“Oh my God, it’s you and Stevie!” screeches Paige, picking up a photo from her dresser. “So cute!” Me and Lottie, wearing jammies and giving each other full-body hugs, huge grins on our faces. I remember that night. It was our first sleepover. We ate so much junk food that Lottie threw up before we went to sleep, and her mom gave us both flat ginger ale and electric blankets, and Lottie’s nausea just became another fun part of the night.
“Nice nightie,” Aidan says, leaning over Paige’s shoulder and popping some chips in his mouth. “You still got that one, Stevie?” he guffaws, and Paige glares at him. He bugs his eyes out with a what? expression, then rolls his eyes and throws himself into a beanbag chair.
“Of course I do,” I deadpan, “and I’m saving it for a special someone.”
They laugh and move on, to someone, something else. Lottie is speaking animatedly to a girl I don’t know.
I glance back at the photo, two sweet girls in their pj’s. That room, that corner of my world that seemed so untouched by everything else, feels like some kind of fakery now, different and sullied somehow. But Lottie is completely unbothered. What is wrong with you, Stevie? I wonder, looking at myself in the mirror, at my half-grown-out hair. It seems like a metaphor for my whole life. Half finished, unappealing, awkward. I notice Dee in the reflection behind me, smirking at something Josh said to her.
I turn around and see there is nowhere to sit. I look out the open door and walk into the hallway. Her parents are out, so I wander down the hall, looking into the rooms. I notice that the guest room bed is made, that there are a bunch of things on the night table: a book, water glass, notepad. We don’t have a spare room at my house, but I recognize the signs of a parent sleeping in another room, and my heart sinks a little.
“What are you doing, Stevie? Casing the joint?”
It’s Aidan, an unlit cigarette hanging out of his mouth, lighter in hand. He leans his tall frame over and puts his chin on the top of my head, following my gaze into the spare room.
“Fascinating.”
I shove him off, scoffing, and head back toward Lottie’s room, a girlish shriek wafting over the music.
* * *
There’s some kind of big hockey game tonight. I’m not into hockey, and our town is on a decade-long losing streak, but games are shorthand for partying for high-schoolers from everything I’ve learned from movies, and I guess we’re no different. Aidan sends a group text telling everyone that we’re going to “pre” at his house before we go to the arena.
In homeroom, I look over at Paige, who’s on her phone under her desk. I think about the game, and text her:
You going to Aidans? I mean obvs but just making sure
She sends a thumbs-up emoji.
I ask: Go together?
Sure lottie and i will grab u on the way
My stomach clenches in a jealous little knot, but I untangle it and send a thumbs-up back her way.
My mind is all over the place. I keep trying to find my way into these friendships—new, old, anything—but I meet roadblocks everywhere. Rhonda calls me a space cadet, but there is something of a look of concern on her face. I laugh and apologize, tuning back in. I look at Paige, her head bent in concentration, texting, but not to me.
* * *
I walk home with Lottie, and it feels weird again. She’s quiet.
“You okay?” I venture, looking sideways at her as we walk.
“Hmm?” She smiles. “Oh yeah, sure.”
She is silent the rest of the way home. Before long we’re at her house, and I walk up the driveway with her by instinct, and we flop into the chairs on the porch.
“So,” I try, “What’s up here? Like, with your mom.”
Lottie laughs, darkly, then heaves a sigh. “Well …” She looks at me, like she’s deciding if she should go on, and then does. “Don’t freak out, Stevie. I mean, I know how you can get.”
“Okay,” I say, agreeing to anything, not knowing what she means.
“Well … the latest is my mom claiming that she wants to ‘transition.’”
“Transition? Like, become a man?” My mind races. What does that mean? How will that change things? I think of the bed in the spare room; maybe I don’t know Rhonda as well as I thought I did.
“Yes. Yes, a man. Like she didn’t just drop a huge bomb on us, she needed to do this, too.”
“Oh my God, seriously?” Will she still be the same at all?
“Yes. Seriously.”
“Why? I mean, like, what’d she say? When did she tell you?”
