I grunt and look away so I won’t cry. A few quiet moments pass. He pats my shoulder.
“So … anyway, come with me.”
Pete leads me out of the classroom, down a corridor toward where the auto shop is. He swipes a card to unlock a door to a room I’ve never been in and opens it for me. I know this place: the Makers’ Space. I look around: computers, printers, scanners, some big lights, a green screen, what looks like a darkroom, and more. A bunch of students are working away busily, in their own worlds, and take no notice of us at all. There’s a whole section for woodworking equipment and long tables, tools, saws, the works, and I see one girl sliding a long piece of wood into a saw to slice it in half. Another girl is on a laptop, editing something. She turns around, and I see that it’s Dee. She gives me a nodded greeting and returns to her work.
“Whoa,” I say.
“Yeah. Usually—but not always—reserved for upper-year students, but since you’re into the media stuff, I wanted to give you a chance to get your hands dirty here. Maybe you can make some of your videos even better.”
My face burns, and I mumble a thank-you.
“No problem. Here.” Pete reaches into his pocket and hands me a card.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a key. It’ll get you in the back door from outside or from inside the school. You can come whenever you want. Who knows when the creative muse will strike, right?” He pauses while I stare at the card. “I trust you with it. You’re smart, Stevie.”
“For me? Really?” I ask, not trying to tempt Fate, because lately Fate has been a spiteful, vengeful bitch who I like to keep at arm’s length.
“Really.” Pete puts his hand on my shoulder and says, “Nolite te bastardes carborundorum.”
“Huh?”
He holds the door open for me, letting it swing shut behind us. “I told them they shouldn’t have canceled the Latin program.”
MAY
8
Two months and a world later.
It’s spring and everything is still fucked.
I walk to school trying to call back that feeling that maybe things will change, maybe today will be different. I have been riding the tide of collective hatred for two months now. Something has to give.
They find me whenever I’m alone. I am a pariah. The catcalls, the comments, even, humiliatingly, the occasional object thrown at my head while walking to school. Whatever was set in motion, whatever match was lit, has become a full-blown forest fire. I am under constant, unrelenting attack.
I never go out anywhere anymore, except to my new part-time job at the Dairy Queen. Mom thought I was hanging around the house a little too much, so I got it a month ago. Occasionally I get bullied there, too, when people from school come—they’ll rip open the little packets of sugar and pour them all over the counters or drop ice cream on the floor—but generally it’s a refuge; I feel safe there. When there are no customers, it’s manageable. I just watch stuff on my phone or do homework. I can have as much soft-serve ice cream as I want, which is always a plus. I like the guys who work in the kitchen at the back. It’s fairly mindless work.
Left alone and lonely is preferred to the alternative now. The alternative is a wave of cruelty. Last week, a crowd literally stood in a circle around me. They made it tighter and tighter, some of them touching me, grabbing me, closer and closer, my eyes clenched shut, until I cried out, and they all laughed and turned away. I saw Breanne’s curtain of hair in the group as they moved away. They have so much power. They walk around with it like it’s nothing.
No one even knows why I’m a loser anymore. I’m slutty, I’m disgusting, I’m stupid, you’ll catch something by association. It doesn’t matter; it’s been verified by collective insistence, persistence, invention. And because, if nothing else, they know they don’t want to unpopular by association, everyone avoids me unless they have reason not to.
I don’t know who I can talk to. It’s too embarrassing. The thought of telling my mom makes me sick. The things I’ve been accused of, sex stuff … I just can’t imagine telling her or showing her what people are saying. It’s sickening. She’d freak out and probably make it so much worse. I could never tell Pete. He’d go right to Lottie. And she already thinks I’m meddling in her life.
One day after school, I decide to go see my dad. To actually visit him, see if he can help. He’s always said that he’s there for me if I need him. I just never really have, until now.
