Chapter 3

Pride is Overrated

I’m tearing through the hallway to catch the bus, vaguely aware of the students shifting out of my way, thinking this is not how a person blends into the background. But I’d waited for Stu to show up at my locker, just like we’d agreed. Okay, I’m stretching the definition of agreed. We mutually, silently, sort of made a deal that he would drive me home in return for certain favours. I waited seven minutes. Too long. My only other ride will be rolling out of the school lot any second now.

Turning the corner, I can see past the doors where the buses are still lined up. I’ll make it, I think, when I feel my right ankle hit something and lift into the air. I stumble to my knees and smack my hands against the floor to prevent my face from smashing against it.

“Loser.”

I bristle at Alysa’s voice. Sitting back on my calves, I turn to look darkly at her. She narrows her eyes at me and shakes her head, gathering her long black hair at the nape of her neck and flipping it over one shoulder. Petting it like a ferret.

“Why don’t you crawl back into the hole you came from?” She says, then looks at Sarah standing to her right, and smirks. They’re matching in black yoga pants, white hoodies, and purple hairbands. I have the same outfit at home. Today is Yoga Thursday. Every week at four o-clock they go straight to hot yoga. I’d been the one to organize it the first week of school. It was supposed to be for the three of us. My gut turns as they roll their eyes and walk around me. I hear the buses drive out of the parking lot.

I know I should stand up for myself. I’ve heard all the sound bites. The anti-bully slogans. Be Happy – Bullies Hate It! Bullying is for Losers. All lies. I’m the loser. Seriously. Look at me. A senior kneeling in the middle of the school hallway fighting back tears because I missed my bus. Someone hand me a sucker and ask, ‘Where’s your mommy?’ and it’ll be complete.

“Are you okay?” I glance up to see the toque guy from this morning extending his hand. I groan. What little pride may have remained in reserve is officially depleted.

“Yeah. Thanks,” I mutter as he helps lift to me to my feet. We walk side by side. When he holds the door open I notice a tattoo on his left arm. A line of script that snakes around his forearm. I shift my eyes to his face. He’s looking intently at me, like he’s known me a lot longer than since this morning. It catches me off guard and I bang into the side of the door. Mercy.

“You missed the bus, too?” He asks.

“No. I have a drive home.” The lie rolls off my tongue effortlessly.

“Lucky you.” We stop at the end of the walkway. This is where I would wait if someone were to actually pick me up, so I drop my bag and look into the distance as if my drive will arrive any second.

“I had the worst day,” he starts, then looks sideways at me. “Well, maybe not the worst.” An awkward pause cues me to say something. Anything to alleviate the humiliating incident he’d witnessed minutes ago. I sigh.

“That honour probably goes to me today.” I look at my watch, wondering how long I have to pretend I’m waiting to be picked up. “You said you just moved here. Where were you before?”

“Brooklyn,” he replies.

“Really?” I stare at him, suddenly viewing him through a shiny lens of admiration. “Why would you leave New York City? No wonder you hate it here, living in this little pocket of dullsville.”

“My mom grew up in Toronto and wanted to come back to be closer to her family.”

“But Harristown is still a trek from Toronto. Not that Toronto is anything like New York City, but still, it’s better than here.”

He shrugs and kicks the toe of his shoe against the concrete. “A lot of shit happened last year. She needed a change. Brooklyn just wasn’t cutting it, anymore. But, me? I just want to finish high school and get out of here. How about you? What’s your story?”

“I don’t have a story. Born and raised here, the land of the lame.”

“So, girls just mess up other girls for the fun of it around here?”

“Something like that. I guess.”

“I saw that girl trip you. The mean one with the long black hair. Saw her take you down, then walk by. You didn’t say a word. Just sat there.” His brow wrinkles. You were pathetic. I’m sure that’s what he is thinking.

“Yeah, I know.” I twirl a strand of hair. This conversation is officially uncomfortable. “She’s my best friend, actually. But we’re not really getting along right now.”

“That’s your best friend?” he asks, incredulous. “I think you need new friends.” I breathe through my nostrils and slowly exhale. It’s slim pickings for me these days.

“Don’t you have to get home? Study the law of physics or something?” The words come out meaner than I’d planned. I watch a squirrel run circles around a tree, then race up its trunk.

“Ah, sorry,” he throws his bag over his back. “I didn’t mean to… what I mean is, if you feel like hanging out or something. I’m Demit, by the way. Not that you asked, but I’m in the book as the old folks used to say. The other book, now.” Silence hangs between us for a few seconds.

