Heart Shaped Rock

by Roppe, Laura

  “Shaynee,” Dean says, and the very sound of his voice brings a lump to my throat. He sounds like he’s in agony. “I’m such an idiot, Shaynee. I’m so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Please, please, let me explain. I don’t completely understand what just happened, but please believe me, the only thing I ever wanted to do was show you how much I... ” Dean’s voice breaks and becomes garbled. He emits a low-pitched moan. “Shaynee, it killed me to watch you go off with... ” There’s a sharp sound like a wild animal getting caught in a trap, followed by a shuffling noise. The voicemail ends.

  I am overwhelmed with emotion. My hands are shaking. What have I done?

  I press “play” on the second voicemail message, which is time-stamped a good twenty minutes after the first message. “Sorry about that,” Dean says. He sounds much more composed. “I think I understand why you’re so upset, thinking about it from your point of view. You have every right to hate me. I abused your trust—something I never, ever meant to do. But please, just let me explain. I can’t do it in a voicemail. I just need to talk to you, face-to-face. The truth is, yes, I did hear about you from Tiffany before I ever met you. And, yes, I saw your picture, and I thought you were beautiful... and intriguing. Like a dream girl. And then, when I met you, Shaynee, you were so much more than I had imagined, so much better... Oh, Shaynee.” He says my name like no one has ever said it to me, like he’s reciting a sacred word. “And to meet like we did, just by chance? It was fate.” He moans. “We’re written in the stars.” He semi-laughs, but it’s an aching laugh. “Just let me talk to you. I’m back at the coffeehouse now. I see your car’s still here, so I’ll wait here for you to come back—all night if I have to, my whole life if I have to. I won’t leave ‘til I talk to you. Please come soon.” The voicemail ends.

  I stare at my phone.

  He waited for me at Sheila’s on Thursday, all night long?

  And I never came.

  And I never answered his texts.

  And I never called.

  I imagine Dean sitting at Sheila’s, heartbroken, looking expectantly at the door, wondering why I haven’t at least come back for my car, and slowly coming to the conclusion it’s because I’m with Jared. I imagine Sheila closing down the place for the night, telling Dean it’s time to go, honey, and Dean hanging his head. Fast-forward a couple days, and I imagine Dean finding out that his “dream girl” just swapped spit with Jared on the boardwalk, in plain sight of the whole world. The full weight of my predicament crashes down on me. I’ve lost Dean forever. If ever there was a chance for me to be with him, I’ve blown it, totally and completely. Irreversibly.

  C-Bomb’s right. I suck.

  I put my phone back onto my nightstand and turn onto my side, toward my wall. I can’t even cry. I’m all cried out. When Dean held my face at the coffeehouse, before he leaped onto the stage to sing me his song, he said my name like he was saying a prayer. And what did I do? I stabbed him in the heart. And now, I’m getting what I deserve in return.

  I hear my door open, followed by light footsteps on the floor. The bed jerks and lowers with the weight of a small body climbing into my bed, and I close my eyes in anticipation of being touched. Sure enough, two chimpy arms wrap around me from behind, and a small, chimpy chin rests on my shoulder.

  Without saying a word, I lay a hand on Lennox’s slender forearm, close my eyes, and drift off to sleep.

  Chapter 21

  When the alarm blares on Tuesday morning, Lennox is lying next to me in my bed, sleeping soundly. We both groan simultaneously.

  Lennox stretches his hands above his head and yawns.

  We look at each other quietly for a moment.

  “Another day, another dollar,” I finally say.

  “This kid at school keeps saying I’m weird,” Lennox declares, out of nowhere.

  “You?” I ask, feigning incredulity. “Is this kid on crack?”

  “He says I’m a dork.”

  I shrug. Lennox is a dork.

  “He calls me a loser.”

  I’m instantly offended. Lennox may be weird, and he might even be a dork. But Lennox is most definitely not a loser. In fact, he’s as far from being a loser as you can get. “Why, in his infinite wisdom, has this supreme winner in the game of life decided you’re a loser?”

  “ ’Cause I still like Pokémon and dragons and stuff.”

  “Well, what are you supposed to like in sixth grade? Geothermal engineering?”

  “Girls, I guess.”

  “Oh, no, no. Listen to me, Lenny. Stick with dragons and Pokémon as long as possible. You’ve got the right idea. Trust me.”

