Текст книги "The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things"
Автор книги: Ann Aguirre
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 18 страниц)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
“You need to leave her alone,” I say quietly.
Dylan doesn’t even notice when I join them; he’s too focused on Lila to see anything else. She wasn’t kidding when she said he was abnormal about their breakup. It’s like he can’t accept that anyone would leave him. I’m unsure if that makes him conceited or insane.
“Fuck off, you fat bitch. This doesn’t concern you.”
The people in our immediate area quiet, not wanting to miss a minute of this. But there’s no way I’m letting this go further. He has no right to screw with Lila when we’re here like everyone else, hanging out on a Saturday night. Dylan Smith has been making Lila’s life hell since she had the nerve to dump his loser ass, but she’s my friend, and I’m not having it. I grab Dylan’s arm.
“Actually it does. Come on.” Shadow Sage surges to the front of my brain, all darkness and destruction. She knows exactly how to break this little shit, and for the first time in three years, I’m going to let her.
“Looks like the Princess is hot for you,” one of his friends calls.
“It’s to be expected.” Surprise colors his tone, despite the cocky words, and he follows me more out of curiosity than anything else.
Once I get him away from the others, I drop his arm like it’s a snake about to bite me. “So here’s the deal. You leave Lila alone. You don’t talk to her. You don’t talk about her. You don’t look at her. You don’t even think about her. Matter of fact, that goes for all my friends. You and your crew just steer clear from now on, got me?”
“You’re crazy—”
“I’m not.” I cut off his bluster with a hard look. “See, even though you’re a complete dickhead, I suspect you love your mom. Even if she’s banging Principal Warick … the very married Principal Warick. I’m sure you get tired of people telling you what a MILF your mother is. Imagine how much worse it could be, if people found out she’s having an affair—”
“Shut up.” Dylan lunges at me, clamping a hand over my mouth.
There are enough people in view that I’m not worried he’ll do more. If he tries, I’ll show him all the ways I can make him hurt. Because I’m only playing the role of nice girl; I’ve spent a portion of my life as something else entirely.
In a small town like this one, Tamara Smith, the hot school secretary, draws censure for how she dresses, the amount of makeup she wears, and for the way she’d allegedly cheated on her husband—and that’s why he left. Whatever the truth, she’s definitely doing Principal Warick. I’ve seen them kissing, but I never would’ve brought it up if Dylan didn’t made a career of screwing with two people I care about: Lila and Shane.
He applies more pressure, almost enough to bruise my jaw. So I bite him.
Dylan lets go, hate warring with unease in his eyes. He stumbles back a few steps, then he yells to his friends, “These bitches aren’t worth it.”
I take one breath, another, watching him walk away. Time to put the scary back in the box. The athletic crew disappears around the side of the barn, then Lila heads over, looking astonished. “What the hell did you say to him?”
By the time, I turn to face her, I’ve got my mask back in place.
I shrug. “I just made it clear he can’t mess with you anymore.”
“I hope you don’t regret this. Dylan isn’t known for letting shit go.”
“Maybe he’s turning over a new leaf.”
Lila still seems doubtful but I don’t reveal anything. If I tell her, she might repeat it, and then I’ll lose my leverage. My anger at Dylan writhes like a snake twining and tightening around my intestines, but this is where I stop. It takes all my willpower to smile and eat my marshmallow, which has cooled off nicely. The rest of the party is quiet compared to the beginning. I play a game of beer pong, set up on two sawhorses and a plywood board; my team loses, mostly because I suck. After that, Lila and I dance by the bonfire while various guys try to hit on us. That’s … different.
Eventually, I get bored and by that point, Lila’s ready to head out, too. The golf cart is easy to maneuver around the cars, so we set out for my place.
“Is it okay if I stay over?” she asks as we pull up outside my house. The lights are still on in the living room, which means my aunt is probably dozing on the sofa.
“If it’s cool with your mom, I’m sure my aunt won’t mind.”
