Chapter 8

Cracked Reflection

“Iwant to shut down the blog,” I say the second I settle into the seat beside Demit.

“Why? We’ve just started,” he says, wiping his nose with his hand “You’re getting traffic, you know. It always starts small, but at least people are reading it and commenting.”

“It’s not that. It’s the fact that I’m depressing myself writing about my life. I thought it would feel good to get this off my chest but instead it’s just a reminder of how shitty my life is, and how there’s no end in sight! Where’s my happy ending?”

Demit turns to look out the window.

“This is when you respond,” I say. “It’s called conversation, Demit.”

He turns to look at me. “I’m thinking.” I sigh. Demit thinks too much and too long. I’m trying to get used to his long silences in the middle of a conversation. It’s hard not to take it personally. Like he’s bored of the discussion and is hoping if he’s silent long enough, I’ll shut up and move on. And that kind of terrifies me. If Demit gives up on me, what do I have left? Nothing. I’m hanging onto him with all I’ve got. But that’s a challenge in itself because I can never let him know how desperately I need him. That would make me pathetic.

“Maybe we need to ratchet things up for your blog,” he finally says.

“What’s that mean?”

“Do stuff. Show that we’re fighting back. I mean, that you’re fighting back. Give the readers a reason to cheer you on and feel empowered themselves.”

I slowly nod, chewing the side of my tongue. “Okay, I’m listening. What do you suggest?”

“I have to think about it,” Demit responds, staring intensely at me. “Am I allowed to think before I answer you?” He smiles.

“You’re such a smartass. Let me know what your brilliant minds comes up with.”

Demit nods. “I’m on it.” He smiles, his beautiful blue eyes crinkling at the corners. I smile back.

“I’ll meet you at your locker after last period,” Demit says as the bus slows in front of the school. I agree, looking at his mouth and wonder how many girls he’s kissed. Then I shake my head. The last thing I need is more drama in my life and everybody knows that love is the worst drama of all. Besides all that. We’re just friends. We walk to the entrance together in silence, then wave good-bye, setting off in opposite directions. Dropping my head low, I walk toward my locker, dodging feet as I go.

“Good morning, Miss Tiller!” Mr. Zinsky calls out before I get very far. I wonder if he notices my cringe.

“Morning, Mr. Zinsky,” I grumble, lifting my head to nod, but just barely slowing down.

“I hope you brought that good attitude with you today,” he says, gripping his belt and pulling up the waistband of his pants.

“Yes, sir.” My legs are twitching to run.

“Keep up the positive changes. She that wants the fruit, must climb the tree.” I stare back at him and pretend to understand what he’s talking about. I have my own line: she who loses her friends, gains annoying principal.

“Yes, sir.” I nod, paralyzed on the spot until his unibrow relaxes and he shifts his eyes to another Sacred Heart victim. Mercifully, he abandons me. When I turn a corner, I almost fall into Mrs. Hendrickt. Although she’s hard to miss in that mustard yellow blouse. It’s an unflattering colour on anyone; even more so when you’re obese.

“Lana!” She lifts her coffee cup to prevent it from spilling, then smiles. “You almost got me, there.”

“Sorry Mrs. Hendrickt.” I immediately regret my nasty thoughts. What happened to my rule to be nice? “I love your top,” I say.

“Thank you! It’s new.” She almost blushes, which makes me feel even worse for lying. “I hope you’re not trying to butter me up to gain brownie points for your essay mark?”

Shoot, I don’t remember packing it this morning. The second she slips away, I drop my bag to the floor and rifle through it. I don’t notice Alysa’s boots beside me until I hear her voice.

“What the hell are you doing in my way?” she says sharply. Hatred winds into a tight ball in my chest. I don’t look up. Nor do I respond. I just imagine scraping my nails into her cheeks.

