* * *
And she shoves.
The next day, while everyone is still talking about the prank on Breanne and who Heather is, it happens again. Dee gets another chance. On Luke’s locker is a blown-up picture of him sobbing, his face contorted like a child, puke running down the front of his hockey uniform. The backdrop is the outside of the arena, and it looks like it was taken after the recent game. I recognize a sign in the background for upcoming events. Below, written in the same red lipstick as the day before, it says:
DON’T CRY, BABY. LOVE, HEATHER.
Everyone is talking now.
We are doing this.
We hear a commotion during lunch, and everyone bolts into the hallway to see Luke and Josh scuffling: headlocks and punches and bodies thrown up against lockers.
“What happened?” someone asks.
“Josh told him he should quit the team because he’s a pussy,” I hear.
Pete rushes out of the staff room and hauls them apart.
“What the hell are you two doing?” he shouts, panting, his own shirt coming untucked. Luke wipes the blood off his face and glowers at Josh, who glares back. I look across the hallway through the gathering of spectators and see Dee, holding my lunch sandwich. She takes a bite and holds it up at me—Cheers!—and turns, walking back into the cafeteria. I see Lottie looking on, watching Pete separating Luke and Josh with her head cocked in concern. She catches me watching her, and I spin on my heels, following Dee.
The room is buzzing when I go back in, and I sit at our table feeling an adrenaline rush that comes only from watching someone get theirs, watching someone else give it to them.
Two girls and a boy plop down at our table with a thump. I know them the way we all know each other, which is to say I pretend not to know them at all, even though they’re in homeroom with us. They are friends with Matthew, I remember. I’ve seen one of them, Ava, I think, getting harassed by Breanne for being a kind of social justice warrior. I’ve always liked her from afar.
“Um, hi,” I say, taking a swig from my carton of milk. Dee nods at them in greeting. The rest of the kids at our table—those who have slowly, over the past couple of weeks, joined Dee and me—turn, listening.
“Hi,” Ava says. I like her look: she has black lipstick and a deep side cut in her black hair. “I’m Ava. This is Antar and Marta.” Antar puts up with a pretty consistent run of bullying from Breanne and Josh that runs right under Pete and the other teachers’ noses. Antar is Sikh and wears a turban, which they seem to think is reason enough to harass him daily. Marta is a redheaded girl so painfully shy that, while I’ve seen her many times, I’ve never heard her speak.
Ava looks down the table and I see Michelle, the girl Breanne bullied, watching us. Ava jerks her head, calling Michelle over. She scoots down and sits with us, and I smile at her. She lifts a hand in greeting.
Ava juts her chin out. “So. Is it you?”
Dee shrugs.
“I mean, maybe I’m wrong, but it’s a hunch, and I’m not usually wrong with my hunches. You seem like the only person here who’s that kind of baller.”
“Not admitting anything, but … maybe,” Dee says, holding Ava’s gaze.
Finally, Ava says, at almost a whisper, “So … why exactly are you doing this?”
“Because I’m not blind to the injustices of this place like everyone else seems to be.”
“What’s the deal?” Antar asks. “Like, do you have a plan? Who are you after?”
Dee lays her hands on the table and looks at all three in turn, like she’s sizing them up. They’re watching her every move.
“Look,” she goes on, their eyes glued to hers, “what we need are bandits. Cowgirls. Highwaymen. Hunters. Vigilantes.”
Vigilantes?
“I mean,” I say, carefully, looking at Dee, holding my hands out cautiously, “we don’t want to get carried away or anything, but …”
“But it feels like it’s time to fuck shit up on who’s in power around here,” finishes Dee.
I watch the others falling under her spell.
Ava nods slowly, and so do Antar and Marta. Marta opens her mouth, then closes it again.
“Is it, like, a revenge squad?” asks Antar, leaning in.
“God, no,” I say at the same time that Dee says, “Sort of.”
She continues, “I figure it’s time for people to fight back. To take down the top dogs. For them to be fearful for once.”
Antar laughs and fist-bumps her. “Hell. Yes.”
