by Roppe, Laura
“Please,” he yells, and he sounds desperate. “Please, stop.”
I slow my pace to avoid running into Dean’s back. And the moment I slow down, the wind is knocked right out of my sails. I can’t breathe. I feel like I’m going to pass out or throw up. Or both. I slow to a jog. And then to a walk. Oh, wow, I really feel like I’m gonna throw up. Dean walks alongside me, his hand on my shoulder, as if he’s worried I’ll suddenly dart away again. His chest heaves up and down, just like mine. I stop walking and come to a complete stop. I bend over, breathing hard, my head in my hands.
Suddenly, my body wracks with sobs. I feel Dean’s palm on my back, caressing me, comforting me. My shirt is sticky with sweat. I’m sobbing hysterically. I gasp at the air, trying to catch my breath.
Dean moves to embrace me.
“No,” I hiss. I stand up and step away from him to emphasize my point. “No.”
Tiffany reaches our twosome at a jog, her clanking accessories announcing her arrival a good twenty seconds before her physical presence. She’s red-faced and crying.
“Shaynee,” Dean blurts out. He sounds like a wounded animal.
Tiffany comes to a stop, standing just behind Dean. Her eyes are wide. After a moment, she moves forward, obviously intending to hug me.
I hold my hand up to signal her to stop. “Just answer me this,” I say, squinting at her, my eyes hard and unyielding. “Have you told him all about me?”
Tiffany’s mouth hangs open. She turns to look at Dean for help.
“Just tell me,” I shriek. “Did you tell Dean all about me and my tragic, pitiful, nobody-knows-what-to-say-to-me-or-how-to-act-around-me-and-I’ll-never-be-normal-again-life?”
“Oh, Shaynee, no, no, you don’t understand... ” Dean begins.
“Tell me,” I shout at Tiffany.
“Yes, she told me about you,” Dean shouts, answering for Tiffany. “Yes, of course, about your mom, and a ton of other stuff, too... And, if you could hear what she said about you, you wouldn’t even–”
I whip around to face Dean. “You knew all about me right from the start, didn’t you?”
His face drops for a nanosecond. “When I heard your name through the walkie-talkie, I figured you were probably Tiffany’s Shaynee. But then, at the party, when I saw Tiffany coming toward the bonfire... yeah, then I knew for sure. But, Shaynee, when I met you, you were so much more... ”
“And you never bothered to mention any of that? You just let me babble on and on about my ‘normal’ family and my totally-alive-singer-songwriter-mother and my ho-hum, nothing-to-report life?” I’ve resorted to screaming again. “And it didn’t occur to you to say, ‘I know all about you?’ or maybe, ‘Tiffany’s told me so much about you?’”
“Shaynee,” Tiffany adds, pleading, “I didn’t say anything secret or whatever, I just... ”
A bus barrels by on Mission Boulevard, and a warm gust of air and loud rambling noise envelops us. We all turn our heads away from the street as the bus passes. And in that moment, my tears dry up. Ice water invades my veins.
I am calm.
I am numb.
I am done.
“Tiffany,” I say, turning to look at her. “I’ll never escape being the village leper, an outcast, a freak, a charity case, as long as you’re my friend. You want me to be crippled. You want me to remain dependent on you.”
Tiffany’s eyes are like saucers. “Shaynee,” she pleads, aghast. “You couldn’t be more wrong. You don’t understand.”
I turn to Dean. “I might be pathetic, but I don’t need your charity. Do you hear me? I’m not some puppy needing rescuing. I never asked to join your ‘Teens Without Parents’ Support Group. But thanks, anyway.” And, with that, I march to the corner of Mission Boulevard, intending to cross west across the busy street towards the beach.
Tiffany and Dean move to follow me, and I bellow at them, “Leave me alone.”
“I’m not gonna leave you alone,” Dean yells. “I’m going with you.”
“Like hell you are,” I scream. “Leave me alone.”
“No way,” Dean yells back. “You’ve got this all wrong.”
“I’ll stay with her, Dean,” Tiffany declares. “Go back to your mom’s. Someone needs to help her. I’ll stay with Shaynee. I’ll call you later.”
