Love, Heather

by Laurie Petrou

  She gets back on her board and sails down a ramp. I wonder if she’s been getting used to Breanne when I’m not there, and what happens without me.

  The park is empty, which is a relief, because we don’t really like showing off how bad we are on the ramps while other kids are doing tricks. Lottie does a couple of easy runs, then comes up to sit with me on the bench at the top of the bowl.

  “What’d you do after Paige’s?” I ask her.

  “Just went home, why?”

  “I dunno,” I say, at a loss.

  But the truth is that I do know. We had all been standing around under the streetlamps outside. I had my hands on my handlebars, my legs straddling the bike frame. I was watching Lottie, looking to catch her eye so we could head back into our neighborhood together. She was talking to that Luke guy, and when she finally turned and saw me, she said, “You going?” and I said, “Yeah, you coming?”

  “I’ll catch up with you later, K?” she said.

  “Okay. Bye!” I called out to everyone, and turned my bike around and rode away alone, because what else could I do?

  But at home, I wondered if they had all done something afterward, if I had missed out on something.

  Lottie looks out past the park where the highway rumbles.

  “What’s going on with you?” I ask, finally.

  “Nothing!” she snaps, then softens and sighs. “Sorry. I just have some stuff going on.”

  I put my arm around her shoulder, and she leans into me. “What is it?” I ask. “Did something happen at the party? Is it me? Did I do something?”

  She chuckles and shakes her head, then takes a deep breath. “No. No, Stevie, it’s not about you. Not any of that.” She sits back and looks at me, her eyes welling up. “My mom came out. As in, ‘out of the closet.’” She uses air quotes.

  I suck the air through my teeth. “What?”

  “Yup.”

  “Holy shit.” I look at her, testing the waters, thinking of Rhonda, her short hair and button-downs and wondering if I could have guessed at this, and why I didn’t know, why she didn’t tell us together. I think of how she puts on a smiling face for the world but then retreats to her own spaces. I realize I don’t know anything about anything. “Are you okay? Like, how do you feel?”

  She shrugs. “I dunno. Like she’s been keeping a secret. And that makes me mad, and then I feel like I’m not being understanding enough. It fucking sucks, actually.”

  “Yeah … I get that.” I’m kind of feeling the same thing, and it’s not even my family. But they might as well be. I feel hurt, too. Part of me wishes Rhonda had told me, and then I realize how stupid that is. They are not actually my family, no matter how many board games we’ve played together. “What’d your dad do?”

  “He cried and then laughed because he said he had his suspicions, and it was kind of a relief. Things have been tense lately. Anyway, he told her he wants her to be happy, but I dunno if he means it. I mean, I think he’s in shock. They opened a bottle of wine they’d been saving and let me have some. Then my dad went out by himself and got wasted. I heard him knocking things over when he came home.”

  “Are they splitting up?”

  “They’re both staying here for now. But, I mean, it’s not exactly sustainable.”

  I give her shoulder a squeeze, then loop my arm through hers, and it feels like when we were little. I have missed that connection, the warmth of her. “That’s hard, babe. No matter what happens.”

  “Thanks. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. Things have just been … weird.”

  I wonder if she means weird at home or weird with me, but before I can ask, she stands up and gets on her board and flies down the bowl like a pro, like it’s nothing. Up the other side, too, her face a mask, like she’s bored. I laugh and clap my hands together, and then she hams it up with a big grin, wiggling her hips. I get on my board and try to do the same, but I’m shorter and less coordinated. I bail almost immediately, sprawling out at the bottom, but I’m good at playing dead, too. I stick my tongue out. I lay there while Lottie rolls past me, and I stare up at the sky. The clouds are gathering, pulling together in a big mass. I think about skies in all my favorite movies. Poetic fallacy. Doom. Foreboding. What are these skies telling me? The clouds dart about, avoiding my eyes like shifty assholes who owe you money and have no loyalty. I have that urge, that terrible panicky impotent wish to stop time. To stop growing up and older, to not worry about my friends or my family, to not have to keep up and be strong. Just for things to stop. Stay.

