by Roppe, Laura
I walk into Lennox’s room and wake him up. Today, I’m a saint. I don’t shove him or shout at him to wake him; I caress his forehead and whisper his name, just like Mom always used to do. Lennox opens his big brown eyes and smiles, causing perfect dimples to appear on either side of his mouth, and, much to my shock, I don’t even want to smack those dimples clean off his face.
“You were out late last night,” he says.
“Yeah,” I reply.
“Where’d you go?”
“It’s none of your beeswax,” I say, but my tone is playful.
“I had the best dream last night.”
“So did I,” I reply. But I was awake when I had it.
Lennox looks surprised at my downright positivity.
“How’d you score the new iPod?” I ask, motioning to the nightstand.
Lennox looks apologetic. “Dad got it for me.”
“I’m glad. I’m sorry I trashed your old one.”
Lennox looks up and seems genuinely surprised by my attitude for the second time in twenty seconds. “It’s okay, Shay. I understand.”
There’s an awkward silence so I stand up. “Well, get your butt in gear,” I say, trying to muster my usual grumpiness.
“Has Dad already gone to work?” Lennox asks.
For some reason, I’m not even the slightest bit annoyed by his question, even though he undoubtedly knows the answer. “Yep,” I answer brightly as I breeze out of the room. What the hell is wrong with me this morning? I might as well be wearing a hoopskirt and tiara and singing tra la la la.
Back in my room, I realize I never took my phone out of my purse when I got home last night. I pull it out to charge it briefly before heading to school and there’s a text from Tiffany: “HOWZ IT GOING WITH MOTORCYCLE BOY?!?!?!?!”
I plug in my phone, chuckling, and start getting dressed.
Today, I’ve chosen an outfit designed to complement Dean’s leather jacket—denim mini-skirt, yellow tank top, and black, Converse high-tops. It’s as “bad girl” as my closet will allow, very Westside Story meets Grease II meets High School Musical (which are all the same movies, by the way). With this outfit, I’m declaring myself “Motorcycle Boy’s Girl.” I feel very much like the badass Dean seems to think I am.
My phone beeps with a new text. It’s another one from Tiffany: “WTF? How was last night?”
After being a third wheel with Tiffany and Kellan for so many months, it’s exhilarating to be the one with a juicy story to tell. But for some reason, I want to stay alone with Dean in our magical world just a little while longer. I put the phone down without responding to Tiffany’s text.
Even before first period, Tiffany’s on me like white on rice, jumping up and down like a toddler demanding candy, begging for details.
“I’ll tell you everything at lunch,” I assure her.
“Why are you making me wait?” Tiffany whines. But when I walk away, smiling and shrugging my shoulders, she yells after me, “You better tell me everything.”
I waltz into first period Art History and take my seat, “That’s Amore” playing on repeat inside my head. Or maybe I only think it’s playing inside my head, because when I see Delaney Ballard giggling and staring at me from the next desk over, I realize I’m humming the song out loud.
“Well, someone’s in a good mood today,” Delaney chirps.
I’m so shocked to be addressed by someone other than Tiffany—and especially by a queen bee like Delaney Ballard—I can’t speak. But Delaney doesn’t seem to notice I’m tongue-tied. “I love your jacket,” she coos. “Is it vintage?” She reaches over and touches the worn leather of Dean’s jacket with obvious appreciation of its pedigree.
“It’s not mine,” I say, mustering my voice.” I got it from... a friend.” And then, because the word “friend” makes me think of Dean’s lips pressed against mine, and the husky sound of his voice when he told me my freckles were killing him and the twinkle in his eye when he said “ting-a-ling-a-ling,” my face bursts into the shade of a vine-ripened tomato.
Delaney grins at me as if I’ve said something salacious. She nods in apparent understanding. “Very cool,” she whispers, retrieving her hand from the jacket. She giggles again.
For the rest of the class, I can feel Delaney attempting to catch my eye whenever Mrs. Ramert does that funny curling thing with her lip. I know she’s watching me, trying to share a “moment,” but I don’t give it to her. Instead, I keep my head down, furiously scribbling notes. At the end of class, as I’m putting my notes into my three-ring binder, Delaney sings out, “See ya later, Shaynee” as she sashays past me, and then, of course, she giggles yet again.
