I Like You Like This

by Heather Cumiskey

  The others nodded toward Hannah, and she immediately liked having their pretty, electric-blue-lined eyes on her. She already knew where she could score some weed at her school. Everyone did. All the girls admired the ultra-cool dealer boy who hung out in the hallways, mysterious and handsome in his black leather trench coat, ripped, faded jeans, and black combat boots. A high school loner by choice, he stood out from all the other male clones; he was deeply serious, with an irresistible, brooding demeanor. He hardly ever smiled, but could create a path of turned heads comprised of both sexes whenever he passed. Even for the popular girls, Deacon Giroux was just too handsome to even try.

  “He’s sooo cute,” said Gillian, looking around at the others for confirmation. They all giggled in agreement—even Taylor, the quietest girl of the coven. Hannah equated her with bathroom wallpaper: lovely on the eyes, but not much going on beyond the decoration.

  Today, as every day, Taylor wore a padded preppy headband, perfectly color-coordinated with her outfit. She was classically pretty in that private schoolgirl sort of way; she somehow managed to look polished even with little makeup on. Hannah had always envied her long, silky, dark brown hair and clear, creamy skin.

  Taylor’s well-bred good looks and fine-boned balletic body set her apart from most girls at school and gave her open access to all the cute jocks in any grade—so much so that she changed boyfriends almost as often as she changed headbands. Hannah had to double-check the embroidered name on her latest boyfriend’s varsity jacket just to make conversation with her.

  “So, Taylor, how is Jake doing? Oh, I meant Daniel . . . that’s right, duh . . .” Hannah said, quick to look away first.

  Taylor perked up in response, as she always did, heaving a dramatic sigh and fluttering her pretty, coquettish eyes to the sky to convey her unwavering adoration for her newest acquisition. “He’s definitely ‘the one,’” she said, beaming. Taylor’s self-worth ran head-to-head with how hard the guy fell.

  Meanwhile, Gillian performed her own eye rolling behind Taylor’s back. “Taylor has dated so many jocks, they’re going to give her a varsity letter,” she once said.

  For that brief moment, Hannah felt like one of them. They asked her more questions about getting the weed and gave her advice, though she knew that none of them had ever dared to buy or try drugs. She didn’t know if she had the guts to go through with it either.

  As if Gillian could read her mind, she began sizing up Hannah’s seriousness. “So what are you looking for? What kind of stuff? I didn’t know you bought,” she said, her eyes widening as if she had just discovered the secret to Hannah’s weirdness. Gillian loved gossip, and a juicy story like this would keep the vultures abuzz all the way through till dismissal.

  Gillian wouldn’t appear to be the leader of the group at first glance. But she carried herself with an unwavering confidence that bordered on conceit, which added to her nothing-special looks. She came off as incredibly smart, and was always quick with a comeback. Confrontation was her heroin, especially with her peers; she could ruin a girl’s social standing in one verbal takedown. She would expose her victims’ secrets and worst fears on a whim, seemingly without a flicker of concern. However when she decided to be nice, you couldn’t help but crumble. The boys liked her, and the girls wanted to be around her—or they feared being her next victim. Just being in Gillian’s presence was heady and intoxicating for Hannah.

  The bus arrived, and Hannah followed behind the group as they made their way to their usual seats, hoping their conversation would continue. Instead, Gillian and Leeza went on about some party they had gone to over the weekend, while Taylor suddenly seemed distracted; she began tugging on her shirtsleeves and staring tearfully out the window. Hannah ignored her. She wanted Gillian and Leeza’s attention back. But they were done with her.

  Their high school, built sometime in the 1950s, boasted an impressive redbrick Georgian façade with tall columns and a white cupola, inside though it was just plain old, like Leave It to Beaver old. Its faded hallways were crammed with kids from extremely wealthy families wearing the latest preppy fashions, as well as alternative Goth/New Wave kids from modest households who got creative and shopped at thrift stores. Hannah didn’t fit into either group. But she watched and listened, catching conversations about all the keg parties and “totally awesome” high school events she wasn’t a part of. There always seemed to be some big social outing that couldn’t be missed.

