Love, Heather

by Laurie Petrou

  “Aw, Stevie.” She turns to face me. “You love me! You really, really love me!” She folds me into her arms in a gust of smoke and hair.

  “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “Got it.” She ashes her cigarette over the porch stairs. “For the record, I’m glad I’m here, too. I didn’t know if I would make any friends here, but here you are. There are actually some pretty cool people here.”

  I nod, slowly. “They sure like you,” I say, and I can feel the damp corner of a wet blanket of envy in my voice.

  “Oh, now. They just tolerate me. I’m good in small doses.”

  “Yeah … right. Looks like some people are really getting into this stuff. I just wonder—”

  But then there is a rumble coming around the corner, and Dee stands, flicking her butt into the garden. Antar’s car rounds onto my street, and he rolls down the window as he pulls up to the house.

  “Want a ride?” And then, “Hang on …” He turns up the music, louder, louder, so loud it seems that the roof of his car will come off, while he dances at the wheel in an increasing frenzy. Dee leaps into the front seat and joins him, and I slide in back and cover my ears, laughing.

  It is a warm, deliciously fresh evening. The sun is glinting off the edges of leaves as they shiver and shimmer and preen, shaking their tits because they know they’re at their peak and that in a few months they’ll be dried up and dead. We roll down all the windows and breathe in deeply, that almost summer—practically summer! just on the edge of summer!—air that smells like barbecue and sunscreen and grass. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remember childhood summers: sliding down a Wet Banana and hurting my back on a rock, running barefoot over a hot blacktop driveway, sipping Slurpees while walking home from the Mac’s Milk with Lottie. All at once, just with a couple of inhales from the summer air, those memories hit my brain like an electric shock, and I am happy and sad and nostalgic and excited all at once. Dee is talking away, a mile a minute, her happy chatter filling the car, layered on top of the music like a rhythm, and I close my eyes and take it all in. Antar’s car climbs Woolverton Road, the steepest and curviest road in town, and it is struggling, we can hear it, and he laughs and urges it on, “Come on, girl. You can do it.”

  “Lean forward, everyone!” Dee yells, and we cling to our knees, like we’re cajoling an old horse, a boat in a sea storm, and up we go. Up and up and up.

  The Ridge. Named after the road it’s on, the Ridge is the top of the escarpment and offers views of the town that stretch all the way across to the lake and beyond. There are lookout points and tiny gravel parking spots with unreliable railings. The Bruce Trail cuts through here, and there are always people hiking and walking their dogs, clamoring over the rocks and roots, breathing hard with the healthy work of it, their cheeks rosy. It’s also the site of many a teenage campfire, littered with a rotation of bottles and trash and the occasional used condom. The environmental Good Samaritans of the town clean it all up, and the cycle starts again the following weekend. I had a friend when I was little who lived up on the Ridge, and I remember running around her huge backyard that stretched into the protected land of the escarpment, pretending we were in the grounds of a medieval castle overlooking the village.

  Antar deftly rounds the curves leading us up higher, and my stomach gives a lurch as we gain precarious altitude above the town. Dee lets out a whoop as her hair flies all over the car, expands and fills the space like her own airbag. I know in that happy moment, seeing our life from above in miniature, how delicate everything is. How fragile and risky and in danger we are of tipping over the edge. I feel so good right now, I know I do. But there is a fuzz, a dark-gray edge to the picture, bleeding into the joy. I shake my head, shake it off, grinning, then laughing at Dee. If nothing else, if no one else, I have this, right now.

  “Hold tight!” Antar yells over the music as he takes a corner at top speed, and then we are careening along the top of the Ridge, Dee’s hand out the window, riding the warm wind. The sun is straight ahead of us, painfully bright and inviting, daring us to fly right into the fireball. Close your eyes against the heat of it, Stevie, against the blinding light.

  When we get to the spot we all agreed on, sent through map pins and texts, pinpointing the scraggy dirt clearing where we’ll spend the evening, there are already a few people there. Ava is a master when it comes to making fires, I guess, because she is directing the project with serious expertise.

