Chapter 16

The Journal

I wake up with a stomach ache. Something about last night has left me uneasy. I chalk it up to leaving the scarf at Stu’s place and try to ignore the gnawing feeling in my gut. Mom and dad are already fighting before I even get out of bed. I turn on some music and cover my head with my pillow and will myself to sleep. It seems to work. Next time I look at my clock, forty-five minutes have passed and the house is silent.

As a result of my suspension, Mom told me I would be spending the day doing chores around the house. Grabbing track pants and a t-shirt from my dresser, I slowly get changed. I have nothing better to do on this cold Saturday morning, so I guess doing housework is not much worse than being bored watching YouTube videos. I look at my phone once more, before heading downstairs, and see a text from Alysa.

ALYSA: You get the meds from Demit?

LANA: No. Not happening

ALYSA: You’re kidding. You think I’m bluffing? I’m not. If I don’t get something by tomorrow morning, expect a house visit from the cops.

LANA: Why are you doing this?

ALYSA: Just get me my damn pills and we’re all good. It’s easy.

I throw my phone onto my unmade bed and swear. No matter how hard I try to put all this miserable stuff behind me, it continues to crop up and send me into another tailspin.

“Leave me alone!” I yell at the phone. Why can’t Alysa just let me be. For the thousandth time I wonder what I did in this life to deserve so much misery. I grab the phone and text Demit.

LANA: Hey, Alysa texted me. wants pills. what do we do?

DEMIT: No surprise. We knew she would come after you. Idk what to do

LANA: I’m so sick and tired of all this bs. Just want to put it behind us.

DEMIT: Let me get the prescription filled. Should take about an hour. You can drop it off this afternoon. K?

LANA: Grrr. I hate giving into her. Hate that she always gets her way. I feel like crying. When will she let me go?

DEMIT: I know. sucks. She will never let you go if it’s up to her. She needs you for her own sense of worth. Pathetic. Want to meet me here in a couple hours? I’ll have meds.

LANA: Ugh. I guess we have no choice. She’s not going to give up and I’m terrified that she’ll tell cops about my blog. Can we take it down?

DEMIT: Yeah, we can take it down. Is that what you want?

LANA: Idk. I’m getting so much traffic now.

DEMIT: K. Let’s wait on that. See you in a bit.

LANA: K.

***

It’s a short walk to Demit’s house. I’m still feeling off. Like something bad is going to happen. But it may just be that I’m so used to bad things happening that I’m paranoid.

His mother opens the door and smiles. Not a genuinely-glad-to-see you smile. More of a plastic one reserved for polite greetings.

“Hi Lana. Demit just stepped out. He said to tell you to go on up to his room.”

“Ok, thanks.” I feel awkward taking off my shoes with her at my side. I’m not one for small talk with parents.

“How’s the cupcake business?” I ask, itching to run up the stairs.

“It’s coming along.” She says, crossing her arms. That’s when I notice that the house doesn’t smell like a bakery. Touchy subject? She waves her arm toward the stairs. “Go on up. He’ll be back shortly.” I happily oblige.

I’ve only been to his bedroom a couple times. Both occasions the bed was unmade and his laundry basket overflowing. Something I’d never see in my house. Despite my mom’s alcoholic tendencies, she’s alarmingly skilled in hiding any hint of family disarray. Keeps everything shiny. I guess it makes a bit of sense, now that I think of it. The lengths she will go to hide her drinking is equally impressive. Weird that I’m just making the connection now. I guess it’s one of those things that happen as you get older. One day you realize shit that you didn’t realize yesterday.

Demit’s bed is perfectly made today. His dresser and shelves uncluttered. I read the title of a textbook on his desk. Introduction to Electrodynamics. I shake my head. Can any two people be more different? Next to it is a music book for guitar filled with Green Day songs. A car slows down outside his window. I look to see if it’s Demit. Nope.

Sitting on his bed, I stare at the wall and spin my thumbs. One around the other. His walls are painted a mint green. Apparently, a young boy lived here before they moved in. Neither Demit nor his mom have gotten around to re-painting it, even though a stencil of dinosaurs runs along the upper edge of the walls. I pick up the black book resting beside me and run my fingers over the rough cover. It looks like a notebook. Interested, I open the front cover. Demit’s handwriting fills the first page. Thumbing through it, I see that he’s written at least fifty pages worth. A journal? Slamming it shut, I toss it back on the bed. Rub my hands and stare up at a red tyrannosaurus. It might be personal, I decide. And, I shouldn’t be looking in it.

