by Roppe, Laura
A lump rises in my throat.
“How did you... ?” I begin. But I’m not sure what I want to ask.
“Shaynee, I don’t know. Honestly, it was like I died when I found out James was gone. It was so sudden, and I never had a chance to say goodbye. Or tell him I loved him one last time.”
Tears fill my eyes.
“But when Dean finally came into the world, and he looked exactly like his father, I felt like I’d gotten back a little piece of James. And that’s when I started to focus on feeling grateful for the short time James and I had had together. I was awfully lucky to love him as totally and passionately and honestly as I did, even if our time was too short. I just decided to think about it like that.”
A customer approaches the counter and interrupts our discussion. Sheila greets her enthusiastically. I don’t know how Sheila’s able to even speak at this moment, let alone address the customer with such seemingly genuine warmth and ease. I make the caramel macchiato the woman has asked for, while Sheila chats with the woman about the beautiful weather we’ve been having. “The weather’s even better this time of year than in the summer,” Sheila says. “This time of year, we don’t have to put up with all the fog and June gloom; it’s just sunshine and blue skies as far as the eye can see.” The woman agrees profusely, and both women congratulate themselves and each other on their shared good fortune to live in sunny San Diego.
The woman finally departs with her drink, and Sheila turns back to me. “Honey, I’ve never, ever gotten over the heartbreak of losing James. But I’ve gotten through it, and I’ve learned to smile again, and laugh, and love, and look forward to the sun rising each and every day. Because I know without a doubt that he’s smiling down on me and our beautiful baby boy, and that he just wants us both to be happy.” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “And that’s exactly what your mother wants for you, too.”
I look down.
A woman approaches the counter with her toddler. She orders a latté for herself and milk for her kid. While Sheila fulfills the order, I turn my back, trying to catch my breath. When the counter is quiet again, I turn back around to face Sheila. “But how did Dean get through it?” I’m surprised at how clear and coherent my voice sounds. I certainly don’t feel particularly clear or coherent.
“It was tough. Not at first, when he was really young, because he didn’t know any different. Oh my gosh, when he was little, he was just the silliest, happiest thing.” She smiles. “But as he got a bit older, he... struggled. I think he just felt... incomplete, somehow—alone, even though I was always right there. Then, when he was in, oh, I guess, seventh grade, his teacher called me.”
A couple of teenagers approach the counter, laughing. The guy orders an iced coffee, and the girl wants a raspberry-infused-chai tea. Sheila and I divide and conquer, and the teens quickly disperse to a corner table. Sheila and I are about to resume our conversation when a long line forms out of nowhere, keeping us busy for a solid twenty minutes. Finally, when we’re alone again, I prompt, “Dean’s teacher called you... ”
“Oh, yeah,” she says, remembering her train of thought. “She wanted to know if the class might honor Dean’s father when he got back from deployment in Iraq the following week—in recognition of his Medal of Honor.’” Sheila shakes her head at the memory.
And just like that—ka-boom!—with that one little sentence, Sheila has unwittingly answered the question I’ve been asking myself over and over again: Why, oh why, didn’t Dean speak up during my “I’m just a normal teenager” babblefest at Wang Palace? Well, duh, Shaynee, because Dean understood what you were doing, and feeling, and needing, better than anyone. He wasn’t playing with me, or laughing at me, or pitying me. No, he was being kind. Compassionate. Empathetic. He was giving me room to figure things out. He wasn’t judging me. He was... loving me.
I close my eyes and shake my head. I am the Supreme Ruler of Planet Idiot.
“Yeah,” Sheila says. “He’d been telling everyone all year long about his brave dad in the Marines who was off fighting for his country in Iraq and winning the Medal of Honor. Finally, after a bunch of kids in his class started asking him over and over again when his superhero dad was finally coming home, he lied, yet again, and told them a day that must have felt like forever away. I guess he didn’t think about what the heck he was gonna do when that date finally arrived.”
I’m riveted. If I were sitting down, I’d be on the edge of my seat.
