns on a video that sounds like a re-run of some late-night TV show. My hand is reaching for the front door when I hear Stu’s voice.

  “Lana? What the hell are you doing here?”

  I catch my breath and very slowly turn to face him. My skin is scorching hot as I race through my mind for some kind of excuse. Any excuse at all to make some sense of his ex-girlfriend standing in his front hallway at one in the morning. The hatred that compelled me to enter in the first place has evaporated. I got nothing now.

  “Hi Stu,” I respond weakly. “Uh, I, well, I wanted to talk to you.”

  He walks toward me, a puzzled look on his face. “You wanted to talk to me, so you broke into my house in the middle of the night?” He smirks. “What did you really want?” He reaches out and places his hand on my waist. I have a split second to decide whether I should play along and keep this light so I can make a quick escape, or I return to my original plan and tell him how much I hate his guts and how much he has ruined my life.

  “I, uh, wanted to see you again. See if there was still something, um, between us.” I don’t know if he is buying this. I sound unnatural and wooden. Forcing awkward words out of my mouth, my hand still resting on the door knob.

  “We did have a good time, didn’t we?” He says into my ear, caressing his hand up my spine and rubbing my left butt cheek with his other hand.

  “It was a mistake to come,” I say, prying his hands from my body. “A lapse in judgement, Stu.”

  He grabs my hair and tilts my head back, pressing his mouth against mine. “No, it wasn’t a lapse. I miss you, too.”

  “Stu, no.” I pull myself away from him. I can’t do this. “Enough. No, I’m not interested. Mercy, man. Get your nasty hands off of me.”

  Stu laughs. “Damn, you’re feistier than ever. I like that.”

  I glare at him. The game is over. “You are such an idiot. I didn’t come here to sleep with you. I came here to tell you to go to hell. To let you know that you ruined my life and it will never be the same. I wanted to take some kind of revenge on you, I had no idea what. I just knew I wanted you to pay for what you’ve done to me. But I’ve changed my mind. I don’t care anymore. I am actually finally ready to get past this. To not let it define me anymore. I can’t even be bothered to hate you. How can I hate someone who I don’t even give a rat’s ass about? You’re pathetic.”

  Stu appears dumbfounded. His mouth contorted as he tries to make sense of what I’m saying.

  “Don’t ever touch me again, Stu.” I open the door and step outside, slamming the door behind me. My heart is pounding so hard, I feel it in my throat. Within seconds, Demit is at my side.

  “What happened? I almost went in there when I saw Stu go inside. Holy crap. He didn’t touch you, did he? Everything okay?”

  “Oh yeah,” I answer. “Everything is awesome.” Demit stares silently at me, waiting for me to elaborate. I don’t. For a split second I think he saw the whole thing. Peeked in at the front door. But I push the thought away. It’s ridiculous. The ache of guilt rises in my chest. I didn’t do anything wrong, I remind myself. If he saw anything, it would have been me pushing Stu away.

  “Okay, cool,” he doesn’t press me. “We should get home then.” I agree, grab his hand, and lead our way back to my house where I suddenly remember I left my scarf in Stu’s bedroom. As panic starts to set in, I remind myself it’s no big deal. I can ask him for it tomorrow or the next day. All good. It’s a good night for a long sleep.

  Chapter 16
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  The Journal

  I wake up with a stomach ache. Something about last night has left me uneasy. I chalk it up to leaving the scarf at Stu’s place and try to ignore the gnawing feeling in my gut. Mom and dad are already fighting before I even get out of bed. I turn on some music and cover my head with my pillow and will myself to sleep. It seems to work. Next time I look at my clock, forty-five minutes have passed and the house is silent.

  As a result of my suspension, Mom told me I would be spending the day doing chores around the house. Grabbing track pants and a t-shirt from my dresser, I slowly get changed. I have nothing better to do on this cold Saturday morning, so I guess doing housework is not much worse than being bored watching YouTube videos. I look at my phone once more, before heading downstairs, and see a text from Alysa.

  ALYSA: You get the meds from Demit?

  LANA: No. Not happening

  ALYSA: You’re kidding. You think I’m bluffing? I’m not. If I don’t get something by tomorrow morning, expect a house visit from the cops.