“I already asked her.” She’s been weird and quiet on the drive home. Now she sounds subdued, like she’s thinking about something else.
I grin. “Glad I could conform to plans you already made.”
As she hops down from the golf cart, she says, “Seriously, Sage, I hope this doesn’t blow back on you. While I appreciate the way you stood up to Dylan for me, I have a bad feeling.”
“Don’t worry about it. Whatever Dylan thinks he can do, I guarantee I’ve been through worse.” I don’t mean to tell her so much, but Lila’s gaze sharpens.
“You never talk about what it was like before you moved here.”
Instead of answering, I dig into my bag for my key, then step inside. Sure enough, my aunt is crashed out on the couch, her head back, while the TV is stalled on the DVD menu. I turn everything off quietly and then kiss my aunt on the head.
“I’m home. Lila’s with me. You can go to bed now.”
Aunt Gabby’s bleary gaze finds the wall clock. “Thanks for getting in before midnight.”
“No problem. The party was kind of boring anyway. I don’t know if I’ll go to another.”
“Not your thing, huh? Well, at least you tried something new.” My aunt flashes a sleepy smile in Lila’s direction, then pads toward her bedroom.
“She’s so cool.”
“Agreed,” I say.
I unroll an old sleeping bag and set up on the floor. The rug on the wood floor is fluffy enough that it should serve as another layer of padding. While I’m doing that, Lila heads for the bathroom, and when she comes back, she looks much younger without makeup. The red hair seems extra bright against her pale, clear skin.
I point at the bed. “You sleep there. My aunt will kill me if I put a guest on the floor.”
“I guess since you’re my bodyguard, I have to listen to you.”
“At some point, I’ll remind you that you said that.”
She smirks.
Laughing, I go brush my teeth. By the time I get back, she’s settled in my daybed, and I wonder if the sheets smell like Shane. This is the most traffic my room has ever seen. I’m unsure what the deal is, if we’re supposed to whisper until we fall asleep or if the night’s basically over. I make a show of snuggling down into the sleeping bag, letting her decide.
“You don’t have a TV in your room,” Lila says softly.
“No, we just have the one. My aunt got it so we can watch movies. No cable. It’s supposed to motivate me to read more.” Though I don’t say so, I need little encouragement to stick my nose in a book. I’ve loved fiction since I was a kid in need of rescuing.
“I hope she doesn’t talk to my mom.”
“She’s not like that. She doesn’t proselytize.”
“Somebody’s dropping her SAT vocab words.”
“Bet you don’t get that from the burner crowd.”
Lila laughs. “That’s why I’m here on Saturday night, not watching them smoke.”
Her mention of the lack of a television clues me in; she isn’t used to falling asleep when it’s quiet. “I can turn on some music. I have an iPod.”
“Go for it.”
I rummage in the dark until I find my nano, then I set it on shuffle and click in place in the dock on my alarm clock. “Better?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Night.”
To my surprise, Lila seems in no hurry to leave the next morning. Instead, she helps with breakfast, then the three of us watch an old romantic comedy about losing a guy in ten days. Before long, it’s time to straighten up the house and get ready for our guests. My stomach is a mass of butterflies, not only because Shane’s coming over, but also because he’s meeting my aunt for the first time and Ryan will be here too, maybe.
I’ve dropped my hairbrush for the third time when Lila says, “You okay?”
“Not really,” I mumble.
She’s pretty good at getting the truth out of people; with pointed questions, soon she knows exactly what’s on my mind. “Is that all?” she asks, once I’m finished talking. “If you want, I’ll take Ryan off your hands.”
I stare at her. “What does that even mean?”
“I’ll keep him from fixating and making things awkward, promise.”
Now I have visions of Lila draping herself across Ryan’s lap, but I’d pay to see his face if she does, so I nod. “Go for it.”
