The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things (25 page)

“Me too,” I admit.

“So, I was wondering … are we official?”

“Are you asking if I’m your girlfriend?” Though I’m trying to be cool, inwardly I’m screaming my head off.

“Yeah. I mean, you had that problem with Ryan, where you were always together, and people thought you were a couple but you really weren’t. And people have been asking me, and I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t want to do to you what he did, so I thought—”

“We’re official.” I put him out of his misery, though I’ve never seen Shane ramble so much. It’s tempting to let him continue. “And it was never like this with Ryan. We never kissed.”

“Good,” he whispers, surprising me. “I wish I could have all your firsts, because you’re getting all of mine.”

Instead of saying something profound, I make a weird noise because I literally have no words.
I am awesome at romance. Two points.
He doesn’t seem to mind, though. When he kisses me, I forget why I needed to talk or what I meant to say.

Half an hour later, I reluctantly make up the sofa for Shane and head for my room. It’s hard to leave him, but I’d die of humiliation if my aunt came out to use the bathroom and caught us rolling around. So I savor a final good-night kiss and go to bed on my own. I’m not expecting any problems—this was such a good day, but for the first time in weeks, I have the Dream. I wake with a scream strangling in my throat, sweat pooled on my back, and the sense that the scene has changed. My bio-mom was there, like always, and I’m left shivering, hands tucked inside my sleeves. With my fingertips, I count, inspecting the scars that won’t go away. When I first moved in, my aunt bought vanishing creams, but … they didn’t help. Anyway, the worst marks are those that
don’t
show up on my skin.

For some reason, Dylan Smith has become one of the demons in my head, too. Maybe because he got away with slashing my tires, it’s like he has power over me now. I know from experience that I can’t go back to sleep, however, so I get a book and I’m curled up on my daybed, reading, when someone knocks on the door. The clock tells me it’s 5:22, not a normal time for anyone else to be awake. My aunt won’t stir for three more hours since the shop opens at ten; and she’s not looking forward to Black Friday, the only day of the year when they’re open until eight at night.

“Come in,” I call softly.

I’m not surprised to see Shane standing there, his hair adorably tousled. Overnight, he’s grown some scruff, and in this light, it has a hint of ginger. Somehow this makes him even cuter. “You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Parrying one question with another is a standard defensive strategy, and I instantly regret it. But I’m so scared of what he’ll think of me when I crack the fragile, painted eggshell I show the world and expose the gooey mess within.

“Well, I saw your light, and it’s pretty early. We were up late.”

It’s true; I’m running on five hours of sleep. “You can come in if you want.”

Shane steps into my room, but leaves the door open, so we don’t get accused of dirty deeds, if my aunt wakes up unexpectedly. His blue gaze flicks around, taking in the pictures I’ve cut from magazines and framed, the tangle of beads and Christmas lights that I’ve draped around my mirror. This room is cheerful, but I wonder what he thinks of it the second time. The throw pillows are piled on the floor beside the bed, so he steps over them in coming closer.

Shane perches on the edge of the bed, studying me with a faint frown. “You know me better than I do you. And I feel like an asshole for just realizing it.”

My chest hurts. I rub it, trying to reduce the tight sensation. Too sharply, I remember the group home and the way one of the workers had to restrain me. See, they’re trained on how to hold an out-of-control kid. I can still feel Mr. Rennick’s arms around me, hard and impersonal, to keep me from hurting anyone, myself included. I remember the crunch that came before, when I hit the girl I caught going through my things, crimson spattering from her nose. I remember the burn of the knuckles I scraped on her teeth and the raw feel of my throat from constant screaming. Rage has a scent, bitter and metallic.

“What would you like to know?” The question tastes like blood because I don’t know if I can be honest with him. But I’ll try. That’s how much I trust Shane.

“I know your dad died when you were seven … and you lived in a bad part of Chicago when you were with your mom.” He pauses as if to think. “Then you came to live with your aunt when your mom took off?”

No, he’s skipped a whole section in my life, one I prefer to pretend never happened. “There was some time in government housing between the two. Gabby is my dad’s half sister, and it took time for social workers or whoever to make the connection.”

