Love, Heather

by Laurie Petrou

“Why aren’t you at school?” I ask.

  “It’s almost the end of term. I think I’ll survive without going to Math.”

  “Right. So, you wanna—” I gesture up the stairs to the kitchen. She shrugs, yes.

  I open two pops and put them on the table. We sit down and it feels stupid and formal. But I am on a tight schedule now. I have things I need to get done.

  “Were you there last night, when—?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I’d already left. I saw all the stuff about it later, though. Pictures …”

  “Right. Well.” My stomach tightens and turns over. “Fuck that.”

  “Yeah,” says Lottie. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to, I don’t know, see if you were okay.” She sips her drink and looks away. “I was so afraid something like this would happen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Just that I was worried someone would do something to you, you know, to get even or whatever.”

  “What, this is my fault?” I can’t go there now. Not anymore. I cannot let anyone tell me I had a hand in this, not even Lottie.

  “What? No, that’s not what I mean, Stevie, of course not.”

  “Because I don’t like watching people get away with things? Because I care?”

  “No!” She opens and closes her mouth. “Just—sometimes you took it too far. That shit you were doing was crazy. I just—I was so worried about you getting hurt.”

  I am standing but don’t remember getting up.

  “What was I supposed to do? And where were you, Lottie?” I am crying. “I needed you!”

  She backs her chair up and stumbles a little.

  “Will you just get the hell out of here?”

  Her eyes are welling up, and part of me feels bad but it’s just a small part, and the rest of me is charging forward. The rest of me is Dee, taking control.

  “Just go!”

  And she does, and the door closes quietly behind her.

  My anger is strong, energetic. There is a part of me, the Stevie part, that wants to crawl into a ball and cry so much I’ll puke. There is part of me that wants to stay in bed forever. But I push it down. I let Dee out.

  I grab my canvas purse and book it out the front door. I see my bike, busted and bent, leaning against the garage like a dead thing, and I start to run.

  I run to the other end of town, to the top, up the escarpment, to the Ridge. I can’t run once it gets steep, but I am hiking now, huffing and puffing, my legs aching and moving up, up, up. Up the Bruce Trail, up over rocks and fallen trees, further up, crunching branches underfoot. I get to the lookout point where I leaned over and sang the song from Heathers. Me, Stevie. All those conversations with Dee. I made her, she made me. But now I need her more than ever.

  I look for the school, find it from up high, like a pin in the map of our town. I see a group of students doing high-knees and other exercises. I watch them until they are told to stop by cheerful Ms. Kwan, and they gather, hands on their knees, panting, and I can feel their relief from here.

  I feel Dee. They’re all down there, waiting for you to do something. They’re talking about you. They’re going to suck you in. And before they eat you up and spit you out, they will move you around their sharp teeth, feel you with their tongues, taste your fear. Play with you. Then they’ll watch you dissolve. They’ll cover their mouths while they snicker and look the other way while you cry. Then they’ll abandon you. They’ll feign ignorance to your pain. They have their own lives, you know. They are very busy. Too busy for you. Too busy to notice you planning, scheming, designing the perfect final project. The perfect final scene before the credits roll. They have their classes and their jobs and their own shit to figure out; they have the big game coming up or cheerleading practice, or a moving van to pack, someone’s hair to color. They have their Tumblr to update, their Insta to check, they have friends to like and enemies to unfollow, they have other friends to punish and other enemies to manipulate. And so they won’t notice while you plan and plot and organize. They won’t see you as you stick to shadows and get ready to surprise them. They underestimate you. Make them notice and remember and realize who you are.

  She’s right.

  I keep looking online for help with my research. It’s all out there. You can find anything you put your mind to, any strange, rage-filled fantasy. Instructions, videos, plans, designs. I need them, and they are there for me. There are, I guess, a lot of reasons why people might need these kinds of how-to tutorials. I, for one, have never been as keen on learning as I am right now. A+ for research, Stevie. I just need a place to put my plan together.

  And I already have a key. I’m halfway there.