It’s a last-minute scramble to get both the lasagnas baked, and I’m pouring the salad into a big wooden bowl when the doorbell rings. Aunt Gabby trots down the hall, calling, “I’ll get it.”
Kimmy and Shanna arrive together, followed shortly by Theo, Tara, and Kenny. Mel’s dad drops her off next, and she’s brought homemade rolls, which Shanna says makes everyone else look bad. Everyone is kind of milling around—God, how did I get into this—when Shane knocks. Maybe it sounds dumb, but I recognize his tap: bum-bum, bum-bum-bum; it’s more musical and rhythmic than anyone else’s.
I manage to be cool as I swing the door open. But my first sight of him since he left yesterday morning steals both my breath and my good intentions. He’s wearing black skinny jeans with black sneakers, a white shirt, and a black faux-leather jacket. His tousled hair falls into his eyes as he smiles at me, then bends to kiss me. His lips brush mine, soft and warm, carrying the faint tinge of mint. Shane acts like it’s easy, but I’m tied in knots, hardly able to move, because I don’t know if my knees will hold me or I’ll end up against the wall, grinning like a reject. Ryan comes up the walk then and, judging by his expression, he saw the kiss.
“Hey,” I say to both of them.
The guys step past me into the house. Since our kitchen can’t accommodate this many people, Aunt Gabby has set up a couple of card tables, but they’re covered with red-and-white-checkered cloths. The white vases with red silk carnations make it look like we’re running an Italian bistro. As I run around, I perform breathless introductions. For a few minutes, it’s a constant rush of getting plates out, serving this and that, but pretty soon, we’re all seated, devouring the veggie lasagna and salad, along with the rolls Mel donated to the cause. True to her word, Lila manages to get Ryan next to her, and from his puzzled expression, he has no idea what’s going on. But he seems okay with the attention.
Lunch is loud, which gives me no chance to talk to Shane. Mostly, I enjoy Aunt Gabby’s pleasure in being a hostess. After everyone’s done eating, I carry the plates into the kitchen and close the galley door, so nobody can see the mess. I have no idea what to do with these people now that we’ve fed them, but Lila is good at this kind of thing. She finds a terrible SF movie in our collection, which encourages everyone to shout commentary at the screen. Soon Ryan is replacing all the dialogue with his own improv, delivered in a Russian accent. He’s supposed to sound like Borat, but given how bad he is, I’m probably the only one who knows this.
Around six, parents pull up out front. Eventually, it’s just Ryan, Lila, Shane, and me. Ry puts his hand on my arm and says in a subdued voice, “This was fun.”
“Yeah. You can have the party at your place next time.”
He gives me a hopeful look. “Would you come?”
“If it’s a bunch of us, sure.”
Just then, his mom leans on the horn and he hurries out with a general good-bye and a call of “Thanks!” for my aunt.
“No problem,” Aunt Gabby yells back.
At last, Lila decides she should head out, too, and she hugs me. Her eyes are yelling, Text me as soon as he leaves. “This was really fun. See you tomorrow.”
“So … that was nuts,” Shane says as the door closes.
“Yeah. But on the plus side, my aunt didn’t have a chance to interrogate you.”
“Is she likely to do that now?” he asks, looking faintly alarmed.
I shake my head. “You want to go for a walk? I could use some fresh air.”
“Sounds good.”
After heading down the hall, I tap on Aunt Gabby’s door. “Shane and I are going out. Don’t worry about cleanup. I’ll take care of it when I get back.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Probably to the Coffee Shop.” It’s not like there’s much to do here on a Sunday night.
“Be back by nine,” she says.
“Not a problem. I still have homework … and Shane probably does, too.”
He nods at this. “Plus it’s a long walk home.”
If I could think of a way for Aunt Gabby to drive him that wouldn’t end in a bunch of awkward questions, I’d ask her. “Come on. The weather won’t be warm enough for us to do this much longer.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Once we’re walking down the drive, I ask, “How was work?” With so many people around, lunch didn’t give us much chance to talk, and I’m wondering how he did at the P&K.