A small line forms, and Sheila begins ministering to every customer’s request with a huge smile on her face. While she’s doing that, I refill the cream canister, sweep the floor, and double-check the paper products in the bathroom. When I return to the counter, Sheila’s alone and lost in thought. “So, what finally happened?” I ask.
“Well, the kids in his class weren’t particularly understanding when they found out he’d lied to them. At that age, I guess they lacked the ability to understand why he lied.”
“What’d you do?”
“Well, the whole thing made me realize how badly Dean needed his dad in his life. So, that very day, I sat Dean down and told him all about James, showed him every last picture. I even gave him James’s leather jacket, and he practically slept in it from then on. I also gave him James’s entire record collection, which taught Dean more about who James was than I could ever put into words. Well, Dean listened to those records night and day, over and over and over again, and then he marched right out, bought his very first guitar, and started learning his dad’s favorite songs. And, I’ll tell you what, when Dean started making music, that’s when I got my happy boy back.”
I can’t bear to hear anymore. I’ve been such a fool.
I glance at the clock and suddenly realize my shift ended ten minutes ago. Thank goodness, because all I want to do is go home and curl into the fetal position. I collect my things from the back room and say goodbye to Sheila. She pats me on the head and calls me a good girl. I marvel at how much I like being Sheila’s rescue puppy. It’s oddly comforting.
I walk out to the parking lot—and stop short. C-Bomb is leaning against the passenger side of my car, his tattooed arms crossed at his chest. His expression is menacing.
I stand stock-still, unable to budge.
He doesn’t move, either. “Well, jeez, I’m not gonna hurt you,” he finally says. “I just want to talk to you for a second.”
I still don’t move. He scared the bajeezus out of me on Sunday.
When it’s clear I’m not going to move, he suddenly shouts, “Fine!” with indignation, and turns to march away.
“Wait,” I blurt toward his back. “Please.”
He stops dead in his tracks and turns back to me. We’re standing about twenty yards away from each other. I walk slowly toward him and come to a stop a few feet away. I’m wary. But curious.
Neither of us speaks for a moment as we size each other up.
“I had to practically tackle Dean to keep him from coming here to see you today. Sheila told him you’d be working, but she said he wasn’t allowed to come. She said you didn’t wanna see him.”
I exhale sharply. What have I done?
“I told him if he’d seen the way you were macking down on Jared on Sunday, he’d never wanna look at you again.” He practically spits this last part at me.
“There’s nothing going on between Jared and me,” I declare evenly.
“Yeah, that’s exactly how it looked when you were swallowing his face.”
I feel panicked, like a rabbit caught in a trap. “I don’t care how it looked, I—”
“Whatever. Save it. I saw what I saw.”
“I don’t care what you saw, you have no idea what I was thinking or feeling.”
He bursts out laughing, but his laughter is soaked in animosity.
I’m pissed. “Fine,” I shout. “Believe what you want. I know what was going on inside my head when you saw me. And I know what’s inside my heart right now. Maybe I’ve gone about everything
the wrong way, the worst possible way, but it’s all led me to how I feel right now. Maybe I just had to make a few mistakes to figure things out.”
He can call me a liar or whatever other name he wants. I know how I feel. And I know who I am. I’m the badass Dean thinks I am. Yes, I’ve screwed up, but I refuse to wear C-Bomb’s frickin’ scarlet letter “A” on my forehead anymore. He can shove it up his pierced-and-tattooed butt, for all I care. There’s only one person I owe an apology to, and it’s not Caleb Baumgarten.
C-Bomb studies my face intently. He’s squinting at me, like he’s trying to work out a jigsaw puzzle and the last piece doesn’t fit.
I hold my ground, not backing down from this impromptu staring contest. When his glare begins to morph into a sneer, I demand, “Why’d you come here, anyway, Caleb?” I’m surprised at the edge in my voice. “Did you come here to call me an evil bitch again? Because if that’s what you’re here to do, then we’re done.” I begin to turn away.
“Yeah,” he says calmly, his tone commanding me to stay, “I think you’re a bitch. But the reason I came down here is... I just want to talk to you for a second without Jared standing there like a frickin’ gorilla.”
