Please Love Me Back

by Melanie Marks

  But it left me confused. And wondering. Was she giving me the gifts or not?

  Then, to my sadness, the gifts stopped.

  Sad blow to my puppy-dog heart.

  No more cute gifts and treats and cards telling me someone cared. Just back to my wild girls that kept me entertained (pretty much) but not satisfied, or … happy.

  But I was okay, alright?

  Don’t get worked up.

  I mean, I wasn’t going to down more chemical cleaners. Nothing like that. (Though I hadn’t exactly planned to do it then either.) (I’m a little bit messed up.) (Shock.)

  Anyway, I decided I had been delusional. The gifts weren’t from the Cheerleader. The cheerleader hated me. Understandably so, but still, not going to lie: I was disappointed. To say the least.

  But then I got this phone call from Trisha. Out of the blue. I mean, we hadn’t talked in months. Not since I wound up in Sunny Brook Hospital, girlfriendless and alone. She switched schools, and actual living locations to stay away from me, and fell off the planet as far as I was concerned. But then she calls me about some books, and ranting that I was in love with a cheerleader, and that I told the girl all our “secrets.” I had absolutely no clue what she was talking about—none (or how she knew I loved a cheerleader). But she was quite irate. Not about me sharing my secrets with a book writer, but that I had the nerve to fall for another girl. A cheerleader, no less. The chick hadn’t called me since I’d been unceremoniously hauled off in an ambulance, yet she was seriously put out that I could go on to love again. (Again, the cheerleader part really bugged her.)

  I rolled my eyes listening to her. But a thrill went through me as I put it together: Bethany was the author of those books. The cute—blond, ponytailed—cheerleader was stalking me.

  Immediately after getting off the phone with my demented past, I read the books Trisha was ranting about. Yeah, they were definitely by Bethany. I was beyond discouraged that her pen-name was “Bea Roberts” (Blake’s last name). I could have chucked the books for that.

  But the chick got me. She totally got that I wasn’t actually trying to kill myself. It was just my thoroughly demented way of showing Trisha how much I loved her. (Not saying it was smart.) (Or sane.)

  But Bethany got that I didn’t want to die. I was just broken. Desperate. And, okay, if I had died at that moment I wouldn’t have minded so much. Because at that moment my world seemed shattered.

  Now not so much.

  Or at all, actually.

  I’m glad I didn’t die.

  And sort of glad Trisha is no longer in my life.

  —well, those were my thoughts at the time, back when I got Trisha’s phone call.

  And things haven’t changed much—except that now I’m really glad Trisha is out of my life.

  (And I’m really glad I didn’t die.)

  Hey, I’m a hockey star.

  … and the star of a book.

  CHAPTER 39

  ***BETHANY***

  BETHANY (on her porch)

  Okay, so I should let Shane go to bed now, right? I mean, he just said he would ‘think’ about it—being in my play. But I know he doesn’t want to. At all. HOWEVER, I need him (and, okay, want him—big time) so instead of letting him walk away from me, like he’s doing, I gush out, “Faith would adore you in the play. Girls swoon over guys up on stage—especially if they can sing.” (I should know—I’d just swooned tonight. Big time.)

  Shane freezes, then slowly turns back to me. His eyes are twinkling. “You really want me to get together with Faith, huh? You realize this “love” you keep talking about, and your match-making is actually advocating incest, right?”

  I inform him, “Hey, I watch a lot of teenage drama shows on TV. I’m up on how foster kids can accidently fall in love.”

  He breathes out a laugh. “She’s not my foster sister. She’s my real sister. And what I feel for her—no. No matter how demented you think I am—what I feel for her is purely like her brother,” he raises his eyebrows, “—because I’m her brother.”

  “Her … real brother?”

  He nods. “By blood—not by her choice.”

  He explains, “She got adopted, and the rich people that adopted her don’t want her to associate with me or act like she knows me.”

  My heart squeezes and crashes to the ground. Poor Shane!