“It sucked about as much as I expected. I opened boxes. Priced and put cans on shelves. Twice, I mopped up stuff that other people broke.”
“But you can deal?”
Shane nods. “I’m looking forward to my first paycheck.”
There are a lot of questions I want to ask him, like if he misses his dad and whether he likes living alone, but it seems too soon to poke around in his head that way. I’m full of blazing curiosity about how he dealt with something so big by himself. My control slips, and I think of my mother. I start to shake. Somehow, I lock it down before it turns into anything worse. I imagine melting down in front of Shane and my cheeks fire up.
He seems to think the tremors mean I’m cold, though it’s in the sixties today, unseasonably warm for this late in the fall. Not that I mind. Life gets downright uncomfortable in the winter. Because he’s sweet, Shane takes off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders. I’ve seen this move a hundred times in romantic movies and, until this moment, I always rolled my eyes. But now I’ve got his warmth wrapped around me, his smell enveloping me, and this is pretty close to the best thing ever.
“Better?” he asks.
“Yeah, but you’ll be cold now.”
“It’s worth it if I am.”
This is me, melting like butter on the sidewalk. Somehow I keep my knees from turning to total jelly. I’m not sure what we talk about the rest of the way, only that Shane is murmuring and I’m nodding at whatever he’s saying. It’s wrong to zone out, but I can’t help it. His coat feels and smells so good. I wonder how he’d respond if I don’t give it back.
Knowing Shane, he’d be nice about it, even though he doesn’t have anything to spare. We have that in common. I can’t relate to people who get whatever they want, just by asking. Aunt Gabby would do more if she could, but our budget doesn’t allow for it. She pays the mortgage, utilities, and buys our food; she says it helps that we don’t eat meat. Anything extra, like my clothes, comes out of my paycheck. I’m trying to save for college, now that I’ve bought a laptop, but it’s tough sometimes.
Shane’s scuffing his feet on the leaves littering the sidewalk; sometimes they crunch and sometimes they quietly dissolve. “It’s hard to believe things can be this way. Like nothing happened.”
“I don’t know how you coped.”
“Mike helped. He was a friend, someone she met in group.” At my blank look, he explains, “She was in a support group for cancer survivors. Mike beat the odds. My mom didn’t.”
“He went into remission and it didn’t come back?”
“I think it’s been seven years. And at the end, I was just so mad. Mike has no close family. No people. No reason to stick around, you know? But my mom, she had me. So why her and not Mike?”
“Did you say that to him?” I ask softly.
“Shit, I screamed it at him, afterward. He tried so hard to help me, and I pissed all over it.” He pauses, gazing down at me, looking torn. “My mom had papers drawn up, appointing him as my legal guardian. She was trying to look out for me, even at the end. If I hadn’t been such an asshole, Mike would’ve been there for me, just like he was for her.”
“He sounds like a good guy.”
“Yeah. He helped me with all of it, picking up prescriptions, the special diet, and he relieved me sometimes, near the end. He even helped me take care of the funeral arrangements.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t blame you, Shane.”
“I keep thinking how disappointed my mom would be. But back then, I just kept thinking, There’s no reason for anything anymore. Screw it all.”
Touching his arm, I say, “I bet she’d understand. It was a lot to deal with.”
“Wow. I didn’t mean to unload so much at once.” He appears shaken.
“I don’t mind. I’m glad you can talk to me.” To be honest, I want to hug him hard and refuse to let go, but then we’d never get to the Coffee Shop.
“You’re a good listener. You make it easy.”
“Thanks.” That might be the best compliment I’ve ever received, especially coming from a guy who says he never opens up to people. Shane makes me feel like I’m special, if only to him. We keep walking. His hand wraps around mine, warm and sure.
“Here we are,” Shane says, shoving the door open.
