Lettie
I know what most of the moms at the block party are thinking, at least the ones with younger kids. I can see judgment in their eyes. Because I’m wearing black and not decked out in spring colors, they think troubled, depressed, moody, angry, defiant, and drug-using teen. Hey, five out of six isn’t bad. I don’t use drugs. Never tried them. Never had a drink of alcohol, either. In other news, I don’t go to many parties.
To be honest, I don’t care about my popularity. I’m not a prude about mind-altering substances, either. My friends on the school’s climate crisis committee always spark up after our weekly meeting, and I don’t mind. I get it. Who wouldn’t need a little stress relief after two hours talking about melting ice caps, perilous heat waves, food shortages, and endless droughts?
I’m pretty sure the Meadowbrook Moms don’t think much about our warming planet from the comfort of their air-conditioned homes or while driving around in massive SUVs, but they sure are big on appearances. They see my dark cutoff shorts, legs white as toothpaste, all attitude in my Doc Martens, with no makeup, long hair in a ponytail, and believe the same won’t happen to their precious kids.
Whatever helps you sleep better, I guess.
My dad calls me over. I can predict what he’s going to say before he says it.
“Lettie,” he’ll call out in that deep dad voice, “have you had anything to eat?”
I march right over.
“Lettie,” he says. “Have you had anything to eat?”
Bingo.
“I’m not hungry.”
Three words. Half my daily quota.
“Well, how about a veggie burger?” asks Dad. He knows I won’t touch meat. Doesn’t like it, though. Thinks I’m protein deprived. I’m not. Plant protein is just as good, I’ve told him countless times, but he doesn’t listen to facts when he’s got his mind made up.
“I’m good, thanks,” I say.
Six words already and the day is still young. Drat. I’ll make up for it tomorrow.
“Egg toss?” asks Dad.
He points to himself, then over to me, as if I didn’t know he wants us to be teammates.
It takes everything I have, all the willpower I can summon, not to grimace. I can’t break my dad’s heart, but the egg toss? Oh god no. From the age of eight to the age of thirteen, I teamed up with Dad and we went unbeaten. We’re like the Tom Brady/Rob Gronkowski of the egg toss. Somewhere in the basement is a box of ridiculous plastic trophies that my uncle Ken buys every year to hand out as awards for various games, the egg toss included. However, much to my father’s dismay, I’ve retired from competition after I experienced what I’ve come to think of as my awakening—i.e., when I awoke to how dumb these contests are. Year after year, Dad tries valiantly to get me to unretire. He thinks another trophy will bring us closer.
Bless his sweet heart.
It’s not like I haven’t tried to engage with my father. Really, I have. I’m not the teen who thinks her parents are stupid and have nothing to offer. My dad is crazy smart. He’s a great guy, too, and yes, I love him. But he doesn’t want to talk about things that matter to me: our warming planet, the immigration problem, gun control, gender issues—the list goes on.
Now we’re on a collision course of a different sort. College is looming and the cost of my education has become his favorite topic of conversation. He thinks it’s a waste of money to spend an obscene amount on a BA. I think I don’t want to go to UMass. California is calling my name! Most progressive state in the nation, where I’d get to work on the climate crisis from the front lines. If my father won’t pay for USC, I’ll take out loans. He’ll tell me I don’t understand how interest works. Fearmonger about me drowning in debt. Good luck getting a car or a house, he’ll say.
Whatever. If I do get a car, it’ll be an eco-friendly van I can live out of. No Meadowbrook-type carbon-spewing McMansions for me.
“Maybe next year for the egg toss,” I say to Dad, throwing him a bone. I see the hurt in his eyes. Since sorry isn’t in my vocabulary, I apologize to him on the inside.
I do give him a quick hug that more than makes up for my denial. I’m hoping my hug also conveys that I don’t hold a grudge, even though he’s grounded me for half the summer. If I had been my kid, I’d have done the same.
I venture off to find some privacy, doing my best to avoid eye contact. This shindig was never that fun to begin with, but since I’m now the talk of the town, thanks to that school security camera, I’m in need of a hideout.
Unfortunately I can’t seek sanctuary in my bedroom, which is where I wish to be. I’m kind of lacking bargaining power on account of my being unquestionably guilty of a rather major transgression.
Burger grease perfumes the air as I wander to the back of the Thompsons’ house, which stands next to ours at the far end of the cul-de-sac. I’m thinking of sticking my feet in the Thompsons’ pool, but instead I have the bad luck of running into my first cousin, Dylan Adair. Startled, Dylan springs off the lounge chair like a frightened cat when he sees me, revealing the full form of Riley Thompson, who was hidden beneath him.
Dylan stands up straighter. Regretfully my eyes go down. I see what I see, what he knows is there, too. He gets red in the face, as do I, before he leaps into the pool, acting as if he’d meant to do that all along.
