Текст книги "The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things"
Автор книги: Ann Aguirre
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The next day, Shane’s waiting for me at the bike rack when I arrive.
Bravado has carried me this far, but I’m shaking. I remember all the unfriendly eyes, the people who can’t understand, the ones who judge, and those who might even be scared of me. Deliberately he laces our fingers together, a show of solidarity.
“You sure this is a good idea?”
He nods. “I have some experience with this. It’s best to get it over with.”
I’m distracted by the reference to his secrets. While I’m considering what they could be, he opens the front door and we step inside. It’s like yesterday, only worse, because it feels like everyone is staring. I put on a smile, but it must not look normal because people quickly look away. They’re giving Shane and me a wide berth in the halls. He goes with me to our locker; Lila’s waiting nearby.
“You look better,” she says, linking arms with me.
I appreciate it so much that I feel like hugging her, so I do. She looks a little surprised, but she doesn’t pull away. She falls in on my left, Shane on my right, and the two of them escort me to my first class, and though I always thought of him as gentle, he’s got a hard edge today, a set to his jaw that dares anyone to say a word. They drop me off and run to make their classes before the last bell.
Nobody talks to me, but I can deal with isolation. I pay attention to my teachers, though I’m not delighted when Mr. Mackiewicz asks me to stay after. I don’t need this today. I’m doing better. But I present myself before his desk as the other students file out. Shane glances at me, but I wave him on.
“Miss Czinski, I just wanted to let you know that I’ve registered your extra effort this semester. Did you find a tutor?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s certainly reflected in your work. You’ve shown the most improvement of anyone in class, and I wanted to say good job.”
Wow, really?
“Thanks,” I manage to say, surprised.
“That’s all. Enjoy your lunch.”
That’s the least painful conversation I’ve ever had with Mackiewicz. I’m actually feeling … not horrible when I step out into the hall. Most people have already headed to the cafeteria—or wherever they eat—so it’s just Shane waiting for me. He raises a brow in question.
“Everything all right?”
“Yeah, he just wanted to praise me, if you can believe it. Thanks to you, I’m most improved in geometry.”
“Secret one: I’ve taken geometry before. I should be a senior this year.” He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I missed more school than I should, taking care of my mom.”
“So you’re seventeen?”
“Eighteen in July.”
Whoa, so he’ll be within a few months of nineteen by the time he finishes school. I’m impressed that he hasn’t just said screw it and gotten his GED. He’s had more reason than most to quit. I take heart in his determination. If he didn’t give up, I won’t either.
But just as I think that, I glance down the hall because there’s a bunch of people milling around my locker. They give way as I approach, and what I see freezes my heart in my chest. So that’s how he knew. My case files were confidential, so he went looking through old newspapers. And sure enough, he struck gold. For a few seconds I can’t get my breath. There’s a pink Post-it note, just like the ones I use, and the two words are written in purple glitter pen, just like mine. But I’d never write PSYCHO KILLER and stick it on someone’s locker. Taped beneath, there’s a copy of the news article, covering the fire. The headline reads, CHILD STARTS HOUSE FIRE, 1 FATALITY.
I feel sick again.
Shane grabs the papers, tears them down, and crumples them in his fist. “Who posted this?”
Silence.
So he grabs the nearest guy by the shirt, shakes him hard, then slams him against the locker. “Tell me, or I assume you did it and beat the shit out of you.”
“It-it was Dylan and his crew,” the freshman gasps.
Someone else says, “Yeah, they just ran by, laughing their asses off.”
Shane lets go of the kid and takes off running. During lunch, Dylan and his cronies can usually be found in the gym, shooting hoops. Alarmed, I race after him. For me, yesterday was the worst; now I’m braced and I can take whatever they throw at me.
I call, “Shane, wait! It’s okay. I don’t care.”
But he’s beyond earshot or just not listening. He bangs through the double doors, so hard that one of them hits the wall. Dylan’s on the other side of the court, going up for a layup. Shane charges at him. No conversation, no accusations. And he takes him down in one hit. For a few seconds, I’m frozen. Rage fuels his strikes, and he slams him once, twice, three times in the face. I’m positive Dylan’s never been in a fight like this. He covers his face with his hands and rolls to his side, but Shane doesn’t let up.
“Think you can do whatever you want, you little bitch?” Another blow. “Fight me, asshole. Show your friends how tough you are.” Shane pummels him again. “No? You sure?”
It takes four of Dylan’s buddies to drag him off, and Shane punches two of them before the PE teacher intervenes. He drags Shane out of range and somebody runs for the nurse, because Dylan looks seriously messed up.