  Her third time past me, Lottie mutters, loud enough for me to hear, “Get up, ya loser,” and I can’t help but laugh, the sound of my voice echoing in the cement bowl.

  4

  Episode 66 2:30

  A note on Mean Girls. Not just the movie, but the genre. Girls just seem to know how deep a small cut can be. So much can be gained or lost by a tiny faux pas, the wrong look, an oversight. We watch as our heroes and villains move around social minefields. Look at Heathers, for example. I mean, it’s hard to know who to root for, isn’t it?

  Lottie and I meet to walk to school together the next day. She smiles and starts walking.

  I keep in step and look over at her. “How are you feeling?”

  “Hmm? Oh, fine.”

  “Like, I mean, with your mom.”

  She smirks at me, then says, “Yes, I know, Stevie.”

  “Any updates?”

  “Updates? Sorry, no.” She stops and turns to me. “Look, thank you for being so understanding, but it’s cool. I’m fine.” She gives me a little smile, almost like she feels sorry for me, then says, “Let’s just … We don’t have to talk about it all the time, okay?” and keeps walking.

  “Um, okay.” I hurry to keep up with her. “It’s just that, like, I get it. My parents split up, so I know what this can be like.”

  “My parents aren’t splitting up,” Lottie says, still staring ahead.

  “Well, not yet, but—”

  “I’m fine, Stevie,” she says, and that is that, even if I don’t believe her, and even if she’s being a bitch about it.

  “Okay, you’re fine,” I say, and we walk the rest of the way making awkward small talk.

  * * *

  In homeroom I watch Rhonda and wonder if she knows that I know. She acts no differently to me, but I can’t help feeling a little stung. I mean, aren’t I like a daughter to her? She’s always said so. I wait after class to see if maybe she wants to talk to me, but she just looks up from her desk and asks if I need anything.

  “No, no, I’m good,” I say.

  “You sure are, kid,” she says, smiling and getting up as the next class files in. In the hallway, I see Paige giving Lottie a hug.

  “Hey guys,” I say, joining them as they separate.

  “Hey,” says Paige. Then she looks at Lottie and says in a low voice, “You good?” Lottie nods, smiling gratefully. “Cool. I gotta get to class. See you guys!” She rushes off down the hallway.

  “What’s up?” I ask Lottie. Then, “Does Paige know about”—I drop my voice to a whisper—“you know?”

  Lottie nods. “Oh yeah, she’s been awesome.” But before I can register if this is a dig, she says, “Oh shit! I forgot my bag in homeroom!” And she dashes off, leaving me standing there.

  * * *

  I walk home with Paige and Lottie, who seem to have developed their own rhythm. They are laughing about something Luke said to Paige about Lottie.

  “I mean, he is into you,” Paige says, nudging Lottie, who pushes back, clearly pleased.

  “Whatever. He’s kind of a player, so …”

  “So what? Who says you can’t be, too? You should totally hit that.”

  “Totally,” I say, a beat late, and the words sound completely fake. Lottie is as big a virgin as me.

  Lottie glances at me and says, “Maybe …”

  Paige looks from Lottie to me. There is silence for a couple of minutes.

  “There is
, like, no one I want at that school,” I say, as if they asked.

  “No?” Paige asks. “Why? What are you into?”

  “Um. It’s not that I’m into anything, but I mean, there’s no one I like …” I finish lamely.

  “Right,” Paige says, her head bobbing in vague agreement. Soon she peels off to go toward her street, and Lottie and I continue together.

  “So …” I venture, “Luke, hey?”

  “What?” Lottie says. “Something wrong with him?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “I know. He’s one of those guys,” she says, shrugging, “I dunno. It’s just flattering.”

  “Oh, for sure. I think it’s great!” I say, enthusiastically. Ugh. It feels so forced. I’m almost relieved when we get to her house and she waves good-bye. I cut through someone’s backyard to get to my street, startled when a little dog jumps against a window, barking furiously.

  * * *

  Later, at home, I take the garbage out, grumbling as I drag the big bin out to the curb. I feel like something is getting away from me. I bite at my thumbnail, which has become irritated and red. I look out toward Lottie’s street. The sun is setting, and the tops of all the houses are a pretty red. I pull out my phone. I text her.

