Love, Heather

by Laurie Petrou

“Oh, Jesus.”

  She takes a deep breath, her eyes blinking slowly. “What about school?”

  “I guess he’s telling the students soon. And then—” A lump in my throat. I can’t bear the idea of school without Rhonda. Without Pete. Come on, Stevie, hold it together. “Then he’s changing schools next fall. Going to teach somewhere else. To start fresh.”

  She nods, up and down, up and down, while this information sinks in.

  “Huh,” she says. “That makes sense, I guess.” She picks at her nail polish. “I mean. Well. She was always a bit mannish.” She exhales. “I don’t blame her for wanting to ditch this club. It’s a huge racket.” She nods some more. “Pete, eh? I bet she can’t wait to stop shaving her pits. That’s what I’d look forward to if I were her.”

  “Him.”

  “Who?”

  “Pete. You have to call him ‘him.’ That’s how he’s chosen to identify.”

  “Oh jeez, Stevie, will you cut me some slack? I’m forty-six; sometimes I forget who I am. Him. God, you’re insufferable.”

  She walks out of the kitchen and leaves me there, and when I look out the window I see that even the clouds are rushing away from me, sliding across the sky with their eyes averted, pretending they have something else to do. That sky. Always thinking it’s so big.

  I go to my room. I have a few more edits to do before I publish my latest vid.

  * * *

  School is strange. I still eat at lunch with Paige, Breanne, Lottie, and the rest, but something has changed. There is an invisible wall that I’m suddenly behind. I try to ignore it but feel myself start to disappear, like Marty McFly in Back to the Future.

  At the end of the day, I wait for Lottie and am relieved when she turns up without Paige.

  “Hey,” she says, and my heart lifts a little.

  The sky is heavy, and it’s going to start coming down soon, but we don’t rush, just kind of scrape our feet along. And then, without whispering a warning, the rain starts. It’s an angry rain, a furious weather system: the sky throwing car keys and coffee cups and its mother’s favorite pearl buttons. Raindrops clatter around us like bullets. At first, we just keep walking, going slow, do your worst, and then deciding at the same moment, we run: slopping into puddles as they’re forming, blinking rain off our eyelashes. We are yelling and laughing. We are crazy wet and cold. Like little kids again. Right then, it doesn’t matter why everything feels a little different. Something about rain like this just makes you forget being mad or cool or anything else but being wet. I can ignore it all; I can pretend it’s all fine.

  We go to Lottie’s house because it’s the closest, run inside, panting and laughing and shaking like wet dogs. I close the door, and we peel off our jackets and shrug out of our shoes. There is music playing from the radio in the kitchen. Water drips down my neck, and I shiver.

  Pete is already at the counter cutting an onion.

  “Hey girls,” he says. Lottie nods. “I saw you walking home. I would have offered you a ride, but”—twinkling eyes—“rain builds character.”

  “Hey Pete,” I say.

  He looks up, surprised, and looks at Lottie. She grabs a cookie out of a tin and glares at me.

  “Pete, hmm?” he says. “Looks like you’ve been talking to my girl here.” He gestures to Lottie, who is still staring mutinously at me.

  “Yeah, um, she told me. I hope that’s okay?”

  “I assumed she would. That’s what best friends are for. In fact, I’m kind of surprised it’s taken you this long to mention it.” He looks happy, relaxed, and I feel something lift inside me. “How are you taking it? I know it takes some time to process.”

  Lottie interrupts. “Can we just—like not talk about this all the time?”

  “Case in point,” Pete says kindly, gesturing with his knife to Lottie.

  Lottie rolls her eyes, and I look back and forth between them.

  “Yeah, I guess it takes some getting used to.”

  “And it will continue to as I start to look different. Mind you, at first that’ll just be like watching me go through puberty—zits and everyth—”

  “God!” says Lottie, her eyes bugging out.

  I smile and gesture at the cutting board. “What are you making?”

  “Chili,” says Pete, ignoring Lottie. “You wanna stay?”

  “Oh, no, that’s okay, thank you. I’m sure that my mom has dinner for me.” I am sure this is not true unless Reg the Super Stud is there. I rock back and forth on my heels.