  He sits down beside me, like he knows he’s just made me ache for him. He explains softly, “It was the first time we were sent away—into a foster home. My dad never abused Faith, I protected her. He only abused me. But we both got sent away anyway—to a rich couple that couldn’t have kids of their own. Faith was little and pretty and sweet and knew how to suck up to them. I didn’t. I didn’t have a clue. I was “disruptive” and always getting into trouble.” He leans into me and says mock-confidential-like, “I get into fights a lot.”

  Then he goes on with a little shrug, “Anyway, they didn’t want me. Only Faith. But they wanted her really bad. They paid my parents a lot to let them adopt her. And then they told her not to have anything to do with me. They said I was a bad influence on her.” Shane lowers his eyes. “I guess she agrees with them. I mean, she didn’t seem too terribly happy to see me at school today—huh?”

  “Well …”

  He grins sardonically. “Oh yeah, she’s secretly in love with me—I forgot.”

  Heat swamps my cheeks. “Hey, she secretly loves you—even if it’s not in love with you, like I thought. Still … the warm feelings are definitely there … even if she tries to hide them.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, she’s doing a pretty good job of it.”

  “It’s sad.”

  “You think?”

  “Shane, she loves you.”

  His voice goes soft, “ … you think?”

  I nod. “I do. I really do.”

  He tilts his head, “How do you feel about me?”

  The question tugs at my heart. That, combined with the way he asked it—his voice all soft and vulnerable. It does something gushy and warm to my insides. His eyes linger on me. It’s like he’s holding his breath, waiting for me to answer.

  “Well … I don’t think you’re a monster,” I whisper. (World’s biggest understatement.) I sigh. “But—but you laughed at me about your poem.”

  He tilts his head. “Back up. What are you talking about?”

  “That day in middle school—the day you first punched Blake.” I peek up at him curiously. “What was that about anyway? Why did you punch the poor guy?”

  Shane groans, looking skyward. “Poor guy?” he scoffs.

  “He did absolutely nothing to you,” I point out.

  Shane grunts. After a long moment he says, “He was my friend. But when I said I was interested in you—that I liked you—then he went after you.”

  My heart ricochets off my ribcage. “He told me that you made fun of me,” I whisper.

  “Of course he did. He’s a wad.”

  I swallow, not quite able to breathe, or believe what he’s telling me. But I want to. So bad. I choke out, “You really didn’t make fun of me?”

  Shane stares at me, lowering his brow like I’m crazy. Slowly he shakes his head. “Bethany, I have never made fun of you.”

  Suddenly the world is kind of tilting—for two totally different reasons. I feel dizzy. “Why would Blake do that?—make me think that?”

  Playfully Shane sighs loud and dramatic-like, “I think I already clarified that—he’s a wad.”

  He watches me closely a moment, his dark eyes glued to me, then hesitantly explains, like he knows I need it, but he doesn’t exactly want to do it. He says softly, “You know how Blake is the school football star? Well, back in middle school he used to want to be the school’s hockey star. The high school had one spot on their team to fill with a kid from our middle school—it would be this huge honor.” Shane draws out a breath. “I got the spot instead of him. We’d been friends forever—my mom used to be his mom’s maid, and she’d chauffeur me and Bla
ke around to all the activities Blake’s mom was too busy being fancy to bother with. Blake and I were ‘friends’—but it was always him that got everything. He was rich, he got all the extra attention—it was always him first, me second. Until the hockey thing.” Shane leans towards me and says like it’s confidential information, “—I’m good at hockey.”

  He peeks into my eyes. “Blake couldn’t stand that—that I got something he didn’t—the honored spot on Jefferson High School’s hockey team. It was the very next day that you cried about my poem. You seemed so sweet. I talked about you all day with Blake—how much I liked you. Then after school—that very day—there you were holding hands with Blake.”

  Shane frowns and squints his eyes, as though he’s relieving that moment, seeing me with Blake. “The dude smiled at me all smug when he saw me freeze at the sight of you with him. My friend—he smiled—because he was able to hurt me.”