“I’m talking to you,” Alysa kicks my side. Not enough to hurt but enough to make me lose my balance and stumble onto my side. If a girl falls in a hallway and everybody sees a girl fall in a hallway, does a girl wish she was dead?

I lift my head. “I think there’s plenty of space to walk around me,” I respond without hiding the irritation in my voice.

“Oh God!” Alysa turns to someone behind me. “You’ve got to look at this, Fitz.” All my limbs turn rigid. I’d been successfully avoiding Fitz since the locker incident, and can’t bring myself to lift my gaze. His navy blue running shoes stop to the left of me.

“Look at what?”

“How ugly she is without makeup. I always said she needs makeup to look good. Now this proves it.”

I can’t take another second of this. Zipping up my bag, I rise from the floor and glare at her. “Bitch,” I whisper.

Without any warning, Alysa presses her hands against my shoulders and shoves me against the wall. Presses her lips against my mouth as hard as she can before backing away.

“Who’s the bitch now?” she asks, letting go of my shoulders. “Next time, wear some fucking lipstick.” I stare at her. Unable to move. No thoughts can even rise to my consciousness to describe how I feel. Quickly, my glance skirts to either side of me. Students are staring. Not wearing looks of sympathy, but shame. Awful shame. I want to shrink so small that I can slide into one of the cracks in the linoleum floor and die.

“Holy shit! You did it,” Fitz says, his mouth hanging open as he gapes at Alysa. “I only dared you as joke.”

“Shut up,” Alysa says as she drags him by the arm past me. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I turn to spit her strawberry flavoured taste off of my lips. Then I watch her coast down the hallway where she catches up with Stu and knocks him on the shoulder. He turns and our eyes meet. I wonder if my gaze is as stone cold as his. Not even a skipped heartbeat. Nothing to indicate regret in my decision to break up with him. Shutting my eyes, I drop my chin and breathe deeply.

I am so fucking alone.

***

Being a library refugee has its benefits. On a really productive day, I get all my homework done before the day is out. A rarity, yes, but it’s a step up from my pre-library days. Right now, I’m reading a snooze-worthy chapter on how Gutenberg’s printing press spurred the Protestant Reformation. The thesaurus sits at the corner of my desk, beckoning me toward distraction, my latest novel on top of that. My head is growing heavy from boredom, dropping toward my chest every few minutes. A wooden desk, I’ve learned, is surprisingly comfortable when sleep beckons. Which brings me to another benefit of the library refugee system. Napping. Nothing will shame you for nodding off other than your own drool.

I shut the textbook and reach for my novel. A perk to living in Lonerville. I’ve rediscovered my love of books. And now am wondering why I gave them up in the first place. I picked out a Stephen King from a stack of old paperbacks in our basement, at home. It’s not Carrie. I figured that might inspire too many ideas.

Last period starts in fifteen minutes, the dreaded English class with Sarah and Alysa. I never know what they’ll do to me. After this morning’s experience, I’m pleading the universe to be merciful and strike them both down with a crippling spell of the runs. Anything, really, to prevent them from attending class. My latest strategy of arriving early and reading at my desk until class begins seems to be working in my favour. Most days, they show up at the last second and don’t have much time to harass me before the teacher gets going. I have to leave the library a few minutes before the bell rings to stick to the plan.

The halls are still empty as I rush past full classrooms. Passing the bathrooms, I realize I need to go, so turn around and head toward it.

“Lana,” shouts a voice from behind me. My stomach twists when I see it’s Fitz. I pick up my pace and push the door into the ladies’ room. Five seconds later, it swings open behind me and before I have a chance to lock myself into a stall, two arms are gripping my waist.

“Let go!” I try to twist my body from him, but he holds tight.

“Anyone in here?” he asks as I squirm to break loose. When nobody responds, he pushes me into the first bathroom stall. I fall over the toilet as he slams the door shut and turns the lock. Spinning around, I swipe my hand at him, but he catches it before my finger nails slash his neck.