I walk to the bus station. Everyone here seems like they’re trying to get the hell out of town, and there is an air of desperation, hunger, and a nasty touch of something about to blow. People are snapping at each other. They’re irritable. There is a woman arguing with a bus driver about her ticket. There is a couple sniping at one another. There is a mother pushing a stroller back and forth with a vacant look in her eyes, trying to get her toddler to stop crying and go to sleep.
I buy a ticket to downtown Hamilton. I didn’t tell him I’m coming; I’m afraid he’d somehow postpone the visit or something. Waiting on the bank of green vinyl chairs for the announcement about my bus, I watch pigeons fly up in a frenzy, then settle down again.
* * *
The sky darkens as we approach the destination. I get my bearings and try to remember where my dad lives, where the coffee shop he owns—Bean There, a name I can’t help but like—is in relation to the station. And the apartment, which is walking distance from there. It’s all so conveniently close that you’d think I would visit more often. Last time I was here, my dad and Eleanor had me over for dinner. They cooked together and were laughing and flirting while they were standing at the stove. I didn’t know what to do, so I fiddled with the little rooster-and-hen salt-and-pepper shakers and spilled a bunch of salt all over the table. Eleanor laughed it off, saying it was no big deal, but that we had to throw some over our left shoulders to ward off bad luck. It was a really nice night, in the end. But it’s been a long time since I was here. After the divorce a couple of years ago, he had a kind of agreement with Mom. It wasn’t legal or official or anything, but I saw him about one weekend a month. And then less and less.
The bus brakes make a squealing sound as it slows into the station, and I get up with everyone else. People half-stand under the baggage storage above, their heads bent, angling to get out first. The girl in front of me pulls her underwear out of her bum. The driver tells someone in a huge hurry how to make their connecting bus, then helps an old woman down the steps.
Soon I’m standing on the road, a little unsure of where to go next. Come on, Stevie, you got this. I start walking, and sure enough, it’s coming back to me. I remember where Bean There is, and where the apartment is.
There are two guys fighting in the street, so I cross to the other side but keep watching them out of the corner of my eye. They are puffing out their chests, and I can tell they both want to hit each other but are afraid of getting hit back. It’s coming off of them like sweat or sound waves. People are heading out of restaurants and into bars, and apart from those two guys, the area looks a little bit nicer than it did last time I was here, and I figure that my dad was right to buy around here when it was still crappy and cheap. There is a burger place that is dressed up for hipsters, and a little clothing shop that looks like everything is made for fairies and twee musicians. I admire a necklace in the window that has arrows pointing in different directions. As I turn the corner, it sounds like the two men have decided to each get the last loud, furious word before parting ways. Neither of them is ready to say good-bye.
I see the coffee shop, with its sign made of reclaimed lumber. I stand at the window and notice that Eleanor is behind the counter, cleaning the espresso machine. I came all this way, but now I’m so nervous I have trouble going in. Eleanor has an apron tied around her tiny waist, and her black hair is in one of those fancy braids that looks like a fish bone. She looks pretty and untroubled, and I wonder if I should leave her alone and not push open the door and bring with me all
my me-ness.
The door chimes as I open it, and she turns and smiles wide at me.
“Hi,” I say, shyly, looking down.
“Hey there,” she says. Then, “What can I getcha?”
I blink, then realize. She doesn’t remember me.
“Oh,” I say, like one of those idiots who is surprised they’re being asked what they want when there’s a line behind them. Except there isn’t a line behind me. There are a lot of people at tables, clicking away on laptops with oversized coffee mugs beside them, and none of them are looking at me, but I still feel stupid. “Oh. I’ll have, a, uh, a tea, please.” I hate tea.
“Sure. I have a nice English Breakfast; how’s that?”
“Great.”
She turns to make it, and I blurt out, “To go, please!” and knock over a little stack of granola bars. She nods, no problem, just chipper as can be.