“Yeah, see ya later,” I say calmly without even a hint of a giggle seeping into my tone. I need to make it clear right now: Shaynee Sullivan does not giggle. But then, dang it, Delaney flashes me a smile that’s so warm and sparkling and genuine, I can’t help but respond with a broad smile in return. Delaney’s face instantly lights up, as if I’ve just asked her to prom.
At lunch, I find Tiffany sitting with Kellan at our usual table in the back of the cafeteria. It’s not uncommon for Kellan to join us at our table, but most days, especially on game days, Kellan sits at The Fun Table with his rowdy teammates from whichever sport is going on at the moment. On those days, I notice Tiffany’s eyes drifting longingly over to him, taking in the boisterous conversation going on over there, and I know she wishes the two of us would join Kellan’s group like we used to, back in the old days. She never presses me, though, and I never offer.
I plop myself down at the table.
“He won’t leave,” Tiffany says, feigning annoyance. “I told him to eat with his boyfriends today, but he wants to hear all about your date with Motorcycle Boy, too.”
I’m about to say, “It wasn’t a date.” But then I realize, in a flash of glee, that, yes, it was. I suppress the urge to cackle uproariously.
“Our little Shaynee’s growing up,” Kellan laughs. “I want to know all about the boy who’s stolen my little sis’s heart.”
I’m about to say, “I don’t have a heart for him to steal,” but then I realize... much to my shock... yes, I do. I must have regrown one, like how a maimed starfish re-grows a brand new arm? Shaynee’s Heart, Edition 2.0 may not be as whole as my original heart used to be... but, holy crap. It’s there. I’m sure of it.
“Well?” Tiffany says, sounding like she’s about to burst. “How’d it go?”
For the hundredth time today, I think about how delicious it felt when Dean pressed his lips—and his body—against mine. Despite myself, a girly giggle bursts out my mouth.
Tiffany and Kellan look at each other, flabbergasted.
“Oh my, my,” Tiffany says, raising her eyebrows, “it went that well, huh?”
“It was one of the best nights of my life, actually,” I reply, and my giggling turns into a full-throated laugh.
Kellan whistles. “What the hell did that guy do to you? Maybe he can teach me a thing or two.”
“Shut up,” Tiffany says to Kellan, slapping him on the shoulder. “You’re gonna scare her and break the spell. She’s talking. She’s laughing.” Tiffany looks at me encouragingly. “Go on... It was the best night of your entire life, and... ”
I chuckle. “He’s got this incredible voice, like it sends shivers down my spine; and, oh my God, he sang a song to me in front of everyone.”
Tiffany’s hanging on my every word, and Kellan’s looking at me like I just lighted myself on fire. When I don’t continue, Tiffany sputters, “And? Come on.”
“And his eyes... They’re amazing... ”
“Can we join you?” It’s Delaney Ballard and her best friend, Juliette, a quiet girl who doesn’t seem quite so Abercombie-and-Fitchy as Delaney.
I’m actually happy for the interruption. For some reason, stringing this out and making Tiffany and Kellan beg for details about last night is kind of fun.
“Have a seat, girls,” Kellan whoops, scoot
ing over. I glance at Tiffany, looking for traces of annoyance on her face, but find none. “Shaynee was just telling us about her ‘best night ever’ last night with some dude with ‘amazing eyes.’”
“Kellan!” I gasp. I’m mortified.
“Kellan, leave,” Tiffany shouts at him. She points her finger toward The Fun Table a few yards away, but he just laughs and wraps his big hand around her pointed finger. Tiffany rolls her eyes and turns back to me. “Shaynee, I’m dying here. You promised to tell me everything.” Her eyes are pleading. I can’t believe she’s encouraging me to spill my guts in front of Delaney and her minion.
“Come on, Shaynee,” Delaney says, “who’s the guy?” She turns to Tiffany and says, “You know that jacket is his, right?”
Tiffany looks like she’s been stabbed in the heart. And it’s no wonder. There’s no good reason on God’s green earth why Delaney Ballard should know this juicy nugget before Tiffany does. I try to make eye contact with Tiffany, but she’s looking at Kellan like a lost puppy.
