by Ann Aguirre
Cinder blocks have been stacked up in lieu of steps long since rotted away. I lean my bike against a pile of tires out front, climb up, and knock. My heart thunders in my ears. I must be crazy for showing up uninvited. Now that I’ve seen where Shane lives, though, I’m more worried, not less. I’m scared he might be mad at me for barging in like this, but I have to make sure he’s okay, echo of a time when I desperately wished somebody would’ve checked up on me.
Mustering all my courage, I tap lightly on the door. Immediately, I hear movement inside and I brace for one of his parents to yell at me. Instead, Shane cracks the door, then freezes, staring at me in utter astonishment. The first thing I notice is that he has a second bruise, a newer one, to match the black eye Dylan gave him a few days back. And he didn’t get it at school.
“What’re you doing here?” he demands.
Yeah, he’s not happy. I decide only absolute honesty will serve. “I was worried about you. And I brought your homework.”
“Thanks.” His anger blurs into confusion. Shane looks like he can’t decide what he wants to ask next, a series of questions flickering on his face, but eventually he steps back. “You may as well come in, now that you’re here.”
Inside, it’s cleaner than I expected. The kitchen has old linoleum and there’s scratched paneling all over the place. Everything is worn, old-fashioned, and threadbare, but somebody looks after this place. I’d bet money that person is Shane. A small living room adjoins the kitchen. I imagine there’s a bath down the hall, which ends in two small bedrooms.
“Your parents won’t mind?” I ask, stepping in.
“My mom’s gone. And my dad isn’t here.”
By which I presume “gone” means for good and “not here” indicates at the moment. So he lives with his father, who’s probably the one who messed up his face. Otherwise, he doesn’t seem sick, so he must’ve skipped to hide the evidence. I close the door behind me, then dig into my backpack. First I produce his list of assignments, as promised. Next, I get out the drinks and food I brought, not much, just some chicken soup sealed in a cup, bottles of juice, and two pieces of fruit. He watches with an expression of blank astonishment.
Finally, he gestures. “Is that for me?”
“The soup and juice are. And the orange. I thought you were sick.”
“God,” he whispers. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
I try a smile. “I hope that’s a rhetorical question.”
“Seriously, how did you find me? And why did you ride all the way out here?” His jaw ticks and he glances away. I barely hear his last mumbled question. “Why do you care when nobody else does?”
“I already told you.”
“You didn’t answer anything,” he points out.
I really don’t want to admit that I skulked around the school office to find his address, so I respond to the last thing he said. “I remember how hard it was when I moved here.” I hesitate.
He’s quiet, and I can’t tell if he’s mad, if he believes me. We eat in silence while I try to decide if I should mumble an excuse and leave. There’s a darkness about him, a shadow in his eyes, and he doesn’t look at me while finishing the soup and peeling the orange. I take my time with the apple, conscious of how much noise I’m making as I chew. I can’t tell him that I’m slightly obsessed because he’s hot, and I’m intrigued because he’s a musician, and all the girl reasons behind why I’m here. So maybe—
“So you came because you were worried?” He asks like it’s never happened before. “Not because you feel sorry for me. I don’t want to be a … project.”
“Well, yeah.”
For another long moment, he’s quiet. Then he seems to come to some conclusion.
“Thank you.” Those are the most heartfelt words anybody’s ever spoken to me. Sincerity burns in his blue, blue eyes, and he’s beautiful, despite the bruises. I want to ask, but for now it’s just enough he’s not making me go.
“Since you’re here,” he adds, “want to work on some geometry?”
Not really. I’d rather stare at him or make out on the couch, but those options aren’t on the table. “Sure, thanks. But that’s not why I came. I mean, I don’t expect you to help me just because—”
“I know,” he interrupts. “I want to.”
An hour later, I’m totally awed by Shane’s brain. He has this way of simplifying the theorems so they actually make sense. With his guidance, I’ve successfully managed to solve two problems on my own. I still can’t imagine why I would ever need to be able to figure out the length of one side of a mystery triangle, but if I’m ever kidnapped by a geometry-obsessed madman, maybe I won’t die.
“Make sense now?” he asks.
“Yeah, I think I got it. I’d love to pull my grade up to a C before midterms.”
“I’ll get you to a B by the time the grading period ends.”
I say without thinking, “If you do, I’ll love you forever.”
It’s the sort of joke I’d make with Ryan, just hyperbole, but with Shane, it gains layers. He gives me that look again, the one that x-rays through my skin down to my bones, until I feel like he can view my heart. That should be a terrifying, creepy feeling, but it’s more of a relief, like I don’t have to hide; there’s nothing about me that could scare him because he’s been through so much himself.
God, how I want that to be true.
“Then I better apply myself,” he says softly.
To what? Geometry? Or making me love you forever? Oh God. My stomach swirls.
“I never do this,” I tell him.
“Study?”
I huff out a breath. “No. Show up at someone’s house uninvited. It’s so rude.”
“I was just cleaning up a little.”