He spits a mouthful of blood and says, “Somebody call the cops. I’m pressing charges.”
His friend gets out his phone and dials before the teachers can decide how to handle things. Oh my God, no. I forgot. I forgot what he told me about needing to lay low—that if he gets in trouble again, he’s going to juvie until he’s eighteen.
A huge crowd gathers while the teachers confer. They try to shoo us away, but nobody’s budging. Dylan’s mom comes from the office and puts an arm around him; she glares at Shane, who’s still being restrained by the gym teacher. Eventually the cops show up and they talk quietly with the principal. I wrap my arms around myself because I can’t stop shaking.
This is because of me.
I try to explain that it’s not Shane’s fault, but Mr. Oscar pulls me away. “This doesn’t concern you, Sage. You should go to class.”
Yeah, that’ll happen when half the school’s in the gym or just outside, rubbernecking. My gaze meets Shane’s, but he’s wearing that empty expression, and I can’t tell what he’s thinking. I feel like I’ve ruined his life when I only wanted to make things better for him. His beautiful musician’s hands are spattered with blood.
“What happened?” Lila asks. I didn’t even notice her arrival.
In a monotone, I tell her.
“Holy shit. I mean, Dylan totally had it coming, but this is bad for Shane.”
“I know,” I choke out.
I’m still watching when the cops cuff Shane’s hands behind his back. It feels like the whole world slows down as he passes me. His eyes meet mine, and he’s trying to tell me something, but I don’t know what. He mouths the word sorry, and then life snaps back to normal speed when they take him away. I run all the way to the front of the school, keeping far enough back that the cops shouldn’t complain. As I push through the doors, I see them shove Shane into the back of the car. He turns his face away.
Rage boils up inside me then. This is bullshit. After what Dylan’s done, he gets to be the victim? I could do horrible things to him. For a few seconds, I let myself picture them. Then I wrestle the anger into submission. I’ve come too far to fall into the hole and let Shadow Sage out again. I don’t want to be a bad person; I don’t want these pictures in my head. What Lila and I did with the truck, that was as far as I can go.
“Maybe it’ll be okay,” Ryan says, coming up beside me. “The police will call his parents and they’ll work something out. Community service, maybe.”
There are no parents to answer. I imagine Shane sitting in lockup, waiting for them to realize nobody will ever come for him. And my heart’s a white ball of fire in my chest. He threw away his second chance for me, and I’m not worth it. I dissolve in Ryan’s arms, crying for Shane like I never could for myself.
“Hey, we’ll figure something out,” he says, stroking my back.
“It’s not fixable. He’s gone.”
“That’s not like you.”
“And you don’t know the whole story.” With a shuddering breath, I pull back, unwilling to tell Ryan that Shane’s mom passed away and that his dad’s abandoned him.
Eventually, the school staff herds us back to class, though we’ve missed the whole period after lunch. It’s bittersweet but Shane accomplished what he intended. People aren’t looking at me anymore. I’m pretty sure they’ve forgotten the reason he pounded the shit out of Dylan. Now Shane getting arrested is all anyone can talk about. And I wish it wasn’t true.
I’m a zombie in my afternoon classes. For the first time in two years, I leave without putting a Post-it on somebody’s locker. I refuse to believe anyone at JFK’s having a worse day than me anyway.
Shane is.
I call in sick at work and pedal straight to my aunt’s shop. There are a couple of women looking at hand-poured candles, but Aunt Gabby seems pleased to see me as I don’t stop by very often, then she gets a good look at my face.
“I’ll be right back,” she tells the customers, then she takes me in back. “What happened?”
I tell her in a single breath, so fast that some of the words come out on top of each other. Then I finish, “Is there anything we can do? It wasn’t his fault.”
My aunt sighs. “Oh, honey. While I agree that kid had it coming, the courts won’t see it that way. And Shane made the choice to resolve the problem with violence.”
“But we have to try. Please.”
“His dad will handle it.”
“No, he won’t,” I say furiously. There’s no point in keeping the secret anymore, so I tell her that, too. My voice sounds bitter and angry, as I explain what an asshole Shane’s dad is.
“So he’s been living on his own since he got here?” she asks, incredulous.
“Basically. Which means he’s on his own. Can we please try?”
Pushing out a breath, Aunt Gabby nods. “I’ll call the station and see what I can find out. But, Sage, it wasn’t okay to keep this quiet for him. He would’ve been better off with people who would take care of him.”
“That’s not what he wanted,” I say stubbornly. “You don’t know everything.”
“Then maybe you should tell me.” She’s frowning over all the stuff I’ve kept from her.
