by Ann Aguirre
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. T
rue, 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.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It’s cold as hell out here.
That’s actually a plus because I’m not as sweaty as I would ordinarily be when I ride into the motel parking lot, five and a half hours later. The place is L-shaped with the office situated at the center, upstairs and downstairs running on either side. At some point, it was probably blue, but most of the paint has peeled away, leaving gray concrete blocks. The drive is gravel, making it precarious for me to ride farther, so I get down and walk my bike.
It’s almost six, and it’s starting to get dark. Overhead, I can’t even glimpse the stars through the heavy cloud cover. The day has been gray, so the night probably will be as well. I rub my hands together while I consider my next move. I don’t have Cavendish’s room number, but it seems like I read a book where the room number is the last three digits of the phone number. I check that, and there is a 243 upstairs. I’ll risk it.