I stare out the window again and will him to return. I should move the book. Put it in his desk, or something. Reaching over, I grab the journal and rise from the bed. What if he meant for me to read it? Sitting back down, I open the cover again. I feel like I did when I first perused a vintage Playboy magazine while babysitting a neighbour’s kid. Guilty. Ashamed. Intrigued. And, completely unable to look away. I should not read this. But I have so many questions about him. Maybe if I just read the first page, that wouldn’t be so bad.

August 29

Mom says sometimes you do things without understanding why until after it’s done. Seems like a backward way of thinking, but in a weird way, I get it. In one sense, it seems like a cop-out for parents to tell us what to do without explaining why. But in the other sense (which is what I think she’s getting at) it means we have to trust that the meaning is in the journey. And we won’t appreciate the meaning until we’ve travelled to the end.

This journal is my journey. At least according to my latest shrink. Mom insisted I see one here, too. I begged her to let it be but she worries so much about me. So, I did it for her. To help her sleep better at night. To feel that she’s helping me stay on track.

So back to the journal. Doc says it will help me come to terms with my father. Also thinks my brain is so full of shit that it’s constipated and needs clearing out. (Not her exact words). But I think she may be onto something. I said I’d oblige. And, I will. Starting tomorrow.

August 30

Today is yesterday’s tomorrow, yet here I am with nothing to write. At least, nothing worth writing, but apparently that’s okay according to doc. She told me to write as if I’m on Facebook or Twitter or, as she says, whatever you young kids like to post on. I know she thinks that’s meant to help me, but she clearly doesn’t know me well. That analogy won’t help loosen the shit in my brain, so to speak. Aren’t those for people who want to expose the “best” version of themselves by updating their status with the “Good News.” The Gospel according to thousands of wannabes. Followed by thousands of other wannabes.

In short, I will not be inspired by Facebook or anything else that’s online to un-constipate my brain.

August 31

School starts in six days. New school. Zero friends. How excited am I? I asked Mom if I could home school myself. She said no. She’s revved up about this enriched program I’m enrolled in. Half my courses are university-level. The other half are just plain enriched. I call it the Segregation of the Nerds stream. Mom doesn’t like that. I’m miffed. I won’t see a lot of girls (I mean, hot girls) this year since I’ll be stuck in one end of the building - with our own lunchroom, and everything! Not that I have any grand plans to date a single one of them, but they’re damn nice to look at. Mom doesn’t get this sort of thing. At least, she doesn’t let on with me around. I’ve heard her describe me to other moms as a gifted learner. Brilliant. Complicated. And, when she thinks I’m not listening, “A cool nerd.” How embarrassing is that. I think she’d rather call me a nerd. Conclusion: she’s not utterly clueless about my social circumstances. Note of interest: I did date a hot chick once. Tick that off the list. She ended up being a psychopath, which was very unfortunate.

My little sister starts grade eight. She is not among the gifted elite. At least she worked hard to convince Mom and Dad of that. I know she’s brilliant. Well, we all know she is. But, she’ll have nothing to do with it. Last year, Mom caught her smoking weed in her bedroom. Sent the family into a tailspin. Like we didn’t have enough trouble brewing. I was kinda pleased. It meant she had to see a counsellor, too. It can be lonely being the only head-case-kid in the family. Mom is hopeful that this year will be a fresh start for us all. Because this is Canada! Mom has only maple-flavoured memories of her Canadian childhood where, she claims, everyone is made of good, solid stock.

I hope the year starts off right, too. For Mom’s sake. I can tell she’s walking a tight rope of insanity (I swear that’s a line from a song somewhere.) A single false step and she’ll go over the deep end. One committed parent is enough. If she goes, too, our whole family will fall like dominoes.

CNN ticker: American family goes insane among good-hearted Canadians.

September 1

I’d never seen a black squirrel until I moved to Canada. Today I saw one race across the backyard as I was trying to start the lawn mower. It was a very frustrating moment. Pulling that cord that is supposed to start the engine. After a hundred pulls, and a litany of swear words, I gave up and sat down. How hard is it to design a lawn mower that starts with one pull? A worthy invention.

