Finding Hope (7 page)

I
squirmed on the couch beside Vivian. “You know for sure it was Cassie?”

Lizzie shot me a piercing look. “Yes. It has to be. She probably told her brother and now it's all over Melton. She's
always
hated me.”

“She's just jealous of you,” Emily muttered, tufts of downy curls framing her face.

“And a complete bitch,” Lizzie fumed, her red lips pulled into a scowl. “Girls like her
look
harmless. You should be careful.” She turned to me. “You never know what she's saying behind your back.”

Across the room, Cassie and another girl sat with their heads together, avoiding looking in our direction. She'd asked a few times what I talked about with Lizzie, Vivian, and Emily, digging for details and turning away in a huff when I wouldn't tell her. Things had gotten chillier between Cassie and me since I started sitting with Lizzie and her friends at lunch and in the common room.

I looked longingly at some of the other girls, laughing together, relaxed. Everything with Lizzie was a drama, there was no letting your guard down. But at least I had someone to sit with. Cassie had never invited me to spend time with her friends.

“I have never given any Meltie a blow job,” Lizzie explained, using the nickname for boys who went to Melton Prep. Vivian and Emily shook their heads. “And she's making it sound like I went down on half of the grade twelves.”

“Why do you think it was Cassie who started the rumour?” I asked.

She rounded on me. “Are you defending her?”

I cringed in my seat, wishing I was somewhere else. “No. I just want to know who started it.”

Lizzie glared at me. “I told you who it was. She goes out of her way to make me look bad. If you'd rather be friends with that fat cow, go ahead. But I can't even look at her,” Lizzie said loudly. “She's a backstabbing bitch.” A noticeable hush fell over the room as Lizzie stalked off. Cassie looked as confused as everyone else.

“Do you think Cassie really said those things?” I asked Vivian.

She leaned in conspiratorially. “She and Lizzie have never gotten along.” I wrinkled my forehead, waiting for more. “It's because Lizzie had a thing for Cassie's brother. He's, like, one of the best-looking guys at Melton. But,” she dropped her voice, “he won't even talk to Lizzie. She thinks it's because of Cassie.”

Was that why Cassie had warned me about Lizzie, because of a feud over her brother? “Why is it such a big deal?”

Vivian shrugged. “Lizzie gets like that,” she sighed. “Cassie and I used to be friends, but Lizzie made me choose. Said I couldn't be friends with her if I was friends with Cassie. Sometimes I think it's just a game to her, seeing if we'll do what she wants us to.” Vivian's phone buzzed with a text. She grew quiet as she read it and then turned to me. “Lizzie wants to meet in her room tonight. She says she has a plan for—” She chin-nodded toward Cassie.

“A plan?”

Vivian shrugged. “Sometimes it's easier to just go along with things.”

“Yeah,” I said, like it made sense to me. I didn't get their inside jokes or understand their secret code of girl behaviour, but I didn't want to spend the next four years alone. I wanted things to be different at Ravenhurst. It wasn't Lumsville; Eric wasn't here, a shadow I couldn't shake off. Anyhow, what was the worst Lizzie could do?
 

I
had a girlfriend, before, when I was playing hockey. Christa. Now she works at the grocery store in town, saving up to go to university. Light brown hair, cute. She'd come to my games and watch in the corner, too nervous to sit with the other fans. We used to mess around in her parents' basement. Didn't get too far with her, though. She was a good girl.

I saw her through the window standing at the checkout. Her hands moved automatically, sweeping things over the scanner. Keeping my head down, I ducked inside. I hadn't seen her in months, maybe longer.

The shelves were full of cans and boxes, the labels bright. They lit up the aisles like fireworks. I wanted to take one of everything, but I couldn't fit it all in my arms. Things started to tumble out, spilling to the floor and making a fucking racket. “Shh!” I hissed at the groceries. I had to walk away, leaving the pile in the middle of the aisle. The sound of the cans banging on the floor echoed in my head. I darted down an aisle and grabbed some bread. Squeezing it, the cellophane bag rustled in my hands. I wanted to rip it open and sink my teeth into the spongey softness.