I wait. When C-Bomb doesn’t speak again, I can’t hide my exasperation. “Well?” I shout.
“I’ve just never seen Dean flip out over a girl like this before. Chicks throw themselves at the dude, like, everywhere we go, every single day—it’s insane—and all he wants is you. I don’t get it. I came to tell you to stop torturing the guy. Cut him loose.”
I know I shouldn’t take any pleasure in C-Bombs words, not in this context, not when I know Dean is in pain and so totally misinformed about my feelings. But I can’t help it. C-Bomb’s unwittingly brought me hope. Is it possible Dean still loves me? Is it too much to hope he’d be willing to forgive me?
“I’m flipping out over him, too,” I shout at C-Bomb. “I don’t want anybody but Dean. And you can tell him I said so.”
“I’m not saying jack to Dean,” C-Bomb hisses. “Because I don’t believe you. Did you decide you wanted Dean before or after you dry-humped Jared on the boardwalk two days ago?”
That’s enough, I hear Mom say. Tell this boy to suck it.
“Screw you, Caleb,” I scream, and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to tackle him and pummel his face. “You’re disgusting. I did not ‘dry hump’ Jared. I kissed him, yes, and that’s all.”
“Whatever.”
“Whatever,” I mimic back to him.
“I think you’re full of it. You just told Sheila you never wanna see Dean again, and now you’re ready to declare your undying love to the guy? If you’re not full of it, then you’re just bat-shit crazy.”
“I didn’t tell Sheila, ‘I never wanna see Dean again.’ You’ve got it totally wrong.” I decide to try a different tack. “Caleb, I know you’re trying to help your best friend here, but you’re really just making things worse.”
“Whatever,” he says again. “I’m not the one running around with Jared.” He grunts in frustration.
“I get it, Caleb. You don’t forgive me. You don’t believe me. So what’s your plan? Are you just gonna keep tackling Dean every time he wants to come talk to me?”
God, I sound like such a badass.
Good girl, Shaynee.
C-Bomb shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He looks like he’s thinking about something. “I don’t believe you,” he finally says. “But it’s for Dean to decide, not me. As his best friend, I’m here to tell you to stop screwing with him. He can’t take any more crap from you. Tell him the truth—the truth—to his face, one way or another, or else he’s gonna lose his shit any second. And if Dean loses his shit, then I lose mine.”
“Fine!” I shout.
“Fine!” C-Bomb screams back.
“Well, where is he right now? Let’s go.”
C-Bomb actually looks sheepish for an instant. “I don’t know where he is. He was at my place, itching to come over here, and I set him straight. He stormed out, so... if he’s not here, then I don’t know where he is.”
I want to scream. I want to jump up and down and pull at my hair. But, of course, I don’t. I’ve got to go easy on the crazy-sauce for a while, especially in front of C-Bomb. I stand there, staring right into C-Bomb’s eyes. If this is a game of chicken, then I’m not swerving, punk. “I want to be with Dean and nobody else,” I finally say, gritting my teeth, “and I’m gonna tell him so. To his face. Not to yours, to his. This is between Dean and me. I don’t care if you or anyone else believes me. The only one who needs to believe me is Dean. So just stay the hell out of my way, Caleb.” I’m screaming. Really loud. It feels good.
C-Bomb makes an unintelligible sound, much like “hmmph” and kicks his steel-toed boot on the ground for a moment. When he looks back up at me, his face is set in resignation. He crosses his tattooed arms in front of his chest. “Get your ass to The Beach House on Garnet Avenue this Saturday night. There’s gonna be a huge all-ages show, and we’re the headliner. I’ll make sure Dean’s at the back door right after our set. You can talk to him then. I won’t say another word to him about any of it, unless, of course, you act like an idiot before then. Again.”
“Fine,” I say, yet again, but I’m no longer screaming. “Thanks,” I add.
“I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for him. He needs to talk to you, in person, face-to-face. If he looks into your eyes and believes whatever fairytale you tell him, that’s his problem.”