  LANA: Why are you doing this?

  ALYSA: Just get me my damn pills and we’re all good. It’s easy.

  I throw my phone onto my unmade bed and swear. No matter how hard I try to put all this miserable stuff behind me, it continues to crop up and send me into another tailspin.

  “Leave me alone!” I yell at the phone. Why can’t Alysa just let me be. For the thousandth time I wonder what I did in this life to deserve so much misery. I grab the phone and text Demit.

  LANA: Hey, Alysa texted me. wants pills. what do we do?

  DEMIT: No surprise. We knew she would come after you. Idk what to do

  LANA: I’m so sick and tired of all this bs. Just want to put it behind us.

  DEMIT: Let me get the prescription filled. Should take about an hour. You can drop it off this afternoon. K?

  LANA: Grrr. I hate giving into her. Hate that she always gets her way. I feel like crying. When will she let me go?

  DEMIT: I know. sucks. She will never let you go if it’s up to her. She needs you for her own sense of worth. Pathetic. Want to meet me here in a couple hours? I’ll have meds.

  LANA: Ugh. I guess we have no choice. She’s not going to give up and I’m terrified that she’ll tell cops about my blog. Can we take it down?

  DEMIT: Yeah, we can take it down. Is that what you want?

  LANA: Idk. I’m getting so much traffic now.

  DEMIT: K. Let’s wait on that. See you in a bit.

  LANA: K.

  ***

  It’s a short walk to Demit’s house. I’m still feeling off. Like something bad is going to happen. But it may just be that I’m so used to bad things happening that I’m paranoid.

  His mother opens the door and smiles. Not a genuinely-glad-to-see you smile. More of a plastic one reserved for polite greetings.

  “Hi Lana. Demit just stepped out. He said to tell you to go on up to his room.”

  “Ok, thanks.” I feel awkward taking off my shoes with her at my side. I’m not one for small talk with parents.

  “How’s the cupcake business?” I ask, itching to run up the stairs.

  “It’s coming along.” She says, crossing her arms. That’s when I notice that the house doesn’t smell like a bakery. Touchy subject? She waves her arm toward the stairs. “Go on up. He’ll be back shortly.” I happily oblige.

  I’ve only been to his bedroom a couple times. Both occasions the bed was unmade and his laundry basket overflowing. Something I’d never see in my house. Despite my mom’s alcoholic tendencies, she’s alarmingly skilled in hiding any hint of family disarray. Keeps everything shiny. I guess it makes a bit of sense, now that I think of it. The lengths she will go to hide her drinking is equally impressive. Weird that I’m just making the connection now. I guess it’s one of those things that happen as you get older. One day you realize shit that you didn’t realize yesterday.

  Demit’s bed is perfectly made today. His dresser and shelves uncluttered. I read the title of a textbook on his desk. Introduction to Electrodynamics. I shake my head. Can any two people be more different? Next to it is a music book for guitar filled with Green Day songs. A car slows down outside his window. I look to see if it’s Demit. Nope.

  Sitting on his bed, I stare at the wall and spin my thumbs. One around the other. His walls are painted a mint green. Apparently, a young boy lived here before they moved in. Neither Demit nor his mom have gotten around to re-painting it, even though a stencil of dinosaurs runs along the upper edge of the walls. I pick up the black book resting beside me and run my fingers over the rough cover. It looks like a notebook. Interested, I open the front cover. Demit’s handwriting fills the first page. Thumbing through it, I see that he’s written at least fifty pages worth. A journal? Slamming it shut, I toss it back on the bed. Rub my hands and stare up at a red tyrannosaurus. It might be personal, I decide. And, I shouldn’t be looking in it.

  I stare out the window again and will him to return. I should move the book. Put it in his desk, or something. Reaching over, I grab the journal and rise from the bed. What if he meant for me to read it? Sitting back down, I open the cover again. I feel like I did when I first perused a vintage Playboy magazine while babysitting a neighbour’s kid. Guilty. Ashamed. Intrigued. And, completely unable to look away. I should not read this. But I have so many questions about him. Maybe if I just read the first page, that wouldn’t be so bad.