  Lennox doesn’t say anything.

  “Listen, Lennox. You are weird, okay? But guess what? Everyone’s weird. I’m most definitely weird. And, believe me, that kid is plenty weird, too. And it’s the same thing about being a dork. There’s no such thing as normal.”

  Lennox smiles.

  I’m on a roll. “But you’re not a loser. A loser is someone who’s trying to be someone they’re not. I mean, Mr. Sixth-Grade-Ladies’-Man? Loser. And he knows it, so he’s picking on the coolest kid he can find so he feels better about himself.”

  “I’m not the coolest kid.”

  “Yeah, well, I might have aimed a little high with that one. But, dude, let’s roll with it. I’ve seen your music video. Even if you’re not the coolest kid, you’re pretty freakin’ cool.”

  “Yeah... ” Lennox smiles in warm remembrance of his bizarre little music video. “That video was pretty cool. Especially the part where I rode my skateboard dressed like a penguin.”

  “Yeah, okay, let’s not get too crazy here.” I’m not so sure I can buy into the penguin-riding-a-skateboard trope as the new standard of cool. “Anyway, speaking of losers, I’ve recently become a certifiable juvenile delinquent, so now I’ve got to show my teachers I’m back on the straight and narrow. Let’s move.”

  The clock on the wall in Art History moves at a snail’s pace. All I care about is getting over to Sheila’s after school. When Tiffany agreed to swap her Tuesdays for my Thursdays, she assured me that Dean almost always comes in on Tuesdays. When I see him, I’m going to tell him I’m sorry, that I’m ready to listen to anything he has to say, if he’s still willing to speak to me. I’ll tell him I’ve been an idiot, and that Jared means nothing to me. I can only hope he doesn’t reply with the same words C-Bomb used to describe me. Or worse.

  After fourth period, before heading to the lunchroom, I swing by Mrs. Garrison’s classroom to pick up a handout I forgot to get from her yesterday.

  “Thanks again for being so understanding,” I say. “I promise it won’t happen again.”

  “I’m just glad you had the chance to get some support. If you miss class again for that reason, then I’ll understand again.”

  Who knew?

  By the time I reach the lunchroom, it’s already bursting at the seams with rambunctious kids at every table. I fill my plate sky-high at the salad bar, plus I grab a bag of chips, some string-cheese, and a huge chocolate chip cookie—I guess I’m starving after missing dinner last night—and make my way to my usual table in the back. When I arrive at the table, I’m surprised to see Tiffany sitting practically on top of Delaney, giggling without a care in the world. The Giggle Twins are joined by Delaney’s best friend, Juliette, plus Kellan, and two of Kellan’s baseball teammates, plus their girlfriends. Wow, our table is now The Fun Table.

  “Hi, Shaynee,” Delaney sings out when I arrive. “You’ve got to hear Tiffy tell this hilarious story. She’s so funny/”

  Tiffany laughs gleefully. “No, Laney. You’re the funny one. I’m just your sidekick.”

  Well, well, well, aren’t Tiffy and Laney just two peas in a pod? Interesting. I survey Tiffany’s face, and realize she’s falling all over herself with giddiness. Clearly, I’ve kept my social-butterfly best friend trapped for the better part of a year, unable to flit and fly from flower to flower as she’s meant to do. I smile at he
r.

  “So, what’s the deal with Jared?” Kellan asks me bluntly, just as I’m tearing open my bag of chips. Leave it to Kellan to throw a haymaker on the pink elephant in the room.

  “Who’s Jared?” Delaney coos. “Oh, is he the one with the jacket?”

  “No,” I shout. “Nothing’s going on with Jared.”

  “Jared’s not Jacket Boy,” Tiffany explains.

  “But Shaynee went out with him anyway,” Kellan adds, grinning.

  I’m mortified.

  “Wow, Shaynee,” Delaney gasps. “You’re a trollop. So who the heck is Jared?”

  “Jared is, you know, the ‘red herring love interest,’” Tiffany explains. “Hot werewolf, killer abs—but he’ll never get the girl.”

  “Oh,” Delaney says. “Well, in that case, send him my way. If he’s not gonna get the girl”—she points at me—“then he can help himself to this girl.” She points both thumbs at herself.

  “You don’t want Jared, trust me,” Tiffany says. “He’s a tool.”