  28

  I wake early Saturday morning and creep into the kitchen. I throw a bunch of bread and a jar of jam into my bag, some apples, and a water bottle. I haven’t checked my phone since yesterday morning.

  Instead, I spent the rest of the day walking around, from one end of town to the other, which doesn’t take long. My mind was buzzing like it was full of Pop Rocks. Got a slice of pizza and sat by the lake. Some middle-aged ladies were paddleboarding, the sun making their hair shine. It looked really peaceful, and I felt my anger lift for a moment, felt the sads dilute. Then I looked around me at all the trash left on the shore, and it was back in a flash. Damn place. I walked back into town.

  I went to the local bookstore, Ex Libris, and had a chat with the owner, who everyone calls Big Al. No joke. This town.

  “Hey there,” he said.

  I didn’t answer but just kept walking.

  “Can I help you with something in particular?”

  I turned and asked, “Do you have, like, a DIY section?”

  “Sure thing. You making slime? I have about a hundred books on making slime.”

  “Maybe, yeah,” I mumbled, wishing life was still just as complicated as making slime and getting in trouble for leaving it on tables.

  “Thataway.” He gestured to the back, returning to his own book, open in front of him on the counter.

  I lost myself in there for a while, reading up on woodworking and welding projects, looking for anything that might help me. Hunting and the outdoors, just in case. Eventually I emerged with my head full of ideas, and I thanked Big Al, who I think had forgotten I was there. He waved at me as I left, never lifting his head from his book. The door jangled on my way out.

  I stopped at the hardware store, where I got my supplies: some plumbers’ pipe and other odds and ends that looked so innocent in my cart. I swung them in a bag from my hand, and it felt like they were radiating justice.

  I went home, where Mom and Reg were eating spaghetti at the kitchen table. Reg was sitting in my spot.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Mom asked, her mouth full.

  “Out.”

  “You feeling better?”

  I shrugged.

  Reg shook his finger at me all buddy-buddy. “You might have called your mom, you know. She was worried.” He winked, and I looked at Mom scrolling through her Instagram.

  “I left my phone here, so couldn’t,” I grumbled.

  I helped myself to some food and sat in what used to be my dad’s spot. Mom started talking about her clients. I tuned her out, my mind already way ahead of her. I cleared my plate, glanced at Reg, who had sauce on his moustache, and headed to my room.

  “You’re welcome for dinner!” Mom called after me.

  Now I write a note telling Mom I’m working at the library all day on a project. The excuse is so weak that I can hardly believe I’m writing it, but she will barely glance at it. She and Reg have a “mini-break” planned for this weekend. A mini-break, like she’s in a Bridget Jones movie. They are just going to Sherkston Shores campground with her friend Holly’s trailer, but Mom has been acting as though they’re going off to Europe. Point is, she isn’t exactly paying attention.

  I leave my phone on my dresser. I know what awaits me if I turn it on. They can all go to hell. And with th
at, I pack my supplies, and I am out the door into the warm summery morning.

  People with dogs are all out walking them at this hour. And joggers. I get into the groove of nodding and saying “good morning.” Sometimes I lean over and scratch the ears of a dog as it goes by. It is a hopeful, happy morning for everyone else, I can see that. People are enjoying the season, the weather, the hour.

  But as I get closer to the school, my stomach starts to tighten. My mouth has gone dry, and I’m taking deep breaths. The only thing this school has ever made me feel is different. Weird. A freak. I tried to fit in, and then I tried to change that place, and neither worked. And so, I’ll do things my way. I am an artist. A maker. I’m not like anyone else. I am different.

  My shoulders square, my chin high, I head behind the school to the Makers’ Space door. I take a big breath and press the card against the reader and set it all in motion.

  Everything is dark and quiet. No one’s here at this hour. I flick the light switch and the room hums to life, and I can’t help but smile. I love this place; I have missed it.

  Be sure to make plans, outlines, prototypes, Pete says sometimes, when he comes in here to check out what people are up to. And I have; I have made plans. Up late last night working out exactly what I needed to do, taking measurements, doing math, drawing all kinds of sketches. I am ready. I am emboldened.

