by Roppe, Laura
The second ride turns out to be no different than the first, except that, this time, as Jared throws my hand up into the air and screams at the top of his lungs, I begin to philosophize about how symbolic roller coasters really are, and how life, no matter how clichéd it sounds, is full of ups and downs. I begin to wonder if every slow climb up, up, up in life really does, inevitably, just lead to a crashing, harrowing, bone-chattering down, down, down? And if so, if that’s just the way it is, if there’s no alternative and no way off the ride, then wouldn’t it make the most sense to just try to enjoy the ups as much as possible? To savor them and cherish them and tuck them away inside your heart? To look around at the beautiful view and the blue sky and the little ant-people down below and just breathe it all in and be grateful for it? And then, when the inevitable down, down, down crashes upon you, to just close your eyes and hold on tight and try not to hurl or cry too much—to try to remember, even if it’s damned near impossible to do it, that another “up” lies just ahead on the track?
“Woohoo!” Jared screams. “So awesome.” He puts his hand up for a high five, and I oblige him. Indeed, I even smile at the boy. He’s adorable. Happy. Easy to please. Simple. That’s good. Good for him. Good doggie.
“Ice cream?” Jared asks as we depart the coaster.
“Sounds good,” I say.
“Let’s go to that place on the corner,” Jared says, motioning a few blocks up the boardwalk. I know the place he’s talking about. They’ve got waffle cones. There’ll be no argument on my end.
“So, do you live in that house on Bay Street? The one from the party?” I ask.
“Nah,” Jared says. “That’s where my brother lives with his roommates. I live with my parents up by Law Street.”
I notice he’s said “parents,” plural. I don’t ask for more information.
“Where do you live?” Jared asks.
“Over by Old Town,” I say. “I live with my dad and brother.” There, I said it; I volunteered it; I revealed it on my own, at a time of my own choosing. Take that, Dean.
“Cool,” he says. But he doesn’t ask for more information, much to my relief.
“Do you surf?” he asks.
“A little. My dad does. He used to take me out on his long board growing up, but I don’t love it.”
“Oh, God, I do. I love it. Riding a wave is the best feeling in the world.” He sighs. “I live for it.”
“So does Kellan.”
“Kellan’s a good dude. And,” he adds, paying Kellan the highest surfer-compliment there is, “he totally shreds.”
“Yes, he most definitely shreds,” I agree, but I sound like a fifty-year-old librarian when I say it. I’ve never been particularly convincing at beach-speak.
Jared turns to me, apparently not noticing that his companion just morphed into Mrs. Doubtfire. “What’s your favorite flavor?” We’ve arrived at the ice cream shop.
“Swiss orange chip,” I say without hesitation. “It’s the weirdest flavor, but so good. Chocolate ice cream, dark chocolate chips, a hint of orange rind.”
“That’s messed up, man,” Jared says. “What about chocolate chip or rocky road or something normal?”
“I told you, I’m not normal.”
“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me you were Swiss-whatever-whatever abnormal. That’s a new level of wack. That’s just plain freaky.” He bursts out laughing.
I laugh, too. He’s right. I’m a freak. “Well, what’s your flavor, then?”
“Vanilla,” he says. “Classic.”
Boring, I think.
Suddenly, I’m thinking about Dean. Was Dean ever my boyfriend, even for a fleeting moment? I think he was, for one shining instant. When we saw each other again at Sheila’s, when he put his hands on my cheeks and said my name, when I threw my arms around his neck and breathed in the scent of him, I think in that fraction of a moment, at that very second, he was my boyfriend. In that perfect moment, he was mine, and I was his. Completely. And we both knew it.
I want to go back to that moment.
Now, all I can think about is the fact that he didn’t tell me the truth. I thought he was in love with Badass Shaynee and all along he wanted Rescue-Puppy Shaynee. Damsel in Distress Shaynee. Broken Shaynee. Well, I don’t want to be broken anymore. And I don’t want a boy who wants me that way, either.
“Yeah, one Swiss-whatever-whatever waffle cone,” Jared says, laughing.
“And one boring vanilla waffle cone,” I add quickly, snapping back to the present.
Jared beams at me. “Normal’s overrated,” he says.
I shrug. I don’t know why I find Jared so shrug-inducing.