The place is already as spotless as it can be, given its condition, but I spot a shimmer of broken glass in the trash can. So his dad’s a drinker. I don’t say anything, but I register him noticing. Shane may not say much, but he’s the most observant person I’ve ever met. Which is why it’s odd that he hasn’t said anything about my hair. I mean, it’s stupid and self-centered to want him to, given the mess he’s dealing with, but I’m not 100 percent enlightened. I want him to think I’m pretty, and I wish he knew I’m fighting my way out of the fog for him.
“I should go—” I start, before it gets awkward.
But at the same time, he asks, “Would you—”
Then we both break off. Does he feel like I do? I hope he’s nervous and excited and scared, and it feels like the start of something he wants desperately. I wait for him to go on, urging with my eyes.
Finally he murmurs, “You want me to play something for you?”
Oh God, yes. Please. Because I’m afraid my voice will reveal pure breathless glee, I just nod.
Shane goes back to his bedroom and returns with the battered guitar he was playing in the music room. He tunes it with a few expert thrums and I focus on his hands: long fingered, scars on the knuckles, hard but graceful. I’d imagine lacing our hands together but I might hyperventilate.
The song is haunting, and he plays with his eyes shut, head tilted back. After a few bars, I recognize it as one Aunt Gabby plays sometimes—“Collide” by Howie Day. I’ve never listened to the lyrics so closely before, but when Shane sings it, I find it impossible to do anything else. His acoustic cover is quiet and slow, a hint of melancholy, so it feels like a breakup song, though I don’t think that’s what it’s about. The line about being tangled up with me? Yes. Please. By the time he strums the final note, holding it until it feels like a touch, I suspect I’d agree to anything.
“You’re really good,” I say.
Understatement.
“Think so?” And he’s not asking for an ego boost. For a moment, his heart shows in his eyes. I’ve seen yearning before, but never so raw, and this isn’t for me. He wants to be good, probably for the same reasons I push for good grades and lots of clubs. Like me, he needs to get out of here; he’s runnin
g toward something bigger and brighter.
“The best I’ve ever heard, who wasn’t already getting paid for it.” That’s actually not saying much. My car issues mean I don’t go to many concerts. But I’m sure he’s talented.
“I’ve got some original songs, too, if you’d like to hear one sometime.”
“Sure,” I say, as if I’m not inwardly screaming that he wants to see me again. On purpose. But the last thing I want is to get him in trouble. “Do you need me to head out? What time’s your dad—”
His fingers clench on the neck of his guitar and he gives me a measuring look, before apparently deciding to spill. “I won’t see him again for a while.”
“Where is he?” That’s not what I want to ask, and he knows it.
“He’s a truck driver. He didn’t even have a place until the court dumped me on him. He just put up at short-term motels between long hauls.”
Judging by the crappy accommodations, Shane isn’t close to his dad, as the guy didn’t go out of his way to provide. “I shouldn’t even say anything, but—”
“Don’t say it. I’m not reporting him.”
“Why?” I demand. “He can’t get away with hurting you.”
“I made him a deal,” Shane says, surprising me. “He bought this place … and signs off on any paperwork. In return, I look after myself.”
“But … your face…” I really thought his dad had hit him. But he’s not even here?
“You’ve seen the front porch. Try going out the door when you have an arm full of stuff.”
“You’re trying to convince me you fell.”
He smiles. “I really did. I promise. After I broke my history project, I said screw it.” So it’s the project in the trash, not liquor bottles? “I didn’t feel like going today. My dad is many things … and a good father isn’t one of them, but he doesn’t punch me in the face. He’d just rather not see me.”
“Why not?” I ask, despite my resolution not to pry.
He shrugs, but the careless gesture reveals a world of vulnerability. “I remind him too much of my mom. It hurts, I guess.”
“Because she’s gone.” I have no idea what that means, though. Did the woman move to California to find herself, or—
Before I can speculate, he says softly, “Yeah. Her funeral was the worst day of my life.”
Wow. So, forever gone.
Without even thinking about it, I move over beside him on the sagging couch, gently nudging his guitar aside to cover his hand with mine. This is new to me; I’m more familiar with distant kindness, leaving Post-its and moving on. I don’t know much about making real connections, but for Shane, I’ll crawl out of my comfort zone. He wraps his fingers around mine, and I think, I could live in your eyes.
“What happened?” Belatedly, I realize he might not want to talk about it, but if he doesn’t, he can say so. I won’t back off the bravery with a babbling disclaimer.
“Things were okay when I was younger. My dad was never around a lot. He’s always driven a big rig, as long as I can remember. But when he came home, my mom would light up and it was like Christmas. He always brought presents…”
“That sounds nice.” I don’t remember a time when my mom and dad were together and happy. She left right after I was born. Things were better when my dad had custody, but I’ve never been part of a typical family unit. I know how it feels to lose a parent, though. Later, I’ll tell him so, but right now, I don’t want to interrupt.
“I was always closer to Mom for obvious reasons.”
I nod.
“She got sick when I was twelve.”
There should be some words in the world that could make it better somehow, but if they exist, I don’t know them. So I just cling to his hand, gaze locked on his bruised face. His eyes are just swimming, not in tears, but sadness. His chin drops.