  Shane’s jaw muscles flicker. “So, I’m sorry, but I lost it. The wad—my so called ‘friend’—went after the first girl I liked.” Shane’s brow lowers. “He did it out of spite.”

  A chill goes through me.

  Shane must notice my ashen face because he winces, then quickly backpedals, apparently realizing what he said has slapped me in the face and stabbed me in the heart. Blake became my boyfriend out of spite??

  Shane moans and quickly amends, “I’m sure he ended up liking you—a lot. Obviously. You guys were together a long time—that stuff was real. It’s just, in the beginning, he didn’t even know who you were—not until I talked about you. It was his way of getting back at me for the hockey score. His way of winning—beating me anyway. Then, after I slugged him, he got my mom fired from her job at his house. He told his mom I started a fight with him for no reason, and he told his mom to fire my mom—so she did. My mom lost her job because Blake didn’t get the spot he wanted on the hockey team. And then, after that, he would flaunt it in my face anytime I saw you two together—that he had you, not me. I swear, I hated the guy. I punched him out every moment I could.”

  “I would too,” I whisper. “I—I didn’t know all of that stuff.”

  Shane grunts. “I know. It’s not like Blake would brag to you about being a wad.”

  “I’m so sorry Shane—sorry that I called you a monster.”

  He grins weakly. “It’s okay. I kind of am.”

  “No you’re not.”

  “Well, I’m no Remington Drake, so stop looking at me like that.”

  “Like what?”

  He says softly, “Like I always dreamed that you would.”

  Fireworks explode through me. “You dream of me looking at you like this?”

  He opens his mouth, then closes it. He slowly draws out a breath. “Look, it’s late. You should go. Go to bed, Bethany—or I’m going to start saying stuff that will just make you uncomfortable.”

  I swallow, not wanting to leave. I want to hear what he has to say. Long for it. But I can tell he’s reluctant to tell me, and he’s already told me so much tonight—things I could tell he doesn’t feel comfortable talking about … and yet he told me.

  So, though I don’t leave, I change the subject. Into something lighter, now that I know where he’s coming from and everything.

  “Be in my play,” I urge, quickly adding the extra benefit, “You won’t just be helping me out tremendously—but you’d be taking Blake’s spot. He’d hate that.”

  Shane grins. “That’s true motivation. But still, no.”

  “You said you’d think about it,” I remind him.

  “Okay, right,” he says softly. “I will.”

  He says it so sincerely my heart squeezes. He really, really doesn’t want to do it, though.

  “Goodnight, Bethany,” he tells me. “I’ll think about it—but go to bed. Have your sweet cheerleader dreams. Meanwhile, you’ve given me the stuff of nightmares—I’ll be up all night, shivering.”

  He grimaces, “You terrify me.”

  I laugh, and ruffle his hair. “Oh! Who’s the sweet-talker now?”

  For some reason I have the urge to kiss him on the forehead, but he’s already said I “terrify” him, so I resist and run upstairs.

  … then dream about Shane/Remington/Pie-Boy.

  (It’s a very nice dream.)

  CHAPTER 40

  I’m so wound up about my play, I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and can’t go back to sleep. It’s my senior project. I worked on it all last year so I could have it done during the first quarter of this year—so I could get it out of the way, and wouldn’t have to worry about it for the rest of the year (what a joke!). As soon as I committed to the date with the school—everything fell apart.

  I trudge out of bed and wander down to the docks, taking deep breaths. This is stupid! I know that. I’m being irrational.

  Suddenly someone is beside me—it’s Shane!

  “Okay, I’ll be in your play,” he says. “But in exchange you have to go to therapy. I’ll go with you, okay? My counselor told me she does this free session-thing once a month with a group of teenagers. You, my friend, can be one of those teenagers.”

  “Doesn’t it require some sort of—?”

  “What? Major event? You wander down to the docks alone at night. I think that’s pretty major. My therapist agrees.”