“Well... ” I begin. I take in the eight eyeballs staring at me with rapt attention, and I feel... strangely... unexpectedly... powerful. Yes, I feel shy, too, and completely out of my comfort zone, as usual. But those aren’t my overriding emotions. No, the utmost sensation shooting through my veins is something closer to relief. A sense of freedom. Of lightness. For the first time in forever, no one’s pitying me; in fact, they might even envy me a little bit. I’m the girl in the midst of a mysterious, whirlwind romance. And I like being that girl.
Sure, if it had been just Tiffany and me sitting alone at this table, I already would have blabbed every last detail without taking a breath. I would have told her about the big band orchestra, and Wang Palace, and my surprisingly pleasant dancing partners, and Dean’s smooth voice like nothing I’ve ever heard before, and Mr. Jimmy and the food, and the story about Dean’s dad, and all about how Dean gave me his jacket, and... the kiss. The kiss. There’s no doubt I would have told Tiffany every last heart-stopping detail about The Kiss to End All Kisses. But now that I’ve waited this long, and the night has begun to take on mythical proportions in my head, and all those wide eyeballs are staring at me with such anticipation, such envy, I want to keep my Cinderella-like night at the ball to myself for just a little while longer. I like being the girl with a mysterious boyfriend. I like being the girl who captured the bad boy’s heart. I like being Shaynee the Badass. It’s a helluva lot better than being Poor-Shaynee-Whose-Mother-Died-and-We-Don’t-Know-What-the-Heck-to-Say-to-Her.
“Tiff,” I say reassuringly, “I’ll tell you everything later, I promise.” I want to make a point of singling her out right in front of Delaney.
Tiffany’s smile is grateful, and, true to form, forgiving.
“But I’ve gotta go over my Trig notes real quick before my test next period. I didn’t get a chance to study at all last night.”
“Hellz yeah, you didn’t get a chance study last night,” Delaney says.
With that, I get up from the table, take my plate to the bin, and head toward the exit. I’m just about to walk through the lunchroom door when I hear Tiffany jangling next to me. “Oh hale naw. You’re gonna tell me everything right now. I would have been there last night if it weren’t for that stupid banquet I had to go to for my dad, so I would have already known everything, anyway.”
“Oh yeah. How’d that go?”
“Really cool, actually. I had no idea how much my dad helps people. Like, he does these surgeries for kids with cleft palettes and stuff? I even got teary-eyed a couple times during the slide show... Hey, wait a minute. Don’t try to get me off topic, little missy.”
I smirk. “But it’s so easy to do.”
“I’m your best friend, am I not?” She’s trying to sound casual, light-hearted, but there’s a hint of doubt underlying her tone.
“Of course you are, Tiffy. The one and only.”
“Damn straight,” she nods emphatically. “And that means I’m entitled by law to know every last detail about your ‘best night ever’ with Motorcycle Boy. How was his band? How was the club? Was he nice to you?” She gasps. “Did you kiss him?”
We’re walking toward our respective next classes as we talk. “Tiff, I couldn’t have dreamt up a more perfect guy. He’s smart and funny and, oh my God, so talented. And he’s sweet, too... ” I sigh, remembering how he reached across the table and touched my hand. “And totally, ridiculously, insanely gorgeous.”
Tiffany lets out a squeal that makes me laugh. “Well? Did you kiss him?”
I look around to make sure no one can hear us. “Yes.”
“I knew it. You’re glowing.”
“It was incredible. Like aaah! Like, I’m-having-a-heart-attack and my-knees-are-buckling and I’m-ready-to-profess-my-undying-insta-love-right-now.”
Tiffany squeals again.
“And he’s coming to see me today at Sheila’s.”
“Oh my God,” Tiffany exclaims. “I am so there. What time’s he coming?”
My stomach drops. I’m suddenly uneasy. “Uh, he didn’t say... ”
“Oh, no worries, Peaches,” Tiffany says quickly. “That’s okay. He’ll come. I mean, he gave you his jacket, right?”
That’s true, he did.
You’ve put your faith in me, he said. I would never abuse it.
My shoulders relax a bit. He’ll come.
I’m one of the first students to arrive in Trig. While I wait for class to begin, I review my notes for the test. (Okay, that’s a lie. Even as I look down at my notes, I’m remembering the look in Dean’s eyes when he said, “You’re freckles are killing me right now.”)
“Can I borrow a pencil?”
I snap to attention. It’s Chaz Alvarez of all people.