The bell jangles as we step inside. There are, like, twenty middle-aged women in here, sitting in threes and fours. I’m guessing they wanted to get away from people after church. It’s cozy in the Coffee Shop, padded furnishings in complementary colors; I love how they’ve mixed patterns for an inviting impression. There’s a line and only a couple of chairs vacant.
I offer, “I can get our drinks if you’ll grab those—”
“Sit. What do you want?” Normally, I’d be a little irritated at the interruption, but I don’t mind if Shane takes charge. He’s probably used to that, under the circumstances. Given what he told me on the way here, he doesn’t know how to let people look after him anymore.
“Chai latte, please. Soy milk.”
“Be right back.”
I slide into the seats just before a couple of girls my age can claim them. If they were old women, I’d feel guilty and cede my ground, but these two can stand. I ignore their glares and drop my bag on Shane’s spot. I wish we’d gotten a love seat, but it’s pretty hard to talk on those anyway. You have to turn sideways and worry about whether you look weird with one leg bent up at an angle.
At this point I notice there’s a mic to the left of the barista counter and the chairs have been pushed back, giving the room a slightly off-kilter feel. A wooden stool sits in front of the microphone, but nobody seems to be setting up to play. A flyer on the bulletin board tells me what’s going on:
EVERY SUNDAY! 6pm. The Coffee Shop is proud to present a showcase of local musicians.
Only it’s six fifteen now, and I hear the women next to me complaining. “I missed my hair appointment for this, and the Curly Q is closed now.”
And they have been for over two hours. Mildred only opens the place from noon to four on Sundays; she doesn’t want to obstruct anyone’s religious practices. Which is good of her, and the kind of thing you rarely see outside the Bible Belt.
Soon Shane returns with our drinks; I can’t tell what he has, but it’s not a frap since it’s in a hot beverage cup with paper guard around it. He drops into an adorable sprawl across from me, long legs taking up the space between us. If I had more confidence, I’d prop my feet on top of his, but this thing has just gotten started between us, even if we’re already sharing a locker. Just … for the first time, I want so bad for someone to like me back. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had crushes before, guys I’d never meet or ones I knew would never look at me like that. Sometimes it’s safer to pin your dreams on somebody who’s never going to see you. While it’s sad, it’s also safe. Because there’s no chance he’ll ever break your heart for real.
Shane? Could crush me.
To cover the thumping of my heart, I sip my chai latte. He didn’t sweeten it, which is perfect. “This is great, thanks. What’s yours?”
I ask because the next time we come here—and I hope there will be a next time—I intend to get his drink. While I like that he wants to buy things for me, I can’t let him do it all the time.
To my surprise, the tips of his ears go pink. “Hot chocolate. I don’t like tea or coffee. I realize that makes me sound like I’m nine.”
“With whipped cream or without?”
“Without.”
“Cinnamon?”
He raises a brow at me. “Are you writing a paper on this?”
“Maybe.”
“Yes, cinnamon.”
I memorize his preferences, so I’ll get the right drink when it’s my turn to buy. Before I can reply, the door bangs open, ruffling the papers tacked to the walls. A guy dashes in carrying a battered guitar case; the thing has all kinds of stickers on it, some ancient and peeling off, others from bands I recognize, some of which I even like, including Paramore and All Time Low. He’s out of breath and cradling his hand against his chest.
The counter girl yells, “You’re late, Jace! This is the third time … which means you’re out of the showcase for good. I’m calling the manager.”
Customers respond poorly to this, grumbling. Jace heads to the front of the shop.
“Come on, it wasn’t my fault. I had a tire blow out, and then I slammed my hand in the car door after changing it, and I dropped my phone—”
“Whatever,” she interrupts. “These people came down to hear you play. Now what?”
“I don’t know,” Jace says miserably. “But please don’t call the boss.”