“Let me out of here,” I hiss, panic pulsing so hard, I see red. He swings me around like I’m a sack of flour and smashes my back against the door, holding his hand over my mouth. I can’t believe this is actually happening. I always knew Fitz was a creep, but never thought he was capable of this.

“Relax,” he whispers. His hot breath blows into my ear. “We never got to finish what we started.”

I shake my head and try to push him away but his chest is a brick wall. He pulls my shirt out of my kilt. I stifle a sob as his hand travels beneath it. The thought that he plans to rape me slams me into a state of shock. This can’t really be happening.

“Leave me alone,” I whimper.

“I’ll be quick,” he says gruffly, pulling his hand away and fumbling for something in his pocket. “Say cheese.” The hairs at the back of my neck go rigid. He lifts his phone and takes a snapshot of me.

“Stop!” I free one of my arms and try to grab the phone from him, but miss. The phone drops to the floor and Fitz uses his free hand to tug at my underwear. The door to the bathroom opens. Two girls are laughing. I glance at Fitz. We have the same thought. I’m about to open my mouth to yell when he jams his palm so violently against my mouth that I feel my front teeth ache. I bite down on his flesh. He lets out a low groan. His eyes flash black.

“What the hell?” says one of the girls. They both giggle. Fitz and I lock eyes again. He drops his hand from my mouth and smiles triumphantly.

“Need some privacy?” Alysa laughs.

“A little constipation, perhaps?” Sarah adds.

My heart drops. He knows I can’t cry out with them in here. Fuel Alysa’s hatred of me? No thanks. She doesn’t need another reason to accuse me of being a whore. A boyfriend thief. I rest the back of my head against the stall door and close my eyes. Concentrate on the air moving in and out of my chest while Fitz lifts my skirt and rubs his hand between my legs.

“He told me he tried breaking up with her weeks ago,” Alysa says all cloak-and-dagger. “He just didn’t want to hurt her feelings. She’s so needy, right?”

“Stu’s too good for her,” Sarah adds.

“She threw herself at him. Right from the start. Of course he went out with her. But eventually that wears off.”

My stomach is in knots listening to this while Fitz reaches deeper inside of me. I truly, completely wish I was dead. Head pounding, I hold my breath as Fitz breathes heavily into my face. I tell myself I don’t exist. If I don’t exist none of this is happening.

“Now we get to see that rat in English,” says Sarah.

“God, I’ve hated her for so long. It’s about time her perfect life turns to shit, isn’t it?” Alysa laughs as their shoes shuffle out the door. My chest is about to explode when I realize I’ve been holding my breath since they started talking. I barely register that Fitz has pulled his hand away. With my ears ringing from what I’ve just heard, I feel like I’ve been beaten and battered for hours. In fact, my mind can barely register what has just happened. Yes, Fitz raped me. I think. Didn’t he? But it also felt like my girlfriends raped me too. Like my entire worth was yanked from my inside and slopped to the floor. How long has my best friend hated me? How could I have not known it?

“I’ve got to get to class. I have a test today,” Fitz mutters, as he opens the stall door and turns to look at me.

“Just get out,” I say, leaning into the corner of the stall.

“Like you didn’t enjoy that.” He snorts. I hear him shuffle out of the washroom.

I don’t know how long I leaned there, my head resting against the wall. By the time I reach for my phone, I see I’m now fifteen minutes late for class. I need to gather my things and pull myself together. I don’t want someone to find me like this. Standing upright, I tuck in my shirt and retrieve my books from the floor. I see Fitz’s cell phone on the floor and a jolt of adrenaline courses through me. Picking it up, I rub my finger across the screen. Passcode. Damn. Tossing it into my bag, I leave the stall. I can’t think straight. My head feels like a thick dark void.

