by Rachel Kiss
My knees went weak. H-o-l-y smokes!! Shane Shade’s gorgeous face was in my neck!
Oh my! Yowza!
Fireworks burst through me just from that, his handsome tough-guy face practically pressed against my skin.
But then he sent my world reeling. Stammering and trembling, I managed to choke out, “Wh—what are you doing?—why are you pinning me?
Reluctantly, he pulled his face from my neck, his dark eyes glued to mine as he made it clear he’d read my book (starring him!) He said, “I don’t know, Cheerleader,” then asked sardonically, “Why do I pin the cheerleader,”—his eyebrows rose, “—Cheerleader?”
My heart ricocheted off my ribcage.
He didn’t wait for me to answer, though. He seemed to know I couldn’t.
His eyes stared into mine as he slowly uncaged me. Then he walked away. His point proven.
I watched him go, my heart pounding frantically.
Oh glory, the jig is up.
The dude knows I write teenage romance novels … starring him.
***
I think the very first time Shane Shade noticed me was back in middle school. I knew who he was because my aunt takes in foster kids. Shane was one of her regulars. He was continually in and out of her foster home, because Shane’s dad was an alcoholic and abusive to Shane. Sometimes his mom would at random times save Shane from his brutal dad by calling the police on the man when he was in a drunken rage, beating on poor little Shane. But she would always take Shane’s dad back eventually, which would mean Shane would get put back into foster care … until his mom would choose Shane over his dad again. It was a cycle. A very sad cycle.
Shane was in my English class. He had bruises that he tried to hide, and clothes that were so worn you’d think he had paid extra for them. (They were considered “cool” to the other kids at our school—kids that paid for wardrobes with ripped jeans.) His hair was long and always a bit shaggy and messy—but again, it was “cool.”
He was on the fringe of being “absolutely popular.” The thing that didn’t quite put him there was he didn’t care. He was grouchy when he felt like being grouchy—and he would punch-out people that were “absolutely popular” if they bugged him. He got in fights a lot. He was on the hockey team, and that right there told you something—he was tough. As though you couldn’t figure that out from his clothes and bruises and fighting.
Then one day—oh man! Heart-wrench!
He had to read a poem he wrote in front of the class. The poem seemed innocent enough, almost happy at times. But I knew better. I could tell the poem was actually about Shane—about his dad abusing him, and his mom loving him, but choosing to keep his dad. He (Shane) was the abused dog in the story, always wagging his tail to come back home, but being kicked around again, taken away from the “kind, frail woman who was abused herself.”
Towards the end of the poem, I was sobbing—silently. I thought. But I guess not. Shane stopped in the middle of his poem. Our teacher urged him, “Go on, Shane.”
Shane eyed me from the front of the classroom as he said to the teacher, “I would, but if I do—that girl is going to have a breakdown.”
As he said this, Shane’s eyes bore into me, like he was seeing me for the first time—and he knew I understood his cryptic poem. “—it just gets worse from here,” he said.
The teacher protested, “No, Shane. It’s very entertaining. We’re all enjoying it, go on.”
Shane said, “No. I’m done.”
He folded up his poem and shoved it into his back pocket as he took his seat. But he kept taking little peeks back at me for the rest of class.
When class was over, Shane handed me a note. It said: “I like your hair and the way you smell.”
I stared at the messy handwritten note, my heart fluttering wild. But Shane hadn’t waited around to see my reaction. Which was probably for the best. I had no clue how to react. My mother had stressed often that I should stay away from Shane and “boys like him.” Like I said, Shane had a troubled past. My mother wanted to keep me away from trouble, and to her, Shane was trouble with a capital “T.”
My mother wanted to keep me sheltered. She didn’t like my aunt taking foster kids in, and she didn’t allow me to associate with any of them. “We don’t want their influence on Bethany,” my mom would always tell my aunt, though my aunt would always explain to my mom, “It’s not the kids’ fault they end up in my care. They’re sweet kids. They need love.”