Before I can, however, the ladies in front call out, “We’re ready, Gabby!”
“Be right there.” She points at a stool. “Sit. I’ll be back. This conversation isn’t over.”
Because I’m too tired to do otherwise, I plop down and wait for my aunt. The back room of the shop is delightful chaos with sweet-smelling candles in the process of being packaged up, shimmering crystals with purported healing properties, silk flowers, and bundles of dried herbs. I can see why my aunt enjoys working here.
Soon, she returns, folding her arms to show me she’s not happy. “So … spill.”
I explain about Shane’s mom and how he spent years looking after her. “He doesn’t feel like a kid anymore, and he hated the idea of being stuck with strangers. After everything he’s been through, was it really so wrong for him to want some peace?”
“That poor boy,” she says softly. “I don’t know what kind of record he brought with him from Michigan City, but I’ll call the station right now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Half an hour later, my aunt sighs, her shoulders rounded in disappointment. I already know she has bad news. “I tried, Sage. But I’m not his guardian, and apparently, he has a list of offenses.”
“Did they tell you what?”
“He wasn’t supposed to, but I’ve known Officer Delaney since grade school. Breaking and entering, theft, damage to private property, vandalism, possession of an illegal substance, and there would’ve been an assault if the other kid had pressed charges.”
That’s no worse than I expected. He did tell me he was out of control when he lived with Mike, his mother’s friend. Since his mom had just died, I can understand why he lost it. I suspect he thought it didn’t matter what he did. Who would care? I wish he had gotten to tell me about this stuff himself, but maybe he’s like me, thinking I wouldn’t want to be with him if I knew exactly who he is. Or more accurately, who he was.
I sigh audibly. “Dylan’s not the type to let this go.”
“Then … I’m sorry, honey.” She sounds genuinely regretful that she can’t fix it.
This is a lesson, huh? Some actions have consequences that can’t be waved away. Guilt squats in the pit of my stomach. If I hadn’t tried to fix everything for Shane and Lila, it would’ve been fine. I started this by challenging Dylan. And now things are just so screwed up.
“Is there anything I can do to help while I’m here?”
“If you don’t mind. You can wrap those crystals in tissue paper, then pack them in the boxes with the biodegradable peanuts.”
It’s mindless work, but Aunt Gabby and I parcel up like thirty Internet orders by the time the shop closes. As she locks the front door, I say, “I’m heading home if that’s okay.”
“Why don’t you wait for me? It’s been a rough couple of days.”
“Yeah, it has, but … don’t put me on lockdown. I’m coping. Trust me, okay?”
She stares at me for a long moment before offering a reluctant nod. “Fine. But be careful. I just have to balance the cash, then I’ll be there.”
I nod, slipping out the back. A few minutes later, my legs pump mechanically, making the wheels of the bike turn. It’s good I could find our house in my sleep because my brain is mostly turned off. I can’t believe Shane’s gone. He won’t be at school tomorrow, or on Monday. The worst part is, I can’t even imagine what it will be like for him. I’ve never been to juvie, so I picture it like prison for young people with bars on the windows or maybe even cells for them to sleep in.
The group home was a cluster of brick cottages. Each one housed ten boys or girls, and I shared a room. Our bathroom time was tightly scheduled and supervised. During the week, we ate in a big hall together, but on weekends, the workers cooked for us in the cottages. Depending on who was on duty, this could be better or worse than institutional food.
Shane’s probably still in lockup, though. How long will they keep him there while they try to get in touch with his dad? Before I know it, I’m outside our house. Part of me wants to keep riding, keep the wheels moving until I’m lost. I don’t deserve to sleep in a warm bed tonight. Though I didn’t ask Shane to do that, he decimated Dylan because of me. It kills me that he could shake off their shit all day, but he lost his mind over me.
It hurts to breathe.
For a few seconds, I consider asking my aunt to call in a refill for my prescription. I had no problems with unruly emotions then … mostly because I didn’t feel anything at all. But that seems cheap, like I don’t care enough about Shane to feel this way for him, after what he did for me. Nobody’s ever fought for me before. Aunt Gabby can say what she wants about violence not solving problems, but a tiny part of me is elated. Not that he’s gone, never that. But that he cared enough to do it.
So I go inside, determined to cope without chemical aids. Over dinner later, I ask my aunt to find out what she can about juvie rules, if Shane can have visitors, if so, when. I don’t even know where the nearest juvenile detention facility is.
“It’s about an hour away,” she tells me. “I could drive you.”
Silently I shake my head. If my first trip in a car is to see Shane while he’s locked up, it’ll just be another awful association. The boycott stands.
