by Roppe, Laura
“Okay. Well, then, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry. You’re my best friend in the whole world, and you’re the best friend anyone could ever ask for... and I’m just a soul-sucking, hideous, horrible person. I’m so sorry I said the worst, most heinous things after Open Mic Night, it’s just that I—”
“For the love of God, Shaynee, let’s take this outside,” Tiffany shouts. “Do you want the whole school to hear this? Gawd.”
She bolts up from her seat and marches toward the lunchroom exit.
Once outside, I’m about to continue my apology, but Tiffany whirls around and lays into me. “Who are you?” she screams. Wow, she’s furious. “Dean laid his heart on the line for you and you practically spit on him. Do you have any idea what an amazing guy he is?” She’s yelling. “Any other girl would kill to be with him, and you just tossed him aside.” People walking nearby are staring at us.
I open my mouth to speak, but Tiffany continues.
“And since when have you become a total ho-bag? You stomp all over Dean’s heart, chew him up and spit him out, and then move right into the arms—or should I say the lips—of Jared the Werewolf? And now I look over at you, and you’re making googly eyes with frickin’ Chaz Alvarez? Have aliens sucked the real Shaynee out of your body and left a slut-pod inside there, instead? Are you trying to bag a dude a day or something?”
That does it. I start to cry.
Tiffany’s still on the attack. “Were you trying to break Dean’s heart into a thousand-million pieces? Because if so, you did a fantastic job of it. And the crazy thing is you two are perfect for each other. The minute I met him, I wanted to get you two together. But, of course, you wouldn’t come to Sheila’s, no matter how much I asked. And I knew if I told you about him, then you’d never come. And then, oh my God, out of nowhere, you meet him anyway and wind up having the best night of your life? It’s like, ‘Duh, Shaynee!’ The universe is calling, but you’re just too stupid to listen.”
Now I’m bawling. She’s never talked to me this way before. “I am stupid,” I blurt. “I’m the stupidest person ever.” I put my face in my hands. “What am I gonna do?”
Tiffany crosses her arms in front of her chest, still angry. “I don’t know.” She sighs. “Things aren’t looking good.” She sighs and steps toward me. She hugs me. “What the hell is going on with you? You’re acting like a lunatic, even for you.”
I nod pitifully and motion to a nearby bench.
She escorts me to the bench, her arm around my shoulder.
“Tiffany,” I say between sniffles, “I didn’t mean any of the things I said to you. I know I can’t un-say them, and I don’t know if you’ll ever forgive me—”
“This whole weekend, I thought you hated me. Just the thought that we weren’t friends anymore, it was the worst thing I’ve ever felt. If you’re not my best friend, then who am I?” Now it’s her turn to cry.
I put my arm around her waist. “I can’t believe the things I said to you. I’m a horrible person. I’ve just been so angry, and... I took it out on you. I guess I thought if I didn’t talk about my mom—and if I could keep everyone else from talking about her, too—then I could pretend she was still alive.”
“Oh, Shay, I have a confession to make. I tell everyone about your mom all the time. I can’t help it. Everyone at school always wants to know how you’re doing, how they can help. And I just keep telling them, ‘She doesn’t want to talk about it.’ Once, Delaney Ballard asked me how you were doing and I just started bawling. God, I blabbed to her for like an hour in the bathroom. And, yes, okay, yes, I told Sheila all about you, too, I admit it. I showed her pictures, and I told her stories. I told her I was really worried about you, that you were so depressed and didn’t seem to be getting any better... ” Her words are coming out like a river released from a dam. “And, this one time, I was listening to my iPod at Sheila’s and one of your mom’s songs came on, and I started crying like a baby. Dean asked me what was wrong... so, yes, I’m sorry, Shay, I blabbed to him, too. And I showed him pictures, like, every single picture of you on my phone. Even the goofy lookin’ ones.”
She looks defiant. Like she’s daring me to scold her.
But I’m not going to scold her. Now that I’m hearing all this from Tiffany’s point of view, I realize I’ve been a complete idiot. Not just about Dean, but about everything.