Standing in front of the mirror, I flatten my hands over my hair, move strands back into place. Alysa’s words race through my mind. God, I’ve hated her for so long. I feel like if ever there was a good excuse to cry, this would be it. Weird, though. My pupils are dry as sand. Maybe I’m in shock. Isn’t that some sort of medical condition that freezes your thoughts, or something? Or maybe I’m not as surprised as I should be. Alysa and I have always competed with one another. Sometimes she won, sometimes I won. Sometimes I was the skinniest. Sometimes she had the most expensive clothes. She always got better marks. I guess I always got the cuter guy. To me, it was a fair trade-off. But to her? An uber-competitive type-A personality with psycho parents who set impossible standards? Maybe she had to win at everything. Maybe losing to me in anything was enough to set her hatred on fire. And, maybe my photo was the one thing that could give her the edge she always wanted over me. I sneer at my reflection, imagining myself looking at her. “Fucking bitch,” I say, wishing it was to her face.

I imagine Fitz’s smug face and something inside of me snaps. I can almost hear it. A slight zing that compels me to tear my bag from my shoulder and smash it into the mirror.

“Fucking asshole!” The mirror cracks, but mercifully does not shatter. I swallow a breath, terrified by my rage. How messed up am I? Exhale and thank God the mirror didn’t shatter. Thank God the reflection is still intact although cracked. A fitting reflection of the girl looking at it.

With a shake of my head, I button up my blouse, noticing the black bra showing through the white cotton. I try to remember the last time I wore a white bra. A stupid thought, I know. Who cares? What does it matter what colour my bra is? It nags at me as I leave the bathroom and head for class. When’s the last time I wore a plain white bra. Grade nine? Grade eight? Definitely before I gave much thought to boys. I decide in that minute that I’m wearing white bras from now on. For some reason, this small goal delivers me a sliver of peace.

Thankfully, Mrs. Laccetta is away and the supply teacher looks like he’s as anxious for the day to end as we are. He waves at me from the back of the class where his feet are propped up on the desk.

“We’re having individual study right now,” he says, taking a sip from a can of Coke. “Your teacher says you all have an assignment to work on, so use your time wisely.”

I nod, pull out my copy of 1984 and start reading where I last left off. My chair is shoved from behind. I ignore it. Another shove. Alysa’s foot. I’d like to turn around and yank her ankle so hard that she flies to the floor and lands on her fat rear end. Instead, I twist my body to glare at her.

“What?”

Alysa and Sarah exchange smiles then look back at me with matching sneers.

“How’s it feel to be the biggest loser in the school? Now that you don’t have Stu to prop you up, you’re nothing,” says Alysa.

Alysa’s big silver hoops sway as she turns to smile at Sarah, then fixes her stare back onto me. She’s wearing the hairband I helped her pick out this summer. A wide white one with yellow polka dots. I have the same one in pink. Mirror images, the two of us. Pathetic.

I roll my eyes and return to my book, but the words don’t register meaning. A storm of anger is brewing in my head. When was the last time I got dressed without thinking about who would see me? And, why the hell should I care so much about what others think? Particularly those who have a keen interest in hating me. I need a change. No. I need to change. I sense something like a window opening inside my mind. As though a whiff of fresh air is circulating in my brain, unsettling the dust, clearing the stuffiness. Is this what it feels like to have a revelation?

I’m not a hundred percent sure what my big a-ha is. It’s not like I experience outbursts of brilliance very often. Well, never. But I know it has something to do with me and change. Not the kind of change that is forced on me. God knows I’ve had enough of that. I need to instigate the change. I’ve made it too easy for them to go after me. They know how desperately I’ve wanted back in with the fabbies. Not anymore. It’s like something has finally snapped out of place. Or into place? I think of Fitz’s phone sitting in my bag. I’m sick of being the victim. It would be nice to play the predator. I walk to the back of the class where the supply teacher is half-asleep. He looks at me through one open eye.

“Yes?”

“May I go to the bathroom?” I ask. He waves me off and returns to his slumber. It’s time to put my hatred to use.