Love, Heather

by Laurie Petrou

  He pulls one earbud out and says, “Just leave us out of anything you’re planning. It’s getting out of control.”

  “I’m going, for sure,” says Jesse, before we can respond. “Shit always goes down at big parties.”

  “Preach,” says Dee.

  At that moment, a few guys come toward us with trays of slushies. Aidan is one of them.

  It happens so quickly.

  He deliberately crashes into Dee’s chair, dumping a Slurpee down her back. She jumps up, her chair screeching and toppling over.

  “Oops. Sorry. Must have tripped.”

  “What the fuck, man?” she howls, turning on the guys. Their eyes widen in exaggeration, like they’re afraid.

  “It was an accident,” Aidan says. “Oh shit. Don’t go psycho on me now.” He pretends to look scared. “Chill out. Literally.” They laugh and move on, while the teacher in charge calls out across the room, asking what’s going on, without actually moving from his post. Dee steps over her chair and storms out of the caf to the sounds of people catcalling and laughing. I see Paige watching, her hand on the shoulder of her bag, before she leaves the room.

  I follow Dee into the bathroom. She has her shirt off and is drying it in the hand dryer.

  “This is some bullshit,” she says, her lips a straight line of fury. A girl comes in, looks furtively at Dee in her bra, and darts into a stall. “He’s going to be sorry for this,” she mutters.

  “Maybe it was an accident?”

  Maybe she asked for it. Maybe she got in the way. Maybe she brought it on herself. My eyes sting with tears trying to get out. This keeps happening, coming out of nowhere and surprising me, ever since the stairwell. I look up and wipe under my eyes.

  “No fucking way. He’s one of those assholes who has been posting all over social media about us. I believe his latest was”—she cocks her head as though trying to remember—“ah yes: ‘Die, feminazi cunts.’”

  “Charming,” I say, inspecting myself in the mirror.

  “What are you doing?” Dee asks my reflection. She puts her shirt back on.

  “Nothing. Are you ready?”

  * * *

  Later, I tell my mom that I’m going out tomorrow night. She is pouring a can of mushroom soup over a bunch of ingredients in a casserole dish.

  “Good for you, Stevie. You need to get out more.”

  Reg is sitting at the table, scrolling through his phone. “Oh, I remember those summer parties in high school,” he says, smiling but not looking up. “Do I ever. Good times, good times.”

  I wonder if his “good times” involved him bullying other kids, making them feel small in so many ways. I can picture him: cokehead, music guy, long hair—he was probably pretty good-looking, I hate to say. But undoubtedly a complete douchebag. I shudder at the thought of all the girls he must have cornered in some smoke-filled basement or manhandled in the high grass of a field party, talking about Nirvana.

  “I still hang out with most of those guys. One of them got me my first job. Talked the manager into giving me a chance, and I bailed another guy out when … well, anyway.” He grins, impishly. “All of us, we were like this—” He crosses his first two fingers.

  “I remember those parties, too,” Mom chimes in, smiling at Reg. “So many memories. Those were the days.” She turns to me. “Whose party is it?”

  “Uh, Sienna Martin.”

  “Oh, I remember her.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is Lottie going?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Lately I’ve seen Lottie hanging out with a group of kids other than Paige and Breanne. Kind of the nerdy science kids: they are always near the labs, and whenever there are partner assignments in Biology, Lottie chooses one of them. I don’t know if something happened between her and the others, but I have to say I’m glad she’s not hanging out with them, or at least doesn’t seem to be. But we haven’t been paired up for anything since our doomed papier-mâché project. Lottie’s sculpture of my face looks like a giant potato. It doesn’t help that she decided to run with it and painted it like Mrs. Potato Head, complete with “eyes” all over and some cartoon facial features stuck in random places.

  “You two fighting or something?”

  “No, Mom.” I roll my eyes. I don’t know. Yes. No.

  I ran into Lottie in the bathroom the other day. She asked me if I was going to the party while she was drying her hands.

  “Yeah, I think so. You?”

  “Probably. See you there?”

  “For sure,” I said, feeling lighter as she left the door swinging behind her.

  “Are there gonna be guys there?” Reg asks, grinning like he and I are in on something.