“How’d you get Breanne’s headgear? That was hers, right?” Marta asks, her eyes glittering with awe.
Dee scans the room and shrugs again indifferently.
The bell rings to signal that lunch is over and classes are starting again. People all over are standing up, chairs screeching across the floor. Those at our table haven’t moved. They are watching Dee. She stands up, looking over the table.
“Well? Let’s get moving. We have unfinished business.”
* * *
On the way home from school, I say very little, my hands shoved in my hoodie pockets. Things feel like they’re moving quickly, and I’ve barely had a chance to catch up with Dee’s plans and she’s already enlisted other kids.
“What?” Dee asks.
“Nothing,” I say, but she’s watching me. She gives me a little elbow to urge me on. “I’m just thinking,” I say. Then, after a moment, “Is this the right thing to do?”
“The ‘right thing to do’? Fuck, yeah! You’re telling me that they didn’t have it coming?”
“Okay, yes, sure, but … you’re gonna get busted.”
“Nah. And even if we do, it’s worth it. ’Bout time someone held them accountable.” She stops and looks me in the face. “It’s gone on long enough, Stevie. It’s time to stand up for yourself.”
We start walking again. I think about the day. “Did you see the look on Pete’s face, though, when he came out to split up the fight? He was pissed.”
“That’s his job. And to be honest, he’s been way too oblivious to some of the stuff going on at school.”
“Yeah,” I admit, sadly, remembering how much Pete and I used to talk, how easy it used to be.
We turn a corner onto Lottie’s street, and I see her heading into her house. My heart aches a little as she reaches into the mailbox to grab whatever’s in there, the screen door banging behind her as she goes inside. I know her routine like a forgotten language. I miss her, but I feel a burning anger bubbling under that.
“You okay?” Dee asks, looking at me.
“Hmm? Oh yeah, sure. You going to come by the DQ tonight? I work till ten.”
“I’ve got nowhere else to be.”
I know this is true. Dee rarely talks about her dad or her much older brother. I know she lives close by, but we never go there. She says her dad works the night shift and is always sleeping during the day.
“We’ll celebrate,” she says, calling at me over her shoulder as I walk up my driveway.
“Celebrate what?”
She lets out a laugh like a bark and shakes her head, shouting, “You’re part of something, now, Stevie!”
She puts her headphones back over her ears and disappears around a corner as I put my key in the door.
* * *
The DQ. It is exactly the kind of monotonous, soul-sucking job that my mom thinks should be the staple of every teenager’s existence. But since Dee came along, if there’s nothing to do and no customers, it’s not bad. I can hang out with her, which is always a plus. We work on homework, goof off, eat ice cream, and life feels bearable.
Tonight I am working on an assignment that Pete gave us for Media Studies class. I lean over the counter, the assignment sheet in front of me, while I pick at a Blizzard I made myself.
CHOOSE A FILM OR TV SHOW 10 YEARS OR OLDER, AND GIVE IT A NEW, MODERN MEANING AND CONTEXT. YOU CAN PRESENT THIS IN ANY CREATIVE MEANS POSSIBLE. REWRITE THE SCRIPT, AS IT WERE. WEIGHT: 30% OF FINAL GRADE.
We�
�ve been watching bits of movies and TV shows all year, dissecting them, deconstructing them. I love this class. Most people do, actually; it’s like we’ve been training all our lives to have a class like this. Still, I’m thinking of how I can make this project mine, how I can bring a little Stevie into the assignment. I am scrolling through IMBD, but really I’m thinking about Dee and her stunts. How satisfying they were to see. How it finally feels like someone is doing something. I think of the Breannes and the Paiges, the Aidans, Joshes and the Lukes, the white, rich, privileged dicks that roam the school, our town—our online life, too—like medieval lords. It’s like other people all own a part of you. And I get it—it’s our fault for sharing so much of ourselves, but we’re now in this trap, where we can’t look outside ourselves without getting caught, and judged or worse. I feel my eyes starting to water, and then the door jingles, and it’s Dee, bustling in with a smile.
“I need a Blizzard, STAT!”
