Love, Heather by Laurie Petrou

Author:Laurie Petrou
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CROOKED LANE BOOKS

15

On Monday, everybody is talking about the pranks, and if there will be more. Breanne has apparently already had her parents speak to the principal about how she doesn’t feel the school is a “safe space,” which is, as we all well know, the silver bullet for getting grown-ups to do what you want.

Before lunch today, there was an announcement on the PA system reminding students that vandalism and bullying will not be tolerated at the school, and anyone who is found to be committing acts of either will be dealt with accordingly.

Breanne appears at her lunch table with shimmering eyes, surrounded by supportive friends who glower at everyone outside their group.

Dee walks through the cafeteria, whistling loudly, hands in her pockets, her customary stomp. People are watching her; a couple of hands reach out and high-five her. She sits down at our table with Antar and Ava, Marta and Jesse, who smile at her, amused. She scoots in right next to me, and our arms and legs touch. A jolt runs through me.

“Hey guys,” she says. They look at her expectantly. She giggles, looking at each person in turn, and squeezing my hand under the table. “So, crazy shit around here, hey?” Everyone nods, murmuring and laughing. Dee nods also, her gaze taking in the whole room. “Looks like the tables are finally turning in this shithole.”

And then she stands up and looks right over at Breanne and calls out, “The queen is dead!” There is applause, actual applause, and table banging. Someone yells, pointing at Dee, “God save the queen!” and Dee does a little wave like royalty. I watch her, soaking it all in, and see Lottie, a look of disbelief on her face. I feel a small surge of embarrassment, but I ignore it, putting my hands around my mouth and cheering.

* * *

In Art class, later in the week, we are making papier-mâché masks. Our teacher, Mr. DiFranco, has paired me with Lottie, oblivious to the ebb and flow of what actually goes on in friendships for those under forty.

Everyone sits with their partners, a pile of newspaper strips and a bowl of paste between them. One person will apply the mask to the other, and then they’ll switch. I sit facing Lottie in a chair, realizing it has been what feels like eons since we were close.

She sticks her fingers into a jar of Vaseline and pauses before rubbing it on my face. Other pairs are happily chatting and laughing all over the room.

“So,” I say, “how’s life?”

She says nothing, methodically wiping the cream across my forehead, which is so disarmingly intimate after months of not speaking that I feel all the tiny hairs on my body stand on end.

“Well,” I continue, “I finally have friends again, after a brush with complete and utter exile and isolation that sunk me into a depression so deep I thought I’d never get out. So, you know, that’s nice.”

“Good for you,” Lottie says, flatly. “Um, can you please stay still?”

“Yes, good for me.

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