  I think about Aidan, and all the comments online. There is a hatred burning in my chest. It’s like Dee is standing behind me, whispering in my ear.

  “Are you a feminist, Mom?” I ask, leaning in the doorway, on my way out of the room.

  “Oh, please, honey. I’m a realist. I love men.” She winks at Reg, who kisses the air.

  And I’m out.

  * * *

  That night, hundreds of kids in our school get a message from Aidan from his Insta account. It’s not that hard to hack Instagram. There are even tutorials online that can show you how to do it. I guess Dee found out how. I mean, I can only assume she did. Nothing else really explains this:

  HEY THERE. I THOUGHT IT’D BE A GOOD IDEA IF I LET YOU KNOW: I HAVE HERPES. IT’S CONTAGIOUS AND DISGUSTING, BUT IMPORTANT FOR PEOPLE TO KNOW. KNOWLEDGE IS POWER.

  * * *

  I get a text from Ava with a screenshot of the message.

  Is that even true??? she asks.

  Does she think I’d know? Does it matter?

  But that breathing, pulsing online world never sleeps if we don’t, and so of course there is more. People reacting, other posts, Aiden’s own fury whiplashing back, saying he’d been hacked and that whoever did that would not get away with it.

  Dee and I get texts from the others. Michelle, whose attention from Breanne was part of the beginning.

  Did you see that thing on insta

  Yeah

  Do you think it’s going too far

  Dee writes back: No, man, not at all. Not far enough. Think about who he is, who they all are! I can’t believe you are doubting, now, after everything!

  Ok Ok I’m sorry you’re right.

  Goddamn right I’m right. Don’t look back. Eyes forward.

  She makes me nervous when she’s like this. So unshakable in her beliefs, so committed to letting things unravel, to watching to see what will happen, to nudging it, or pushing it along if necessary. I watch through my phone as everyone is commenting, laughing, furious. Everyone feels different; everyone feels the same.

  And then, late in the night, there is an Insta story from Breanne.

  She flips her hair and talks to the camera: “I feel the need to speak out about something I’ve been worrying about for a long time, and that I think puts our safety and comfort at school in jeopardy.

  “One of my teachers is changing her sex. I don’t think that’s appropriate for a teacher. I know maybe that’s not politically correct, but I’m just saying what lots of us are thinking. School is crazy enough right now, what with the bullying and stuff, it’s confusing, and now we don’t even know what our teachers are!

  “But even worse than that is that I have a feeling she/he has a thing going on with one of the girls who I think is part of all the bullying. I saw them together and there’s no denying they have a relationship. A physical relationship. This person is very unstable anyway, if any of you have seen her videos. This makes me feel uncomfortable, so I thought I should speak out.”

  I feel sick. It was the hug I gave Pete. She saw him and turned it into this. I put my hands to my face and close my eyes. There is no peace.

  I go into the kitchen. The house is in darkness; Mom and Reg are asleep. The light in the fridge blazes out at me when I open it. My body is
thumping, my breath fast. I take out one of Reg’s beers and open it. I sit at the table and look out the glass door at the darkness. The shape of my reflection looks back at me. I stare at her, at myself, and take a long haul off the beer, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I finish quickly and am ready. I open my phone.

  Breanne, I see, also put a pic on her Instagram of a fist, like a social justice “Fight the Power” fist that she is totally using the wrong way. It’s innocuous if you haven’t seen the story that will soon be erased.

  There is a storm of responses, like rolling thunder, one after another after another. She is brave. She is transphobic. She’s ignorant. She’s right. That is disgusting. It’s PC bullshit. She’s the one who makes people uncomfortable. She’s a bitch. She’s got guts to speak out. LOVE YOU GIRL. U R BRAVE! THANKS FOR SHARING, BRII! STFD YOU IDIOT. STEVIE AND PETE KNOW EACH OTHER FROM OUTSIDE SCHOOL, YOU MORON. SHE’S FRIENDS WITH HIS KID. THAT GIRL IS FUCKING NUTS SHE FREAKED OUT ON A FIELD TRIP. SHE’S DOING ALL THOSE PRANKS. SHE’S A SLUT. YOU’RE A SLUT … On and on. I watch this unfurl before my eyes, my face burning up like it’s on fire.