He’s pretty cute, if you like black hair and dark eyes. Jace’s probably in his early twenties and he’s failing to grow a goatee. I’m interested in the drama unfolding before us; this is almost as good as live music. It’s entertainment anyway. But the older women don’t seem to agree, bitching as Jace argues with the barista. The injury isn’t fake, though. His hand is swollen, black and blue across the knuckles. If he really had a flat, then broke his phone, he’s on course for the worst day ever.
Shane cuts me a look that I can’t interpret. So I’m just looking at him when he puts down his hot chocolate and heads over to the counter. Because I’m straining, I hear him say, “I could fill in for him, just for today. Should be better than nothing.”
He’s incredible, I want to say, but I register how much of a big deal it is that Shane’s volunteered at all. Just a few weeks ago, he was talking about how he wanted to lie low and graduate. Now, he’s willing to play music in public. If I know anything about him, I suspect he’s doing it to help the guy out more than from pure desire, but he’s not backing off as the barista looks him up and down.
“Are you any good?” the girl asks.
Shane shrugs. He’s not going to sell himself to them.
But Jace hands over his beat-up guitar case. “The picks are in there, too.” Then he faces the room, raising his voice to carry over the complaints of multiple coffee klatches. “We have a special treat today at the Coffee Shop. One show only—” Jace glances over at his replacement, and Shane fills in his name in a low voice. “We have Shane Cavendish, live and unplugged.”
The applause that follows is mostly mine, though a few girls brighten up as Shane arranges himself on the stool, long legs propped to support the guitar. Jace collapses where Shane was, right next to me, and he looks both exhausted and relieved. His hand looks like he might have broken fingers, and that can’t be good for a musician.
As Shane settles in with the pick, strumming the guitar experimentally, I whisper, “Shouldn’t you see a doctor?”
Jace shushes me since Shane’s short warm-up has concluded and he’s playing the opening chords of a song. At first I can’t place it, but then I realize it’s an arrangement of “The Reckless and the Brave”; I really like All Time Low’s version, which rocks, but this is … more. You know how sometimes an acoustic version brings out things you didn’t notice before? Yeah. That. Plus, Shane’s voice. When I heard him in the music room before, he was only playing. Only. That’s like saying Michelangelo was just a guy who liked to carve shapes in rocks.
I’m not alone in going breathless, however. All the talking stops immediately, just as soon as Shane sings the first lines. He’s got rich tone with just a hint of a growl, and it underscores the aching strains he evokes in a melody I’d previously considered pugnacious, defiant even. But somehow, the way he plays the song, along with the slower melody, he elicits a touch of pathos. The girls behind me let out a collective sigh when he sings the line, “I don’t think I want to be saved,” because he sounds like he’s drowning, and I’m pretty sure everyone in the room wants to rescue him.
I do, too.
“Wow,” Jace breathes. “This is a badass cover.”
I can only nod.
Without a single word of segue or explanation, Shane sings the last notes and immediately begins the next song. This one takes me even longer to identify; the Pretty Reckless isn’t my favorite band, though I like Taylor Momsen’s voice. If the first song was soulful, this one is a broken heart; it’s every bad marriage that ever fell apart, every family splintered, and everyone who’s ever seen somebody they love drive off in the middle of the night. As he sings, I can imagine a couple fighting in the street—she’s drunk and he’s broken. Oh God, Shane does broken so beautifully.
I can’t stand it.
I never cry in public, but I can feel the tears starting, a hot burn in my eyes. Shit. At least I’m not wearing mascara. Beside me, Jace stirs, but I only have eyes for Shane. Suddenly I can’t breathe, can’t figure out what the hell he sees in me, but I can’t look away, either. And that’s when I realize, his eyes are locked on mine. Until this moment, I didn’t notice; I thought he was off in music land, but he’s lost in me instead. Though he’s not letting on, he’s scared and I’m holding him steady. I wonder if he’s ever performed in public before. Somehow I manage an encouraging smile.
That’s it. Sing to me. Just me.