That’s when I saw the squirrel. I like to imagine they’re the evil cousins of the brown squirrel. Darting around like demons looking to cause all hell in the natural world. Then I watched it pick up an acorn and stick it in its mouth. And I realized they’re just simple squirrel folk, except in black. They’ve got it figured out. Search for nuts. Eat nuts. Sleep.

No complicated thoughts about why they exist. No running around in circles to make life ‘easier’, to make more effective use of their time, only to find out that they’re still running around in circles, except now it’s even faster and, damn, when did life get so complicated? Squirrels simply run around in circles. Because it’s what they do.

I started thinking about all the technological progress we humans have made over the past ten years. And then I thought about how much more progress we’ve made if I consider the past thousand years. And I looked at the squirrel again. I swore the little guy was staring back at me. Telling me I’ve got a long way to go before I get it. He knows what nobody in my species can figure it out. That nothing changes, even when everything changes.

Then I felt depressed. Wanted to find myself a tree and build a big nest and search for nuts and eat until I’m downright stuffed. Live there till the day I die.

But I had to get back to cutting grass. Mom rapped on the window telling me so. I pressed the gas button four times and, lo and behold, it worked. That lifted my spirits.

September 7

First day of school. I kept my head down most the day. Except in class. I’m officially a self-proclaimed nerd. I enjoyed every class and the teachers ain’t half-bad. Except for Mr. Moher. His voice is unnaturally high and when he gets excited about a topic (which is rather frequent) he spits. I made the unfortunate decision to sit in the front row and got a spittle shower. Glad I’m wearing my hat all day, but still. Who wants a fifty-three-year-old-man’s saliva soaking your hat?

Met a couple okay guys. The girls are okay, too. Geeks, though. All of them. My “kind”, I guess. Though maybe not. One of the girls told me I’m “different.” I asked what she meant and she shrugged. I think she was blushing, which I’m not a big fan of. Just tell me what you mean, woman! I’m still wondering if it was a compliment. My New York City pedigree?

Bernard is pretty cool. Everyone calls him Beavis. Not sure why, but OK. He showed me three ways to break into a cell phone. All kinds of badass. Then he asked me if I wanted to get stoned after school. Nah. It’s not for me. I’ve hung out with stoners (did I mention I live with one?) They bore me. Tomorrow he promises to show me how to break into the school’s computer system. Like I haven’t done that before, but what the hell. All in the name of making friends, right?

Then there’s this girl. I know… Never start a sentence with ‘there’s this girl.’ You know it’s the beginning of heartache when you start a sentence like that. But I did it. So, too late. I don’t know her name yet. She’s stunning. I caught her eye as we were exiting the school. Me staring like a fool, as I often do. She held my gaze for long enough. Long enough for me to notice she didn’t carry that vacant look that pretty girls tend to have. She turned away, but not too hastily. Slow enough for me to see something. A connection? Then she ran into some bozo’s car and I lined up for the bus. Let’s all say LOSER together now, shall we?

I must find out more about her. Tomorrow cannot come soon enough.

September 13

Her name is Lana. I caught a glimpse of her at the end of the day. Talking to four girls. Well, they were talking. She stood a little away from them. Biting her thumb and looking around for someone or something. After a few minutes, she joined the conversation. A guy showed up, who I assume is her boyfriend. Tall, buff guy with an ugly smile and wooden shoulders. Definitely not the right guy for her. Made my stomach churn to see him grip his arm around her shoulder like he owned her. Said something to her. She nodded. Then he pulled her from the girls and they took off. I tried to keep up with them. See where he was taking her, but the bell had already rung and I had to catch my bus. Stupid bus. At least in NYC, I took the subway. I feel like I’m in grade three here. Actually, everyone seems like they’re in grade three, here. Immature. Boring. Coddled. At lunch, the guy beside me (Eric) had an egg salad sandwich with the crust cut off. Really? You’re seventeen.

If I told him my dad was in a mental hospital, he’d probably start sucking his thumb and run to mama. I’d guess things like people going insane doesn’t happen much around here. Doc has advised me to keep that information to myself. Said it will likely alienate me more. That seems unlikely. How does a person without friends get more alienated? I’m thinking of telling Beavis. Just to see how he’d react. He’s the closest to normal I can find here. Sometimes I feel like announcing it to everyone I meet. Just to see the reactions. But it’s not fair to Mom. She wants to keep it quiet, too.