I cock my head. “In the book?” I ask.

“Phone book? Facebook? I mean… Forget it.” He shrugs as I stare at him. He’s a nice guy. I could use a bit of that in my life right now.

“I don’t go on Facebook anymore,” I finally say. “But I’ll see you around at school. My name is Lana.”

“Nice to meet you.” Demit lifts two fingers to his forehead, then taps a salute and turns. I watch his back as he travels down the street and disappears around a corner. Wait another few minutes before I start my own trek home so that he has a strong enough lead. I don’t get very far before a silver minivan slows and stops beside me.

“Hey Lana,” Stu says through his open window.

“You’re late.” Translation: Asshole.

“I had something. Don’t go all bitchy on me.” His thick brown hair is swept to one side. Lifting an eyebrow, he throws a dimpled grin my way. My mind registers his ridiculously handsome face but my heart is unmoved. I walk around the front of the minivan and open the passenger door to climb in.

“What about football?” I ask, buckling myself into the seat.

“Yeah, we don’t have much time,” he explains, shifting the gear into drive. “There’s a park up here. We’ll just have to use the backseat.”

“I’d rather go home.”

“Babe, I don’t have time. The van is fine.” I roll my eyes at his stupidity. I’d rather go home and crawl into bed. By. My. Self.

I’m quiet as he pulls into the park driveway and finds a spot under a huge oak. A mother is pushing a carriage past our van. I sink deep into my seat. Stu has already slipped to the back seat.

“What are you waiting for?” His voice is laced with urgency. Taking a deep breath, I climb between the two front seats to join him. There are so many things I’d rather be doing. Watching paint dry. Scrubbing pots. Unclogging a toilet. My hand lands on a sheet of paper, which I pick up to flick to the floor. A quick glance at it and my heart stops. A music sheet. The name ‘Melanie’ is written in red ink in the top right corner.

“You trying out for the school musical?” I ask, my voice a shard of glass. Stu tries to grab the paper. I pull away too soon and he misses. Scrunching it into a ball, I throw it in his face.

“Is that why you were late getting me? Trying to score with the hottie in grade eleven?” Lunging at him, I scratch the side of his face before he takes hold of my wrists and pins me against the seat. Demoniac. I’m the definition of demoniac right now. Bulging eyes. Smoke coming out of the ears. Guttural noises.

“After all I’ve done for you, this is how you treat me?” The words slither out and I want to strangle him with them. “Did you take a picture of her, too? Turn her into the next school slut? Let me guess, you’re too nice to do that to her! Only I get that special treatment.”

“Relax, Lana.”

The rage that I’d compacted neatly inside my rib cage over the past two weeks explodes. Relaxation is not an option. “Don’t tell me to relax!” I shriek. Stu releases my arm to reach past me and slide open the door. I grab his hair and pull as he shoves me off the seat and out of the car.

“Psycho!” He uncurls my fist from his hair then pushes me so hard I stumble to the concrete, scraping my knees. The door closes and the van peels away.

“It’s over!” I yell over the squeal of tires. The van stops. Stu opens the door. An apology? My backpack is tossed to the ground. Then he’s gone. And I’m left with a handful of brown hair and a long walk home.

***

They say walks are good for you. It turns out they’re right, whomever they are. It takes me forty-five minutes to get home. Just my luck that Stu picks a park in the opposite direction of my house. Inconsiderate jerk. I’ve called him every curse word I could think of, exhausting my supply and resorting to making up new ones. That took up the first half of my autumn stroll. But it’s hard to stay angry. I wonder if there’s a natural limit to how long we can be door-slamming, curse-screaming mad. For me? Seems to be about twenty minutes. It was around that time when I reminded myself of the new Lana rules. Be nice. Don’t judge. Don’t swear. (Not sure I’ll ever master that last one.) Which is why Stu is an inconsiderate jerk, instead of that long, curse-laden name I made up at the start of the walk.

By the time I turn onto my street, I’m even thinking that I may have overreacted to the music sheet. If I hadn’t tried to scratch his eyeballs out, he might have had an opportunity to explain why it was there. It is possible that he has a perfectly good explanation. Although it’s a desperate thought. One of many I’ve had over the past two weeks. And then there’s the whole issue of me telling him it’s over. I’m troubled by that. Not sure that I’m ready to let go of my final fabbie connection. Once he’s gone, it’ll be official. I’m a nobody.