  Hey hey

  Nothing. I walk back to the house and nudge her again.

  What r u doing. I’m so bored

  No response, which is bullshit. It’s not like she didn’t see it. We all have our phones with us all the time.

  I think of Paige, and then on a whim text her to see if she wants to go to the movies together.

  To see what

  isle of dogs is playing at the old theater

  Yea ok. Want to ask Lottie too

  I think about this, and how Lottie would probably say yes to Paige, and then I’d end up feeling like the third wheel.

  I feel a little bad, but say, I think she’s got something tonight.

  * * *

  I’m nervous, like it’s a date or something. I get to the theater and see her standing there, alone. She’s tapping away on her phone but looks up and smiles when I jump in front of her and say “Boo!” like an idiot. Oh God. I calm down and put my hands in my pockets.

  We get the movie tickets and line up to get popcorn.

  “Are you a fan?” I ask her.

  “Of what?” Paige says. She is so pretty: dark-blonde hair hanging in perfect beachy waves, her face kind of pale and delicate, finely carved cheekbones and thick dark eyebrows that show every expression. “Of Wes Anderson. I’ve been a fan since I saw Bottle Rocket. Love that one. It’s so unpolished, you know, like you can see what he’ll become?”

  “Right,” she says, dipping her head to look at her phone. I remind myself to dial it back on the film nerd talk.

  I take a large popcorn from the concession stand kid and pop a handful in my mouth, offering some to Paige, who bought nothing. She stares at the popcorn and shakes her head.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” I ask as we walk into the dark theater.

  She looks up at me and smiles. “Hmm? No, I’m fine. Full, actually.”

  After the movie, we walk through town in the dark, talking. It’s cool and fresh out; spring is here. I take some deep breaths. It feels like a treat, being here with Paige, to not be home, scrolling through my phone, making a video, listening to my mom ramble on, or worse, if she’s not there at all. I wonder about Lottie and feel a bit bad, but I deserve friends outside of her, too, and it’s not like she and Paige include me in everything.

  “I mean,” I continue, “I can totally see what everyone is saying about the appropriation issue.”

  “Uh-huh,” Paige says, agreeing vaguely.

  “But—and I know this is not an excuse—but you can tell that he was trying to do it respectfully. More like an homage, you know?”

  “I can’t believe they can make that stuff, like the puppets or whatever,” she says.

  “Right? So amazing! Fantastic Mr. Fox took years but was so worth it.”

  Paige looks at me and smiles kindly. “You really know a lot about this shit.”

  I try to look modest, but it’s not my strong suit. “Well, my mom and I used to watch a lot of movies together. Mostly old movies, like from when she was young. She used to love movies. She got me hooked.”

  “Oh no—” Paige covers her mouth and raises her eyebrows. “Did she die?”

  “What?” I laugh. “No, no. Tiffany is very much alive. We just don’t really hang out together anymore. She’s—” I look up, searching for the words. “I dunno. Dating, I guess. Busy. She’s just kind of not around anymore.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I get it. Phew! I thought she was dead!”

  I laugh with her, and then we are quiet for a while. We walk behind the main street, the backs of all the shops to us. I have the urge to do something goofy, change the subject. There’s a grocery cart outside the Giant Tiger that catches my eye.

  “Hey!” I turn to Paige and then run, grabbing it. “Get in!”

  She laughs, “Really?”

  I wheel it over. “Get. In.”

  And she does, and I start pushing her around the parking lot, and it’s fun. She is laughing and screaming like I’m going to tip her over any second, and I half want to. I do a couple of loops, then stop, gasping. The parking lot is so lonely and quiet, but in a nice way.

  And then I remember that I have my Polaroid camera down in the bottom of my bag. I root around for it, finally pulling it out triumphantly.

  “But I’m in a shopping cart!” Paige screeches. I get in front of her, and she puts one arm around my neck, and I hold the camera out in front of us. It makes a whirring and spits out the picture, and we laugh and grab it back and forth, shaking it, while the image of the two of us slowly reveals itself. I’m barely perceptible in the darkness, but Paige’s pale face glows menacingly, her white teeth like fangs.