I tilt my head, considering. That’s sixty miles or so. It’ll take at least five hours to ride that far. And then there’s the return trip. But I’ll totally do it. I can start at daylight, get there in time for a visit, then make the return trip before it’s too late.
“I’ll make some more calls tomorrow, see what I can find out,” my aunt promises.
“Thanks.”
I don’t sleep much that night. Ryan and Lila both text me, but Shane’s number is silent. They’ve probably confiscated his phone. I can’t help being glad that his guitar is at the trailer, where nobody can take it. I don’t reply to my friends, mostly because I don’t know what to say. Maybe I’ll have some idea in the morning.
School is quiet the next day, like everyone’s trying to pretend things are okay. I’m back to being invisible. Nobody calls me princess, but they aren’t shying away, either. I’m tempted to give up on the Post-its, but then I remember Shane said he liked that about me—that I care if somebody’s having a bad day. I notice the jocks knocking the books out of this freshman’s hands, casually, not intentionally, so even though my heart’s not in it, I write a note and stick it on a her locker. You have a nice smile. True, as her braces came off recently, and it seems to cheer her up.
Ryan and Lila stay close, as if I might flip out without their supervision. That almost makes me laugh. Almost. I listen to them talk at lunch, the words washing over me. I’m a rock in the river; it will take years but the current might wear me smooth someday.
“Okay, I’m just gonna come out with it,” Lila finally says. “Shane’s gone and it sucks, but he wouldn’t approve of the android version of you.”
Ryan frowns. “Leave her alone, Tremaine. It’s only been a day. She’s probably still in shock.”
I get up and leave when they start arguing. I finish the lunch hour in the girls’ bathroom, and I only come out after the warning bell. I don’t care if I’m late to class, but I manage to slip in as the last one rings. I sit down and look out the window. The snow is melting, leaving a gray and slushy mess in the parking lot. Beyond, the fields are bleak.
When I get to my locker after school, I stop, staring at it in astonishment. The entire surface is covered in Post-it notes. They’re lined up neatly in a rainbow of hues and ink colors, different handwritings that tell me this show of support comes from a vast array of people. I read them with dawning wonder, and the ice cracks a fraction in my heart.
You made me not want to kill myself.
I took a college art class because of you.
Your kindness gave me hope.
I thought I was invisible until you saw me.
You reminded me that I matter.
I’m not scared anymore.
You proved one person can make a difference.
I’m happier since you moved here.
As I read them all, I’m on the verge of tears. Some of the messages are so personal that I can’t believe someone had the nerve to write it and post it on my locker. I wonder who started it and how it became an outpouring. My locker looks like every person I’ve ever tried to cheer up has now done the same for me. The final message is the one that truly brightens my mood.
Have faith, Shane will come back.
“I hope so,” I whisper.
It takes me a while to remove all the messages, mostly because I’m afraid people will steal them. I stick them inside my locker instead, on top of the pictures I’ve posted. They fill the inside of the doors and the back of my locker, along the sides. The one about Shane, I keep with me, and I stick it next to the Post-it he wrote, so now my binder says, You are the silver lining, and Have faith, Shane will come back.
I’m feeling slightly better, so I go to the Coffee Shop because someone needs to tell them that Shane won’t be showing up for his Sunday showcase in the foreseeable future. The barista actually seems sad to hear it. “I hope everything’s okay?”
I don’t answer her because it’s not, but I don’t want to go into it. I order a chai latte, realizing that I never bought Shane his hot chocolate, and it’s all I can do not to burst into tears. Taking my drink, I head to the Curly Q to offer help for a couple of hours since I missed my shift on Thursday. My boss accepts with the usual amount of complaining. Because Grace is busy and Mildred is cranky, neither of them notice my mood. For my usual four hours, I sweep up hair, shampoo a few clients, make appointments, and handle the register.
On automatic, I put on my reflective tape and pedal home. By seven, Aunt Gabby’s waiting with seitan tacos. I pick at them as she says, “I have good news and bad news.”
“Bad first. Get it over with.”
“Shane’s been sent to Ingram, as we expected. They permit only parental visitation.”
I mutter a bad word and she doesn’t chide me. “So I can’t see him.”
“I’m afraid not.”
“What’s the good news?”
“He can receive unlimited letters. I got the address for you.”
“Wow. That’s old-school. No Internet?”
“From what I’ve gathered, no. But it gets a little better. Once a week—on Saturdays—he’s allowed to make one collect call.”