“Yo, what’s up, Lettie?” Dylan says nonchalantly, trying to sound cool and casual. He rests his elbows on the edge of the pool, lifting his torso up so water cascades down his muscular chest. He’s been hitting the gym extra hard ever since his brother, Logan, made all-conference for lacrosse in his junior year of college. Dylan might not be the star player Logan is, but his dark and brooding good looks, along with his athletic prowess, are good enough to earn him the affections of the undeniably most beautiful girl in our school, Riley Thompson—who happens to be the person I most want to punch in the face.
Riley rises from the lounge chair like Venus exiting her clamshell. She’s got on a white bikini that would look half the size on my wider, thicker frame. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not obsessed with body image. I like how I look well enough, but I’m also aware that Riley is utterly gorgeous, and I’ll never have a body like hers no matter how many hours I spend in the gym (too few), or how many honey-glazed doughnuts I forgo (maybe not enough).
“Hi, Lettie,” Riley says, cocking her head to the right as if a tendon in her neck suddenly snapped. “What’s up?”
I could say food shortages or income inequality, but instead I answer, “Nothing.”
And then we look at each other curiously, trying to decide what comes next. The answer appears to be silence.
I could confront Riley, let her know that I know she’s the one who ratted me out, but what good will that do? Dylan, of all people, told me it was Riley who identified me in the security camera photos the Meadowbrook police posted to social media. The police wanted to nab the school vandal, and Riley wanted to play the hero. It’s good to know that family loyalty trumps blow jobs.
“I’ll catch you later,” I say to them both.
“Bye, Lettie,” Riley says with a wave.
Dylan and I lock eyes briefly. I can tell he’s worried I’m going to confront Riley, screw things up for them. While I want to get back at her, I won’t do it at the expense of my cousin.
I walk past Brooke Bailey’s house. Brooke would be the hot mom on the street if only she had kids. Doesn’t have a husband because he’s dead—took a fall off a cruise ship. Police called it an accident. Rumors implicated Brooke. Like an independent voter, I remain undecided.
I cross over onto the lawn of the vacant house next to Brooke’s place. I’m trying to forget most of what just happened when I see an attractive Indian dude, about my age, using the swing set that once belonged to the Weaver family. Smoke billows from his mouth after he pulls a Juul from his lips. His handsome head becomes enshrouded in fog. Since I’ve never seen this guy before, I assume he’s looking to buy the Weavers’ place, but he seems too young to be house hunting, and I get the sense he’s too smart to be vaping, which makes him troubled.
Call me intrigued. I’m not shy. “Hey,” I say.
He raises his head. Lord, those brown eyes! He’s better looking than any boy at school, but not by Meadowbrook standards, which give preferential treatment to the more traditional jock types.
“Hey, yourself,” he says. He takes a second hit, expunging a cloud of white vapor that evaporates quickly in the warm air. He offers me the Juul.
“No thanks,” I say. “I don’t know you.”
“I’m Jay,” he says, offering the Juul again as if that took us from strangers to vape buddies.
I smile when I decline. “Lettie,” I say.
We skip the handshake.
“I don’t think I’ve heard that name before,” says Jay.
“It’s short for Elizabeth—well, sort of,” I say. “When I was little, I pronounced my name Lettiebeth, and Lettie kind of stuck. Nobody calls me Elizabeth. I’m just Lettie now.”
Jay takes a hit, and out comes the vapor.
“Do you know a single Juul pod contains as much nicotine as a pack of twenty regular cigarettes?” I say.
Jay smirks. “Why do you think I use one?”
He pats his hand on the swing beside him, an invitation I take him up on. Do I like swinging? A lot more than tossing eggs, that’s for sure. I squeeze my body into the plastic swing, which compresses like a straitjacket under my weight. I can still hear the block party commotion from the back of the Weavers’ place—Uncle Ken’s bad music blaring, kids shouting as they run about, general party mayhem drowning out the birdsong that’s our usual background noise.
I plant my feet on the ground, using leverage to build up a little momentum, happy to have an outlet for my nervous energy. I can tell Jay is older than I am, but only by a few years. I like his shaggy hair and casual style—jeans, white tee under an open, untucked button-down shirt. He wears white Nikes, no socks.
“So, Lettie,” says Jay, “what’s your story?”
“That’s a big ask for a first question.”
“I don’t have much time,” says Jay. “My parents are looking to buy this house and it won’t take long.”
“Pretty sure home buying isn’t a quick purchase,” I counter.
Now it’s Jay who laughs.
“You don’t know my mom,” he says before giving me an endearing smile. “When my mother has her mind set on something—and she’s got her mind set on buying this place—it happens, and it happens quickly.”
I sharpen my focus on his mustache with trimmed scruff. Normally I wouldn’t be attracted to that look, but it works for Jay.
“Are you going to live here with them?” I ask, hoping the answer is yes.
“Yeah,” he says a bit gloomily, like he’d rather not.
“Do you have brothers or sisters?” I glance at the brick monstrosity in front of us. It’s a lot of house for three, especially when the one “kid” seems old enough to have his own apartment.