I’m outside again, with a cup of tea, and my face is burning. I guess Dad has no photos of me up anywhere, and I’m obviously not memorable. Big surprise there.
I walk down the street and make a turn down a small side street, throwing out the tea in the first garbage can I see. It makes a terrific splunk when it hits the inside of the can. I know where they live, and I keep going in that direction. Maybe I can still save this; maybe all is not lost. Maybe I’m not forgotten.
They live on the second floor of a nice, old brick semi. I know there’s a fire escape from when I was here last time. I remember wondering if I could jet out that way after I spilled all the salt. There’s a small light on inside, but I don’t want to ring the bell, feeling suddenly like maybe I don’t want to see my dad after all. I just want to look in.
I head around the back and look up at the fire escape. It’s folded up, so I have to jump a few times to catch it, scraping my fingers and falling on my knees before I finally get on. I hang there for a little, then hoist myself up, all the while clanging and making a racket. But I’m up, and I’m climbing, and my heart is beating really hard. I don’t think about what I’ll say if I get caught but just keep climbing until I am level with their living room. There’s a landing on the fire escape here, and I sit, catch my breath, and look in the window.
A cat sees me and comes to look through the glass. It meows, its mouth yawing open soundlessly. This is new. I didn’t know my dad got a cat, and this tiny fact nearly cracks me open, right down the middle. It’s a silvery gray, and I wish I could pet it, scratch its ears. I wonder what its name is and if it’s friendly. And I sit there, on the fire escape, tears rolling down my face. My knee falls against the glass, and the cat butts its head against the window, and I imagine that it’s purring.
And then, my dad is there.
“Oh my God!” I hear him shout, clutching his chest. Then he starts laughing, relieved. “Stevie!” he says, opening the window, “you scared the bejesus out of me!” He’s laughing and he reaches out for my hand, pulling me in. I wipe my cheeks and laugh, too.
“Sorry,” I say.
“Oh my God,” he repeats, calmer now, running his hand through his hair. Then he remembers himself and gives me a big hug. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay? Is your mom okay?”
“Oh yeah,” I say, suddenly a little embarrassed. “For sure. I was just nearby … I had a thing …” This kind of vagueness wouldn’t fly with my mom, but he is nodding, smiling.
“I’m so glad you came by!” he practically shouts, and I realize that he’s nervous. “Are you hungry?” He starts rummaging around the kitchen, looking in cupboards.
“No, I’m fine.” I sit down at the kitchen table, and the cat winds around my leg. I trace a circular pattern of wood grain on the table with my finger. Dad finds some cheese and crackers and organic lemonade and busies himself bringing it over to the table.
“How’s school?” he asks, handing me a glass.
“Uh, good. Good, good.” I am nodding. There’s a pause. He’s smiling at me. “Um. Well, not great, actually.” Oh God. I look up at the ceiling as the tears start.
“Oh. Oh, honey.” Dad comes over to me, giving me an awkward hug that puts my face in his armpit, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s really nice, actually. He crouches down and looks at me, wipes tears from under my eyes with his rough thumbs. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just wish everything was different.”
“Yeah, I get that. I remember high school. It’s a tough place.”
I find it hard to imagine my dad having a tough time as a kid.
“It gets better, you know. You just have to find your people. You’ve got Lottie, right?”
I take a deep breath and let it out, the last of my tears coming out shakily. “I guess. I thought I did, but I dunno.”
“Oh, now,” he chuckles, “you two have had your bumps before, right?” He gives my shoulders a little shake. “It’s just a phase.”
“Uh-huh.”
A few seconds go by, and he’s rubbing my back. I see him glance at the clock, and I jump up.
“Yeah. Thanks, Dad. It’s okay. I’m just being dumb. I … I should probably go.”
“Really?” He stands, runs a hand over his face. “Okay, honey. Want me to drive you anywhere?” He is being so nice that I almost start crying again.
He drives me to the bus station, chattering away about this and that, giving me money and a huge hug when I get out.