  “So,” I say, forging ahead again, “I’ve been listening to a lot of Bowie.”

  He looks up. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. Sad that he died.”

  “Sure, big loss, that one.”

  “Yeah. He was a real trailblazer.”

  Pete raises his eyebrows at me.

  “You know, like in terms of gender,” I say.

  “Ah. Yep, right you are, Stevie.” He smiles. “You think I should change my name to Aladdin Sane? It’s not too late. I haven’t done the paperwork yet.”

  “Haha. Right.”

  Lottie throws up her arms and leaves the kitchen, and I follow. We go to her bedroom, and I plunk soggily onto her bed. She is changing into dry clothes.

  “What is with you?” she says, peeling wet jeans off and pulling on some comfies.

  “What? Just trying to connect, here. You might try it yourself.”

  “Oh yeah? Should I? Right. Look.”

  Lottie grabs her phone from where she tossed it on her dresser and comes over to the bed. She opens Instagram and shows me Pete’s account, which I guess is private, but Lottie’s following him. I scroll through, pausing occasionally at a picture. There is a cute one of him with a coffee mug with a moustache painted on it held to his lips from yesterday. Below it, the hashtags #JOURNEY #TRANSITION #FTM #TRANS #LETSDOTHIS.

  “Cool,” I say. “He’s really doing it.”

  “Right. Very cool,” Lottie says, making a face that I guess is supposed to be me, sucking up.

  I ignore it. “He seems pretty conservative. Like, with how he’s dressing and stuff.”

  Lottie shakes her head, smiling slightly. “Not living up to your expectations, I see. Why? What were you expecting?”

  “What? No, I— No.”

  “I wish she hadn’t changed her name. He.”

  “Rhonda isn’t really a man’s name. Not that that matters. Gender is fluid.”

  “Whatever. He said I can still call him Mom if I want. Or, like, something else if I want.”

  “He’s a nice guy. But, you know,” I say carefully, “you should probably make an effort to respect what he wants.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I just mean that it might be easier for you. And for him. I’m serious. It’s tough, I get it, I mean I’ve been adjusting to it, too … but it’s kind of cool, too, don’t you think?”

  “Stevie, God. You do not understand.”

  “Uh, no? I totally understand. Or, I’m trying to.” I look out her window and think about the significance of all of this, in a larger sense. “We are living in such an interesting time,” I say. “People can be who they want to be.”

  “Oh my God,” she says. “This is not a movie. It’s my life.”

  “What? No, it’s just that—”

  “Stevie.” She looks at me, her eyes suddenly angry. “Will you please stop. About this. And, frankly, everything. Just—just leave it alone in general.”

  “What? Why?”

  “What? Why? Fuck. Never mind.”

  “No, what is it? Is it something to do with Paige?”

  She snorts. “Paige? Are you serious? You are obsessed. Jesus. Forget it.”

  My face burns up to my hair. She picks up a book, sits back on the bed. I get up, grab my bag, and I look at her once more. I say that I’m leaving. She nods but doesn’t look up. I gather my things and head out, just in time to see Lottie’s other dad, the original, coming home from work. He waves though the car
window as I hold my bag above my head and run in the direction of my house. He calls out to me that he’ll drive me home, but I yell back, “That’s okay! I love the rain!”

  That is bullshit, but I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for me, even when it comes to acts of God.

  At home, alone, the rain pounding on the windows like a drum, I push PUBLISH, send my video out into the world. I want to show my understanding, my acceptance, my support—even if my loyal subscribers are the only ones who see it.

  * * *

  In the morning, I wake up forgetting why I feel kind of sick, and then remember. I check my phone, but it is giving me the stone-cold freeze. I hear from no one. I decide not to check in with anyone. I’m sure things will blow over.

  But Lottie is not at our spot to walk to school. I ignore the shiver that runs down my back. I walk up the hill toward the school, and I see them. Lottie and Paige, together, staring me down. I climb the steps. Time stands still. The air isn’t moving.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Oh, ‘hey,’” says Lottie, arching an eyebrow. Something’s not right.

  “What? What is it?”

  People are looking at us as they walk through the doors.