“I think a few days ago? I don’t even know. It’s just been crazy around here.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” But also, why didn’t Rhonda tell me? My chest feels tight.
Lottie looks exasperated. “I’m sorry. I don’t know, I’m just trying to figure it out, Stevie. Don’t make me feel guilty.”
“Sorry, sorry. For sure. So … what happens now? What does this mean?”
“I have no idea. She says that this is how she’s felt her whole life, and that it was killing her. Like, literally, she said. Killing her.” She blinks, and I see that she’s holding back tears. “So, there’s that. Hooray. Get out your rainbow flags, everyone. I’m going to have two dads.”
I reach over and give her a hug, as much for me as for her. I don’t know if this is bad news or good news or what. I don’t know anything, not anymore. I am certain we need each other. She accepts it but pulls away and wipes her face.
“Does anyone else know?” I ask.
“Paige does,” she says, then adds, “She just happened to be here and I told her. Please don’t be jealous, Stevie.” She looks tired and irritated.
“What? I’m not jealous,” I scoff. Totally jealous. And feeling stupid.
She stretches her legs out straight and then sags in the chair. “Okay. Anyway, she said that I should turn my life into a documentary. Like, my life is literally like a movie.”
“Yeah …” That knot in my gut turns over into itself and becomes the mother of super knots, like the kind you get in necklaces that seem impossible to untangle. She told Paige before me. I look out at the lawn, at the purple sand cherry tree we used to climb as kids and named Martha. I think about Rhonda and how much I love her.
“Maybe … It is kind of cool,” I murmur.
“Cool?” Lottie looks at me in disbelief.
“Yeah, I mean …”
“It’s ‘cool’ that my mom is going to go from Rhonda to Pete?”
“Pete?”
“Yes. Pete. Fucking Pete. Stupid fucking magic dragon name.”
“I think the kid was Pete, actually. Or do you mean Puff?” She glares at me, and I shut up for a second. I let it sink in. “Pete …” I say again. It’s growing on me already, Rhonda as Pete. I look back at Lottie, who is staring hard at me, and I remember myself. “I’m sorry, Lottie; I’m sure this is really hard on you guys.” I give her hand a squeeze.
She relaxes a little. “Well, yeah, my dad is about ready to have a nervous breakdown. So much for him being so cool about this. And, she—‘Pete,’ that is—is going to tell the staff at school soon. And then the students. So I guess the whole school will know. And she’s decided to go to another school for next fall to start fresh, but just felt like she couldn’t wait any longer to make the transition public because soon we’ll start to notice anyway, whatever that means. Can’t wait. Fuck my life.” She says nothing for a few minutes, and then: “I’m going to drink my face off tonight.”
“Right, I hear that,” I say, but I am staring straight ahead. Gutted. Rhonda has always been the one person who was unmovable and stable, no matter what else was happening. I feel horrible for being hurt by this, for thinking of how much it will change my life when I should be glad for her, for him, but all I can feel is panic. I look down at my hands and see that they are gripping the arms of the chair, my knuckles white.
* * *
I toss my backpack on the bench by the door and call out
for Mom, thinking that I can talk to her about this. She and Rhonda have always been friendly, although I get the feeling that Mom’s a little jealous of her, of how much time I spend there.
But just then Mom appears around the corner with a big smile on her face. Too big.
“Hiiii, honey,” she singsongs.
“Um. Hi?”
“I’m so glad you’re home. There is someone I want you to meet today.” She gestures from the kitchen like she’s calling a guest onto a stage. “This,” she says, pulling on his arm, “is Reg.”
Oh God. The guy who walks in is wearing wooden necklaces, a scarf, and a scruffy face. He is clearly trying out that “rugged manly man” thing. He’s good-looking, but he might as well be wearing a sandwich board that says I KNOW I’M GOOD-LOOKING; ISN’T IT AMAZING?.
“Hi, Stevie,” says Reg, putting out his hand, “I am so pumped to meet you.”
Pumped?
“Um, hi,” I say, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, too.”
“I have heard so much about you. Your mom is really proud of you.” He grins and puts his arm around Mom, who is smiling like an idiot.