“You’re not my nanny,” I yell at Tiffany, my ire rising again. “I don’t need a babysitter.” Just then the pedestrian light at the corner turns green, and I suddenly bolt across the street, taking them by surprise. Just as I step onto the sidewalk on the other side of the street, a beat-up hatchback abruptly pulls up alongside the curb, right where I’m standing.
“Shaynee,” a voice calls to me from inside the car. I peek inside. Oh my God, it’s Jared. “Do you need a lift?”
I look up at Dean, who’s jogging across the street toward me, and then back down at Jared in the car. “Sure,” I say with sudden intensity, flinging open the passenger side door. “Thanks.” I flop into the passenger seat and turn toward Jared to snap my seatbelt into place. As I look past Jared’s elated—or, perhaps, even triumphant—face, I see Dean’s chiseled features through Jared’s window, contorting in acute pain and shock, as surely as if I’ve stabbed him in the heart with a rusty blade.
I put my face in my hands. “Jared, please go.”
I feel the movement of the car gaining speed, and I quickly peek at the side mirror. Dean stands in the middle of the street, his arms raised in the air. In seconds, he becomes a smaller and smaller speck, until... he disappears.
“Holy crap, what happened?” Jared asks. “Are you okay?”
I nod, trying to find my voice.
Jared gives me a moment, but then tries again. “Seriously, are you okay?” he whispers, sounding genuinely concerned.
“Yeah... It’s just ... Dean and I... He’s a liar.”
“Oh, well. I can’t say I’m bummed to hear that.” He smiles apologetically.
I don’t smile back. I feel sick.
“So, where do you want to go? Are you hungry?”
“No, I’m fine. I just ... ” I just have to figure out my game plan. My head is still spinning. I pat the front of my jeans. My phone’s in my front pocket. Thank goodness. But, oh crap. I’m still wearing my frickin’ blue apron from Sheila’s. And, worse yet, I suddenly realize, I left my purse—with my car keys inside—in the back room at Sheila’s.
Craptastic.
I absolutely cannot go back to Sheila’s.
I absolutely cannot call Tiffany for a ride.
I absolutely do not want Jared to take me home.
We’re several blocks south of where Jared first picked me up, where Dean’s agonized silhouette disappeared from my side mirror. “I just remembered,” I say, “Tiffany has my purse with my car keys and everything, so I’ve gotta meet up with her.” This is a lie, of course. I have no intention of meeting up with Tiffany. But, suddenly, I must get out of this car.
“Sure,” Jared says. He looks crestfallen. “But I can take you, you know, wherever you want to go.”
“No, I’ve gotta hook up with Tiffany and get my car. But thanks.” I point to the side of the street. “Right here would be perfect.” We’re a block southwest of Sheila’s. I can see the ocean peeking out just beyond the houses and storefronts lining the west side of Mission Boulevard. The beach is calling to me.
Jared pulls the car over to the side of the road. “Okay, yeah,” he says. “But... um... can I take you out this weekend?”
My phone buzzes in my pocket with an incoming text. I know who it is, but I ignore it. “I’m sure that’s Tiffany,” I say. “I’d better go.”
“Or next weekend?” He smiles and flashes those insanely white teeth at me. “I’ll take you to Belmont Park. We can ride the roller coaster, have an ice cream cone—maybe watch the sunset?” He says this last part with an enthusiastic grin. “Come on, Shaynee. It’ll be fun.”
“Jared, why do you like me?” I suddenly ask. I can’t take it anym
ore. What the hell have I done to deserve this boy’s persistent attention? My tone is more direct than I intended, but oh well... I’m done biting my lip and blushing. I’m a badass now.
He considers for a moment, attempting to articulate whatever’s rattling around inside the head-shaped container perched atop his shark-tooth necklace. “Because... I dunno. I just do. I mean, you’re beautiful,” he finally answers. “You’re really beautiful. I just like you.”
He sounds so sincere.
I half-smile, but it’s an I-don’t-know-what-to-say half-smile, rather than an I-feel-any-emotion-whatsoever half-smile. “Wow,” I finally eek out. But, yeah, I feel absolutely nothing.
“How about I come to Sheila’s on Wednesday and say hey?” Jared attempts. His Tootsie-Roll-eyes are pleading. “We can figure out the plan then.”
I nod, not knowing what else to say or do—even though I know full well I won’t be at Sheila’s this Wednesday, or any Wednesday ever again.