  “You have to put the logs up like this,” she says, exasperated, to Marta, who laid them flat. Marta sits on a log sulkily and waves at us.

  “Okay, Ava, who died and made you queen of fires?” jokes Dee, tossing a backpack on the ground and joining Marta. I sit down beside her.

  There are other kids there already, relaxing, listening to music coming from a portable speaker someone brought. A girl named Annie takes a gummy from a bag and passes it around. Others are smoking; it wafts about in a skunky cloud.

  “Okay, ready!” says Ava, hands on hips. “Hand me the matches!”

  Three hands extend holding lighters, and she smirks. “Or a lighter.”

  She lights the fire, and it really is perfect. Like a campfire straight from a Girl Guide’s iron-on patch: triangular logs, a curvy orange flame, a swirl of smoke. There is scattered applause, and Ava bows, grinning, her face beautiful in the firelight. She leans over to take a toke as her reward, sitting heavily beside Antar, who has his eyes closed, moving his head to the music. A guy named Jesse, who is very small for his age, with glasses and a pile of curly hair that is more statement than style, opens a beer from his bag. I look around and see that my life is a movie: we look like we’re in Friday the 13th, at camp, and are just too happy and relaxed not to be punished by a murderous psychopath who must be crashing through the path toward us at this moment.

  “I love this cut,” says Jesse, gesturing at the speaker. “Saw them last summer; it was amazing.” There are some nods and murmured agreement. People are laughing and cozying up to each other on the scattered logs.

  Dee struggles to stand up, and I give her a shove from behind. She hams it up, staggering to the rickety railing that overlooks the town. The sun is going down, and it’s licking all the rooftops like a giant, sleepy cat on its way to bed. Dee opens her arms, taking it all in, and everyone giggles. Antar throws a wood chip at her back. She leans forward over the railing, and we all instinctively put out our arms, as though we’d ever be able to stop her if she fell. She starts humming, moving her head to her own music.

  “Teenage suicide,” she sings, and I recognize the tune from Heathers. “Don’t do it! Teenage suiciiiiide”—and she reaches ever forward—“don’t do it!”

  “Jesus, be careful!” Jesse grumbles.

  Dee ignores him, sweeping her arms around, like she’s performing on a huge stage.

  “What is that?” Marta asks, taking a swig from a beer can. “Did she make that song up?”

  “Who knows,” someone else says, then yells, “Get back here before you fall over!”

  “All right, crazy, come sit down,” says Antar, reaching out his hand to Dee.

  Dee leaps over some branches and takes her spot by the fire, nudging me with her shoulder. I shake my head at her bravado. Is it too much?

  Talk turns to school, to the people we like, we hate, to what’s been going on lately, to who deserves it, who has it coming. Ava mentions Paige, and there is a collective groan.

  “She’s just Breanne’s puppet,” says Ava.

  “Have you seen her run?” Jesse asks, laughing. “She can only go about two feet before stopping.”

  “Honestly, I think she must have an eating disorder,” says Ava.

  “Meanwhile her best friend is like a mutant athlete,” someone else chimes in.

  “Who, Breanne?” I say. “I don’t think they’re best friends. Breanne is a total bitch.”

  “That’s probably why they’re friends, hello!” Jesse laughs.

  �
�I dunno,” I mumble, “Paige isn’t that bad.” I can feel Dee looking at me. Really? she’s thinking. And yes, I know she’s right, but I feel protective of Paige for some reason.

  “Some people are mysterious,” Marta says quietly, smiling, and I am grateful for her slightly loopy niceties.

  “Whatever, and some people just need you to fuck their shit up,” says Jesse, and others grumble in agreement.

  The night comes, and the town slips on it like a patch of oil, falling into darkness. The fire crackles and throws light up against all our faces. Dee listens, chewing on the cuff of her hoodie, nodding and laughing along with everyone else, but her eyes are alert. She is sitting up straight, taking it all in.

  Later, when I am home, my hair on my pillow smelling like campfire, my comforter up around my shoulders, she texts me.

  Keep your eyes on the prize

  I type back.

