Chapter 4

A Glimmer of Hope

The room is dark. I napped longer than I’d planned. A door slams downstairs and heavy shoes step across the hardwood floor. Dad is just getting home, which means it should be dinner soon. Without flicking on the light, I peel off my uniform and slip into pyjamas. I debate whether I want to venture downstairs or climb back under my covers. Opening my door a crack, I listen to their conversation.

“Where’s Lana,” Dad says. Clattering of dishes as he pulls out plates and cutlery for dinner.

“In her room. Where do you think?” Mom sounds irritable. “You took away her car. Do you think she wants to even see us?”

Fighting words. I grimace. So, the car was all Dad’s idea. Just as I suspected. I open the door a bit more and tiptoe to the top of the stairs.

“Did you tell her that?” His voice is gritty. “That this is all me? For Christ’s sake, Cynthia. You need to grow up, too. One kid is enough in the house.”

“How da-a-are you!” The way she draws out the word dare, I suspect she’s had a few. Helps explain why she was asleep on the sofa when I got home. Silence. More clatter. Microwave door opening and closing. Beeps. Hum.

“I don’t want to fight,” Dad’s voice is low. I strain to hear it. “Please, Cynthia. Put that away.” She’s having a drink. Microwave door opens and shuts.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Kevin.” Her voice is shrill.

“So you’ve spoken to Lana?” Dad uses his patient voice. Like he’s speaking to an eight-year-old. “Of course she’s going to be upset. I understand that. But it’s not just about teaching her to be more responsible. Which we are failing miserably at. It’s also about money. We can’t afford the car. We’re broke, for God’s sake. We spend more than I earn. Well, let’s be honest here. You spend more than I earn. The money tree has dried up. And fixing a beaten-up car that we couldn’t afford in the first place is just plain dumb.”

“Don’t start blaming me for everything.”

“I’m not… Forget it. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. Did you just open this bottle today? It’s empty.”

“Don’t you try changing the subject.”

I don’t want to hear anymore. Slipping back into my room, I quietly close the door. We’re broke. This would have crippled the old me who had a mental list of must-have items to slowly check off through the Fall. Coach purse, yoga pants, sparkly slip-on shoes, jeans, two bracelet charms. None of them matter now. My uniform, rumpled on the floor, is all I need these days. And comfy pyjamas.

I flip open my laptop. Click on Facebook. Stupid idea, of course. I’d last visited the site five days ago. There were fifty-seven notifications, kindly alerting me to a list of ‘we-hate-Lana’ comments and threats. That was partly my fault, though. I get it now. Lesson learned. Never try to defend yourself online. You can’t win.

I’m going online for one purpose only today. Delete my profile. My friend count has been dwindling. Seventy-three unfriended. The other seven hundred and three friends don’t know me beyond my selfies and ‘Aren’t I amazing?’ posts. Not that it stops them from taking a ride on the Lana-sucks-ass train. That’s the other lesson I learned. Don’t accept every friend request, especially those with photos of men in their thirties. Turns out they’re creepy.

A friend request is waiting. I haven’t had one of those in a while. Demit Solokov. A pocket of sweetness unwraps somewhere deep in my chest. I have a new friend. I click accept before remembering why I’d come online in the first place. Burying my embarrassment at being so smitten by a single friend request, I wallow in the pleasure of knowing somebody out there likes me. Then the reality of what I’ve done smacks me squarely on the forehead. I’ve just given Demit full access to my posts. Not. Good. Recommitting to my Facebook suicide, I click on settings when his name pops up on chat. He’s such a welcome change from the solitude, I respond immediately.

DEMIT: Hey Lana. Did ur ride come?

LANA: Yep.

DEMIT: Lucky u. Took me forever to walk home.

LANA: Its a long walk. Hate that.

DEMIT: U taking bus tomorrow?

LANA: O ya.

DEMIT: I’ll save u a seat.

LANA: Bus sucks. Almost as much as walking but what can u do?

DEMIT: Ya. I saw some of the mean girls on my way home. Drove by me. One of them gave me the finger.

WTF? Haters gotta hate.

LANA: Sounds like them, all right.

DEMIT: I know you call them friends, but that’s messed up. IMHO.

My mom opens the door. “Lana?” She peeks into my room.

“Hmm.”

“Can I turn on the light?” She doesn’t wait for a reply and the lights flick on. I quickly type my last message to Demit.

PIR. CWYL.

I type my cell number and shut the laptop before Mom gets too close.