  * * *

  When I get home, I’m feeling happy and light. I flop on my bed, but then feel a small guilty twinge. I text Lottie.

  Hey girl you good?

  There are a few ellipses that start and stop while she responds, then reconsiders.

  Finally:

  Fine. How was movie.

  I jump, my cheeks flushing. Now the whole night feels slightly pathetic, like something they talked about together. Lottie knows I went out without her and didn’t invite her even though I could have, normally would have.

  Good. Sorry was last minute

  np.

  Oh, the period. Never in the history of time has one tiny dot of punctuation been charged with so much passive aggression.

  * * *

  The next day, our geography class is in the library to work on some research assignment we were given. No one really takes any books out at the library anymore. Everyone works on laptops, pretending to research, but they’re really trying to see if they can look up porn and checking which sites are blocked.

  There’s a table of girls, including Paige and Breanne, sitting in a circle blowing gossip rings up into the low ceiling, their giggles making the pages of the books shiver. I see the way other kids try to step out of their range, but some of them are caught by a snarky once-over or a low comment. Matthew, a freckle-faced, redheaded kid I’ve known since elementary school, who is heartbreakingly gangly and nerdy, gives them a wide berth as he passes the table, his head dipping. Their eyes follow him with the bored looks of well-fed lionesses. I wander between the stacks, too nervous to invite myself to sit with them.

  I find myself in the fiction section, far from the gossiping crowd, and pull out a few well-worn copies of the books I loved when I was a kid. The Babysitters Club covers, in their fuzzy worn-and-faded beauty, give me that happy-sad feeling I hate but can’t seem to dodge, like some heat-seeking missile in old cartoons. I thumb through one, wishing I was in the tub or on the toilet at my house, with nothing to worry about except whether or not the characters will solve their fairly simple problem by the end of the book.
I put it back and lean against the shelves. So much has changed since then. Sadness takes me completely by surprise, and I find myself swallowing against a lump in my throat, wondering what is wrong with me.

  “What are you doing?”

  It’s Matthew.

  “Nothing. Just standing here.”

  “Yeah. I can see why. This is a good place to stand.” He leans against the stacks beside me and pretends to enjoy the view of the bookcase directly across from us.

  “What are you doing your research project on?” I ask to change the subject.

  “The Great Lakes.”

  “Excellent choice.”

  “Did you know that Lake Superior contains enough water to submerge North and South America in a foot of water?”

  “I did not. Wow.”

  “I learned that on Buzzfeed.”

  I compliment Matthew on his hard-hitting investigative research, and we laugh, and I don’t feel so bad for a moment. We say nothing for a few minutes, while Matthew looks through an old copy of The Hobbit, his finger tracing a map of the Shire. Then Paige sticks her head around the shelves.

  “There you are!” She looks at me, smiling, and then starts when she sees Matthew. “Oh—hello.”

  He nods a greeting, then looks back at me.

  “Come sit with us!” Paige says, grabbing my wrist, pulling me away. “Breanne found the most hilarious thing; you have to see.”

  I’d be lying if I didn’t admit how happy this makes me, my face blushing. Matthew raises a hand as I go, shrugging as though I have no choice in the matter, accepting that bullshit with a resigned smile.

  5

  Episode 67 1:10

  High school sports events: football, basketball, hockey. Bringing all the rink rats and cheerleaders and fangirls to the yard. The big game is a breeding ground for conflict, romance, and puking: the cornerstone of a classic film.

  There are more nights, meaningless and meaningful group hangs at different houses in rotation: Paige’s, Aidan’s, the backyard of a guy named Josh, even Lottie’s place once—when her parents are out.

  I notice that her room has changed a bit. I haven’t been for a while, and I see that she’s taken down a couple of her parents’ old posters and replaced them with new ones of bands she likes. There’s a picture of her and Paige stuck into her mirror frame. Everyone fingers Lottie’s things and oohs and ahs over her room and her hoarded books and music, lying on her bed and tossing her old stuffed animals around. Instead of feeling comfortable, as I should be, I’m paranoid, nervous, watching Lottie, who doesn’t seem to care at all.