  I could easily get my hands on a gun, a real one. I’ve heard Reg brag enough times about how people would have to take his out of his cold dead hands to know that there is probably one in my house now. It’s probably not even well hidden. He probably stuck it in what used to be dad’s bedside table drawer. But I don’t want that.

  I sit at one of the tables and run my palms over the smooth wooden surface. I open my bag, rooting around my provisions for the day, and pull out my materials and my laptop. The window is open to my DIY project plans, and I send a silent prayer of thanks up to the goddess of vengeance. Sure, she is worshipped by disgruntled boys and men, because it’s always boys and men who do this: make homemade peacemakers and deliverers of justice out of a few pipes, some wood, 3-D printing, and the power of their convictions. They are the ones who post videos and blogs, blueprints, terrible websites and forums and Reddit posts with how-tos about this stuff. The great unloved, the mass of ignored. They would want nothing to do with me, a girl.

  But the fire, the power and passion behind revenge and pain, would surely be a woman.

  I spend the entire morning working. Cutting, soldering. I make a bunch of mistakes and get angry at myself for sloppiness, throwing pieces of pipe into the recycling and reveling in the solid noises they make on impact. Keep trying, Stevie. I have my earbuds in, and I’m listening to anything that moves me forward: anything fast and furious, pieces of metal and wood flying at my safety goggles in a blur. And soon, my plan starts coming together. I’ve done something right, it looks the way it should, and I hope to God it works. My instrument of change is ready. It lies on the worktable like some kind of homage to steampunk and Unabomber survivalism. Plumbers’ pipe, welded together with messy globs, but ready to light up with power. Now I need atmosphere. Now I need to call upon the patron saints of female revenge flicks. They are going to cheer me on, stand behind me and be my backdrop, my stage. They’ve always been there for me, and I’m going to ask for their support one more time. For the assignment, Pete: the final assignment.

  I move to the editing computers and call them up, those mavens of movies, and spend the next few hours casting spells to bring them all to the same place. Their faces wretched, bloody, and dead set on revenge. Carrie, Veronica, Ms .45, Lady Snowblood, The Bride. The queens of vengeance. The time skates by me, and before I know it, it is late in the day. I am ready.

  Saturday near the end of the school year. It is dark and cool, and there is evidence of a mass cleaning effort from the janitorial staff. Bulletin boards are cleared off; election posters that have been hanging all year are gone. It looks like the LOVE, HEATHER incidents, the acts of red revenge, never took place. It’s like the party never happened, couldn’t happen, in a town with a school as clean as this. I put my hand to my midsection, and my throat feels tight.

  I walk through the halls, my footsteps loud in the silence. I feel Dee, steering me toward the girls’ change room and the entrance to the pool. I push the heavy door and go in, the smell of the chlorine almost overwhelming. The change room is spotless, although the lost and found—a large garbage can with no lid—is overflowing with water bottles and T-shirts and the occasional pair of shoes. The wooden benches are wiped clean, and the lockers are empty and open. I bang the doors with my hands as I walk into the pool area. It’s dark, and I flick the light switches and the room wakes up, fluorescent lights one by one bathing the still water in its stark brightness.

  I know she’s here. I can tell she wants to make sure I don’t change my mind, go off course. I can feel her energy pulsing in the room. Dee.

  I take off my socks and shoes and put my foot in the water, then sit on the edge and submerge my legs, splashing and kicking like a kid.

  Remember that first time we went to the lake? Dee asks, and there she is, sitting up on the high diving board, her own legs dangling over me.

  “Sure. You turned me into a nudist.”

  You needed someone to tell you to take a risk.

  I smile. Then peel off my shirt, and shiver.

  Now we’re talking! Look how easy it is now! You’re not afraid anymore, says Dee, laughing, and she stands, the diving board firm and unmoving under her weight. She teeters on one leg, pulling off socks, pants, then all the rest. She jumps lightly, up and down, watching me, everything out in the open, jiggling. She is free and fearless. Come on, Stevie. Be bold. Take back what they stole.

