Heart Shaped Rock

by Roppe, Laura

  The band strikes up playing “That’s Amore,” a song I’ve heard a kajillion times at our neighborhood Italian restaurant—and then, finally, the moment I’ve been dreaming about for days arrives. Dean begins to sing.

  Holy frickin’ moly. At the sound of Dean’s glorious voice, every hair on my body comes to full attention. The lyrics he’s singing are the cheesiest of all time—about the moon hitting your eye like a pizza—and yet I’m enraptured. Dean’s voice is smooth and textured and magnetic and edgy—just like the boy himself. And not only can he sing, he commands the stage like he owns the place, like he was born to be up there, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for a dude in combat boots to wear a bowtie and croon about amore. And I’m not the only one falling head over heels for Dean—the entire audience is eating him up like Taco Bell at midnight, too.

  Dean doesn’t take his eyes off me throughout the entire song, and wild horses couldn’t pull my eyes off him, either.

  My pulse is racing.

  My head is spinning.

  I’m coming undone.

  Dean—the über-cool Motorcycle Boy that he is—sings a line about bells going “ting-a-ling-a-ling,” and I laugh. I mean, I really laugh, like I don’t have a frickin’ care in the world, like the past doesn’t matter anymore and my future is as bright as the color of my dress. Watching this magnificent boy sing about bells going “ting-a-ling-a-ling” with such commitment, such complete lack of inhibition, is so alluring to me, so overwhelming, so enthrallingly sensual, I can barely breathe.

  Every square inch of my body is tingling.

  Ting-a-ling-a-ling-ling.

  At the end of the song, everyone cheers madly and shouts, “Another one!” but Dean waves and begins to walk away from the microphone.

  The bandleader pushes him back. “Come on, give the people what they want.”

  Dean looks over to me and I nod my encouragement. “Okay, okay,” he capitulates, and everyone whoops. “Just one more, though, ‘cause I’ve got a hot date with a girl in yellow.” Everyone in the room looks over at me for my reaction and I don’t disappoint them. My entire face bursts into a deep shade of scarlet. “How ‘bout one by Ole Blue Eyes?” Dean continues, and the crowd voices its loud approval. The band starts to play, and Dean begins singing “Fly Me to the Moon,” another classic even I recognize.

  Dean’s voice washes over me and I feel myself slowly morphing and melting and oozing and sloshing into a gurgling puddle of goop. A deep-seated ache begins to overtake me, a yearning like nothing I’ve ever felt before, a longing to touch this boy’s lips with the tip of my finger and tell him he’s the most exquisite creature I’ve ever seen. Or, at the very least, to fling myself at him like a projectile missile. It’s taking all my restraint to stand here, pretending to have control of my limbs.

  Without warning, Dean suddenly shakes his head and throws up his hands. “Sorry, guys,” he says into the microphone, grinning, “I can’t wait anymore.” It’s only midway through the song, but he abruptly returns the microphone to its stand and leaps off the stage in my direction. He bounds up to me, chuckling. “Shaynee.”

  Oh God, he’s gorgeous. His eyes. His smile. His bowtie. I look down. His combat boots.

  “I’m so glad you came,” he says. Heat wafts off his body.

  “Me, too.”

  “I wasn’t sure you were gonna come.”

  “A deal’s a deal,” I manage to say.

  He leans into me and whispers, “You look beautiful tonight.”

  Oh, dude. I’m toast. I’m burnt toast. “You’re spectacular,” I blurt in reply. It’s such a dorky choice of words, and, on top of that, it comes out with way more intensity than I’d intended.

  But Dean’s expression tells me he’s elated. “Thanks.” He clears his throat. “I’m so glad you came.”

  “You already said that.”

  One corner of his mouth turns up.

  The band starts playing a particularly high-energy tune that’s heavy on the horns, and easy conversation becomes impossible in the loud room.

  Dean shouts over the music, “Are you hungry?”

  I nod. I’m starving, actually.

  He grabs my hand, causing my entire body to hum like I’m gripping an electric fence. “Come with me, Shaynee-girl.”

  Chapter 9

  Dean leads me through a swinging door at the back of the restaurant, into a kitchen filled with a large stovetop and a mishmash of pots and pans.

  “Hello, Dean.” It’s an old Chinese man, slightly stooped over.