“We went through rounds of radiation, aggressive meds, chemo. Year after year. She had two remissions before it finally got her.”
No wonder the football team didn’t have the power to bother him.
He goes on, “My dad bailed when I was fourteen. He couldn’t stand watching her die.”
“That was a pussy thing to do,” I say. That’s not a word I normally use, but it applies.
Wry smile. “You’re telling me. But my mom forgave him. Said he just loved her too much to let her go. And that’s what I had to do … so she could finally, y’know.”
“Rest?” I supply, unsure.
“Yeah,” he says tiredly. “Dad wouldn’t come back to Michigan City, said he couldn’t. I was on the verge of going into the system for the last time when I cut this deal with him.”
“The last time?”
He hunches his shoulders. “I didn’t handle it well after my mom died. A friend of hers let me stay with him while he looked for my dad, but I wasn’t … cooperative. Or law abiding.” I can see that he regrets it, probably feels like he let his mom down.
“You went a little crazy. It’s understandable.” I’m guessing whatever he did, like get into fights, shoplift, drink, maybe drugs, it isn’t as bad as what I’m hiding.
“So I’m lucky I avoided a permanent stay in juvie,” he concludes. “My dad came through.”
“And bought you all this.”
My disdain must’ve penetrated because his brows draw together. “It’s not much, but it’s mine. It’s all he could afford. My mom’s medical bills…”
“I am such an asshole. I’m sorry.”
“It is a dump. But it’s better than foster care. I just … I couldn’t deal with a new family right now. I just wanted to be by myself.”
I wonder if that’s really what he needs, but it’s not my place to judge. I had years of court-mandated therapy and I don’t feel fixed. I just feel like a different kind of broken.
He goes on, “Promise you won’t tell anyone. I’m not sure if this is strictly legal.”
Most likely it falls under the heading of neglect, though if he’s been looking after his terminally ill mother for years, he’s not a kid in the usual sense of the word. I respect his desire for privacy.
“I promise.”
His silence makes it clear he’d prefer not to say more.
Then it dawns on me. “I’ve been pestering the crap out of you.” I should’ve known there would be a reason he avoids people, but I only thought about how he made me feel. It’s been a long time since I was so selfish, since I let myself be. Ryan was right after all when he dubbed Shane antisocial. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” He’s smiling. “I haven’t had friends the past few years. It was too hard. I was taking care of my mom, no time to hang out. Most of them got tired and went looking for fun.”
Friends? Well. If that’s what he needs, what he sees in me … I die a little inside because this feels like Ryan all over again. Maybe I’m just destined to play that role. I muster a smile.
“I think you’re fun,” I say.
“You pick up garbage for a good time.”
I shake my head. “That’s giving back to the community.”
If Ryan taught me anything about friendship, it’s that hugs are acceptable. And I could use one after hearing Shane’s story. So I reach for him, winding my arms around his neck. At first he’s stiff, like he doesn’t know what to do, then he gets it, softening into me, and his arms curl around my back. It feels so good I almost moan.
Friend. He wants a friend. I’ll get right on that.
He murmurs into my hair, “I came here looking to finish school quietly. Stay out of trouble. Maybe write some new songs. I never expected you.”
CHAPTER NINE
Come Wednesday, I’m still wondering what Shane meant. Today, when I get to my locker, the Post-it isn’t blue; it’s green, and it’s written in normal ballpoint pen. I told her. You’re still everything. Despite my best intentions, I glance over at Ryan. He looks worse than he did yesterday; I can tell the conversation with Cassie wasn’t easy. I’m glad he manned up, but
I’m not sure what he expects from me. It would be easy and safe for me to walk across the hall and into his arms, just slip into the relationship he let everyone think we already had.
But that doesn’t feel like the right choice. I mean, it’s not that I want to hurt him, but this isn’t as easy as Ryan wants it to be. Quietly, I take down the Post-it and stick it inside my binder. I don’t know if I’m keeping this one, but I won’t throw it away in front of him. Despite what he’s done, he was my best friend for years.
Lila joins me, her gaze following mine. “Ouch. I think he’s really in love with you.”
“Maybe he should’ve realized that sooner,” I mutter.
“Hey, I’m not advocating a reconciliation. Do what you need to.”
He shapes the word please as we stare at each other across the hall. Please, what? Forgive you? Talk to you? Deliberately, I turn away.
“See you at lunch,” I say to Lila, heading off to class.
Shane’s in Geometry today, a fact that makes me happy. He smiles at me as he takes his seat, but there’s no chance to talk. Mackiewicz dumps another quiz on us, but this time, I can do some of the work, possibly even enough for a passing grade. If I can show something other than an F, dated later than the prior two, Aunt Gabby will be less disappointed. When I hand forward my paper, I’m relatively confident that I didn’t fail.
Shane waits for me after class. Dylan and his crew linger for a few seconds, but when they see he’s not forever alone, they move on. They’re cowards like that. It’s one thing to pick on a kid, another to deal with his friends. While the teachers will look the other way in some instances, when you start involving lots of other parents, that becomes impossible. Which is why Shane shouldn’t wander the halls by himself until the jocks lose interest in him.