  Hannah shrugged to herself. Staying home and watching Friday Night Videos on TV with a bowl of ice cream in her lap suited her just fine; at least, there, she was safe and away from their stares and smirking faces.

  Still, she was curious. She knew that plenty of kids at school dabbled in party drugs, like pot—or at least they bragged that they did. Plus, if she didn’t follow through on this, she knew Gillian would never let her live it down. What the hell, she thought. Her father had already deemed her a slut; her mother criticized her constantly. What’s the harm in trying a joint? she wondered. Or did you buy it in a bag and roll it yourself? She’d have to ask him. Deacon Giroux. The thought of meeting him sent chills through her veins. If she was ever going to change her sad, sorry life, it was now or never.

  Hannah hadn’t a clue how one performed a drug deal in school—or anywhere, for that matter. As she worked up the courage to approach Deacon in the hallway just outside the main gym, she walked past him then stopped at the water fountain to survey her surroundings. She circled back casually, watching him out of the corner of her eye. She decided to get his attention from behind. That seemed safer, for some reason, than meeting him head-on.

  Praying that she wouldn’t throw up before she even got started, Hannah mumbled, “Hey,” into his back.

  Silence.

  Christ, of course he didn’t hear me, she thought, feeling stupid. I could barely hear myself. She stared at the way his dark hair fell over his leather collar.

  She began to panic, second-guessing herself and feeling invisible. But there he was right in front of her, talking to another senior boy wearing a letterman jacket. She couldn’t stop now. She took a deep breath and poked him in the back.

  Deacon flexed his shoulders like he had just gotten hit— then, slowly, he turned toward her with a grim irritated look. Hannah’s stomach dropped. It was already going badly.

  His features softened slightly when his eyes met hers. He appeared bored as he said in a husky voice, “Hey.”

  She’d never heard his voice before. Her throat clenched. With his intense, dark eyes and long, feathered eyelashes suddenly focused on her, Hannah immediately forgot herself and became mesmerized by his moody brows. When they were furrowed like this, it made him even more handsome. She swallowed hard as she stared at the smooth skin sweeping across his perfect nose into high cheekbones and down to an angular jawline, reminding her of Rob Lowe from The Outsiders, but crossed with Matt Dillon’s dangerous, bad-boy look. Life just isn’t fair, she thought. No one’s this perfect. Yet, there he was, not a blemish or blackhead in sight.

  Hannah mumbled something unintelligible again, but this time she produced a twenty-dollar bill—discreetly folded inside her palm—to show him that she wanted to buy. His eyes lit up, and he casually motioned for her to follow him around the bay of lockers, abruptly leaving the senior football player mid-sentence. The guy forced a laugh, like Deacon had just said something funny, and walked away.

  Hannah stumbled after Deacon until they stood facing one another alone in the short hallway, the side of his head resting on the lockers.

  “So you want to get high, little girl?”

  “Ah, yeah,” said Hannah, thinking her voice sounded strange. She broke her gaze from his and tried staring over his shoulder so she could concentrate.

  “How high?” he asked, appearing slightly entertained.

  “Ahh, I’m not sure,” Hannah stammered, still nervous to be talking to him. She felt passing eyeballs crawling up her back. What am I doing here?

&n
bsp; “How much you wanna spend?”

  “Twenty dollars.”

  “Well for thirty, I can get you some choice, trippy stuff. Would you and your little friends like that? Piss away your Friday night with one awesome hit that will blow your pretty little minds? This stuff’s so smooth you can literally sleep it off and feel fine the next day, zero aftereffect,” he said with the confidence of a car salesman. “Totally. Clutch.”

  His mouth hovered inches from hers as he whispered his practiced pitch. Hannah could smell his mint-flavored gum. Don’t look up; don’t look up. She ignored her own advice. Great—now she was fixated on his beautifully formed mouth and dangerous red lips. She barely heard what he said next except for needing another $10 for an absolutely perfect night. That would show them, Hannah thought. Her parents and sister were out of town this weekend; inviting the girls over for an amazing time would clinch things for her. It would be the start of her new life—a life filled with school friends and weekend parties.