“Thanks for coming out with me, Shaynee. I feel like I won the lottery.”
That’s a sweet thing for Jared to say. Jared is sweet.
But I don’t feel like I won the lottery. I feel like I picked all the losing numbers.
We begin walking back down the boardwalk with our waffle cones.
Why didn’t Dean just tell me the truth? If not at first, then how about when I was rambling on and on about my supposedly not-dead Mom and my normal life? Why didn’t he just stop me and say, “Shaynee, I already know everything. You can stop lying like a rug now.” Why?
“You wanna sit on the wall here for a sec?” Jared asks. “Finish our cones? Mine’s dripping all over me.”
“Sure,” I say.
We perch ourselves onto the beach wall separating the boardwalk and the sand and gaze out at the ocean.
“Thank you for the ice cream, Jared. And the roller coaster. It was really sweet of you to treat me.”
“Treats for the sweet,” Jared says, licking his cone. Then he chuckles at his own cheesiness.
Damn, he just reminded me of Lennox again. Eww. I shake my head like I’m erasing an Etch-a-Sketch board. I shudder.
“Shaynee,” Jared says, lowering his eyelids to half-mast. Without further ado, he leans into my face and kisses me.
Jared’s kiss is surprisingly tender. Heartfelt.
His lips are cold from his ice cream.
He tastes like vanilla.
You know what? Vanilla’s not as bad as I thought, actually, but I really do vastly prefer Swiss Orange Chip. I mean, there’s just no comparison, though, I suppose, you could do a lot worse than vanilla. Like, some sort of fruity flavor, maybe.
Suddenly, Jared hurls what’s left of his cone to the ground and brings his hands to my face. His kiss becomes instantly impassioned. Wow, I’m guessing Jared, unlike me, isn’t debating ice cream flavors in his head right now. He leans his body into mine and pulls me to him as his lips continue their soft assault. Holy moly, there’s no doubt about it—Jared is thoroughly enjoying this kiss.
And I’m not not enjoying it. I mean, Jared is a pleasant kisser. In fact, Jared is a very good kisser. He’s a natural. Or, maybe, he’s just had lots and lots of practice, unlike me. But... yeah. For all Jared’s seeming expertise in this area, when he kisses me, I feel... nothing. Other than the intellectual observation that he has a particular knack for this kissing thing. Truly, Jared’s got game.
Don’t overthink it, I say to myself. Just enjoy the simple act of kissing a good-looking boy.
Jared strokes my cheek with his thumb. And that confirms it. Yep, I feel nothing.
Zippo.
Zero.
Zilch.
Nada.
Kissing Jared just doesn’t compare to kissing Dean. When I kiss Dean, I want to leap into his arms. I want to tackle him and devour him and tell him I love him. I want to stop the world and stay in that moment with him forever and ever. When I kiss Dean, I can’t think about frickin’ ice cream flavors, and I most certainly don’t have to give myself a pep talk about enjoying the kiss.
Dean.
Why oh why didn’t Dean just tell me the truth? Maybe I should have given him the chance to tell his side of things on Thursday? Or, maybe, jeez, I could have at least called him or texted him back on Friday? Or how about giv
ing him the time of day on Saturday? Oh my God, today’s already Sunday. Why haven’t I called him back? What must he think of me? What must he think I think of him? Why was I so mean to him? Maybe he had a good reason for how he handled the situation. I should have at least heard him out. Oh my God, I’ve totally blown any chance of being with Dean. Even if there was a time when he still wanted to be with me after my hideous meltdown on Thursday, it has surely passed. If my hopping into Jared’s car on Thursday—right in front of Dean—wasn’t enough to make Dean hate me, then my cold-shoulder-treatment since then undoubtedly has done the trick. Surely, I’ve managed to close and double-bolt the door on any kind of future we might have had.
Oh God, I’ve totally blown it.
Wait a minute, aren’t I mad at Dean?
Before I can answer my own question, I hear a rage-filled voice behind me. “Dude, you suck,” the voice rings out. I pull away from Jared and whip my head around, only to find C-Bomb standing there, fuming, raging, and red-faced. He looks like he’s turning into the Incredible Hulk right in front of my eyes. “I just dropped Dean off”—C-Bomb points vaguely beyond the boardwalk—“and I had to listen to him talk the whole time about you. And, now, I find you here, macking down on Jared?”