“Fine,” I repeat. But when I say it this time, I sound more dorky than badass-y. I decide to quit while I’m ahead. “See you then.” And with that, I get into my car and peel away from the parking lot.
Chapter 23
Wednesday at school is painful. There’s no other way to describe it. I can’t concentrate on anything. I can’t hear what anyone’s saying. All I can think about is Dean, and what I’m going to say to him when I finally see him, and whether he’ll believe me, or reject me, or scream at me, or—please, oh, please—kiss me. At virtually any moment of the day, anyone could ask me, “A penny for your thoughts?” and I’d reply, without variation, “Dean.”
Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean.
“I love you, Dean,” I imagine myself saying to him.
“I love you, Shaynee,” he says in reply, and, even as I imagine him saying my name, heat spreads throughout my body. I imagine my lips pressed against his, and his breath hitching sharply as he suddenly pulls me closer to him. I imagine myself throwing my arms around his neck, and knocking him down onto the ground, and then lying on top of him, kissing him, breathing him into me, pressing up against him. I imagine his strong arms wrapped around me, holding me, caressing my back.
I am losing my mind. I am physically aching to see Dean. I need to tell him how I feel. No, I need to show him how I feel. I’m sitting in Art History, but my body is elsewhere. My body is lying on top of Dean, pressing against his chest. I’m delirious with this deep-seated ache.
I haven’t done my assigned reading for class, and for the first time ever, I have to say “I don’t know” when Mrs. Ramert calls on me and asks me to describe what made the works of Picasso innovative and groundbreaking. Mrs. Ramert does that funny thing with her lip when I shrug my shoulders apologetically, but, thankfully, she doesn’t give me a hard time.
And the pain doesn’t end there. If I’d thought that being the Incredible Invisible Girl for the past six months was a suckfest, I should have been careful what I wished for. As it turns out, being The Highly Visible Girl is much, much worse. Suddenly, everyone and their best friend smiles at me, and says “hi” in the hallway, and asks to borrow my notes in Trig, and compliments my hair and skirt, and wants to know where’s the party this weekend? Since when have I become the Junior Class Mascot and Social Director? “Red Card Riot’s headlining at The Beach House on Saturday night,” I tell everyone. “They’re awesome.” If I’m the newly appoin
ted social coordinator of my entire class, I figure I might as well plug Dean’s band.
My mind races as I enter the lunchroom. I’m contemplating ditching the rest of today to go find Dean. Sheila once said their house is only a mile or two away from the coffeehouse, so that means Dean must go to Mission Bay High down by the beach. I could drive down there, right now, and tell whoever’s sitting in the front office there’s been an emergency, and I have to see Dean Masterson this very instant. I can’t wait another day, another hour, another minute to tell him how I feel. But, damn, I promised Dad I wouldn’t ditch any more classes, and I can’t break my word. I might be a juvenile delinquent, but I’m not a flat-out liar. And anyway, the thought of throwing myself upon Dean’s mercy in the front office of Mission Bay High School is less than romantic.
My head is reeling. I’m beginning to panic. What if I’m too late? What if the time for “I’m sorry” has passed? What if Dean has spent too much time imagining and re-imagining Jared kissing me, his shark-tooth necklace leaving scratch marks on my collarbone? What if C-Bomb has filled Dean’s head with imagery of me “dry-humping Jared,” or whatever other even more disgusting picture he might have painted? I cringe. With each passing day, is Dean slipping further and further away from me? Is the memory of our connection growing dimmer and dimmer, and hurt and pain and doubt filling the wounds and gashes I’ve sliced into his heart?
I scan the lunchroom, and, much to my dismay, my usual table with Tiffany is now a three-ring circus. Tiffany’s there, holding court with Kellan and even more of his surfer-jock friends. There’s also Delaney and her friends—who, I suppose, have become my friends, too, if I’m being honest about it—and, now, lucky us, we’ve also been graced by the presence of God’s-gift-to-the-world, Chaz Alvarez, and two of his hideously arrogant buddies, too. The only thing we’re missing is the Bearded Lady and Sword-Swallowing Man. But I’m sure they’re just at the salad bar.