Tiffany pushes ahead, emboldened. “I showed him a video of you singing and he was blown away—like, mesmerized. He said you were ‘incredible.’ And remember that video we made last year, when you pretended you were an Australian talk show host? I showed him that, too.” She winces, awaiting my reaction.
“Not that one, oh God, please no. I was such a dork.”
“He thought you were hysterical.”
I roll my eyes.
“I’m sorry, but it just felt so good to talk to him. He’s such a good listener.”
I sigh. “It’s okay.”
She continues, encouraged. “Dean told me about how his dad died before he was even born, and he gave me a ton of advice about what you might be feeling, and the ‘stages of grief’ he called it. And he just really helped me understand how I might try to be there for you.” Her tears suddenly increase in intensity. “Because, Shaynee, I want to be a good friend to you, but I don’t always know how to do the right thing. I’ve never seen anyone so sad in all my life.” Her shoulders shudder with sobs. She puts her head in her hands.
I hug Tiffany and she burrows her face into my hair.
“Ssshh,” I say, trying to soothe her. “Tiffany, you’ve been a fantastic friend and I’ve been such a suckalicious, crappy-ass friend. It’s been all about me, every day, all the time, but you’ve needed to find your way, too. Trust me, you’ve been amazing.”
She raises her head up from my shoulder. Mascara streaks down her cheeks.
“Please forgive me for my suckitude,” I say, and she laughs. I wipe at the mascara running down her cheeks with my fingertip, but it’s like trying to mop up an oil spill with a Q-tip.
She squeezes me tight. “I forgive you.”
I hug her.
Suddenly, she breaks apart from me. “But what the hell are you doing with Jared? When you drove off with him on Thursday, I thought Dean was gonna lie down and die right there in the middle of the street. And then, oh my God, C-Bomb told him you were having a full-blown make-out sesh with Jared yesterday? I’m seriously wondering how to get the real Shaynee back from the evil aliens.”
I put my hands over my face, groaning. I think I’m going to throw up. “I wasn’t making out with him, it was just a kiss.” One extremely long kiss. “How did you find out about it?”
“I’ve been texting with Dean. When he heard you’re with Jared now, it destroyed him.”
“I’m not with Jared.” The pain in my chest is so acute, I grab a fistful of my hair and start pulling.
Tiffany slaps at my hands frantically. “Stop it, Shay,” she yells. “That’s not gonna help anything.”
“I’ve screwed up so bad.”
“Stop it. If you don’t stop it right now, I’m calling your dad.”
I stop. Tiffany grabs my hands and guides them down to my lap. “Calm down, Shay.” She strokes my arm. “Just tell me what’s going on with you.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay.” For the next hour, I tell Tiffany every single detail about Dean—all about my first incredibly annoying but intriguing brush with Motorcycle Boy, and the bonfire and the bet, and the magic of Wang Palace—and all about how I told him about my “normal” family, but he didn’t say a word about what he already knew. Finally, I tell her about The Kiss to End All Kisses. “It was like a chemical reaction. Now I get why my mom and dad were always so googly-eyed around each other.”
“Oh, Peaches,” Tiffany says.
I continue on to the disaster of Open Mic Night, and try to explain why finding out Dean is Sheila’s son sent me into a tailspin... And, finally, with a sheepish bow of my head,
I plow right ahead to describe yesterday’s date and uninspiring kissing session with Jared.
“I think I just barfed in my mouth,” Tiffany declares.
“The irony is that kissing Jared just made me want to kiss Dean.”
We talk so long, I wind up missing Trig and American History, and Tiff misses her next two classes, too. I’ve never ditched a class before (let alone two), but I don’t care. The words are pouring out of me, and it feels so good.
When I’m finished telling Tiffany about Dean and Jared and the mess I’ve created for myself, I start talking about Mom. And once I start, I can’t stop. I tell Tiffany everything, every single detail, every single thought and feeling I’ve had for the past six months, and, even farther back than that, from when Mom first got her diagnosis. I tell her about the video Mom left for me. I tell her about Dad’s picture book, and the last page of the book, and Tiffany lays her hand on her chest and sighs. I tell her about the enchiladas. I tell her about Lennox’s dreams and the songs Mom sends him while he sleeps. We laugh about how Mom had a knack for silly voices. I tell her about the bags under my dad’s eyes that were never there before.