  Just not sure I want to win

  You do, she texts. Or at least, you don’t want to lose. Eventually we’ll do something so big, they’ll see they have no power over us

  Back and forth, until I’m too tired and I sign off, my eyes shutting with dreams like movies: wide shots and close-ups, music that tells us that something’s happening, something we should be wary of, nervous about, even if we don’t know quite what it is.

  15

  On Monday, everybody is talking about the pranks, and if there will be more. Breanne has apparently already had her parents speak to the principal about how she doesn’t feel the school is a “safe space,” which is, as we all well know, the silver bullet for getting grown-ups to do what you want.

  Before lunch today, there was an announcement on the PA system reminding students that vandalism and bullying will not be tolerated at the school, and anyone who is found to be committing acts of either will be dealt with accordingly.

  Breanne appears at her lunch table with shimmering eyes, surrounded by supportive friends who glower at everyone outside their group.

  Dee walks through the cafeteria, whistling loudly, hands in her pockets, her customary stomp. People are watching her; a couple of hands reach out and high-five her. She sits down at our table with Antar and Ava, Marta and Jesse, who smile at her, amused. She scoots in right next to me, and our arms and legs touch. A jolt runs through me.

  “Hey guys,” she says. They look at her expectantly. She giggles, looking at each person in turn, and squeezing my hand under the table. “So, crazy shit around here, hey?” Everyone nods, murmuring and laughing. Dee nods also, her gaze taking in the whole room. “Looks like the tables are finally turning in this shithole.”

  And then she stands up and looks right over at Breanne and calls out, “The queen is dead!” There is applause, actual applause, and table banging. Someone yells, pointing at Dee, “God save the queen!” and Dee does a little wave like royalty. I watch her, soaking it all in, and see Lottie, a look of disbelief on her face. I feel a small surge of embarrassment, but I ignore it, putting my hands around my mouth and cheering.

  * * *

  In Art class, later in the week, we are making papier-mâché masks. Our teacher, Mr. DiFranco, has paired me with Lottie, oblivious to the ebb and flow of what actually goes on in friendships for those under forty.

  Everyone sits with their partners, a pile of newspaper strips and a bowl of paste between them. One person will apply the mask to the other, and then they’ll switch. I sit facing Lottie in a chair, realizing it has been what feels like eons since we were close.

  She sticks her fingers into a jar of Vaseline and pauses before rubbing it on my face. Other pairs are happily chatting and laughing all over the room.

  “So,” I say, “how’s life?”

  She says nothing, methodically wiping the cream across my forehead, which is so disarmingly intimate after months of not speaking that I feel all the tiny hairs on my body stand on end.

  “Well,” I continue, “I finally have friends again, after a brush with complete and utter exile and isolation that sunk me into a depression so deep I thought I’d never get out. So, you know, that’s nice.”

  “Good for you,” Lottie says, flatly. “Um, can you please stay still?”

  “Yes, good for me. Good for me. And gosh, I would hate to be rude, so let me ask: are things good for you? You and the Pink Ladies still the reining queens of cool?”

  “The what?”

  “God, watch a movie.”

  I hate this, this bickering. I sigh. “So,” I say, making eye contact and trying to connect with Lottie, my BFF for years, my sister from another mister. “I heard that Pete’s moving out. Which, by the way, my mother told me.”

  Lottie says nothing, but her mouth becomes a tight line, which I know is a sign of fury.

  I soften just a small bit. “Lottie. Jesus. You could have told me.”

  She looks at me levelly. Her shoulders drop.

  “It’s okay. I understand, I guess. Where is he going?” I continue, quietly, “I mean, I get that he needs his own life, but why is he leaving?”

  Lottie takes a breath like she’s going to respond, but just shakes her head.

  “Well. You have two amazing parents. You’re pretty, you’re popular. You’ve got it all. I mean, my mom is a selfish and oblivious asshat, and her boyfriend is a … Well, anyway. My dad forgot about me because he’s so focused on fair-trade coffee and his perky, hipster girlfriend. But you have these two interesting, amazing parents. You know what I’m saying, here? Hello?”

  “Whatever. Stop obsessing over my family. The bigger question is, what about you?” she asks, her voice sounding close to tears. “You are suddenly a different person!”