  “Mr. Jimmy,” Dean replies. “Shaynee, this is Jimmy Wang. He owns the place. The kitchen’s closed on Wednesday nights for Big Band Night, but Mr. Jimmy’s gonna style us.”

  After some pleasantries and small talk, Mr. Jimmy seats us at a small table in the corner with a low candle sitting at its center.

  “So, what do you think?” Dean asks, leaning onto his elbows.

  “I’m in shock. Total. Shock.” But I smile to let him know this is a good kind of total shock. “But where’s C-Bomb? I thought you guys were in the band together.”

  Dean throws his head back and laughs. “Oh man, picturing Caleb playing here is so funny. No, Wang Palace is my guilty pleasure. I play with C-Bomb in my real band.”

  “Oh,” I say, feeling like a dummy. “Do you play drums in your real band?”

  “Oh God, no, I suck at drums. I play guitar and sing in my band. I just play drums here because, you know, they needed a drummer... On these kinds of songs, it’s pretty simple stuff, anyway, just keeping time, so I just fake it.”

  “Wow, if you ask me, you fake it really well.”

  “Naw, C-Bomb’s the drummer in our band—and he’s a beast. Wait ‘til you hear him.”

  “So let me get this straight. You can sing, play guitar, and fake it on drums. Is that all you can do?”

  “Well, I play a tiny bit of piano—as badly as I play the drums—and I’m trying to pick up some cello, too, just for the hell of it. But, damn, cello’s a lot harder than it looks.” He laughs. “I straight-up suck at cello.”

  “It must be demoralizing to be so damned sucky at everything you try to do.”

  He grins. “It’s torture.”

  “You’re such a slacker.”

  He laughs.

  “Why do you call Caleb ‘C-Bomb’?”

  “He’s Caleb Baumgarten, and we’re all die-hard Rx Bandits fans... So, there you go.”

  Clearly, Dean thinks he’s just answered my question, but I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.

  “Come on. You don’t know Rx Bandits?” He’s flabbergasted. “Oh, man, Shaynee-girl, there’s so much I’m gonna teach you.”

  I blush. I hope so.

  “Rx Bandits is the sickest band on earth. And their drummer’s this monster named Chris Tsagakis. Also known as ‘C-Gak.’” He makes air quotes.

  “Ah.”

  Dean grins. “It’s kinda funny. I started calling Caleb ‘C-Bomb’ to give him a hard time about fangirling all over C-Gak, but then it just kind of stuck.”

  “Yeah, that’s how the best nicknames get started. Frodo.”

  He laughs again. “Ooh, careful with that—nicknames are a two-way street, Walkie-Talkie Girl.”

  My cheeks hurt from smiling. “What kind of music do you guys play?”

  “Rock. Or, more accurately, melodic ska-punk-rock. Well, sort of pop-punk, I guess. With a nod to the blues, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  In a mock-serious tone, he adds, “We refuse to succumb to society’s need for neat and tidy labels.”

  This boy is blowing my mind. I want to leap across the table and pounce on him like a cheetah on an impala. But instead, I say, “What’s your band called?”

  “Red Card Riot.”

  “Nice. How does all that rioting fit in with a big band orchestra?”

  “Wow, you sure ask a lot of questions, Walkie-Talkie Girl. Why don’t you answer some for me?”


  I shift in my seat. “There’s not a lot to tell.”

  Mr. Jimmy interrupts us to place a sizzling plate of beef and vegetables on the table. “Szechuan Beef,” he says proudly. He puts a second dish down. “Vegetable fried rice.” And another. “Shrimp in lobster sauce... Vegetable egg rolls... Orange chicken.” There’s barely enough room on the table to contain all of Mr. Jimmy’s offerings.

  “Awesome,” Dean exclaims.

  “Thank you so much,” I add.

  We serve ourselves from the platters and dig in. The food is freakishly delicious. I can’t remember the last time I was this hungry.

  “So, you being such a rock god and all, how’d you wind up playing with a big band?”

  “It’s sort of a tribute to my dad.”

  My pulse suddenly pounds in my ears.

  “Yeah, my dad died in a car accident when my mom was pregnant with me,” Dean explains. “So, I never got to meet him.” He takes a big bite of his food.