Jared leaps up from his seat on the wall and takes a testosterone-laden step toward C-Bomb. I, on the other hand, remain glued to the wall, bug-eyed and twitching, involuntarily imitating a large-mouth bass yanked out of the water on a line.
C-Bomb matches Jared’s primal advance with a step forward of his own, but then both guys stand their ground, puffing their chests. When it’s clear Jared doesn’t plan to move closer, at least for now, C-Bomb’s angry attention snaps right back to me. “You suck,” he screams again, prompting Jared to step forward again and clench his fists.
C-Bomb quickly waves his arms as if to say, you’re not even worth the effort, and, then, he abruptly turns his back and marches away, all the while screaming words like “evil” and “heartless” and “bitch” at the top of his lungs, like he’s talking about the Devil herself.
I look at Jared, shocked and humiliated into complete paralysis.
Jared juts his chin at C-Bomb’s retreating back, practically growling. “That’s right, coward, run away,” he mutters under his breath.
I put my hands over my face, suddenly drowning in the crystal-clear realization that I’ve just made an epically huge mistake.
Chapter 19
The alarm blares, and I open my eyes. Monday mornings are always the hardest. And when you’ve been tossing and turning all night long, playing and replaying C-Bomb’s rage-filled voice screaming “evil” and “bitch” over and over again, Monday is even harder. With a loud moan, I reach over to turn off my alarm.
Yesterday, when I abruptly jumped up from the beach wall and demanded Jared take me to my car, he looked like I’d pistol-whipped him across the face. I’m pretty sure he actually whimpered. I never intended to hurt Jared’s feelings, but C-Bomb’s loud, and oh-so-truthful, pronouncement of my diabolical nature sent me into a full-blown panic attack, and I suddenly, urgently, needed to get home before I lost control of myself. And truth be told, at that moment, Jared’s feelings meant nothing to me. What did he expect, anyway? I’d warned him about me.
I burst into Lennox’s room, stomping loudly. “Get up!” I throw the covers off him.
Lennox’s eyes spring open, as if I’ve just yelled, “Fire!”
“Gah,” he shouts. “Jeez. You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”
“Good,” I scream back. I stomp-stomp-stomp out of his room.
On the drive to school, Lennox doesn’t speak to me. I feel like I should say something along the lines of, “I’m not angry at you, Lenn. I’m just angry at myself.” But, I don’t.
At school, before the first-period bell rings, I scan the quad looking for Tiffany, but I don’t see her. And she doesn’t come to my locker after Bio, which is really weird because she always comes to tell me Mr. Brown’s latest, lame-o science joke. In fact, the entire morning passes without a single Tiffany sighting. Did she even come to school today?
In fourth period, Delaney Ballard waves to me when I enter the room.
“Missed you Friday,” she says as I take my seat. “I took notes for you. Were you sick?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks for the notes.”
“Where’s your jacket?” She’s practically winking when she says this, like she’s in a silent movie and has just said, “Hubba hubba hubba.” Obviously, she’s imagining I was doing something particularly titillating over the weekend.
“I gave the jacket back,” I say, and I can feel my eyes moistening as the words leave my tongue.
Delaney takes in my suddenly wet eyes and jacketless torso. “Oh,” she laments. “I’m sorry, Shaynee. That’s a bummer.”
One thing I will say about Delaney Ballard—unlike Tiffany, she’s damned good at having in-depth conversations with minimal words.
After class, I walk to lunch with Delaney, stopping first at my locker to drop off a book. When we arrive at the lunchroom, I immediately look to my usual table in the back. But Tiff’s not there. I scan the busy lunchroom, searching for her, and sure enough, there’s Tiffany at The Fun Table with Kellan and his baseball teammates, plus a smattering of gesticulating girls, all crammed shoulder-to-shoulder and talking at once. Tiffany hasn’t saved me a seat.
“You wanna sit where we sat last time?” Delaney asks.
I nod. I hope my eyes convey my gratitude.
Delaney’s friends enter the lunchroom, and she motions to them to meet her at the far back table—the table where Tiffany and I have eaten together every day for the past six months.