Please let that be enough for now. Please.

“How long?” he asks.

This much, I can manage. It’s like tiptoeing around the edges of a chasm. If I fall in, I’ll lose the person I’ve built in the last three years. She might have started as a persona I created so Aunt Gabby wouldn’t send me away, but little by little, I feel like this Sage could be real. I want to live
her
life, not the one I left behind. People can do that, right? Make up their minds to change and be better. It’s possible.
Please, let it be.

“Until I was thirteen.” That’s not strictly true. I can’t give him the timeline without telling him everything, though, and I’m not ready to do that. I want to live in this dream a little longer.

“So, like, foster homes or what?”

“And a group home, when the foster home didn’t work out.” I don’t explain why.

And he must sense my reticence because he doesn’t ask. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid. I guess you understand how come.”

“Yeah,” I say softly, gratefully. “I get it. And I’ll help you anyway I can.”

“I know you will, Princess.”

I used to make fun of girls who let guys give them quasi-adorable pet names, but I don’t say a word. It makes me happy that he’s reclaimed one that used to bother me. I melt a little, and Shane reaches for me. His arms feel warm and strong, his hands splaying over my back. He holds me for a while, then he says, “This might seem weird at this hour, but I need to borrow your laptop.”

“Not a problem.” I get it for him and hand it over. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. And I need to apologize to Mike, the guy I stayed with in Michigan City. He was nothing but nice to me, and I was an asshole.”

“Your mom’s friend. But why are you sending this at five in the morning?”

Shane taps my nose gently. “No ’net at home, remember? I’ll have to make a special stop at the library if I don’t do it now, while it’s on my mind.”

“That makes sense.”

He nods, logging in to Gmail. I realize I don’t have his email address, so I peek at it, memorizing music4life, along with four numbers. At first I think, it’s a PIN, then I decide that’s probably the year he was born. After I do the math, I realize it’s too long ago.

“What’s 1994?”

Shane lifts his shoulder in a sheepish shrug. “The year Kurt Cobain died. I used to be really into Nirvana, I opened this account when I was younger.”

“Mine’s Ecogrrl60167,” I mumble. “So I can’t talk.”

“Isn’t that the zip code here?”

“Yep. I’m creative that way.”

“I don’t know if he’ll care, but I feel like a dick for what I put him through. None of it was his fault. I just … went nuclear or something.”

“You were in shock.” I don’t know if that’s the right word for what he went through. He spent years watching his mom die, taking care of her, but not knowing when it would end. Then … it did. It would be hard to deal with that.

Shane hesitates, pausing between words, deleting and erasing, and I glance away from the laptop, not wanting him to think I’m reading over his shoulder. A few minutes later, he sighs and says, “There, sent. An e-mail’s not enough, considering all the nights cops dragged him out of bed because of me.”

“You’re different now. People can change.” Now I’m telling Shane what I want so desperately to be true. Maybe if I say it often enough, we’ll both believe it.

“I hope so.”

It’s almost six by this point, so I suggest, “Let’s fix breakfast.”

I make drop biscuits while Shane scrambles some eggs. My aunt comes out of her room just before seven, sniffing sleepily. “Something smells good.”

Shane tells her, “We wanted to surprise you, after all the cooking you did yesterday.”

Her smile is warm and open. Yep, she likes him. “That’s so sweet.”

After breakfast, my aunt rushes around getting ready. The fact that she doesn’t mind showing Shane how disorganized she can be strikes me as endearing, like she already sees him as family. I clean the kitchen while he showers, then as he works on a new song, strumming his guitar and then making notes on the hand-drawn sheet music, I head for my turn in the bathroom. This melody sounds a little more upbeat, less brokenhearted, and I’m humming the only line I heard as I step into the shower.

You’re the one who makes me whole.

I wonder what he’ll rhyme with that. Soul, maybe.

Later, Shane and I go for a walk, drop my bike off to be repaired, eat lunch at the Coffee Shop, then get home in time to meet Ryan and Lila for a movie at the Capitol. We wait in line together, and for the first time, I feel like all the pieces fit. Ryan and Lila aren’t a couple, but they seem to like hanging out. In fact, I’d swear she’s flirting with him tonight. To me, he seems the same as usual; he’s wearing skinny jeans that make his legs look ten miles long, a button up over a weird graphic tee, plus his hipster glasses. His black hair is the usual riot of cowlicks and chaos.