Plastic. that’s the word I’m looking for. Everyone here is so plastic. I have to meet Lana. She’s different. Just not sure she realizes it yet. I have to meet her, (didn’t I say that already?) but in a place like this, a nobody doesn’t just walk up to a beautiful girl and say ‘Hi. I’m in love with you.’ Wait. That would seem odd just about anywhere. I need a plan.

I hear the stairs creak outside Demit’s bedroom. Slam the book shut and sit, straight as an arrow. Demit’s mom pokes her head in.

“You want a drink? A snack?” she asks.

I shake my head, “No thank you.” I’m busy reading your son’s inner-most thoughts and I’m just fine, I add silently. When she disappears, I look for the page I was on. Skim through the next ten, or so. Mostly small observations of what I was doing when he saw me. It appears I argue a lot. There’s a couple spots where he describes me fighting with Stu. Apparently, I lift my hands into the air like two ping pong racquets, too. Who knew? I really should put this down and not read another word. I can’t believe his father is crazy. What does he mean by that? So, does that mean he doesn’t work in Hollywood? Or is he out of the hospital?

And all this stuff about me. It feels both weird and comforting to know that he was observing me and wanting to meet me long before we actually became friends. I’m not sure if I should be creeped out or flattered.

September 15

The fabbie girls (I’ve recently learned that’s what everyone calls them) were gossiping about Lana today. I stood a couple feet away from the ice queen. Alysa is her name. Tall with long dark hair, never a strand out of place, and a permanent scowl carved on her complexion of ice. I heard the puppet (ice princess’ puppy dog follower) say “here comes the slut” loud enough for everyone in the front hall to hear. They shot their heads in my direction and looked past me. As was their habit, they squabbled like rabid chihuahuas whenever she came near. I couldn’t hear them perfectly, but the word bitch seemed to punctuate most of their sentences. They’ve stopped talking to her completely I’ve noticed, preferring to only talk about her. I still don’t know what happened, but it’s been almost two weeks since they began making Lana’s life a living hell. It’s sickening to watch. Particularly how it’s affected Lana. She’s crumbling like a stale cupcake (I am inundated with cupcakes thanks to my mom.) Hiding behind her long hair. Rushing. Always rushing.

It was a good day for me though. Lana bumped into me. Her bag fell to the floor. I couldn’t believe my luck. It was my chance to say hello. Make my move (since a plan had yet to materialize in my head.)

I picked up the bag and handed it to her. She said, “Shit, I’m such an idiot.” Ran her fingers through her hair and sighed. Then she looked at me. Really looked at me. And smiled, said thanks. The girls behind me called her some choice names, but I wasn’t listening to them. I was trying to drum up the perfect words to say.

Which was next to impossible, since my tongue turned epileptic on me. I could barely breathe, much less introduce myself. Finally, I managed to say, “You’re not an idiot” just as her bozo boyfriend yells at her from across the hall to hurry the hell up. And that was it. She flipped her eyes to him, then back at me. I got a quick nod, and she was gone.

I imagine how it would have played out in an alternate universe – if it had divided in my favour. I keep waiting for the many worlds theory to spin my way. A little quantum theory, Demit-style. Somewhere in another universe, this is what played out:

Lana ignores Stu’s call, and says “I’m Lana. What’s your name?”

I say, “I’m Demit. Nice to meet you.”

Then, the universe divides again. Likely, she would have said bye and left with Stu. (Based on the Demit probability which states nothing goes my way.)

In another universe:

I tell her I’ve loved her since the beginning of time. She:

A) calls me a freak and walks off, never to speak to me again.

B) recommends me to the local psych ward, and never speaks to me again.

OR

I ask her if she wants to grab a coffee one day after school. She:

A) says ‘I’d love to.’ But I’ll have to ask my big football jock boyfriend, first. And I get my ass kicked by said boyfriend.

B) kindly declines, and never speaks to delusional stalker ever again.

Somewhere in the span of time and space, these universes may be playing out. So, when I consider my options. Today’s scenario is not so bad.