I take a deep breath and laugh. She’s here. She’s always here when I need her.
14
“Hey Stevie!”
It’s Ava, calling me from the doorway of one of the classrooms. The bell between classes just rang, and the hallways are full of students changing classes. I wait for her to catch up. She’s wearing a huge oversized sweatshirt that looks like it might swallow her whole. I’m not used to anyone other than Dee calling to me at school because they actually want to hang out with me, but that’s been changing lately. The past few weeks, there has been a shift. I don’t dread the minutes between classes and actually turn when someone calls my name. I smile at her as she hurries up beside me.
“Hey,” I say. “What’s up?”
“Not much. Just on my way to Environmental Science Club. It’s actually kind of fun. You should come sometime.”
“Oh, really? But isn’t climate change a hoax?” I say, sarcastically, “I feel like I heard that somewhere.”
“Har-har. I go because there’s always pizza, and we like to see how much hemp Mr. Wilson can work into his wardrobe.”
She notices that she’s accidentally passed the Science room and darts away, waving. I almost run full-on into Matthew, who is passing in the other direction.
“Oops! Sorry!” he says, catching my arm as I stumble. “Gotcha!”
“Thanks,” I say.
“How are you?” Matthew says in that way that he has of seeming to see into my soul. We pull to the side to let a bunch of rowdy kids walk by and lean against some lockers.
“I’m really good, actually.”
“Yeah. You seem, well … I know that for a while there you were, um, well, you know.” Matthew, no stranger to bullying, does me the favor of not naming the thing.
“Things were definitely shit for a while.”
He nods knowingly. “I’m sorry I never—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, my face growing red.
“Okay. Anyway, glad you’ve got some solid people with you now. Ava and Antar are awesome.”
“True that.”
“And if you ever get into Magic: The Gathering, Jamie and Mitch and I would be happy to have you.” He turns to leave and I head into my own classroom, a smile on my face.
I have friends now. It’s not just Dee, although she is at the core of it. She is my ride-or-die bitch, ever since Lottie jumped. But there’s a proper group of us, now. A bunch of misfits and nerds and freaks who have become my people. Antar and Marta and Ava, and sometimes even Matthew, but also some music and arty kids, a couple of second-string athletes, some gifted students and a few other of the dispossessed seeking sanctuary from the high school melting pot.
I remember being a kid, and then being a slightly older kid (preteen, my mom would say, rolling her eyes at everything I did), and still wanting to hang out with my mom, or having the occasional playdate with other kids, and that was enough. But then, it felt like overnight, all I wanted was this: friends I could hang out with all the time. And now that it’s here, I want it constantly. I need it like a high. Every joke is hilarious; every shitty thing that happens to any one of us is a tragedy. I suffer terrible bouts of FOMO when I can’t meet up with them. We are all up in each other’s social media; we compliment one another’s pics with a range of fire and heart emojis because we are the most gorgeous, hilarious, brilliant, and strong creatures any of us has ever encountered. Love, hate, school, clothes, hair, TV, movies, food, parents: it is all fodder for Snapchat and group texts. We are puppies! We are kittens! We have huge eyes and bunny ears and hearts and tiny birds flying around our heads! We’re dead. We’re dying. We’re expressing our constant devotion. It is therapy: balm for the soul, soothing the cockles of my nearly deadened heart. They know, they knew, that I was a target at school, and they buffer me. They shut people down and boost me up. They are saving me. They know it, too, what it’s like; all of them. The shared experience of being a loser. And maybe it’s that: the being part of something, as Dee said, the belonging that makes me hardly question her tactics, helps me to adopt them as my own.
Over the past couple of weeks, Dee has spearheaded about a stunt per week on someone tapped as a bully, a bitch, a bastard who needs to be taken down a few notches. Taught a lesson. Her excitement is contagious. I’m helping her now, and so are the others. I’ll be honest. It is exhilarating. It’s a rush. It quenches something we have all been thirsting for. Justice. We’ve all been there. Bullied, touched, harassed, tormented. Some more than others. It fills a need we have to be vindicated. It is thrilling, and as soon as one is finished, we want to do another. Sometimes they’re universal pranks that could be for or from anyone; other times they are more personal. Burning bags of shit in doorways that need to be stomped out. Keying cars with a personal message of vengeance. Some people frown upon doing any actual acts of mischief or pranks, but they are always game to hear about them afterward.