Mom would always say, “I’m sure they do. But I don’t want their troubles to rub off on Bethany.” Mom was adamant that I stay away from my aunt’s “kids.” It was sad though. I wanted to be friends with Shane. He had sad eyes. I wanted to make them happy.
I folded up Shane’s sweet (messy) scrawled note and put it in my backpack. I still have it to this day. But I didn’t speak to Shane again until today when he pinned me against my locker.
Well, I guess that’s not true. I talked to him a few other times. But the conversations were brief. And disturbing. And there were only a few. Ever.
However, that day—the day of his note—my dreamy thoughts of him had me in a mushy cloud of longing. I wanted to kiss Shane Shade. Or more accurately, I wanted him to kiss me. I wanted the tough boy to turn mushy and soft for me like I now desperately felt towards him.
All day I thought of him. The only time I briefly didn’t was after school while I was signing up for the school play.
A part in the school play—I wanted that almost as much as I now wanted Shane Shade to be my boyfriend.
As I was printing my name on the sign-up sheet for the play’s try-outs, a boy that never talked to me before was suddenly standing really, really close to me.
“Hi,” he said.
I glanced up at him curiously. He was one of the “absolutely popular” people at our school. His name was Blake, and he was rich. That’s all I knew about him.
Not sure why he was smiling at me so big, I said cautiously, “Hi.”
He said conversationally, “Signing up for the school play, huh?”
I nodded, since there my name was—on the sign-up sheet.
He smiled self-mocking-like, “Duh. I guess that was a stupid question. I just wanted to talk to you,” he confessed.
That made my heart jolt a little, since it was news to me. He wanted to talk to me? Since when? I mean, the dude had never said a word to me before. Like I said, he was “absolutely popular.” I wasn’t. In fact, until I started wearing contacts instead of my glasses, no boy ever even looked at me, let alone bothered to talk to me. I suppose the glasses made a big difference. (I’ve been told I have pretty eyes) (so score on the contacts.)
While I was still in confusion about this sudden Blake-noticing-me-thing, he said, “I’m going to sign up for the play too. My mom was bribing me to do it anyway—whining she would only continue paying for my limo trips with my friends to sports things and stuff if I continue performing in plays—which I’d been planning to ditch, by the way. But since you’re trying out … I will too.”
He grinned, “My mom will be pleased—so will my friends. Well, not about me being in a lame play, but that I’ll continue providing them with limo trips and season passes—and other mom-bribed stuff.”
He was totally flirting with me … right?
It totally seemed like he totally was. Totally. But I didn’t get it. At all. I mean, why me? I happened to know that the queen bee of our school, Trisha Montgomery, was drooling over Blake.
Man, these contacts had magical powers.
Blake quickly signed his name on the sign-up sheet, then he told me, “I’m Blake by the way.”
Slowly I nodded. Did he really think I didn’t know that? “I’m—”
“—Bethany,” he finished for me with a smile. “I know. My friend, Shane, was talking about you all day today.”
My heart exploded. Shane had been talking about me? Yay! Happiness!!
But then Blake went on (and crushed my heart), “He was
making fun of you. He said you were bawling over his poem.”
Pain sliced through me. It felt like I’d just been slugged in the stomach. “I—I was.”
I swallowed. “I did.”
“He made fun of you for it,” Blake said looking sympathetic. Then he went on, “But I think it was sweet. I wish you would cry over my poems.”
“You write about zombies.”
He grinned. “Don’t they make you want to cry? Eyeballs popping out and stuff?”
Actually, Shane had written about zombies first. Then all the guys in our class started copying him. I don’t mention this to Rich Boy though. He’s rich and popular and on the school’s football team. My mom would approve of him. She would (and actually has) encouraged me to be friends with him (unlike Heart-shattering Shane, who she would die if I became friends with). My mom plays tennis with Blake’s mom. I don’t think he knows this. I don’t think he’s ever noticed me before—not until Shane talked to him about me.