  I can’t believe he’s able to put food into his mouth after saying those gut-wrenching words. I put my fork down on my plate.

  Dean must see the stricken look on my face, because he quickly adds, “It’s okay, really. I wish I’d met him, of course, but it’s okay. I’ve had time to deal with it. And my mom’s amazing, a true force of nature. She’s got her own business, and she’s always taking in rescue puppies and strays. The woman loves a project.” He grins. “Anyway, one day, Mom sat me down and told me all about my dad. How he was a musician, what kinds of music he loved. She even gave me his entire record collection.”

  “And he loved big band stuff?”

  “Yep. I mean, he loved all kinds of stuff: Marvin Gaye and Sam Cooke; Frank Zappa and Metallica and Cake and Sublime; and he was obsessed with the Beatles, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “But for some reason he was a huge fan of Dean Martin and Frank Sinatra and tons of big band stuff. My mom told me her favorite thing in the whole world was when my dad would serenade her with ‘That’s Amore.’”

  Heat flares in my cheeks. Having just been serenaded with the very same song by the most breathtakingly beautiful boy in the world, I can most definitely relate.

  “So, of course, that’s why my mom named me Dean.” He takes another large bite of food.

  I’m lost yet again.

  “After Dean Martin,” Dean adds, trying to dispel my obvious confusion. “He’s the dude who sang ‘That’s Amore.’” His voice is matter-of-fact, informative, not judgmental at all. There’s absolutely no “duh” hidden in his tone. But I feel stupid nonetheless. And embarrassed about the hard time I gave him about his name when we first met. I try to think of how to apologize for my idiocy, how to tell him I’m sorry about his dad, but every phrase that pops into my head sounds like one of the rote condolences offered to me after Mom died.

  “I’m really sorry about that whole ‘James Dean’ thing,” I say. I feel like such an idiot.

  “You weren’t that far off, actually. My dad rode a motorcycle. That jacket I wear was his. Maybe I am just trying to be someone else, after all... ” He sighs deeply and the usual twinkle in his eye vanishes for just a moment. He looks down at the table.

  I clear my throat, trying to suppress the emotions rising there. “I’m sorry about your dad,” I say feebly.

  Dean looks back up at me. Candlelight flickers across his face. He is utterly, totally, completely, thoroughly, absolutely gorgeous. He reaches across the table and touches my hand, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to stand on end.

  “Thanks.” He exhales. “That’s more than enough about me. I swear I never talk this much. Please, shut me the hell up. Tell me about you.”

  I purse my lips and look at him for a moment. “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, why don’t you tell me about your family?”

  My pulse quickens and my palms become sweaty. I’ve been Cinderella tonight and I don’t want to break the spell. Tonight, I’m Dean’s “hot date,” his “girl in yellow.” Tonight, I’m the kind of girl who waltzes across dance floors and laughs with abandon and talks about cool indie bands while scarfing down Chinese food—not the kind of girl who rolls around on the bathroom floor, howling in agony and pulling on her hair. I don’t want Dean, of all people, to look at me with some kind of half-baked pity in his eyes.

  “Well,” I begin. “Hmm.” I twist my mouth. “There’s not a whole lot to say. My family’s just kind of”—I pause, trying to come up with the right word—“normal.”

  Dean smirks. “There’s no such thing.”

  “Yeah, there is,” I insist, a little too forcefully. “We’re just normal.” I settle confidently into that word. “Totally normal. Nothing special to report, just your typical family. My dad’s an architect. He designs skyscrapers and office buildings and stuff. And he surfs.”

  “He sounds like a cool dude.”

  “Yeah, he is. And I’ve got a little brother. He’s totally emo. He writes these über heartfelt songs on his guitar, and he makes ‘sick’ beats on his computer. Oh, and he’s really into dragons.”

  “He sounds cool, too.”

  “Oh God, no. Lennox is definitely not cool.”

  Dean smiles.

  I pause.

  For the first time tonight, there’s an awkward silence. I expect Dean to fill it, but he doesn’t. He just looks at me.

  “And my mom... ” I finally say.

  Dean’s expression is encouraging.

  My throat is dry. “My mom is... a singer-songwriter.”

  “Oh?” Dean sounds surprised.

  I nod.

  “Wow.”