I’m not even sure if Shane has our home number. He has my cell, but I don’t know if he memorized it, and I have no idea if you can accept collect calls on a cell phone. I suspect not. While I’m thinking of the logistical problems, my aunt hands me a packet of fine stationery, a gel pen, a Post-it with an address on it, and a pack of stamps.
“This will get you started.”
“I’m surprised you’re not telling me I’m better off without him … that he’s trouble.”
“Everyone deserves a second chance,” my aunt says softly.
“Thank you.”
“Anytime. Let me do the dishes tonight. You write to Shane.”
My instinctive reaction is to refuse; I always clean up. But … I want to do this more than I want to be perfect. So I take a deep breath and nod. Oddly, my neck and shoulders feel a little looser as I take everything to my room and shut the door. I don’t think I’ve ever written anyone a letter on actual paper before. I put the date and the time at the top; that might be more journal etiquette than proper letter writing, but Shane won’t care.
Shane,
I wish you hadn’t done that. Dylan Smith isn’t worth your future. It meant more to have you next to me. I felt like I could handle anything then. I really miss you. I have no idea what it’s like for you there. Tell me?
The words come easier after that, and pretty soon I’ve filled a page. Before I can think better of it, I fold the paper and put it in the envelope, then lick the stamp. Gross. I’ll mail this tomorrow.
This sucks in an understated way; I’m acutely conscious of the hole in my life. It’s not that I can’t function without him like my aunt feared, but life has gone monochrome. Shane painted my world in the brightest hues with his smile and his music. Now it’s dull and dark, the worst part of winter without the promise of spring.
Later, Lila and Ryan drag me to a movie, but it’s the opposite of fun.
So, on Saturday, I decide it’s time to take action. I’m sick of feeling sad. I leave a note for my aunt, who’s at the shop, then I ride out to the trailer to check on things. Forty-five minutes later, I push the door open. Shane’s left it unlocked, like he’ll be right back. The lights from Valentine’s Day are still hanging everywhere, the white flowers, too. He didn’t have time to take them down.
I can’t stand this. I can’t.
It smells musty in here after a few days of vacancy. The food in the small fridge will go bad if I don’t clean it out, so I bag that up, feeling awful and guilty. Wandering the trailer, I end up in Shane’s bedroom. His guitar is propped against the wall by the bed, and books are scattered on the floor. This is a tiny room with the bed built into the wall. I didn’t register much the other night; I saw only him. I lie down on his bed and pull his pillow to my chest, breathing him in. This is what home smells like.
He’s pinned a few pictures on the wall, including one of me. My chest tightens until I can hardly breathe, so I squeeze my eyes shut. I fall asleep in his bed, and half an hour later, I wake up feeling better, more centered. So I head back into the front room, where I poke around, unsure of what I’m looking for. I open the packet of photos he showed me and find some new ones. This is all Shane has left of his old life. A few minutes later, I find an old picture of his mom and dad, dated 1989. They look so young. On the back, it reads: Jude and Henry, together forever. But life tears people apart, breaks them down. Young, pretty Jude got cancer and Henry ran away. In my head, I hear the chorus of Shane’s song: Life is bitter, bittersweet …
Then I find it—the postcard tacked to the wall. On the front is a photo of some diner, nothing special. Pulling it down, I flip it over and read: Glad things are going well at your new school. If you have an emergency, this is where you can reach me. There’s a phone number, but no address. The card is signed, Dad.
Asshole.
But now I have a plan.
Once I check to make sure I didn’t leave anything plugged in or turned on, I grab his guitar and iPod for safekeeping, get back on my bike, and race home. This time the trip takes me less than half an hour, though I’m sweaty and panting when I run into the house. After putting Shane’s stuff in my closet, I head straight for my computer, fingers crossed that the reverse lookup will work. A few seconds later, I have an address. I input that into Google maps, which tells me it’s fifty miles away. I switch to street view and zoom in, until I can tell it’s a crappy motel. Well, Shane did tell me his dad usually just crashes at truck stops when he’s not driving. So I guess he has a room here.
I dial the number on my cell and a male voice answers on the fourth ring, sounding groggy. “Hello?”
He’s there. Shocked, I put down the phone. I could call back, beg for his help, but it’s too easy to turn somebody down and hang up. In an instant, I make up my mind, grab the old note I left my aunt, and write a new one. Because I’m not trying to worry her, I’m specific, leaving both the name of the place, the address, and the phone number. Then I wrap up by promising to be back as soon as possible. It’s past noon already, so it might be midnight by the time I get home. She’ll be furious, as I’ve never gone for such a long ride before, but I don’t care.
I can’t breathe until I talk to Henry Cavendish.