I bit my lip, not sure what to think of him—Blake-The-Sudden-Flirter.
“Do you want to go to the movies with me later today?” he asked. “There’s an excellent zombie movie playing. It will make you cry.”
I laughed, “I don’t actually enjoy crying.”
“Good,” he said with a smile. “Because it probably won’t really make you cry. It will make you squirm and sit really close to me—for protection.”
He gave me a flirty look, “Would you like to sit close to me?”
“Maybe.”
I couldn’t believe I was saying that, since all day long I’d been dreaming about Shane Shade. But hey, the dude had laughed about me! He was obviously a jerk. It hurt my feelings and my heart to learn that. But apparently even a guy with sad eyes can be a dirt-wad. So … the word “maybe” came from my lips as much to wipe out my hurting thoughts of Shane than anything else. Besides, my mom was always encouraging me to be friends with Blake, and like I said, she’d die if I was friends with Shane. So, this works out, I tried to reason with myself.
Blake smiled at my answer. “Good, because I want to sit really close to you,” he said.
He took my hand, then peeked up at me. “Is this okay? Can I hold your hand?”
Whoa! WHAT is going on???
I swallowed. Then jerkily nodded. Boy, the dude was fast. But I had to admit, he was handsome and made me feel special. I needed that after pining all day over a boy that had apparently been laughing at me with his friends. Jerk!
We walked down the school hallway together, holding hands and talking all flirty and friendly-like. Well, he was. I was just trying to get over my dreams about Shane being my first boyfriend. It was kind of hard for me to switch gears so fast. But I knew I should. So, I was trying. Really, really hard.
Then suddenly—pow! From out of nowhere, Shane Shade punched Blake in the nose.
I swear—it was from out of nowhere!
One minute Blake was holding my hand, talking all flirty to me about the movie we were going to see, then—pow! Shane slugged Blake.
Shane knocked Blake to the ground, then gave me a look of disgust. I was in total shock.
“Why’d you do that?!” I shrieked.
Shane glared down at bleeding Blake. “He knows why,” Shane growled.
I quickly kneeled down beside poor innocent wounded Blake, my heart slamming hard against my chest. “There’s no excuse for it,” I snapped at Shane. “You’re a monster!”
Shane only grunted at me.
He gave me a cold, hard look, then stomped down the hallway, punching lockers as he stormed off.
Whoa, the dude was in a violent rage. And a violent lunatic. I looked back down at bleeding Blake in shock. “What was that about?”
“Who knows,” Blake muttered. “The dude has screws loose.”
I was still in complete shock. “I—I thought he was your friend?”
“I thought so too,” Blake muttered. “But he’s like this. He’s got a temper—and he’s messed up.”
“I’ll say,” I grumbled.
Wow. My mom was right—Shane Shade was trouble.
***
I never found out what that fight was between Shane and Blake. But after that, they were complete enemies and came to blows if either of them were even just in the same vicinity of each other. It was disturbing. And scary. Especially because Blake was a complete gentleman and nice-guy … as long as Shane wasn’t around. But Shane and him—they couldn’t be in the same room as each other without fighting. If they were ever assigned in the same class, within the first five minutes it seemed, they were sent to the office for fighting.
… and Shane always had to switch classes.
To be fair though—it did always seem it was Shane’s fault. I mean, from what I ever witnessed, it was always Shane that started the fights. The interesting thing was though, Shane seemed kind of nice the rest of the time—seemed like it. But of course I knew better. Because if he was anywhere near Blake he growled and threw punches.
Like I said, it was scary.
But other than that—Shane Shade, I mean—other than him and his obsessive penchant to fight with sweet Blake—other than that, Blake was absolutely perfect. I adored him. He ended up being the lead in the school play with me and we hit it off, and became a “couple.”
Blake was my very first boyfriend and I adored him. Which meant I avoided Shane. It wasn’t really that hard, since Shane did the same thing. He avoided me like I had the plague.