Finally, I tell her what Sheila said—that Tiffany’s suffered a horrible loss right along with me. “I haven’t stopped to think about your feelings, even once.”
“I just wish I could have said good bye to her, you know?” Tiffany reveals. “I mean, I know at the end it was a time just for you and your family, of course, but the hardest thing for me was not having a chance to say goodbye. Because I loved her, too. I just keep thinking I never said, ‘I love you, Miss Karen.’ And now, it’s too late.”
There’s a lump in my throat. “Well, on the video, Mom said she’d always be hanging around, watching everything I do.” I look around. “So, why don’t you tell her now?”
Tiffany’s eyes dart around, like she expects Mom’s spirit to part the sky like a ray of light. “Okay,” she says tentatively. She grabs my hand.
“Miss Karen,” she whispers, looking to the sky. She squeezes my hand. “Thank you for always treating me like a daughter. I’ll never, ever forget you. I love you.”
Tiffany looks back down to me, and tears have pooled in her eyes. She smiles.
I’m crying, too. But, now, even through my big, soggy tears, I feel a thousand pounds lighter than I did just an hour ago.
Chapter 20
When Lennox and I enter the house after school, I throw my backpack next to the kitchen table and slog straight to my bedroom for a nap. Today’s lengthy discussion with Tiffany lifted a huge weight off my shoulders, but now that the adrenaline of the day has worn off, I feel like I’ve been drugged with sleeping pills. Are there metal weights sitting on the tops of my eyelids? A cement sack strapped to my head? Like a thirsty man crawling across the desert toward a watering hole, I drag my sad-sack body down the hall to my bedroom, my head bobbing, my eyelids at half-mast.
It flashes across my mind that I really should do some homework before heading to bed. After missing school on Friday, and then working all day and having my big confrontation with C-Bomb on Sunday, I haven’t had the time or ability to concentrate ever since. Ditching two whole classes today certainly didn’t help matters. I can’t remember ever being this far in the homework-hole in my entire life. If I weren’t so dang tired, I’d probably be freaking out about it.
One spot of good news is that my teachers were pretty cool about my unexplained absences today when I went to talk to them after school. “I got caught up talking to Tiffany about my mom,” I told them, deciding honesty was the best policy. I’m sure my eyes were still red and puffy, so they didn’t doubt my sincerity. (Of course, I didn’t bother to add, “and, by the way, Tiffany and I also talked a heck of a lot about the most beautiful boy in the whole world, too.”) I knew I was using the Orphan Card; I just didn’t know if it had reached its expiration date yet. But Mrs. Garrison, and even Mrs. Minton—who’d never before shown even the slightest concern for my situation—couldn’t have been more forgiving or accommodating. “No problem, Shaynee,” Mrs. Garrison said, and she even gave me an extra week to finish a missed assignment. Mrs. Minton told me to just forget about my missed homework altogether. “Some things are more important than homework,” she said.
I kick off my Keds and crawl under my bedding, still in my clothes from school. I rest my fifty-pound head on my pillow. I’ve only just formed the thought, “Aah,” when everything goes to pitch black. I’m out like a light.
“Shaynee,” Dad says softly. He’s gently nudging my shoulder.
Didn’t I just shut my eyes two seconds ago?
The room is dark.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“It’s eight.”
“At night?” I sit up onto my elbows.
Dad chuckles. “Yeah. Do you want some dinner?”
“No,” I say. “Some water?”
Dad leaves the room and returns with a large tumbler of ice water, which I immediately gulp down. He sits on the edge of my bed.
“Lennox says you came to bed right after school. Are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m fine.”
“Did something happen at school today?”
“Yeah, actually. I ditched two classes.”
Dad looks alarmed. “Why? Were you with that boy?”
“No, Dad. He doesn’t even go to my school. He’s Sheila’s son, actually.”
“Oh.” Dad arches his eyebrows. “I didn’t know that. Well, I’ll have to check my Teenager Manual, but I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to ditch class.”