“I love you, Stevie. It’s gonna be all right.” He grabs my shoulders and looks me in the eye. “I promise. Okay?”
I nod. “Okay.”
I stand in line for the bus with my ticket, and he waves as he drives away, the music from his radio fading. Soon enough it feels like it didn’t happen, like I have never not been standing here alone.
* * *
The next day, I’m on my way to school, keeping to myself, aware of the potential threats everywhere, a cacophony of anxiety in my head.
But in the middle of all the noise, there’s one person I can’t figure out.
I am on alert, listening for her.
I walk through my neighborhood, waiting to hear.
Dee.
Dee, that girl who hung around, staying out of the fray, for months, seems to have a thing for me. She’s everywhere. It’s almost like she’s following me. I see her in the Makers’ Space—always there, working on editing videos. I never look too closely, but it looks like movies that she’s cutting. But whenever I look over, she catches me and turns around.
And then there it is: I hear footsteps behind me, matching mine.
Ever since Lottie and Paige dumped me and the world caught fire. Since I was left alone on the school steps gasping for air.
Watching me, following me, trying to get my attention, but not in the same balls-out-cruel way as everyone else. I don’t know what she wants, but I’m afraid to trust anyone. I walk faster now, my heart rate going up, my face sweating. I see the school and heft my backpack further up my shoulder. She starts whistling a weird little tune. I resist the urge to look back and go into the school as the bell rings.
My phone buzzes. It’s a text from an unknown number.
I like old movies too
* * *
I have Media Studies for homeroom. Pete’s class. That’s how they know him now, too. Not long after he showed me the Makers’ Space, he had his big talk with our class.
The classroom was busy and loud, and there was such a layer of hair spray and body spray in the place that I swear you could almost see it. I found my seat by the window and noticed Pete smiling at two guys who were competing for his attention, talking over each other before class started. I felt jumpy. I kept my head down, just willing the class to start so there wasn’t any gap where I could attract attention.
Then: Dee. I heard her throw her bag down and sit behind me and to my right. I could sort of see her. Her legs were crossed, and she was bouncing her foot up and down, up and down. She wore oversized, loose clothes, headphones on her neck, her hair wild.<
br />
She whispered, like a hiss, “Hey. Hey, Stevie.”
No one noticed. Everyone was talking and laughing and getting settled in, on their phones and getting out their laptops and binders.
I ignored her.
“That’s okay,” I heard her say in a low voice, “I can wait.”
Pete walked to the front of the room, and everyone quieted down. He was smiling. Something is happening, I thought. Is this the day? I was so nervous that my legs jiggled all over the place. I wished Lottie and I were talking again, that I’d known this was going to go down today. But she had Paige, and they’d probably dissect the whole thing in her room, listening to records together.
He turned to face the chalkboard and wrote, in big letters, PETE SHERMAN, then turned back to us.
“That’s my name,” he said, gesturing at the board. “I’m Pete. I’ve been Pete for a very long time, but I was called something else. And I told you to call me something else. And now, if you can, I’d love it if you called me this. It’s new to you, but not to me. If you’d like, you can call me Mr. Sherman. But that’s really how I see my father, so if Pete is cool with you, it’d be great.”
The room was totally quiet. I knew some people were looking at me, that they’d seen my video or heard about it and now were putting two and two together about who it was about. Then someone started clapping. I heard the chair, just behind me to my right, screech as the person clapping—Dee—stood up. I looked over at her, locked eyes, and looked down, my whole body thrumming. But then, within seconds, Matthew and other quiet kids I’d never really noticed stood up. And then more people. Finally almost everyone else joined in, and I looked at Dee again and exchanged a small smile. I stood, shakily, clapping. A few kids stayed seated, raising eyebrows and rolling their eyes and exchanging looks, arms against their chests, looking around like WTF, but most of the class was applauding.
Love, Heather Page 7