  She nodded to Deacon, reaching into her back pocket for a ten-dollar bill to add to her twenty. Before she knew it, he was hugging her and slipping the special matchbook into her front jean pocket nearest the lockers. Then he carefully took her $30 by enclosing her hand in his. It was warm compared to Hannah’s cold, clammy offering. It felt like they were more than friends in that moment, the way his tantalizing smile reached his eyes, his body close to hers. Hannah absently smiled back, still in shock but relieved.

  “Hey, thanks,” Deacon said nonchalantly, like they had just exchanged class notes. Hannah turned away, walking the opposite direction from her next class, the front of her body still hot from his embrace. She felt sexy. She checked her front jean pocket to make sure the matchbook was still there, the same place where Deacon’s fingers had been.

  It was too much—Hannah was getting turned on and she knew it. She wanted to relish the moment, but the hallways were filled with students on their way to their first-period classes. Gradually, the front of her body grew cold, like she had turned away from a lit fire. His fire. She dodged around classmates, many of whom seemed to be staring at her for some reason.

  Hannah felt like she’d just been kissed. Then all at once, she knew: she, too, was under Deacon’s spell.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE DAY DRAGGED AS HER TEACHERS DRONED ON ABOUT Pythagorean identities, Middle Eastern conflicts, and now Madame Bovary.

  How boring, Hannah thought, unable to concentrate. She passed the time away scribbling flowers and hearts in the margins of her notebook, wishing her weekend would start already.

  Making things worse, her English teacher Mrs. Myers, who made a habit of calling on Hannah, asked her to stay after class. What now? Hannah stewed, wondering what her teacher could possibly want. Mrs. Myers was one of the younger teachers at the school, and she dressed like she’d just walked off the set of Dallas—colorful pantsuits and Pamela Ewing hair, sprayed high and away from her ears. She applied her makeup with a heavy hand; her mascaraed eyelashes reminded Hannah of a tarantula.

  When almost all the other students had gone, Mrs. Myers gestured Hannah to the front of the room and tapped a paper on her desk. “This last essay you submitted showed some real promise,” she said as Hannah stood awkwardly before her, shifting her weight from side to side and holding her books against her chest, longing to escape.

  “Hannah, are you listening?”

  “Uh-huh . . . yes ma’am,” Hannah replied, quickly straightening up and clearing her throat. But soon her focus drifted again to the two girls in the back of the classroom who were preventing another girl from getting up from her desk. The seated girl—an exchange student from Peru, Hannah thought— dressed in weird clothes and came off kind of mousy, barely speaking in class. Hannah immediately recognized the standing girls’ body language. They wanted something.

  “Hannah?” said Mrs. Myers, growing annoyed.

  “Yeah . . .” Hannah answered absently, her eyes narrowing as she watched the girl’s deer-in-the-headlights expression stretch across her face. Her teacher’s eyes followed hers. One of the standing girls suddenly ripped the homework ditto from the girl’s desk. Together, she and her friend turned away laughing, bumping their shoulders into one another as they sped out of the classroom.

  “’Scuse me . . . just a sec,” Hannah said, already walking toward the exchange student, whose eyes were now moist, her lips pressing together behind the books gathered in her arms.

  “Here,” Hannah said, and she passed her ditto to the girl. “I’ve got two.”

  The girl looked up, slightly confused; then a shy smile gave way, and Hannah grinned back.

  “Sorry,” Hannah said, returning to her teacher’s side.

  “I was asking if you considered writing—” her teacher started.

  “Yeah, I write every day . . . in my diary mostly. Why?” she responded quickly, hoping to appease her. “S-sorry, but I’m going to be late, thanks . . . really.”

  She averted her eyes from her teacher’s questioning gaze and was a few steps from the door when Mrs. Myers called out, “Hannah!” She was leaning over her desk, her outstretched hand holding out another homework ditto.

  “Th-thanks,” Hannah stammered. She ran back and grabbed the ditto before double-timing it to her next class.