“No, Dad. That’s what your Parent Manual says about teenagers. The Teenager Manual actually says ditching class is exactly what I’m supposed to do.”
“Ah.”
“And, anyway, don’t worry, because the boy doesn’t ever want to see me again.”
“I told you—he’s a big dummy.”
“No, Dad, he’s not a dummy. I’m the dummy. I made a big mistake.”
“Everyone makes mistakes.”
“This one was a doozy.”
“Everyone makes doozies. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re still figuring things out. You’re sixteen. If he loves you, he’ll forgive you.”
“Yeah, that’s the thing. He doesn’t love me. Not anymore.”
Dad makes a sympathetic frowny face. “You want me to beat him up for you?”
I shake my head. Even in my misery, I can’t help but smile at the idea of Dad running around beating people up for me.
“So, why’d you ditch your classes?”
“I got caught up talking to Tiffany during lunch. About Mom, actually.”
Dad looks surprised.
“Funny thing, too—once I started talking about her, I couldn’t stop.”
Dad looks away.
“You should try it sometime, Pops. Talking about Mom, that is, not ditching Trigonometry. It’s surprisingly therapeutic.”
Dad looks like he wants to bolt out of my room. “You sure you don’t want any dinner? You’ve gotta eat.”
“I’ll eat an especially big breakfast. I promise.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“I’m worried about you.”
Dad gets up from my bed and heads to my door. “No more missing classes, Shay.”
“Don’t worry. I think I’ve gotten my teenage rebellious phase totally out of my system.”
“Gosh, I hope not.” He smiles and leaves the room.
I don’t want to leave my bed, but my bladder’s got a different idea. I hop into the bathroom to do my thing and brush my teeth. When I return, I slip into my monkey pajamas and get back into bed. I grab my phone from my nightstand and look at my incoming texts. Nothing.
I look at my library of past text messages. I click on the texts from Dean.
“This is Dean. I don’t understand what just happened.” I sigh. “Please give me a chance to explain. What did I do wrong?” Dean sent both texts on Thursday
, about an hour apart, and I never responded to either one—unless, of course, you count the indirect “message” I sent through C-Bomb via Jared. What must Dean think of me? What must he think I’m thinking? The last time he saw me, I was a screaming, melting, maniacal mess, streaking down the street and then hopping into a car with Jared—right in front of him. And the next thing he hears? “Hey, dude, she’s sucking Jared’s face.” He must think Jared and I are a couple now. I feel sick just thinking about it. I should have texted Dean right away. Or called him. But now, texting or calling would be too little, too late. I know in my bones there’s no alternative but to talk to him, face-to-face. I need to tell Dean I’m not with Jared. I need to tell him I’m sorry, and that I’m ready to hear whatever he has to say. I don’t know why Dean didn’t tell me the truth right away. I don’t know why he pretended to know nothing about me, or why he didn’t stop me when I started babbling about my normal family and my not-dead mother, but, I suddenly realize, I have enough faith in him to know he must have had his reasons.
When Dean kissed me in front of Wang Palace, he gave me his heart, I’m sure of it. And I gave him mine. And when I saw him again on Thursday at Sheila’s, and he put his hands on my face and said my name with such burning intensity my knees went weak, we belonged to each other. And now, just a few short days later, he’s out there, believing I’m Jared’s girlfriend, and that he and I meant nothing. And through my silence and everything I’ve done—and not done—I’ve let him think it.
Damn! I should have heard him out on Thursday. I should have listened to whatever he had to say. I should have sat right down and let him talk. I never, ever should have gotten into that stupid car with dumbass Jared. Or, jeez, kissed Jared on the boardwalk, right there in plain sight where anyone could see us. Wait, what am I thinking? I never, ever should have kissed Jared, period.
Should I call Dean? What if my call goes to voicemail?
I gasp. Oh my God. I’ve suddenly remembered something. Dean left two voicemails on Thursday. How could I have forgotten about the voicemails? With a sudden surge of adrenaline, I fumble with my phone, accidentally dropping it onto the bed next to me. I quickly pick it back up, my hands trembling, and press “play” on Dean’s first voicemail.