  August 29

  Mom says sometimes you do things without understanding why until after it’s done. Seems like a backward way of thinking, but in a weird way, I get it. In one sense, it seems like a cop-out for parents to tell us what to do without explaining why. But in the other sense (which is what I think she’s getting at) it means we have to trust that the meaning is in the journey. And we won’t appreciate the meaning until we’ve travelled to the end.

  This journal is my journey. At least according to my latest shrink. Mom insisted I see one here, too. I begged her to let it be but she worries so much about me. So, I did it for her. To help her sleep better at night. To feel that she’s helping me stay on track.

  So back to the journal. Doc says it will help me come to terms with my father. Also thinks my brain is so full of shit that it’s constipated and needs clearing out. (Not her exact words). But I think she may be onto something. I said I’d oblige. And, I will. Starting tomorrow.

  August 30

  Today is yesterday’s tomorrow, yet here I am with nothing to write. At least, nothing worth writing, but apparently that’s okay according to doc. She told me to write as if I’m on Facebook or Twitter or, as she says, whatever you young kids like to post on. I know she thinks that’s meant to help me, but she clearly doesn’t know me well. That analogy won’t help loosen the shit in my brain, so to speak. Aren’t those for people who want to expose the “best” version of themselves by updating their status with the “Good News.” The Gospel according to thousands of wannabes. Followed by thousands of other wannabes.

  In short, I will not be inspired by Facebook or anything else that’s online to un-constipate my brain.

  August 31

  School starts in six days. New school. Zero friends. How excited am I? I asked Mom if I could home school myself. She said no. She’s revved up about this enriched program I’m enrolled in. Half my courses are university-level. The other half are just plain enriched. I call it the Segregation of the Nerds stream. Mom doesn’t like that. I’m miffed. I won’t see a lot of girls (I mean, hot girls) this year since I’ll be stuck in one end of the building - with our own lunchroom, and everything! Not that I have any grand plans to date a single one of them, but they’re damn nice to look at. Mom doesn’t get this sort of thing. At least, she doesn’t let on with me around. I’ve heard her describe me to other moms as a gifted learner. Brilliant. Complicated. And, when she thinks I’m not listening, “A cool nerd.” How embarrassing is that. I think she’d rather call me a nerd. Conclusion: she’s not utterly clueless about my s
ocial circumstances. Note of interest: I did date a hot chick once. Tick that off the list. She ended up being a psychopath, which was very unfortunate.

  My little sister starts grade eight. She is not among the gifted elite. At least she worked hard to convince Mom and Dad of that. I know she’s brilliant. Well, we all know she is. But, she’ll have nothing to do with it. Last year, Mom caught her smoking weed in her bedroom. Sent the family into a tailspin. Like we didn’t have enough trouble brewing. I was kinda pleased. It meant she had to see a counsellor, too. It can be lonely being the only head-case-kid in the family. Mom is hopeful that this year will be a fresh start for us all. Because this is Canada! Mom has only maple-flavoured memories of her Canadian childhood where, she claims, everyone is made of good, solid stock.

  I hope the year starts off right, too. For Mom’s sake. I can tell she’s walking a tight rope of insanity (I swear that’s a line from a song somewhere.) A single false step and she’ll go over the deep end. One committed parent is enough. If she goes, too, our whole family will fall like dominoes.

  CNN ticker: American family goes insane among good-hearted Canadians.

  September 1

  I’d never seen a black squirrel until I moved to Canada. Today I saw one race across the backyard as I was trying to start the lawn mower. It was a very frustrating moment. Pulling that cord that is supposed to start the engine. After a hundred pulls, and a litany of swear words, I gave up and sat down. How hard is it to design a lawn mower that starts with one pull? A worthy invention.

  That’s when I saw the squirrel. I like to imagine they’re the evil cousins of the brown squirrel. Darting around like demons looking to cause all hell in the natural world. Then I watched it pick up an acorn and stick it in its mouth. And I realized they’re just simple squirrel folk, except in black. They’ve got it figured out. Search for nuts. Eat nuts. Sleep.