“Thanks, Jared,” I manage to say. I open my car door and get out.
Chapter 14
I sort of flop my arm around in the air like it’s a marlin on the end of a deep-sea fishing line, attempting to simulate a goodbye wave to Jared as his hatch-back pulls away from the curb. Jared waves back at me in reply to my flopping gesture, so perhaps I’ve managed to imitate appropriate human communication well enough. But I don’t feel human. My arm doesn’t feel like my arm. My body doesn’t feel like my body. I’m totally numb. So numb, in fact, I could probably fling my body into oncoming traffic and not feel a damned thing.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. And buzzes. And buzzes. Someone is calling me, but I don’t pull my phone out. I don’t want to talk to Tiffany. I sigh and look around. I can’t go back to Sheila’s right now. Or ever. But my purse and car keys are sitting in Sheila’s back room. Fabulous. Gold-medal planning, Shaynee.
My phone buzzes quickly. Another text.
The memory of Tiffany’s face when I accused her of wanting to keep me down flashes in my mind, and regret explodes inside my chest, splintering and shattering like a glass hurled against a wall. I’m ashamed of myself. I’m just a bad person. I’m evil, I suddenly realize. I’m just a horrible, soul-sucking, inhuman person—or, actually, come to think of it, maybe I’m not a person at all. Maybe I died along with Mom, just as I’ve always suspected, and stupid doctors and scientists butted in and put me back together again. Maybe, my insides are now cobbled together with chicken wire and wood planks and Styrofoam and stone and fiberglass and silly putty and paper maché. Maybe, now that I’ve got an egg carton for a brain, I’m just too brainless to understand what has happened to me. That would explain a lot, like how I’m walking around without a beating heart inside my chest. Or, apparently, without a soul. Or a single redeeming quality. Or, now, thanks my stupid, cruel words to Tiffany, a single friend. Wow, it’s true. I don’t have a single friend now. I don’t have anyone on this earth who loves me, except for Dad and Lennox, but they don’t count.
Everyone is gone.
I’m all alone.
The phone in my pocket vibrates once with an incoming text. I ignore it.
With a sigh, I turn around and walk toward the beach. It’s close to sunset now, and the light all around me is golden and warm. I reach the sand and look out to the sea. The oceans shimmers gold at the horizon line and streaks of orange and pink and red paint the sky. If I weren’t such a bitch-and-a-half, a dead-hearted villain with nothing nice to say to anyone, a vacuous hole without a single redeeming quality, a sad-sack excuse for a human being, or, I guess, a doctor-manufactured robot, I’d surely think the scene is glorious and inspiring. But, of course, given the fact that I’m hideously incapable of appreciating anything of beauty with my egg-carton brains, all I can think is, “Woop-de-doo.” I continue walking, all the while thinking up new ways to call myself evil. And alone. And unworthy. And stupid. And cruel. And hideous. And, did I mention, all alone?
My phone vibrates again. And again. And again. A phone call.
I realize I’m still wearing my stupid apron. I untie the strings at my waist and pull it off, over my head. I look at my gold-lettered nametag—“ SHAYNEE” with the little heart at the end—and run my finger over the lettering. I touch the little heart. I smirk. Sheila obviously didn’t know what kind of heartless she-devil she was inviting into her beloved coffeehouse.
I can’t believe I acted like such a lunatic in front of her. In front of everyone. I can’t believe I just... left. Screaming and flailing. Sheila will never forgive me. Even if I wanted to keep my job, that’s obviously not an option. I bend down and pick up my flip-flops. It’s easier to walk on the sand in my bare feet. The sand between my toes feels soothing. It’s a relief to actually feel something. I guess the scientists or doctors or whoever rebuilt me after I died somehow wired faux nerve endings into my foam-rubber toes. That was clever of them.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text.
I walk along the shore. Kids on boogie boards whiz toward me in the water. Their moms are busy packing up their coolers and umbrellas and chairs and towels and buckets and shovels and yelling, “Five more minutes, Jake.” The after-work surfers are beginning to arrive now, their wetsuits folded down at their waists as they survey the golden waves in front of them and chat with the guys leaving the water.