  Lottie leans in, her face terrible and contorted. I’d laugh if this wasn’t awful.

  She lowers her voice and growls, “You made a fucking video about my life?”

  “What?” I shrink back. “No!”

  Paige snorts. Lottie shakes her head.

  “‘Brave Trans Film Heroes’?” she spits. “You didn’t do that? You didn’t make a fucking video where you talk to the camera about how you ‘even have a trans hero in your own life’?” She opens her eyes wide, mocking innocence.

  I blink quickly. “Well, no, I mean, no one would know that it’s—”

  “You have no loyalty, Stevie. You keep no secrets. Fuck. You.” She turns, hair whipping in a curtain of fury.

  “And by the way,” says Paige, “we were all talking about you last night. And guess what? Aidan said you threw yourself at him at the hockey game. He is my fucking boyfriend, Stevie. I trusted you! I thought you were my friend. Stupid skank. Like I wouldn’t find out. I should have known: ‘What’s up with you and Aidan?’” She puts on a simpering imitation of me.

  “What?” I manage.

  “‘What?’” she mimics again. “Yeah, I heard all about it. Go to hell, you betraying little asshole.”

  And she’s gone, leaving me on the steps with my mouth hanging open for all the thoughts and words to fall right out of me and onto the pavement, where they break into a million pieces.

  * * *

  The day is a sickening torture. I eat lunch alone, in a corner, and watch as they laugh with each other carelessly. I am called out repeatedly in class for daydreaming.

  Breanne stops me in the hallway between classes.

  “You thought you could blow Aidan at the game and no one would find out?”

  “I did not—”

  “Right. Like it wasn’t obvious that’s what you were doing from the beginning. Attention whore. Well, actual whore, too. Lots of guys are talking. Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you get all the attention you deserve,” she says ominously.

  I am frozen, my mouth opening and closing.

  “You know,” she says, picking a nail, “I saw your channel last night. We all did. Paige showed it to us. She saw all your weird geek equipment at your house, with your ‘scripts.’” She throws back her head and lets out a laugh. “It sucks. We couldn’t stop laughing at your stupid little episodes,” she says, with a lisp that I know comes from my early videos when I wore braces. “Oh my God. Seriously, you have zits all over your face in half of them. You are disgusting.” She laughs again, then turns serious, staring at me hard. “Listen, I’m very protective of my friends. So stay the fuck away from them, Stevie. Stay away from all of us. You”—a finger, pointing—“are garbage.”

  I cry in the bathroom three times. And at the end of it, there is no one to walk home with. I don’t know this is just the beginning.

  By the time I get home, it has gained momentum. First, there are comments on my channel.

  FREAK

  WHORE

  SLUT

  SHE’LL SUCK YOU OFF ANYWHERE YOU WANT

  WHO WOULD WANT THAT LMAO

  They keep adding up, quicker than I can refresh. A pile-up. Tears hot on my face, I look at video after video that I have made, carefully, lovingly, and read what’s under them. A sickening panic is rising in my gut. Paige? Lottie? I picture them together, laughing at me. No, I know Lottie would never. But …

  I take down the video about Pete, even though the hateful comments on there are directed mostly at me. I leave the other videos up for now. Maybe it will blow over.

  My phone is shaking in my hand. I check Instagram. I have been tagged a bunch of times by accounts I’ve never even seen before. There is a still image from one of my early videos: my eyes half open, my mouth open, braces on full display. It’s a meme. It says ERMAHGERD! MOVIESH! Under it. And another: ERMAHGERD! I LOVE COCK! There are so many tags under them, things that make no sense, with my URL, too: #LOSER #WHORE #NERD #BITCH #TROLL #SCHOOL #STEVIE #SJW #LONER #KILLYOURSELF, more. I try to trace back who the unknown accounts belong to, who follows them. Deeper and deeper. I see that Breanne Davis is following a couple of them, and Aidan, and then Paige by extension, then Lottie, in six degrees of separation. I look back at my channel. There are more and more comments. I can’t keep up.

  In every app we all use, they find a way in.

  What did I do? What do I do?

  “Stevie?” I hear my mom call. “Stevie, hon, we’re going out, okay?”