“I forgot to bring one today,” he explains, grinning impishly. (From what I’ve seen of Chaz Alvarez from afar, he’s only got impish grins in his repertoire.) He cricks his head to the side and flashes me his very best, never-fails, top-of-the-line, I-know-you-want-me impish grin. That boy thinks he’s so damned cute. I mean, he’s right—he’s so damned cute. But he shouldn’t be so obvious about knowing it.
Why on earth does Chaz Alvarez want to mooch a pencil from The Invisible Girl? Is today the apocalypse and I didn’t get the memo? “Yeah, I’ve got an extra,” I reply, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. I rifle around in my backpack, hand him a pencil, and immediately look back down at the notes on my desk.
“Thanks,” he says. He remains standing over my desk for a beat. When I don’t look back up at him, he saunters to a desk in the back.
What the hell?
When the math test is over—which thankfully was as easy as I’d hoped it would be—I practically sprint to my car to head over to Sheila’s. I’m not sure when Dean’s planning on getting there, and I don’t want to risk missing him if he comes on the early side.
All alone in my car, once I’m safely out of the school parking lot and heading west on Interstate 8 toward the beach, I begin singing “That’s Amore” at the tippy-top of my lungs. And it feels really, really good.
Chapter 12
I bound through the front door of Sheila’s and immediately stop to survey the room. Is he here already? I scan the place nervously. It’s busier than I’ve ever seen it, just swarming with activity. Wow, I guess Sheila wasn’t kidding when she said she needed extra help on Thursdays. A chalkboard sitting on the empty stage says, “Thursday Open Mic Night—5:00 to 8:00.” I look at my watch. It’s just after 4:00 now.
Sheila stands behind the counter, alone, looking a bit harried as she greets customers, takes orders, runs the cash register, whips up frothy coffee concoctions, and retrieves pastries from the glass case, sometimes all at once. Several surfer-types are seated in a group in the far corner. A group of teenagers in skinny jeans, message tees, and Vans is standing to my left, laughing. A family of three is eating muffins and having an animated conversation in the center of the room. The little boy is holding a s
tuffed Shamu. Another group—a “mommy and me” club, I’d guess—is huddled at a table near the stage. A smattering of other patrons, mostly varying shades of hipster and deep-thinker, fills almost every possible stool and chair in the place. Wow, I had no idea Sheila’s could hold so many people. But not a single one of them is Dean. I breathe a sigh of relief—and disappointment.
You’ve put your faith in me, he said. I would never abuse it, not even in jest.
He’ll come.
Sheila looks like she’s juggling flaming bowling pins behind the counter all by herself, so I quickly run past her with a wave and head to the back room. I carefully hang Dean’s jacket on a coat rack and slip on my blue apron. I find my nametag in a small plastic bin on a shelf, and pin it to my apron. I stop and check my reflection in the mirror. I smooth a stray hair.
I exhale.
When I re-enter the front room, Sheila smiles at me, but she seems a bit frazzled. “I’m so glad you’re here, Shaynee. It’s a madhouse today. Everyone loves Open Mic Night.”
I step behind the counter. “What would you like me to do?”
“For starters, honey, can you collect the empties? Then come back here with me and I’ll put you to work.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I dart around the room, retrieving empty mugs, saucers, plates, and utensils, all the while keeping an eye on the front door. I don’t want to miss Dean’s entrance. My heart is thumping in my chest in anticipation of seeing him. I can’t wait to see his smile, to hear his laugh. I can’t wait to hear him say my name again. “Shaynee.” Just thinking about the way he says it gives me goose bumps.
I double-check the room. No Dean. And no Tiffany, either. Where the heck is Tiffany? She said she was going to come.
I suddenly realize I desperately want Tiffany to meet Dean. I want her to understand who he is and what he means to me. Somehow, at school today, I must have known without realizing it that stupid nouns and silly adjectives simply wouldn’t do him justice, and that Tiffany would have to see Dean to understand how we fit together. If Tiffany sees the badass I am when I’m with Dean, maybe she’ll understand she doesn’t have to put her life on hold for me anymore. Maybe seeing me with Dean will give Tiffany implicit permission to revert back to being my best friend, rather than my caretaker. Tiffany’s already given up too much to take care of me—and I’ve selfishly allowed, maybe even expected, her to do it.