Some people, though, are all in.
Just last week, Dee showed up on my front porch with four dozen eggs in her backpack, which she gleefully showed me after I opened the door.
“What’s with the eggs?” I said, joining Dee outside.
“It is more of a traditional prank, I admit, but it is so satisfying,” she replied, a glint in her eye. I had to admit, I was itching to give it a try.
“That’s a lot of eggs; who else is coming?”
“Ava, Antar, the usual. Plus, I think they’re bringing a couple of people.”
“Okay,” I said. “Who’s the target?”
This time it was a girl named Justine. Justine is tall, beautiful, and a complete snob. She quite literally thinks she’s better than everyone, and it’s not hard to see why, I guess, if you’re into perfection. She’s the captain of the Cheer Squad, which is what they call cheerleaders here. Her squad is full of Justine clones, and she has a reputation for cutting anyone who doesn’t fit the physical requirements she has decided on. In fact, there’s a rumor that during tryouts, she and one of her henchwomen rate girls according to their height, waist size, legs, and boobs. This year, a large, curvy, confident girl named Beth started her own cheer team called CheerFull, and has accepted anyone who wants to dance, or bang pom-poms around, or whatever cheerleaders do. Justine has been dragging them online. Something about the purity of tradition or some bullshit.
“Good enough for me,” I said, taking a box of eggs out of the bag. “Let’s go.”
* * *
“I love this!” Antar screeched as he launched an egg at Justine’s house half an hour later.
“We don’t have enough eggs!” Ava called, using up the last of hers on the front door. She rooted around on the ground and picked up a rock.
A light came on, and a woman opened the door just as Ava launched her rock straight at the doorway. We heard a scream, and the woman’s hands flew up around her face. We froze momentarily, then ran.
As we raced through the neighborhood, the evening air and our adrenaline filling us up like lifeblood, I shouted at Ava, “What the fu
ck, dude? A rock?”
She looked guilty for a second, then shrugged. “I’m sure she’s fine. She’s Justine’s fucking mother; I’m sure she had it coming too,” she said, her face suddenly cruel. Another kid, one I hardly know, high-fived her, and I realized there were more people with us than I thought, running through the streets causing shit in the name of justice … or something.
We hurtled around corners and ran through the streets like radical children, following Dee as she ducked into a walkway near the school. We leaned against the walls, gasping, out of breath and full of purpose. Everyone was talking at once, and Dee looked around at everyone, her face flushed and glowing like some unreal thing. She pulled a can of red spray paint out of her backpack, and I watched them watching her, thrilled that there was more. She shook the can and drew a large heart on the wooden wall of the walkway and scrawled HEATHER under it. Everyone whistled and clapped, chests heaving in excitement.
Dee lifted her chin up and howled at the moon, and they all chorused after her. I stood quietly, feeling like I’d lost a hold on something.
* * *
Tonight we are going up to the Ridge, high above our dreary town, to have a campfire. Antar is going to pick Dee and me up at my house in his perfectly run-down old beater of a car, then push it to its limits in the steep climb up the hill, where whoever else can make it will meet us for a night of cozy bonding as the sun, weighed down by the burden of its job of cheering every bored and hardened adolescent, sinks below the horizon in exhaustion.
Dee and I sit on my porch, and she lights a cigarette, coughing as she inhales. The days are getting so long now that even though it’s evening, it feels like there are still hours to go before the streaky sky will darken. Dee moves her hand behind her bent legs to keep the smoke out of my face. She knocks her knee into mine and smiles.
“So,” I say, not looking at her, but at two little sparrows who are squabbling on a low branch on a tree near the road.
“So …?” She laughs.
“So, I’m … I just wanted to say that I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you came. Like, in general, not tonight. But that too.” I feel my face get hot.
Love, Heather Page 11