As I walk, I scan the sand for unusual rocks and shells—a lifetime habit I’ll never outgrow, whether or not I’m patched together from junkyard parts. Occasionally, I stop and pick up an unusually shaped shell that catches my eye, and, after turning it over in my fingers a few times, I chuck it into the sea.
I come upon a gathering of smooth gray beach rocks. After moving the rocks around with my foot at first, I bend down to shuffle them with my hands. Suddenly, I feel the adrenaline rush of looking for something specific. It’s as if I’m looking for something I’ve lost. I move the rocks around, clanking them on top of each other, examining them, touching their polished surfaces, my rhythm growing more and more frantic and anxious as I search. Finally, there it is. I’ve found it. I exhale with relief. It’s exactly what I was looking for. As if my long-ago human-self planted it right here just before dying, knowing that my future Frankenstein-self would find it one day.
It’s a rock, seemingly like all the others, at least from a distance—smooth and gray—about the size of my clenched fist. But the thing is, the crazy thing is, it’s formed into the unmistakable shape of a classic Valentine’s Day heart. There it is, this heart-shaped rock, just sitting on the beach, waiting for me to find it among its thousands and thousands of oval, normal brethren. It’s been sitting here, all alone among the crowd since God-knows-when, feeling like a total weirdo-rock, not understanding why or how it’s been formed so differently than all the others. I hold the heart-rock in my hand and run my fingers over its smooth façade, marveling at its shape. I put my finger in the little cleft of the heart. I can’t believe how much this untouched-by-human-hands stone, lying on the beach in its natural state, looks so much like a Hallmark-made trinket. If I hadn’t found it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. I sit down on the sand, right then and there, letting all the rocks under my butt poke me uncomfortably. For several minutes, I hold that rock in my hand, my butt hurting, and I look out to sea.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text, so I take it out of my pocket and look at the screen. I’ve missed three calls from Tiffany, another from a number I recognize as Sheila’s, and two calls from a number I don’t recognize. All together, I have six new voicemails, a lifetime record for me. I’ve also got four texts from Tiffany and two from that same number I don’t recognize.
“Call me,” Tiffany’s first text says. “Are you ok?” says her second one. And then, “We need to talk.” And finally, “CALL ME!”
“This is Dean,” says a text from the number I don’t recognize. “I don’t understand what just happened. Please call me.”
Tears spring to my eyes. Dean. I trusted him. And I
don’t care if it sounds like typical teenage hyperbole, like Romeo and Juliet insta-love, I loved him. I loved him with all my heart and soul. And, to add insult to injury, I actually thought, like the giggly, stupid, evil, dumbass, naïve child I am, like the idiotic, unrealistic, heinously ill-prepared-for-life fool that I am, that we’d found a forever love. Like we’d been somehow fated to meet, just like Mom and Dad. Like our love was written in the stars.
I’m an idiot.
“Please give me a chance to explain,” Dean’s second text says. “What did I do wrong?”
My hands are trembling. I reach down and press a button on the phone to make a call.
“Shaynee?” the voice on the other end of the call says, sounding surprised. “Are you okay?”
Up until now, my tears were small and manageable—up until I heard his voice. But the sound of his voice unleashes a tsunami of grief inside of me, and I begin to wail. “Daddy,” I scream. “Come pick me up. Please, Daddy.”
“Tell me where you are, sweetheart. I’m coming right now.”
Chapter 15
Dad ushers me into the house. He’s cradling my shoulders like I’m a ninety-seven-year-old woman out for a stroll at the old folks home. Despite his repeated queries of “What happened, honey?” during the drive home, I haven’t said anything in reply other than, “Nobody loves me, Daddy. I’m all alone.”
Dad walks me into my bedroom and seats me on the end of my bed while he turns down the covers. He reaches down and takes off my flip-flops.
“Do you want your jammies?” Dad asks gently.
I nod. “The monkey ones,” I mumble.
“Okay, honey,” Dad says, “okay.” He rummages around in my bottom drawer until he finds my favorite monkey jammies, the ones that always made Mom laugh. The ones she gave me for Christmas. “Here you go, baby.” He hands them to me. “Do you need help getting undressed?”
I shake my head.
“Okay, I’ll come back in a minute, baby.” He leaves the room.
I undress and put my pajamas on, slowly. My head is throbbing.