“What’s the deal?” I whisper, nudging her.

Lila has just flipped her hair. And I don’t think she did it ironically. To my astonishment, color touches her pale cheeks. “What? He’s cute. You don’t mind, right?”

“No.” And I truly don’t.

Ryan’s my friend. He always has been. And, yes, he screwed things up, but I’m glad I listened to my aunt when she advised me not to let the silence run too long. I will always love his stories. Right now, he’s telling a convoluted one about his mom, a squirrel, and a bird feeder. This shouldn’t be hilarious, but somehow it is. I’m overwhelmed by the urge to hug them all, because they’re here, and I have
friends,
and considering what my life was like three years ago, this seems flipping miraculous.

Ryan finishes the story, and we’re all cracking up, but I have this pinch in my heart, like moments this beautiful just can’t last.

“You okay, Sage?” Shane asks, as we step up to the ticket counter.

For him, I muster a smile and put aside my dark thoughts. “I’m perfect.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

In early December, the first snow falls, and it’s cold enough to stick around. I don’t even mind, though the ice makes biking tough. There’s nothing more depressing than dead grass and bare, wet trees in winter. Snow covers all the bad stuff, making the world fresh and clean.

A while ago, using my awesome Google-fu, I tracked down the guy who owns the land we cleared in the fall. He’s in a nursing home, which is why he hasn’t done anything with the property. When he dies, his grandchildren will inherit, but until then, he signs a paper granting us permission to plant a garden for the beautification of the town. I’m exuberant when I come out of the old folks home and swing onto my bike. Green World will be pleased at our next meeting.

Sure enough, on Wednesday, Gwen nominates me as MVP, though that’s not something we’ve ever done before. She also takes charge from there. “We’ll need donations from various merchants, so we’re ready in the spring. We’ll need seeds and seedlings, fertilizer, topsoil…”

Briskly, she divides up the responsibilities between us, and we’re left with the joyous prospect of begging for handouts at the holidays. I feel like I need to point that out. “Christmas is in a couple of weeks, and the stores will be really busy. Doesn’t it make sense to wait until after the holiday rush?”

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “I say we start this in January.”

Conrad surprises me by siding with us. “Agreed. We can’t even start working on the garden until spring. If we plant too soon, frost will kill everything.”

“Then what do you propose we do in December?” Gwen wants to know.

“Canned food drive,” Tara suggests. The sophomores, who are usually quiet at these meetings, nod in agreement. Thus encouraged, she continues, “I know it’s not exactly green, but it’s right to help others at the holidays, you know?”

“Seconded,” Kenny says.

We vote and in the end, most of us are on board with the canned food drive. Since the recycling effort went well, we have the process in place already. I just need to find a teacher willing to sponsor this one and grant extra credit.

I do the cleanup, like usual, and this time, Shane, Ryan, and Lila all stay to help; it goes much faster. The librarian isn’t even turning off the lights when we head downstairs. I wave to Miss Martha, who smiles at me. This makes me wonder if she felt sorry for me before, forever alone and stuck with the janitorial work. Ryan detours to the bathroom.

“Who do you think?” I ask Shane and Lila as we step outside.

“About what teacher might go for the project?” he asks.

“The home ec lady,” Lila jokes.

“So few people take that class … I don’t think that would help much.”

“Probably not,” Shane says.

Ryan catches up with us at a run. “You guys want to come to my place for a while?”

I check the time and shake my head. “By the time I get home, it’ll be late. Thanks, though.”

“I’ll come,” Lila says. “If you can give me a ride home.”

“Not a problem. My car’s this way.”

Ryan and Lila wave as they stroll toward the parking lot; his parents bought him a car in payment for his good grades. I mean, it’s not that I
want
a car, unless it’s an electric one, but if I did, I’d have to save every penny for a year. Shane brushes the hair away from my face, tugging on my knit hat. “I should get moving, too. At this rate, it’ll be past nine when I get home.”