  “What? No, I’m—”

  “You are! I feel like I don’t even know you!”

  “I had to, Lottie.” I am almost crying myself. “Things were—”

  “Well, things are bad for me, too. I wish—” She stops herself, then starts slapping the soggy strips on my face, not caring where they go, or if she covered that part of my face in Vaseline.

  “Hey, go easy!”

  “Stevie,” she says finally, holding one in her hand, “shut your mouth.”

  “I just want to say something!”

  Mr. DiFranco calls over, “Stevie, you need to keep your mouth still so your partner can apply the strips to the lower portion of your face. Tempting as it may be to speak.”

  Lottie smirks, and I feel my plastered face burn.

  * * *

  I take a bathroom break during Geography and decide to go to the downstairs one, dragging out my break to wander the quiet halls. On my way back, wiping my mouth after drinking from a fountain, I pull open one of the stairwell doors and see Aiden, leaning over to pick up a book he dropped. I freeze, and the door clangs shut behind me. He starts and turns around, surprised; then his face relaxes into a scoff. He picks up his book and turns to start up the stairs. I take a deep breath, my body thrumming. It’s now or never, I think. Something in my newfound confidence, having Dee in my corner, gives me the strength in this moment to try to get to the bottom of part of what started it all.

  “Why’d you do it, Aidan?” I call to him.

  He stops and slowly turns back, hopping off the stair and taking a step toward me. My body stiffens.

  “What?” he says, moving closer. I don’t mean to but I stumble back, bumping against the old red-brick wall beside the doors.

  “Why’d you tell everyone that shit about me? Nothing happened between us. Why did you do that?” My voice sounds so small. My body feels so small. I shrink, but don’t disappear.

  Aidan shrugs, getting closer. I can smell him. Sweat. Body spray. Detergent. Confidence. “I dunno. Something to do.”

  “What?” I whisper.

  “I mean, it might as well have happened. You wanted it to. We both know that.”

  Closer.

  My mouth quivers, and I am shaking my head no. Never. I never. I want to send out a burn, I want to insult him, but there’s a sob in my thro
at.

  I blink and say, “Oh fucking great,” and try to move around him, but he reaches his arm out and stops me in that same moment, almost like it’s an accident, almost like I walked into him, and grabs me in the crotch. He squeezes, hard, painfully, and I gasp, and he squeezes again, leaning in, his breath on my face, and then lets go. Like it didn’t happen. Like it didn’t matter.

  “Better get back to class, Stevie. I’m late myself. See ya up there.” And he turns and bounds casually up the stairs, leaving me in the stairwell, my palms against the cool of the brick, my heart pounding in my throat.

  I don’t tell Dee. I don’t tell anyone. I don’t even know if it happened.

  16

  Episode 71 00:15

  So many classic movies are, I’m sad to say, full-on rape culture offenders. I mean, look at Sixteen Candles, one of the biggest culprits, and so are so many of the beloved John Hughes movies. Or Back to the Future, Nerds, Say Anything. They turn rape and rape culture into a joke, a punch line.

  A few days later, Saturday, Dee meets me outside my house. I’ve been sitting on the front step, staring into space. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I haven’t felt like doing anything, not even eating, since I saw Aidan in the stairwell. Since he— Well, anyway. I look down the street at nothing while Dee sits beside me.

  Our garage is open and Reg is hammering on a piece of metal, making a god-awful racket. He waves at us, asks us if we want to come check out the old railway ties he’s turning into a table for my mom. I say nothing but heave a sigh for years.

  Dee looks at me, and I can see that she sees something there. Something hurting. “Hey,” she says softly, putting her arm around me, “I have an idea.”

  “Oh yeah? What?”

  “Why don’t we get out of here. Like, out of town,” she says, smiling.

  I look at her. “Okay,” I say, morosely, “but where do you want to go?”

  “I myself would like to see something wonderful, Stevie. Something enormous, dazzling, spectacular.”

  I roll my eyes. “We don’t have any of that here, sorry. Do you even know where you are? There is nothing.”