  All through the day Hannah looked for the girls, but she never saw them anywhere. She felt proud of herself for going through with it—approaching gorgeous Deacon Giroux himself and actually buying drugs for the first time. She couldn’t wait to tell them on the bus, especially Gillian. And tonight was a perfect night to do it. Her whole family was going to visit her Gamma Mimi for the weekend. Hannah had gotten out of the visit by complaining about the immense amount of studying she had to do. It was sort of a lie, but they’d bought it. After some debate, her parents had agreed to leave her alone for two nights.

  Hannah could barely contain her happiness the rest of the day. She knew that tonight was going to be awesome.

  CHAPTER 4

  GEEZ, WILL TOBY EVER GET A LIFE? DEACON WONDERED, steaming inside. No sooner had he walked away from that last deal, Toby had come running up beside him. I’m not floating him any more weed, Deacon swore to himself as Toby talked his ear off. What a waste of space. Just be gone already.

  His mind drifted toward the girl, the one he’d just sold to for the first time. She looked pretty young; was it her first time? Damn it, he hadn’t told her how to take it, to wait and see what happened before consuming the whole stamp. Shit, she doesn’t look like she weighs much—a whole one could be bad, very bad indeed.

  Deacon half listened to Toby jabbering on about some “toasted” guy he’d hung out with over the previous weekend before stopping him again mid-sentence.

  “Hey, do you know that girl’s name?”

  “Ah, which one?” Toby said, glancing down the hallway.

  “The girl I was just talking with.”

  Toby’s face brightened. “Ah bro, I think she’s a sophomore. Hannah something? Hannah Z . . . Zandana, I think.”

  CHAPTER 5

  HANNAH ZANDANA. YEP, THAT WAS HER. AS IF BAD SKIN wasn’t enough, Hannah’s first and last name rhymed. Even worse, most people—kids and adults—tended to use both names when they addressed her, like Rosanne Rosannadanna from Saturday Night Live. Her relatives told her all the time that her name, and even her hair, reminded them of the character, played by Gilda Radner. When Hannah finally watched an old episode to see what everyone was talking about, it only solidified her mortification, along with her fear that they were all just making fun of her.

  Hannah was heading toward the bus after final bell when some boy she didn’t know yelled out, “Hannah Zandana!” She had no idea who he was. The teasing never seems to get old, does it? She refused to give him the satisfaction of turning around; she ignored his shouts and climbed onto the bus.

  Gillian, Leeza, and Taylor all stopped talking when they saw her, and all three of them turned in her direction.

/>   Attempting to act natural, she tried to gauge their mood. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” they replied, their eyes wide and eager.

  “So how did it go today, did you score some?” Gillian probed, the teasing evident in her voice as she smiled at Hannah.

  Hannah immediately smiled back, caught up in Gillian’s glow.

  “What was it like to talk to him? Did he hug you?” asked Leeza.

  “Ah, yeah, it was amazing!” said Hannah, practically bursting.

  Their questions kept coming, and she relished being the star.

  “So you guys want to join me? My parents are out of town. Got the whole house all weekend.”

  Silence. Their eyes darted to one another’s for a moment.

  Then Gillian broke the awkwardness. “Sure, I’ll be there,” she said.

  The others immediately chimed in, agreeing to meet at Hannah’s later that night.

  Hannah’s heart lifted. This was more than she had expected. Walking home from the bus stop, she couldn’t contain her excitement. Her life was finally changing.

  At home, Hannah immediately began straightening up the house, clearing the coffee cups and dishes that were strewn all over the kitchen table and sink, rushing around like the girls were coming over any minute, though she knew she had hours to go. She threw whatever she could in the dishwasher and wiped down the counters, even refolded the dishtowels hanging across the stove.

  Today more than usual, her house seemed to be stuck in some kind of ’70s time warp. In the living room, large, floral-patterned curtains in pumpkin and gold hues cascaded around corduroy couches flanked by hexagon end tables— leftovers from her parents’ college days. The linoleum floor was badly scuffed and chipped in the corners. Even the walls screamed neglect, full of random dirt smears and greasy handprints, along with a dollop of hardened jelly on the main light switch.