  I stand and take off the rest of my clothes, throwing them in the corner, and I dive in. The water is cold against my bare skin, it bubbles around my face as I expel all the air in my cheeks, and I emerge, with energy to spare, laughing loudly and joyfully in that moment, my voice echoing off the walls.

  I look around, gasping, but Dee is gone.

  * * *

  Rows and rows of lockers, and I’m heading toward mine on a kind of autopilot, my hair wet and my clothes sticking to my body from the pool.

  There it is. I stand in front of it.

  Black marker in small, childlike writing. My stomach lurches.

  SUCK MY DICK BITCH

  I laugh once, a bark like a dog in the empty hallway, and kick the locker, hard. It is so satisfying, that hard bang into the still air. I do it again, and a dent appears. Again, again, wailing on the thing, letting it all out. It becomes a sorry, battered thing, shrinking against my fury. I put my forehead against the cold metal, tears running down my flushed cheeks.

  Last year I was still in elementary school. Last year I was a pirate for Halloween and Lottie was a parrot. Last year Mom didn’t have a boyfriend, and she and I went on a camping trip, and even though she complained and whined and said she’d never do it again, we did it. Last year I danced at the grad formal with Matthew, and we had knocked knees and laughed about how we couldn’t believe we were leaving that school where we’d grown up. But I’m not grown up. High school broke me. Lottie broke me. Aidan broke me. Paige and Breanne and the rest of the school broke me. Pete broke me. And so Dee came, and she turned me into a force, and here I am. One last, feeble kick to the locker, and I am done. I leave the school the way I came, my bag slung over my shoulder, a plan in place.

  29

  It is Sunday.

  Is this my last day? I don’t see it that way. Maybe it’s a new start. I am rattling with nervous energy. Like it’s the day before my birthday party, Christmas Eve, the first or the last day of school.

  I got home to a dark and empty house last night. Mom had left me this note:

  Stevie hon

  Have a great weekend! We love you!

  Mom and Reg xoxo

  I took a pen and changed the “We” to “I�
� and scratched out Reg’s name.

  This morning I have to do some digging around the garage.

  This place is like the Stranger Things’ Upside Down version of the Makers’ Space: it is dark and disorganized, and it makes me nostalgic for my dad, because most of this shit is left over from him. It is like the treasure trove of a sloppy pirate, a general dumping ground for paint cans, buckets, gasoline, nails, screws, clamps, hand tools, electrical tools, paintbrushes, tires, grimy old canisters and toolboxes, pieces of cars, mysterious jars of metal objects, and firecrackers. And it’s the firecrackers I want. Those childlike dynamos of power are the perfect choice. I find an old paper bag of them. Varying sizes. I hold them in my hands, reading the names of them: Black Cat, Thunder King, Forced Entry, Happy Nut, Scarface. I choose a handful that will fit perfectly into my piece.

  I find gunpowder, too, in a coffee can. I stir my finger into it and my stomach jumps. I put a little in an old baby food jar full of nails that I dump out. I might need it. To make a bigger bang.

  I go to my room and pace, energy pumping through me. It’s Dee. She’s whispering, elbowing her way in, pushing me to be bolder. Every time I get images in my head from the party, whenever I think of all the assholes, all the bitches, the people who said they were friends, the liars and lions and wolves, whenever I just want to stay home, whenever I doubt, she boosts me up: Think of tomorrow. You can do this.

  I’m ready.

  The last thing I need to do, before I go to bed, is test it. I leave the house and walk quietly in the dark to the woods and the creek nearby. It’s so silent here, so peaceful. It will help to set me free. I consider how different I am from everyone. I hang my head. But she’s here: Dee pushes me to see through the detritus and sadness, to recognize opportunities for real justice and change, or at the very least have the balls to do something. I know, deep in my heart, that this is necessary, that everyone else is just too scared to take a stand.

  I set up the perfect target—my phone. But before I destroy it, I open it one last time. Notifications adding up, more and more and more. So many texts, so many images of me, of my body.