Speaking of psych ward, Dad was supposed to be released this week but the doctors have decided he’s not ready to face the real world yet. Mom cried when she told me. My sister cried. I didn’t. I got angry. Why can’t he get his shit together? Mom says it’s not his fault, but I don’t agree. He abandoned us. His mind abandoned us.

Sucks I can’t even visit him. Knock his unsteady mind back into balance. Why did she agree to stick him in a hospital in California, anyways? Sometimes I think she wanted as much distance between me and him as possible. I see the look she gives me. I worry her. We’re too much alike, me and Dad. He’s got his parents, she keeps telling me. They visit him every day. Says he needs them more than he needs us right now. I don’t tell her how much that hurts to hear. She has enough on her plate. Which is why I only cry before I go to sleep. Even that – I barely do anymore. In another universe, Dad is out of the hospital and on a plane to Canada. In that universe, our family works again.

September 17

Best day ever. Am I finally experiencing the universe that bends in my favour? I was listening to music on the bus, not paying attention to much when I look up to see Lana standing beside my seat. It was like one of those glorious moments prophets write about in the bible. A light. An epiphany. A knowing. I knew, right in that instant, that our intertwined life was beginning. Of course, she didn’t recognize me. Ouch. Really? You didn’t get that split second of connectedness when we looked into each other’s eyes that one day? Guess it was just me. So, I decided to play it cool. She’d never waste time with a guy who acts love-sick. And, really. That’s not my style, as much as my insides are melting with insecurities, I’ve heard my exterior is generally rock-solid.

I think I was a little too casual, though. We sort of got into an argument when I told her the fabbies were assholes. I thought she’d agree with me? Nope. The assumption here is that she wants back into their fold. I’ll have to change that.

Another universe division in my favour – Lana and I both missed the bus home (although she insisted she was waiting for a drive. Regardless, the outcome is unchanged, so it’s irrelevant.) The conversation goes more smoothly this time. She looked so sad. Lost. I assume it’s over this photo fiasco, which I coincidentally learned today. One of the fuckers at lunch was showing the picture. I secretly exploded a pen over his chemistry assignment. Oops. Blotted it to all hell.

Twists my anger inside-out just thinking about it. I can barely even write about it. If the world unfolded consequence-free, I’d kill Stu for what he did to her. All the suffering he’s caused her. Doc says when anger arrives, I can welcome it, acknowledge it, then let it go. I struggle with that last part. It sits quietly inside of me.

***

The door creaks. My head jerks up. Demit stands at the doorway. One hand on the knob, head tipped to the side and scrunched eyebrows. I blink. Stiffen.

“You’ve read it.” He says. His voice cracks.

I nod, shutting the book. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have.” I hand it back to him, look down. “I should go. I’m so sorry.” What I don’t say is that I’m also freaked out that he has been carrying all these opinions and thoughts about me. That he’s lied to me about his dad. I wonder if I ever really knew him. I stand up to leave.

“Don’t be sorry,” Demit says. “I wanted you to read it. I left it there for you. I know I’ve kept a lot from you, but I wasn’t ready to tell you.” He grabs my hand. “I’m glad you read it. Even though you probably want to run as far away from me as possible.”

His hand is warm. “Kinda, yea,” I answer. “But not really.” I look into his eyes. They’re softer than the usual cold gaze I get.

“You’re welcome to finish reading it,” Demit lifts the journal, removes his hand from mine. I open it, thumbing through the pages I haven’t yet read. There are still questions I have, but everyone deserves a few secrets. Don’t they?

“No,” I hand it back to him. Some questions are probably better left unanswered. At least for now. Despite my confusion, I’m more certain of one thing than ever before. I know he will do anything for me. It’s a weird feeling. Like I could jump off a cliff and know he’d catch me. A sort of invincibility, I guess. Maybe this is what love feels like. It’s new to me. Comforting. I lean over and kiss him. Push the questions and doubts to the back of my mind. We can talk about them later. What matters most is that Demit is here for me. No matter what. And I need that more than I need anything else in the world.

“Thank you for trusting me with your journal,” I say.

“Thank you for not hating me after reading it,” he responds, then lifts a small white bag and hands it to me. “And, now, onto our problem with Alysa. I got the prescription. We need to decide what we want to do with it.”