  Lottie. I need to talk to Lottie. I text her, not knowing if anything will come back. My heart is beating fast.

  Hey I don’t know if you’ve seen that bs online but I’m sorry your family is getting caught up in this.

  A few minutes pass. I stare at my phone, willing it to respond. There are ellipses. She’s thinking. Or maybe checking to see what I’m talking about. I wait. I wait.

  Yeah I saw it.

  Are you ok?

  I’m fine

  Maybe things are getting out of hand; maybe that’s why even my new friends have been keeping a distance. It’s like I’m peddling downhill, but it is good and scary and fast, and sometimes there are consequences, and maybe this is one of them. I wonder if I should reach out to Pete. Should I tell him? Warn him? But then I think about Lottie, and how she would hate for me to get more involved. Her tactic is always to lay low—not my strong suit.

  I text Dee.

  Hey did you see that shit

  Yeah. She’s an idiot. It’ll come back to her. It’ll bite her in the ass. Go to sleep.

  I turn my phone off. I lie in bed and finally fall asleep, but each time I wake during the night, I check my phone. More responses, more and more, and eventually, by morning, the story is gone and Breanne has removed the pic. There is momentary quiet.

  25

  I walk alone to school. Nobody is at our rock on the grounds when I arrive, so I walk right in, focused on my locker like a heat-seeking missile. I try to ignore the looks coming my way. Occasionally someone pats me on the back, like a gesture of solidarity. But there is also snickering and muttering, whispering and giggling.

  Everyone is talking about all the stuff happening online. It’s not just Breanne’s posts, or the Insta message sent through Aidan’s account, but everywhere we can go and talk and shout, everywhere the teachers can’t reach us. People are whispering and arguing, conspiring, gossiping. There are side group messages and public declarations, trash talking and threats. There are peacemakers, and those trying to diffuse with GIFs and memes. Some people can’t wait to get away from the school for the summer, from the drama; others are sad the first year of high school is almost over.

  I sit through Pete’s class watching him for a sign that he caught wind of anything Breanne wrote. He acts the same as always, but it’s hard to tell if he’s just rising above it. I leave quickly after class, my head down.

  At lunch, it’s just me and Dee at our table. Antar looks our way and shakes his head, choosing to sit at a different table and listen to music. Michelle, Ava, and Marta shrug and follow him, looking at their phones. Lottie isn’t there. I am guessing she’s in some far corner of the school, maybe eating her lunch in Pete’s classroom. I bet they’re together. They are family, after all. I watch my friends and consider going to join them, to talk it through, to tell them that I know it’s all too much.

  “What’re you thinking?” Dee asks, looking at me over her sandwich.

  “I dunno. Just want the whole thing to end.”

  “I hear that.”

  But I don’t know that she does, or that she would want things to end the same way.

  By the time the bell rings, gossip has reached a fever pitch, and on top of that, everyone is talking about the party tonight.

  “I don’t know about you, but I am not going,” I scoff, opening my locker.

  Dee is looking at herself in the mirror, applying bright-red lipstick. “Like hell you’re not,” she says.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Don’t give them the satisfaction, Stevie. Jesus, hold your head high. Otherwise they’ll think it’s true. I’m going. Fuck them.”

  * * *

  I relent. I’ll go. But I’m not sure what to wear. I am nervous, trying on a bunch of different things before settling finally on jeans and a baggy shirt—casual and not trying too hard, despite my efforts. Dee is here, sitting on the bed, eating a bag of chips. There’s a nervous energy pulsing through my body, making me jumpy, irritated.

  “Try and stay out of trouble tonight, Dee.” I say, looking hard at her. It’s her fault if anything happens, and I am not going to take the fall.

  She smiles. “Yeah? Why?”

  I sigh, exasperated. “Just—maybe let’s, I dunno, just lay low for once. Everything doesn’t have to be a spectacle, does it?”

  Dee pops a chip in her mouth. “I’m just saying. Tension is high. Something’s gonna blow. You can feel it. We just need to control what happens. We don’t want to be at their mercy.”