But he did end up in some of my classes, since he didn’t actually fight with me ever. He would just ignore me pretty much. However, once he couldn’t quite do that. He couldn’t help it—he had to acknowledge me, since we ended up being assigned to the same group in Biology class, and he couldn’t quite ignore me there. Though he tried.
However, one day as were cleaning up after dissecting a pig fetus, he actually talked to me. He took the disgusting tray from me and said, “I’ll clean it up.”
When I blinked up at him in surprise (since he had totally ignored me the entire length of the project—which had gone on for weeks) he gave me a sardonic look. “You look like you’re going to puke,” he said in explanation, like he needed one in order to be nice to me—which I guess he probably did.
However, he was right. I was going to puke. Or at least I felt like it. I stood near the trashcan, ready to lurch for it any second. The class hour had been barf-worthy, and the mess was disgusting! The whole assignment had turned my stomach.
“Hey Jake, how much would you pay me to drink this?” I heard Shane ask one of his hockey teammates.
“Whoa, that’s nasty stuff,” Jake said, looking like he might puke himself. Then he stunned me by saying, “—I’ll give you ten bucks.”
Groan!!!
Shane seemed pleased. Even more so when a friend of his said, “I’ll add five bucks—if you’ll really do it.”
Shane said quickly, “I will. Let me see your money.”
As they gathered their cash, Shane asked the other guys from the group next to us how much they would pay him to drink it—the refuse from the bio-mess we weren’t even to dump into the sink because of its toxic potential (!!!).
I couldn’t believe it, the guys all started pulling their money together! They were going to pay to see him drink the toxic sludge. My stomach turned. Feeling sick, I had to turn away from them.
Shane eagerly took their money. He made a toast.
“Don’t,” I begged him as he brought the nasty brew to his lips, ready to down the toxic mixture for our group’s freakish entertainment—and cold, hard cash.
He peeked at me with bewilderment.
“Don’t do it,” I whispered.
He grinned slightly, still looking bewildered. “Aw, you care.”
His grin quirked, “I’m touched.”
However, he was totally disregarding me. Totally. He went to drink it.
I blurted out, “Please don’t.”
I begged it.
Pausing slightly, he peeked at me curiously again, but only for the briefest of seconds, then to my horror, he went to drink the toxic mixture anyway.
“I’m begging you, Shane—please Don’t. Do. It.”
He paused with a wince, for a moment still holding the cup to his lips, but then he sighed. Finally, he slowly put it down.
With obvious reluctance he gestured for the disappointed guys to take back their money.
“Come on dude!” they groaned in demented dismay.
“I’ll pay you another five,” one of the guys coaxed.
Shane looked a little tempted, but he said firmly, “Nah, the chick begged. I can’t resist a begging chick.”
“Come on, we’ll pay you more,” they coaxed.
“Yeah, we’ll pay you double,” Jake announced.
Shane tilted his head, his eyes glistened with interest, like Now we’re getting somewhere.
I gushed out quickly, “I’ll pay you triple not to.”
The words burst from me since he seemed ready and eager to take them up on their new offer.
Shane gave me a curious look, it lasted a long time. His shoulders rose and fell as I held my breath. His eyes still on me he said slowly to the guys, “Sorry, I got a better offer.”
A jet of relief washed through me. For a moment. However, I didn’t actually have the money to pay for him not to be an idiot—and, you know, die. My mom had just recently been diagnosed with cancer. Money was tight at our house. We were reeling in medical bills.
However, I quickly started digging through my backpack for any money I could find.
“I’m not going to take your money, Cheerleader,” Shane said as he watched me dig frantically.
“Oh.”
His forehead touched mine. “Why didn’t you just let me take theirs? I needed the money.”
Whoa! The curious intimate gesture from him caused major sparks and tingles to explode through my body, and my heart to practically leap out of my chest.
I swallowed hard and quickly backed away from him, trying to act unaffected as I muttered, “The money wouldn’t have done you much good if you were dead.”
Shane shrugged and grinned wryly, “I might not have died.”