Then she gushes, “Come on, come on! Reg made us dinner!” and pushes me into the kitchen. The table is set and everything.
The dinner itself is good. Not the crappy food we usually have. It’s lasagna and Caesar salad but made from scratch.
Reg asks me about school, then says, “So! Tell me about these videos you make. Your mom says you’ve got your own YouTube channel? That is awesome!”
“Yeah,” I mumble, glaring at Mom, who has to tell everyone about every bowel movement I have. She’s smiling into his face, and they’re holding hands; he’s rubbing his thumb over her knuckle, so they’re both eating with just one hand on their cutlery. I roll my eyes. “So, what’s your job?” I ask him.
“Oh, I’m a millwright.” He chuckles at my blank look, wipes his face with a napkin (when did we get napkins?), and says, “I fix machinery. When a farm or winery has a piece of equipment that breaks down, they call me.” At this, Mom literally squeezes his arm muscles.
I nod, chewing. He clears his throat and starts again on the school thing. “Your mom says you’re really good in school. That’s great. Haha, I wish I’d done better in school.” Then he points at himself. “Self-taught.”
Let me guess: he was a cool guy in school who spent too much time with a hacky sack and a bong. I’m itching all over to just leave.
“Can I be excused? I’m going out tonight and have some stuff for school to do first.”
Mom’s face hovers between anger and disappointment, and she chooses the easy route of surrender. “Oh, fine. Clear your plate and put it in the dishwasher.” I jump up and away, and she calls into the kitchen, “Rinse it first!”
I go to my room, actually planning on doing some homework, but my mind is buzzing. I guess I’m happy for my mom, but she’s acting like she’s in a romantic comedy, and I’m not used to having anyone in our house. Normally the guys she’s dating reveal themselves to be losers before she gets a chance to bring them home. She really does think this one is different, even if I don’t. I’m sure he’ll screw things up in no time at all—he’ll be married or jobless or cheat on her or something else. Take your pick from a game of Loser Bingo. Meanwhile, I can hear them now, murmuring to each other, Mom sighing happily. I don’t want to go back out there with them, playing house and family and using napkins and rinsing fucking plates. She obviously wants to be alone with Mr. Reg the Millwright and his machine-fixing hands. My room feels so small, like it’s shrinking into a tiny space shuttle cabin on a rocket that won’t launch. I sit at my desk, pull out my geography textbook, and stare at it. I check my phone, but it’s tight-lipped, looking the other way, pretending I’m not even there. Nothing.
Everything Lottie told me about Rhonda comes back in a sharp stealth whisper in my brain, a song I can’t get out of my head. Everything is changing. Will Rhonda still be the same? I feel guilty right away for thinking that. Of course. Of course not. Both. I miss Rhonda already. Pete. I wrap my mind around the name. It’s so important that I am there for Lottie, I know that, but she doesn’t even seem to want me to be or care if I’m affected. Why hasn’t Rhonda said anything to me about this? Does she know that Lottie told me?
And then there’s this: Rhonda, now Pete, with his new (real) identity, will be changing schools next year. Something sinks inside me, and I put my hand on my stomach as if I can feel it dropping into my guts. I feel like I’m on a fast-moving ice floe and my life is reducing to a speck in the distance. High school already feels weird; home is following suit. What will I do if one of the only adults I can actually count on leaves? I take a deep breath, trying not to listen to the happy sounds of togetherness coming from Mom and Reg in the kitchen as they tidy up. I look around my room at all my stuff: my movies, my TV and VCR for the old flicks. Characters from all the classics stare out at me from posters plastered all over the walls and ceiling. They give me comfort, keep me company, promise never to change. Molly Ringwald sneers, Winona Ryder as Veronica in Heathers looks cool and apathetic. You’re not alone, Stevie, they say. We got you. I login to my channel and read some comments from my few loyal subscribers. It’s a nice boost. They are with me, these strangers who love the same things I do. YES! one says. I LOOOOOVE HEATHERS! There are people out there, somewhere, for me. A small consolation.
I press my lips together and nod as the doorbell rings and the next part of the night begins. It’s game time.