  “When have you ever been at anybody’s mercy?”

  She locks eyes with me and shrugs, the moment over, and I wonder, not for the first time, who Dee is, and how much I’ve changed since she arrived on the scene. Who I am.

  “It’s getting carried away, Dee.”

  “What? No way. We’re standing on a land mine, Stevie. It’s a powder keg about to blow. We just hafta be ready to run.”

  “It’s just a party, not a revolution,” I say, trying not to care.

  “If you say so.”

  * * *

  We get to the house, and it is already packed. It’s not quite a Superbad house party situation yet, but it is a regular suburban house that is already in full swing: pulsing from the inside out, people starting to spill outside like an overfilled bathtub that smells like body spray. People stare at us as we arrive, like we’re in an old-timey movie where the music stops when the cowboy walks in the saloon.

  I scan the room. Looking over some heads just inside the house, I see Ava, Marta, and Antar. I wave, and they look at one another and turn away. Dee gives me a shove, and I make my way in their direction. Ava’s hair is piled on her head like a black bird’s nest, Marta looks like a tiny doll in a flowered dress, and Antar is in a suit that he is wearing the shit out of.

  “Hey,” I shout over the music. Ava nods; Antar takes a sip of a drink and looks across the crowd. Marta smiles weakly.

  Dee snorts at this. “Really, guys? That all you got?”

  Ava takes a breath and gives her a hard stare. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean what’s with you guys?”

  Someone bumps into Dee and she knocks into Ava, whose drink gets on them both.

  “Watch it!” I say to the girl shouldering her way through the room. I realize it’s Breanne, and she lifts her middle finger at me as she moves away.

  Antar and Marta exchange looks, before Antar says to Dee, “I’m not afraid of you, you know.”

  “Why would you be?” I ask, surprised.

  “I know you have this, like, ‘If you’re not with us, you’re against us’ bullshit, and, like, some kind of rage problem. I don’t care. Just leave us out of your weird club.”

  Dee laughs and says, “What’s your damage?” She looks at the three of them. Ava looks away.

  “Ah, fuck you guys,” Dee says. “You’re fucking
weak.”

  We turn and Dee says, “Let’s get a drink, sister soldier.” I feel their stares but don’t care because there’s something else pulsing through me with the music.

  I’m not really a big drinker. I’ve been drunk a couple of times, but I wouldn’t say it’s something I do often, although maybe that’s changing. When Dee hands me a red cup filled with heady draft, I take a swig and have to choke it down. I wipe my upper lip and grin, and she’s taken a healthy gulp of hers, also. She moves her head to the music and looks around the room, pointedly ignoring the corner where our former friends are in a tight circle. There is a pretty good cross-section of the school here, a range from the gorgeous to the geeky, all pressed up against each other and staring over shoulders and at their phones, hardly paying any attention to who they’re with. Within a few sips of my beer, I sense a buzz coming on. I sway my hips to the music and enjoy the fact that none of us can hear each other, not really.

  I see Lottie across the room and feel the sudden need to talk to her. I push and weave through people to get through. Dee tugs my shirt, but I shrug her off.

  “Lottie!” I call out, but my voice is swallowed up. “Lottie!”

  I finally reach her and grab her arm, relieved. She turns and looks at me, and for a tiny minute we are twelve, not fifteen, and a world lies between those years. She’s standing with a few kids from our elementary school, kids I’ve known my whole life. They say hi to me, ask me what’s up, smiling kindly at me, but keeping their distance.

  “Lottie,” I say, “can I talk to you?”

  She takes a drink and says, “I dunno, okay.”

  “I, um,” I say, and suddenly my voice is cracking. But I can’t tell her that I need her, that I miss her.

  She looks in my eyes and I know that she knows. That she can read me, because we’ve always had each other’s back.

  “What’s going on with you?” she says in a low voice.

  “Nothing! Nothing,” I say, wiping my upper lip. “I don’t know.” Someone bumps me, and Lottie and I stumble and sway together, jarred out of any moment we might have been having.

  Lottie eyes me, her voice hardening. “You’ve been so different,” she says. “I—I feel like I don’t know you anymore.”