“I know how upsetting it must be to lose your car.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, I got you something.” A plastic bag rustles. “To sort of make up for it. I know it’s not your car, but…”

I’m silent. Dad just finished telling her that we’re broke and this is where she takes it? Beaming, she drops the bag on my bed, waiting for me to reciprocate her big fake smile.

“I don’t want it.”

“You don’t even know what it is.” Pulling the bag handles apart, she lifts the purse I’d begged her to buy all summer. Dropping it on top of my laptop, she waits, holding her breath.

I can’t remember why I wanted this. It’s a hideous pink with a gold buckle across the middle.

“I don’t need it. But, thanks.”

Mom grabs it and frames it between her hands like she’s on The Shopping Channel.

“All your friends will be jealous.” Wide-eyed, she looks at me, almost nervously, like I’m forgetting my line. Her shoulders hunched in expectation.

“Return it, Mom. We don’t have the money.”

“Of course we do. It’s just a little bag.” She drops it on my bed and runs her fingers through her short blonde hair, then smiles stiffly. “But, whatever you want.”

It’s hard to get Mom to act angry. It’s not in her repertoire because, believe me, she’s always acting. Wearing the smile. Making up for the acting career she never had. She’d moved to California before I was born to pursue her dream. The way she tells it, she scored a gig in a toothpaste commercial within two weeks of arriving in Hollywood. “Make your smile shine.” It was the first line she’d ever said in front of a camera, and everyone back home had been giddy with small town pride that she’d be the next big thing. Still says it every time someone takes a snapshot. Christmas dinners. Graduations. Amusement parks. Cocks her head to the side and smiles like she’s got the whitest teeth this side of the Atlantic. It had been both her debut and her pinnacle. Nothing followed.

I found the video on YouTube a little while back. Finally got to see what all the fuss was about. Her long blonde hair is flipped back. Little red shorts, white tank top, and tanned shoulders. She walks toward a tall hunk of a man, sets her hands on his shoulders, and turns to flash her dazzling ivories. “Make your smile shine.” She looks beautiful. I’ve watched it hundreds of times, trying to pick out at least one feature that I share with her. We both have straight, white teeth. That’s about it. Thank you, braces and Crest Whitestrips.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Lana?”

“Why did you leave California?” It seems an odd time to ask about this, but I feel this pressing need to know her better. Like, right now. Tell me a bit about you, I think. And I’ll tell you a bit about me.

“You know why,” Mom says. “I missed your dad too much. He wouldn’t move south, so I came back.” Her voice is wooden. She’s either lying or sanitizing regret from her tone. “Then we got married.”

“Really? You missed him that much, eh?”

She stifles a yawn and stares past me. “It’s dinner time. Dad is waiting.”

***

Midnight. I can’t sleep. Pulling my phone out from under my pillow, I stare at the screen. Tap on messages. Tap on photos. Tap on Candy Crush. I should take up smoking. It would give my antsy fingers something to do. I wonder if Demit is awake. A clear act of desperation to be texting a guy I just met, but I like him. There, I admit it. I like the guy. So why should I feel weird about wanting to text him? I read the message he sent two hours ago.

Waddup?

I type in Hi and hit send, then stash the cell phone back under my pillow and try to forget about it, hoping it will force patience into my fidgety mind. My phone beeps. I’m so excited, I actually clap.

DEMIT: Hi Lana. Sup.

LANA: Cant sleep. U?

DEMIT: Doing homework still.

LANA: Yuck.

DEMIT: Why cant u sleep? Stressed out?

LANA: Yah. My life. Serious suck mode.

DEMIT: With friends like urs. Can’t say I’m surprised. What’s going on?

LANA: Ah. the usual. Lost all my friends, have a total asshole for a boyfriend and went from queen b to desperate loser. No friends. No life. No fun. FML.

DEMIT: Don’t FYL. Ur better off without them.

LANA: Thanks, but reality check. Im nobody without them. Boyfriend is a jerk, but all I got.

DEMIT: He’s holding u back. U gotta lose the extra baggage.

LANA: Not that easy. I do hate him

DEMIT: Good. That’s a clear sign you should leave him

LANA: Be easier if he just disappeared. All of them disappear. Just fall off the face of the planet.

DEMIT: Or die.

LANA: Hmm. Ya that would work. Of natural causes, of course!

DEMIT: It was a joke…

LANA: LOL. I know.

DEMIT: Gotta get back to physics

LANA: K

DEMIT: TTYL

LANA: K

Stuffing my phone under my pillow, I shut my eyes and cross my forearms over my chest where I feel a rush of warmth. But there’s something else. Something new. I think it’s hope.