  “Come on, Tiff,” Kellan admonishes, the ever-loyal friend. He turns to Delaney. “He’s a good guy. But he’s pretty stuck on Shaynee, from what I hear. Apparently, she’s ‘freakishly beautiful.’”

  “That’s too bad for him, seeing as how he’s on the losing side of a love triangle and all.”

  “It’s not a love triangle,” I say forcefully. “There’s absolutely nothing going on with Jared. Please, you guys, just drop it.”

  “So who’s Jacket Boy, then?” Delaney asks. “Whoever he is, he has excellent taste in outerwear.”

  “Jacket Boy is Dean,” Tiffany answers. “Also known as Motorcycle Boy.”

  “Oh, wow,” Delaney exclaims. “Jacket Boy rides a motorcycle? Well, that figures, doesn’t it? The hottest boys always ride motorcycles.”

  I groan. “Please, you guys, just stop—”

  “The stupidest boys always ride motorcycles.” It’s Delaney’s best friend, Juliette. The whole table stops and stares at her. She’s never made a peep in our group before. She looks around, defensive. “What? Motorcycles are shockingly unsafe. The guys who ride them tend to be adrenaline junkies and risk-takers. Stupid idiots.”

  Kellan bursts out laughing. “Looks like Shaynee likes the bad boys, then.”

  “And how old is this guy, anyway?” Juliette continues. “Really, what kind of parents let their teenage son drive a motorcycle?”

  “New topic,” I yell, putting my hands over my face. “Seriously, you guys, I’m gonna be sick.” It’s the truth. I’m turning green.

  Tiffany knows me well enough to know this isn’t a figure of speech. “Okay, new topic,” she commands with absolute authority. “Let’s talk about how we’re going to get Chaz Alvarez to ask Delaney out.”

  “Oh, I like that topic,” Delaney joins in, clapping her hands.

  “Fabulous,” Tiffany says. “Let ‘Operation Snare Chaz Alvarez’ begin.”

  Thank God for Tiffany. I catch her eye from behind my hands and shoot her a look of gratitude. She winks. Good ole Tiffany. Or Typhani. Whatever the spelling of her name, she’s the best.

  After school—finally—my heart pounds out of my chest during my drive to Sheila’s. As I’m driving, my phone buzzes with an incoming text, but I wait until I’m safely parked in Sheila’s lot before reading it, proving that I do, in fact, occasionally heed my Dad’s commandments. The text is from Tiffany, of course. “Good luck with Dean today. Call me after you see him!”

  I shudder with anticipation.

  I race through the front door of Sheila’s and instantly start scanning the room.

  Sheila’s standing behind the counter, and, as usual, she’s doing four different things at once. I scan the room again. I don’t see Dean. I’m freaking out. I need to see him. Calm down, spazzoid, I tell myself. I’m already on the verge of acting like a wide-eyed maniac, yet again. Not my best strategy, considering the last time Dean saw me, I was a sprinting, bug-eyed lunatic. Maybe, just maybe, I should chill on flashing Dean my crazy-eyes this time around.

  “Hi, Shaynee,” Sheila says, and, unless I’m imagining it, she seems a bit subdued.

  “Hi, Sheila. I’ll be right there.” I run past her and into the back room. After stowing my purse and grabbing my apron, I join her behind the counter. Wordlessly, I take on half of Sheila’s duties, and we fall into our usual rhythm together. After about an hour, the rush has died down, so I run to the restroom to refill the paper products and do a quick sweep of the table area, bussing empty mugs and dishes, all the while keeping my eye on the front door. Still no Dean.

  I return to Sheila at the counter. “Hey, is Dean coming by today?” I ask, trying to sound casual. Of course, the truth is that I’m anything but casual.

  Sheila looks dumbfounded. Or is that annoyed? “No, Dean isn’t coming today.” Yep, definitely annoyed. “I specifically told him not to come down here. Remember? You took Tiffany’s Tuesdays exactly because you didn’t want to see Dean? To be honest, he didn’t take that news all that well.” She looks like she’s going to cry. If she starts, I’ll surely join her.

  How many times and ways can I stab this poor boy in the heart? I really am heartless. I can’t figure out a single thing to say, so I busy myself wiping down the counter. Sheila follows my lead and begins refilling the beans in the machine.