  I find my voice. “Yeah, the Dixie Chicks recorded a song she wrote.”

  “Well, that’s definitely not normal.”

  “I mean, it wasn’t a big hit or anything, but... ”

  He waits a beat, as if he expects me to say something more. When I don’t, he asks, “So, she writes country songs, huh?”

  “Yeah, she always says country songs come the easiest to her. She tells me to write whatever songs come the easiest to me. Don’t fight it or overthink it.”

  “Good advice.”

  “And she’s an incredible singer, too. Her voice has so much depth, so much swagger, it’s like... ” I trail off. I can’t continue. A lump the size of a golf ball has lodged in my throat.

  Dean shifts in his seat. “Are you a country singer, too?”

  I need a moment to compose myself. I glance down.

  Dean waits.

  I clear my throat and look back up at him. His blue eyes are patient. “No, the songs I write are more folk-rock, I guess you’d call it.”

  “Ah, a classic singer-songwriter.” He smiles and rests his forearms on the table. “I can see that in you. You’ve got that intelligence in your eyes.”

  I feel magnetically pulled toward this boy.

  Dean licks his lips and leans toward me.

  My chest is clanging a mile a minute.

  His eyes darken. “Your freckles are killing me right now,” he whispers.

  Oh my God. Spillage on Aisle Shaynee.

  “Everything okay?” Mr. Jimmy asks, suddenly standing at the edge of our table.

  Dean leans back in his chair and clears his throat. “Oh, yeah, man, everything was ridiculous. You laid it on thick for us, Mr. Jimmy. I owe you big.”

  “You just keep coming here on Wednesday nights,” Mr. Jimmy says, “and I’ll take good care of you.”

  “Deal.”

  I’m suddenly alert. I look at my watch. It’s 9:45. “Oh crap. I promised my dad I’d be home by ten.”

  The night air is chilly. “Where’s your car?” Dean asks, scanning the parking lot.

  I motion toward my coupe thirty yards away. “Over there.” I shiver.

  “Are you cold?”

  “A little.”

  “Just a sec.” He drops my hand abruptly and takes off in the other direction, leaving me standing there unsure
what the heck he’s doing. In just a few bounding leaps, he arrives at his motorcycle, which I only now notice a few yards behind us. He opens a locked box just behind the seat and pulls something out of it. He sprints back to me, his combat boots clomping on the asphalt as he goes. “Here you go.” It’s his black leather jacket—his dad’s black leather jacket—and he’s offering it to me. “You can give it back to me the next time I see you.” His face is flushed.

  “Won’t you be freezing riding home?”

  “Naw, I’ll be fine.” He places the jacket over my bare shoulders and I hug it to me. “I could use a big blast of cold air right about now.” He flashes a mischievous smile.

  I blush.

  Now that I know what this jacket means to him, there’s no doubt I should tell him, “No, you can’t let me borrow this.” But that’s not what comes out of my mouth. Instead, what I say is, “When can I give it back?”

  “Tomorrow.” He pulls me close to him.

  My heart lurches into my throat. “I’m working tomorrow after school. At Sheila’s? It’s a coffeehouse in PB.”

  “I know it well,” he says. “I’ll see you there tomorrow.”

  I want to kiss him more than I want to breathe. I bite my lip.

  He leans his face close to mine, slowly, double-checking he’s invited, and when I close my eyes and tilt my face toward him, I feel his hand on my cheek and then his lips against mine.

  Oh my God.

  His lips are warm and soft. And he smells like the ocean (assuming the ocean smells preposterously delectable). I return his kiss with obvious fervor and his breath hitches in surprise. He responds to my enthusiasm by wrapping his arms around my back and pressing his entire body into mine, until I can feel his heart leaping out of his chest and knocking against my own, begging to come in. “Yes, yes, yes,” my heart replies to his. “Come in.”

  I’ve never tasted anything so scrumptious in all my life. I inhale him, breathe him in. I want to ingest him like oxygen. I want him to infiltrate my blood and course through my veins and implant himself right into the very tissue of my heart. I want to gobble him up like how Pac Man devours those little white dots. I want to slurp up him up like chicken noodle soup, absorb him like a dry sponge dunked into a bucket of sudsy water, pull him into me like a vacuum cleaner on a shag carpet.