A distant look invades Jay’s eyes, a heaviness not present moments ago. There’s a story there, but I’m not about to pry. My face grows hot. I feel slightly queasy, fearing I’ve said the wrong thing. Jay’s expression softens, saving me from further embarrassment.
“Nope, just me,” he says.
“Are you going to go to Meadowbrook High?” I ask.
Jay chuckles. “I got the boot from Northeastern six months ago.”
The boot? He’s been kicked out of college? Naturally a thousand thoughts enter my mind, enough so I stop swinging. What did he do? Was it grades? Drugs? I’m excited at the prospect that Jay might make this neighborhood a whole lot more interesting, but I’m hoping it’s nothing really bad. Even so, I’m not about to ask.
“What about you?” Jay says. “Do you go to Meadowbrook?”
“I did,” I tell him.
“So, you’re graduating. Congrats.”
“No, I’m going to be a senior next year,” I explain. “I just got suspended for the last two weeks of school, that’s all.”
Jay looks impressed, like we might be kindred spirits. “Tell me about it,” he says, a twinkle in his chocolate eyes.
I think: Why the heck not?
I show him my phone, specifically the default display picture.
“Is this you?” he asks.
I nod. You can’t make out my face in the photograph. My eyes glow so brightly from the security camera’s sensitive optics it’s blurred my features. The can of spray paint in my hand is still quite apparent.
“Graffiti?” asks Jay.
I nod again before telling him the story about how I went to school wearing a T-shirt that read: Bite Me! The shirt had a picture of an apple with a big bite taken out of it. Evidently the graphic violated school decency standards, something about threatening speech. I was given a mandate: my mom could bring me a new shirt, or I’d have to go home and miss an important test.
“I’m like, whatever! Do you people need examples of real hate speech?” My indignation game is strong.
“I’m guessing they didn’t buy that argument,” says Jay.
“Not in the least,” I say. “And I’m thinking about the injustice of it all—not for myself, but for the real problems the school should care about: greenhouse gas emissions, class sizes, mental health counseling, bullying, poverty, child abuse, gender issues, race issues, but no, my dumb T-shirt is the big problem that must be addressed.”
“Did your mom bring you a shirt?”
“She did,” I confess, “but the next day I created an online petition stating my shirt wasn’t indecent and the whole standard needed to be rewritten. Naturally, I supplied the new language. I got three hundred signatures in a couple weeks, even from some middle school kids.”
“So, what happened?” asks Jay, sounding intrigued.
“My petition was voted down at the school board meeting.”
“I’m guessing this is where the graffiti comes into play,” Jay says.
“That picture I showed you is me spray-painting ‘Bite Me!’ and an apple with a bite out of it on the door of the school gymnasium.”
“Oh,” says Jay, his eyes widening.
“I probably would have gotten away with it, too, but my cousin’s girlfriend identified me to the authorities.”
“How so?” says Jay. “That picture could be any female.”
I open the photo on my phone, using my fingers to zoom in on the image, specifically the hand holding the can of spray paint. What’s clear now is a discoloration on my wrist—a birthmark. I show Jay the same mark on my skin.
“Riley Thompson lives over there.” I point to Riley’s house. “She was my best friend when we were little girls, and my birthmark was a big topic of conversation. It fascinated her. She doesn’t have a blemish on her body.”
“What did she get out of reporting you? Cash reward?”
Not sure why, but I get the sense money is very important to Jay.
“No cash. But she’s president of the student body. Maybe she felt obligated. Or she wanted to improve her credibility with the powers that be. She’s always been attracted to prestige.”
“Do you have to be in summer school?” Jay wants to know.
“No, I can still turn in my homework and take tests, so I won’t fail the quarter. It’s not the worst thing.”
“How’d your parents take it?”
“Not well,” I say. “I’m grounded for half the summer. I can get a job, go to work, come home, and that’s it. Oh, and I can go to this dumb block party, probably because my parents know I don’t want to be here.” I motion to the big happening taking place on the other side of the house.
“Talk about layering on the punishment,” says Jay with a laugh. “Well, you can talk to me this summer, assuming I move in.”
I’d like that, but I don’t share that with him.
“You’re not the only misfit in Meadowbrook,” Jay adds, pointing to himself.
We’re swinging now, going higher. The chains creak under our collective weight.
“Who says I’m a misfit?” I retort.
Jay sends me a look that calls my bluff.
“Okay, I’m a misfit,” I admit.
“And I’m twenty years old, still living with my parents,” he says before taking another hit of his Juul. “We can be friends.”
We don’t shake on it, but that’s just a formality.
“How will you pass the time in home confinement when I’m not around to distract you from your plight?” asks Jay.
I shrug. “I might get a jump start on my summer paper for my AP Psychology class,” I tell him. “I’m writing about revenge. Riley inspired me.”
I offer up a devious grin. Jay doesn’t have much reaction at all.
“Writing about revenge is cool, I guess,” he says indifferently. In the next breath, though, his expression shifts to a chilling smile. “But taking revenge … now, that’s something to truly savor.”