  “Bye, Stevie!” Reg yells from the hall.

  The door closes with a click.

  My phone pings. It’s a group text I’ve just been added to. I don’t recognize the number or any of the fifteen people on it. I scroll up and read through the thread.

  you know Stevie

  who

  this loser

  There is that old pic of me again.

  LMAO yea i know her

  i am in one of her classes. She reeks

  There are a bunch of shit and barf emojis.

  like what

  dead tuna

  LMAO LMAO

  omg

  dying

  slut

  Fish emoji. Skull emoji.

  shit is she on this thread

  oops

  i thought i smelled something

  lmao whore

  I am removed from the thread. I stare at my phone and feel like I might be sick. My cheeks are burning hot. I don’t want to cry, but once it starts, I don’t know how to stop. I am gulping and gasping. I hate myself. My head is pounding. I rush to the bathroom and try to stand over the toilet, the last of my sobs coming out with a string of spit. I gag and cough, but nothing comes.

  I am invited and removed from more threads all evening long. I turn my phone off, and finally, after crying so hard there is nothing left, I fall asleep.

  * * *

  I wake and remember. This is my new normal.

  Lottie and I have had fights before. We’ve been best friends our whole lives, so it’s not like we’ve never had periods where we’re not speaking. Our parents usually act as peacemakers, bringing us together for movies or pizza or whatever. We get over the awkwardness and grumble apologies. We pretty quickly forget whatever it was we were arguing about.

  But this is different. They see me as something I’m not. They turned me into someone I’m not.

  It worsens.

  I try to fix things. I wait for Lottie after school, a few days in a row, shyly, trying to disappear but hoping she’ll see me. But she just walks by me with a bunch of other people. Once she looks back when Breanne makes a face at me and laughs loudly, but she doesn’t hold my eyes for long. She looks worried for a second, but then her face hardens, and she just shrugs and turns away. Like she figures this is the price I h
ave to pay.

  I text her.

  Why are you doing this

  Why are u being such a bitch? you know me

  I wait a few days and try again.

  Wtf I was trying to say your dad/mom is awesome. I love your family you know that. I never did anything with aidan or anyone else. You know that.

  She unfollows me on Instagram. I unfollow her, then regret it, but can’t go back. School is now something I endure. I come home exhausted every day. Dread and being on the defensive takes all of my energy. I spend the day ready for someone to strike, waiting and watching, weighing the jabs and letting most roll off me. I don’t know how or why it changed so quickly. Why they hate me. It’s incredible to me that they can hate like that. I try everything, and nothing works. I try to be myself, but no one wants that.

  * * *

  Another morning. I don’t want to go to school. I can’t. I would rather die. They’d rather I die. I scratch at my arm with my fingernails under the covers, hard. Did I do something? Did I give Aidan the wrong idea? Was I flirting? Oh God. Forget. Remember.

  I hear Mom in the kitchen, humming happily. She calls to me, “Rise and shine, sleepyhead!”

  The sun is pushing hard on the edges of my blinds. My eyes are swollen. I drag myself out of bed, carefully choosing clothes that have passed my inspection for stains or smells or strangeness that might draw attention. I sniff the pits of my shirt, convinced that they’re right, I am repulsive. I shower and scrub myself raw, hard, red. In the mirror, my arms and legs burn, alive, my eyes puffy.

  I stare at my blotchy reflection and try to wish my life away.

  Pete knows something is up. He pulls me aside when the bell rings.

  “Hey, kid,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say, my head down.

  “Listen. I know that some kids are giving you a hard time about, well, your videos. I hear there was a trans-positive one? And you know, I gotta applaud you for that, but I don’t want you getting any heat. I know that this is affecting you as well, and I’m sure you meant well. I didn’t see it, or any of them, honestly—but Lottie mentioned it.”

  “I took it down.”

  “Yeah, she was pretty upset that you put it up there. She said that’s why you’re not coming around. But don’t let that bother you. She’s going through some stuff. Give her time, okay? I mean, kids are talking, and Lottie figured they knew the video was about me. A couple of kids have said some stupid stuff to her, but they’re just scared of what they don’t know. I’ll talk to all the students soon.”