I grab a sandwich, plus a bag of chips and a bottle of water, and take a seat with Delaney and her friends, looking down. I’m afraid to look up. If I look up, I might cry. I feel like I’ve just been dropped off for my first day of kindergarten.
“Hello, ladies,” a male voice says. I’m still looking down. “Mind if I join you?”
“Sure thing, Chaz,” Delaney says.
Oh, great.
“Hi, Shaynee,” Chaz Alvarez says, and I can feel the impish grin on his face without having to look.
This is the worst possible day for this. I’m not sure I can speak, so I look up quickly and semi-wave to him.
“What’s wrong, Shaynee?” Chaz asks. He sounds genuinely concerned.
Wow, that’s brave. Doesn’t Chaz worry I’ll answer this seemingly innocuous question by launching into a hysterical, hair-pulling rant about my dead mother? Doesn’t he know that asking Shaynee Sullivan “What’s wrong?” is akin to asking a leper “How’s it hanging?” He must not realize he’s treading on thin ice here.
“She and her mystery boyfriend broke up,” Delaney answers for me, making an exaggerated frown on my behalf. Yet again, I have to hand it to Delaney—she’s a gifted communicator. The girl gets the job done, efficiently.
“Aw, that’s too bad,” Chaz says, but his tone and inflection sound like he’s saying, “Why, yes, I’d love to have some of that fried chicken.”
Delaney laughs. “Don’t cry too hard about it, Chaz.”
Chaz chuckles. “I’ll try not to get too broken up about it. So, Shaynee... ” But I’m not paying attention to Chaz. I’m looking over at Tiffany. Everyone around her is shouting and straining to be heard, laughing, even throwing things—it’s a real funfest over there—but Tiffany’s quiet and still. That’s definitely a new look for her. She looks half her age right now.
I stare at her, telepathically willing her to look at me.
Finally, Tiffany looks up and glances over at my table. Her eyes clearly take in my assorted and surprising eating companions, and she visibly scoffs. Then she squints at me and scowls. Her scowls have always made me smile. She’s so cute when she scowls. I smile at her, weakly, and she looks away. Yeesh. This isn’t going to be easy.
“Excuse me, guys,” I say, most likely interrupti
ng Chaz in the middle of a great story about himself. I stand up and walk over to Tiffany’s table.
She acts like I’m not there. She suddenly pretends to be thoroughly engrossed in one of Kellan’s stupid stories. I can already tell after hearing just four words of it, it’s the one we’ve heard a thousand times about how, on a dare, Kellan shimmied up a flag pole in front of some model homes in the middle of the night to steal some stupid flag that said “MODEL HOMES,” and then, oh my God, no, the van he’d planned to jump back down upon like a landing pad drove away, if you can believe it—and who drives away in the middle of the frickin’ night, anyway?—and, oh my God, he was stuck up there forever and he thought he was gonna die up there—and he had to pee like a racehorse the entire time, by the way, but he was just way too high up to shimmy down—and, finally, his baseball buddy saved the frickin’ day and parked his mom’s minivan under the flagpole for Kellan to use as a landing pad. And, yes, of course, thank you for asking: That. Flag. Hangs. On. His. Wall. To. This. Very. Day.
“Tiffany,” I say evenly.
She swivels her head to the side, sort of toward me, as if she’s just become aware of my presence for the first time. “Oh, hi, Shaynee,” she says nonchalantly. She looks back at her crew.
I look at Kellan for help, who, much to his credit and my surprise, breaks from the telling of his action-packed story to flash me a sympathetic smile. “Hey, Shay,” he says. “How’re you doing?”
“Not great,” I say. I gaze back at Tiffany. “Tiff, can we talk for a sec?”
Tiffany exhales. “Oh, now you have time to talk to me, huh? I guess you couldn’t answer a single text or return any of my calls for four days, but, yeah, okay, now’s great.”
She’s inhaling and exhaling dramatically, trying to control her anger. She’s so adorable. I’ve seen her angry a million times before, but seeing her angry with me is something new. When it’s clear Tiffany doesn’t plan on leaving her table, I ask, “Are we gonna do this here? Or can we please just go outside?”
“Say what you want to say right here,” Tiffany sniffs.