When I got into Christa's line, she looked up at me, her face flickering recognition, then a frown, one eyebrow crunching against the other one.
You look good
, I wanted to tell her. But she looked uncomfortable, like I'd said something rude, when I hadn't even opened my mouth yet.

I flashed her a grin. Good thing I was buzzing on meth, otherwise, it could be awkward, seeing her after so long. I dumped the loaf of bread and a couple of cans of ravioli I'd rescued from an aisle display onto the conveyor belt. Someone got into line after me, but she held up her closed sign. “Sorry,” she said to the guy behind me. “He's my last customer.”

She held her finger over the bar code on each item and put them into a bag. The total on the computer screen didn't change from zero. She didn't have to help me, but she was. My gratitude spilled over in disjointed conversation about the weather, school, hockey. I spoke too fast, words spilling out.

“Thanks, Christa,” I said,
eager to grab the bag. Our hands collided. She pulled hers away quickly, like from a too-hot pan. Flustered, she looked away, tidying the stack of bags at her till. “See you around.”

She nodded. Through the window, I waved to her, bursting with gratitude. But she wasn't looking at me. She was leaning against the cash register, her forehead in her hands.

T
he
four of us were sitting in a circle on the floor. I was relieved to see that no bottle was being passed around tonight. But the look of anticipation on Lizzie's face meant she had something else brewing.

“I came up with a plan,” Lizzie said. From behind her back, she pulled out a pair of scissors. “Guess what you have to do.” Her mouth twitched with eagerness.

I shook my head.

“Cut Cassie's hair.”

My mouth went slack as I stared at them in disbelief. “Her hair?” I thought of her golden curls, ringlets that hung halfway down her back.

“Tonight!” The excitement in her voice made my stomach queasy.

I looked at Vivian and Emily, as shocked as I was. “You're joking.” Lizzie pressed the scissors into my hand. Heavy and metal, with a long blade, they sat cold on my palm.

Lizzie's eyes bored through me. “You have to. After what she did to me, she deserves it. You think so, right? That she can't get away with spreading rumours, saying horrible things about me.”

A tinge of distrust for Lizzie bit back at me. It was too much, what she was asking me to do. She must have seen the doubt in my face.

She sat back and fixed me with a hard look. “If you want us to stay friends, you'll do it.”

Vivian's eyes darted to Lizzie. She'd been in the same positon as I was. I waited for her to say something, but she stayed quiet. She and Emily, their silence meant solidarity with Lizzie. They stared back at me. Three against one.

The scissors lay in my hand. I stood up and took a few shaky steps backwards, inching toward the door. “I better go,” I mumbled. Their eyes lit up and they grinned victoriously at one another. “Bring us some! After you do it, bring me some hair,” Lizzie whispered after me. I walked with the scissors pressed against my thigh, the chill of the metal making me shiver.

Cassie was sound asleep, her snores filling the room. In the darkness, I could make out the outline of her hair running like liquid gold over her pillow.

Standing by the door, I didn't trust myself to go any closer.

I thought about snipping a chunk from underneath, something she'd never miss, but that wasn't what they were after. They wanted her shorn, her angelic tresses lopped off for all to see. I took a step closer. The floor creaked under me. Cassie snorted and turned over, her face to the wall, exposing her full head of hair to me. Now was my chance. I moved my fingers into the handles and opened the blades; they scraped against one another, metal to metal. Her hair was within arm's length. I just had to reach out, grab a huge handful, and hack through it with the scissors. If I was gentle, she might not even wake up.

But she'd know it was me. Who else could have come into our room and butchered her hair? But was it any stranger than the truth? That I was doing it because Lizzie had commanded me to?

A cold sweat broke out over my forehead and a chill ran up my neck, as if I was about to throw up. I reached a finger out to touch a tendril of her hair. The silky soft curl wound itself around my finger.

Closing my eyes, I thought about what I was doing: standing in a dark room, holding scissors to my roommate's hair, ready to chop
it off. It was ludicrous. This was not who I was. With a cry of revulsion, I stormed across the room, slammed the scissors onto my desk and opened the window. The scissors gleamed in the darkness, one blade shining. Picking them up, I hurled them out the window.