* * *
The pregame party at Aidan’s house is already well under way by the time Paige, Lottie, and I get there. His parents are obviously not home, and he greets us at the door like a game show host, arms wide out, sloppy grin, music loud behind him like a gust of wind. I notice that he and Paige seem slightly more formal than usual—a kind of awkward kiss that Aidan covers up by loudly ushering us in. Something is different between them. I’m out of the loop on the constantly shifting social ground. I catch Lottie’s eye with a questioning look, but she gives nothing away, smiles, and leads the way into the house like she’s been there a million times.
The house is kind-feeling and comfortable, full of flowery cushions and curtains, warm honey-colored oak cupboards and pictures of Aidan and his brothers tacked to the fridge and in frames on tables. On the kitchen table are bottles of liquor and big jugs of soda alongside red cups half filled with swampy concoctions, but underneath is a pretty tablecloth.
By the looks of things, some people will not make it to the game at all. It seems like this has been going for hours. As I walk through the house, I see a couple making out while inside the same enormous jersey, two guys wearing old boxing gloves and drunkenly fighting in the hallway, and some feet sticking out from under a snoring blanket on the couch in the living room. Aidan tells us cheerfully that someone has already puked. He points to a pale-faced guy staring disconsolately from a corner on the kitchen floor, holding a can of soda to his forehead.
A guy I don’t recognize comes through the kitchen with a joint hanging out of his mouth, followed by three girls, a skunky cloud behind them.
“Hey!” Aidan yells, “Smoke outside, bro! My mom can smell it a mile away! I can’t believe people still smoke joints,” Aidan complains to us, pouring some rum into a cup. He shakes his head. “Edibles or nothing for me, man.”
“Right?” I say, and Lottie raises an eyebrow at me, her bullshit detector calling me out for attempts at coolness, but I grab a beer and walk away from her. Paige has already drifted off. She’s looking at some pictures on the mantle. I stroll over and nudge her with my elbow.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.” I bob my head awkwardly. “So … what’s up with you and Aidan? Everything okay?”
“Why, did he say something to you?” she says, an edge to her voice.
“What? No—” I start, carefully.
“Oh, whatever, you two have your little friendship thing going there,”
she says, waving her hand dismissively.
“Um, no, not really.”
Paige rolls her eyes and looks around the room. “Yeah, well. I dunno what’s going on with us. Maybe we’re done. I don’t even know.”
“Oh. Well, I’m sorry.” I touch her shoulder, which feels bony and frail, like she’s a little teen dinosaur, which she kind of is. Maybe she’s not as high up on the food chain as Breanne, but she’s got some kind of stomping power. There’s a watchful hunger about her. She looks at me now like she’s assessing me, deciding something.
“Thanks, Stevie,” she says, unsmiling. She looks across the room and says, vaguely, “You’re sweet.”
* * *
We end up at the arena halfway through the hockey game, and our team—the team that I suddenly pretend to care about—is losing, but that does little to dampen the fervor in the place. In fact, everyone just seems more excitable. The stands are full of fans from our town and the opposition. People are shouting and sloshing around drunkenly. It’s a messy, chilly uproar, and after an hour or so of watching our team lose and getting a numb ass, I find myself weaving between seats, down the stairs, my head spinning with beer, heading toward the bathrooms. There is a lineup of girls waiting, leaning up against the yellow-painted cinder block walls, scrolling through their phones. Guys totter in and out of their bathroom across the way, checking the girls out, talking to some of them. I can see just inside their bathroom to where the sinks and mirrors are and notice Aidan, inspecting his reflection. He is tall and thin, all angles and limbs. He tosses his floppy hair back, burps, and trots into the hallway.
“Stevie!” he shouts at me, and stumbles my way, his arms open. I don’t really want to hug him but don’t know how to avoid it, and this is exactly what most guys count on, from what I can tell. Before I know it, he’s enveloped me in a bear hug. My face is in his chest, and I breathe in his musky, soapy, boozy smell, blushing. He rocks me around, bumps us into the girl behind us, and apologizes, finally releasing me.
Love, Heather Page 4