  Suddenly, Sheila whirls around to look at me, as if she’s bursting to say something. “Shaynee, I know I said I’d stay out of the middle of you two, but what’s going on? Dean won’t say a word to me about you, or about anything for that matter. He’s obviously a wreck. I hate to see him like this.”

  “Oh, Sheila. I blew it. I made the biggest mistake. It’s all my fault.”

  She sighs. “Oh, honey. Everybody makes mistakes.”

  “Not this big.”

  “Yeah, however big. Especially at sixteen.” Sheila embraces me.

  “That’s exactly what my dad said,” I whisper.

  She pulls away from me and looks me square in the face. “Well, then, your dad is a wise and kindhearted man.”

  Inexplicably, I think of Mom. Sheila kind of reminds me of her, actually, though they don’t look anything alike. Suddenly, my mind starts clicking like it’s connecting this dot over here with that dot over there. I shake my head, immediately blocking whatever train of thought is attempting to leave the station.

  I need to focus on the situation at hand. How did I let things get so messed up? Dean must think I hate his guts by now. I’ve got to tell him that, whatever his reasons for keeping quiet when I babbled on and on about my so-called normal teenage life, I know he meant no harm. I trust him completely. I’ve got to let him know Jared is nothing to me, and that Dean is everything. Yes, it’s true. Dean is everything to me. I can only hope he’ll believe me.

  I hang my head, and Sheila puts her arms around me again.

  “Oh, little one, it will all work out. Just have faith.”

  I put my head on Sheila’s shoulder. “Will you just tell Dean I’m sorry?”

  “Honey, that’s got to come from you.”

  I know she’s right. I pull apart from Sheila’s embrace and look into her face. I see an older, female version of Dean’s eyes staring back at me.

  A couple approaches the counter to place their orders.

  “What can I do for you?” Sheila asks, and I’m surprised at how light-hearted she manages to sound. When another customer comes in and orders a bran muffin, I study Sheila’s profile as she reaches into the pastry display case. It occurs to me that she suffered a life-altering loss with the death of Dean’s father at such a young age. She must have been in her twenties when he died, right? I’ve never thought about Dean’s dad and his sudden death in relation to Sheila. She must have been devastated. And yet, to look at her now, you’d never know it.

  “Sheila,” I tentatively ask after the last customer in line has drifted to a table in the corner, “how did you get over the loss of Dean’s father?”

&nb
sp; Sheila looks surprised at my question.

  I quickly backtrack. “If you don’t want to talk about it,” I say, “I totally understand.”

  “Oh, no, no, honey,” she says, “there’s nothing I want talk about more.”

  Chapter 22

  “I’ve never gotten over losing James,” Sheila says flatly. “He was the great love of my life. When he died, I wanted to curl up and die, too.”

  Her words hit me like a ton of bricks.

  “But,” she continues, “dying wasn’t an option for me. Dean was growing inside my belly, and I had to keep living and moving forward for him.”

  I find my voice. “His name was James?”

  Sheila nods, smiling. “James.” She sighs loudly. “He was the most gorgeous and talented man I’ve ever laid eyes on. Just a work of art, that man. When he sang, his voice was as smooth as silk and so full of soul. He sounded just like Dean Martin, which, trust me, even back then, wasn’t the least bit cool.” She laughs. “Oh, but he made it cool. And when he played his guitar,” her voice drops to a whisper, “it was like he was making love to it.”

  I want to shout “earmuffs!” at myself and throw my hands over my ears, but I don’t want to risk Sheila clamming up. I can do without the visual image of Sheila that’s popped into my mind.

  “Ooooweeee!” Sheila continues, lost in her own thoughts. “He rode around town on his bad-boy motorcycle, wearing his beat-up leather jacket and looking like a movie star. Ha! I always teased him, ‘James, you sing like Dean Martin and look like James Dean.’ So, of course, when the time came to name my baby boy, the choice was obvious.”

  So, Dean was named after James Dean, after all, at least in part. I can’t help but smirk.

  “Were you and James married, or... ?”

  “Oh, yes, honey. We met at nineteen, married at twenty-one, and had Dean on the way a year later. I’d always wanted a big family, and so did James, so we got started right away.” She looks up, apparently lost in a memory. When she glances back at me, her face has darkened. “He was with his band, coming back from a show in San Francisco, and their van just... skidded off the road. Robbie—he was driving the van—must have just fallen asleep.”