When he sings the question, “Do you understand who I am?” I nod because the answer to any question he asks me will always be yes. Maybe I’m in too deep, too fast. I haven’t known him for very long, all things considered, but I’m falling in love, song by song. The room is dead silent when he finishes this one, like the audience doesn’t dare breathe, let alone applaud, but Shane doesn’t need motivation to continue. He’s already strumming the next number.
I’m surprised to recognize a song by an Australian band, one I’d swear few people in the U.S. know about yet. I found them on YouTube, so I guess it makes sense that Shane did, too. And this song. OMG. It breaks my heart because I could be singing it to him, asking these questions. “Why, why me? When you could have had anybody.” I ask myself if he’s singing this for a reason, if he saw how much I doubt belonging with someone like him, someone hot and talented.
I’m so not enough. I can’t be. I smile, and I act happy, and I pretend. I’m the queen of bright and shiny things, eternally looking for the positive and seeking a silver lining in the dark. He’s dating a girl I invented three years ago because the real me is horrible, and I wanted to leave her behind, along with the group home and the court-mandated therapy sessions. I want so bad to be normal, but I never can be.
I can’t. Not after what I’ve done.
The tears slip down, but I’m not alone. Other women look misty, but this number isn’t as sad as the others. He infuses this one with a sweetness that melts the females in the audience, regardless of age. Shane cradles them all in long, graceful fingers; he has them hanging on his every word, every note. The women are all breathless and smiling by the time he winds the song down, ending on a sexy flourish.
The next one, I don’t know at all, but as I listen, I know I’ll be looking for it online to compare the original with Shane’s version, which is somewhere between melancholy and bittersweet. To me, it feels like he’s singing about endings, letting go, and saying good-bye. We both know too much about that, he and I. I listen and dry up my tears, eyes half closed with the sheer power of Shane’s voice. He should have his own channel online, where he posts videos of himself singing. I suspect he’d have a million views and record companies wanting to sign him. I see that future stretched ahead of him like a strand of pearls, and I don’t see a place for me there. Sometimes when you meet someone, you can glimpse the future around them like swirls of smoke, and he’s like that, marked for greatness. Someday people will watch him on TV and onstage; and they’ll marvel they knew him, even for a little while.
I’m marveling now.
Finally, he speaks, pausing in his performance. “This is actually meant to be a duet, but I like the song so much that I’m going to try it solo. Be gentle, okay?”
Soft laughter greets his words, which tells me he’s won the room completely. From there, he flows right into a dreamy-folksy number, more upbeat though still with plenty of heart. This song feels like it’s about healing and new beginnings, and I memorize a few of the lines, so I can Google them later. When I get home, I’ll discover some new band. I can envision how it would sound sung in harmony. Beautiful. That could be my theme, and I’m smiling along with the rest of the listeners when he finishes.
Good Charlotte is up next, one of my favorite bands. But Shane picks “Wondering” instead of a more popular choice, like “The Anthem.” His arrangement is unique and masterful, using not just the strings of the guitar but thumps on the body as well. He’s confident now, and he seems to be having fun. Music is such a personal thing, but it lights him up when he plays. I’ve never been to the ocean, but I imagine Shane’s eyes look exactly like sunlight on the Caribbean, and in this moment, they’re shining just for me. His hair tumbles over his forehead as he plays, rocking a little. I could watch him forever.
Apparently the audience agrees because when he tries to stand up and take an awkward bow to indicate he’s done, someone shouts, “Encore!”
“I never get asked for an encore,” Jace mumbles.
“That’s my whole set list,” Shane says.
“Not even one more?” a girl from our school begs.
Yeah, this performance will probably change his status at school a lot. He won’t be a nobody that Dylan Smith can easily push around; and that makes me happy, even while I wonder how it’ll affect us. I mean, I don’t think that Shane is so shallow that he’ll ditch me for the first hot girl who flips her hair when he walks by. Still, I’m nervous. My life has already changed so much, so fast.