“Hope?” Cassie called from her bed. “What're you doin?” she mumbled.

“Nothing,” I said and shut the window. “I'm not doing anything.”

I would lie tomorrow when they saw Cassie. I'd say the timing hadn't been right, that she was a light sleeper and had woken up when I came into the room.

Or tell them the truth, that it was an unfair punishment. Cutting her hair as payback for a rumour didn't make sense.

They'd think I'd chosen sides, picked Cassie over them. I guess, in a way, I had. But it was the right choice. How could I have lived with myself if I'd done it?

 

T
he
neon green cross in the pharmacy window flickered. I'd been sitting on the curb across the street for the last forty-five minutes, waiting. For what, I didn't know.

Guts? Desperation?

There'd be good shit inside. Things I could sell, and a cash register or safe. I'd seen robberies on TV, the police shows my stepdad liked to watch. How hard could it be? No one was inside to get hurt. I just had to go in, grab what I needed, and take off.

I'd begged Joanne at the truck stop on Highway 9 for a coffee. I think she'd dated my dad in high school and felt bad when she saw me, remembering him. She said we looked a lot alike. “Good-looking?” I'd asked her one time, but she'd just laughed and touched my arm.

Today, she'd shooed me away from the counter “We're getting slammed,” she'd said, breathless. “Dinner rush.”

“Please?” I cajoled.

She must have figured the only way I'd leave was if she gave in. “Fine. I'll bring you a coffee out back in ten minutes.”

Now I was hyped up on coffee and the nine packs of sugar I'd dumped into it. My feet rattled on the pavement. It felt like bugs were crawling through my skin, up my toes, spiralling around my legs, scampering across my balls, and then racing up my stomach till they settled in my brain, nesting there. Waiting.

I moaned. I needed a fix something bad. Cheez wouldn't spot me any crank unless I came back with some cash. So that was what I was doing. Figuring it out, my way.

The back door of the pharmacy was in an alley. It had an alarm. There was a sticker on the door. And a deadbolt and who knew what else. The glass on the door had bars, but there was another window, partly blocked by a cooler, and it had no bars.

If I broke the window and climbed over the cooler, I could squeeze in. Never could have fit when I was playing hockey. Months of meth had made me lean.

I had to do it now, before stuff started to make sense.

Taking off my jacket, I left it by the building, out of sight but easy to grab when I took off. I picked up a brick, the rough edges scraped my fingers, ripping fingernails.

I slammed the brick against the window once. Not even a dent. I looked around. No one in sight. I raised it again and whacked it harder. Somewhere, a dog barked.

Fucking tempered glass. It took two more whacks until a crack splintered the glass. A trickle of sweat ran down my back. Another hit and the whole bottom corner shattered into cubes at my feet. I shielded my eyes and tossed the brick behind me. The whole window collapsed and an alarm started ringing. Standing on the window ledge, I hauled myself up and over the cooler. The space was narrow—my spine scraped against the top of the window sill, jagged bits of glass embedding themselves in my skin—but I wiggled through, sinewy ropes of muscle flexing in my arms. I dropped down on the other side and ran to the counter.

Fuck me. There was a metal screen pulled down in front of the counter. Had I known about that? I should have had a plan, but with the alarm screaming, I couldn't focus. With a frustrated yell, I tossed bottles of mouthwash and toothpaste against the screen. They bounced back into the aisle, doing nothing to the screen except making it rattle. I swept whole shelves of stuff down to the floor, spinning around, trashing the place.

I ran to the first-aid aisle. I'd grab some bottles of pain relievers, as many as I could carry. At least I could sell them on the street. It didn't matter what kind of drug you had, someone would want it. The pockets on my shorts were deep; front and back bulged with containers of pills.

I grabbed some rubbing alcohol and bandages. My back had started to sting and my hands had blood on them, I didn't know from what. I must have cut myself on the broken window glass. Hauling ass to the door, I unlocked it, grabbed my jacket, and ran across the parking lot to the other side of the street. No one was around, but there wasn't any cover either. I had to get to the highway, try and hitch out of here.

I looked back once. The alarm still blared, but no one had shown up yet. The pharmacy was empty and damaged. A black hole.

Just like me.