  I jerk my head up. “You talked about me with your therapist?”

  He grins like it’s a stupid question. “Yeah, I talked about you with her—I talk about you with her all the time.” He leans towards me. “You make me crazy—but in a good way.”

  I gulp, my heart pounding. “Then not like with Trisha?”

  He tilts his jaw muscles and sighs semi-playfully. “At that moment I felt like I would die without her—that one moment. Look, I’m not saying I don’t need therapy. I’m just saying I don’t enjoy therapy.”

  He leans even closer to me. “I go every week like a good normal boy, though. And I took the pills they were prescribing to me, though they turned me into a zombie, then others that made me almost cry about stuff.” He shudders. “It was disturbing. Now I’m not taking any meds anymore, but they said that’s okay. See, I’m making progress. It’s slow and not fun—but I’m practically normal.”

  I laugh, “Doubtful.”

  He leans closer to me, “I haven’t drank anything weird in a long time and I don’t steal lemonade money from little girls. See? I’m a regular guy. So ready for a hot girlfriend.”

  My heart explodes.

  He draws in a long breath, then hesitantly seems to make a confession, “Look, it sucks—I know that. And it’s not fair, I know that too. But I can’t help it, okay? I love you, cheerleader. Sorry.”

  Then he adds, “Love me back, pretty please?”

  He whispers in my ear, heart-wrenchingly earnest, “I promise I’ll try to be more like Remington Drake and less like Shane Shade.”

  Tingles rush through me. “I like Shane Shade.”

  He grins happily. “Shane Shade likes you. And by the way, so does Remington Drake, it seems. So that’s pretty convenient all around, don’t you think?”

  I nod. “It’s fantastic.”

  He smiles, looking quite happy at my gushing and choice of words—and this whole entire moment … just like me.

  He takes my hand and kisses it (aw!!). He says softly, “So, you know about my childhood, me being a wounded, abused puppy-dog—I know, because I read about it in your books.” He peers into my eyes. “But tell me something about you. Something sort of dark—since all I see is light coming from you … except at night, at the docks. But that’s not how you are during the day. Tell me something you don’t share with other people, Cheerleader. A secret Bethany.”

  I feel like he might be fishing for me to talk about my mom—about her dying. It seems he is. But I can’t. I don’t want to cry. I feel happy right now. I enjoy this feeling and I don’t want it to end. So, instead, I whimsically tell him about this scab I have in my ear—I like to pick at
it recently, like a lot. I glance up at him. “Oh, is that too much information?”

  He kisses my forehead. “That’s weird information.” He kisses me lightly again, “—I love it.”

  “Well, I may love you.” Oops!—wait!! I didn’t mean to say that!

  He smiles, looking quite pleased. “I may love you back.”

  I threaten, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

  “I’ll definitely kiss you back—and by the way, I definitely love you too, Cheerleader—as I weirdly already confessed tonight. I was just playing hard to get for a second with that ‘maybe’ stuff. But here’s the thing you may not be aware of: You definitely love me too—I’m pretty sure. But don’t drink drain cleaner to prove it. That put me in the hospital. It wasn’t as much fun as you might think.”

  “Hmm, I’ll take that under advisement. But you know how you can prove your ‘definite’ love for me?”

  “Please don’t tell me to sing in your play.”

  I smile. Huge.

  He groans and looks up at the sky. “Okay, I’ll sing in your play.”

  I kiss him long and lingering. “Thank you Remington.”

  He kisses me back eagerly. “You’re welcome Cheerleader.”

  Breathlessly I inform him, “You’ve truly shown your proof, in the most awesome way. And way easier than drain-cleaner, right?”

  Still seductively kissing me, he murmurs, “I’m not going to answer that, because in truth, I think I’d prefer the drain-cleaner,” he says sardonically. “Just know this school-play-singing-thing is my proof—because it actually kind of feels like swallowing drain-cleaner.”

  “Only you don’t have to go to the hospital,” I point out whimsically.