Heart Shaped Rock

by Roppe, Laura

  I crumple onto the blue chair in the family room and put my face in my hands.

  “What happened?” Dad asks, rushing to me. In an instant, his anger has turned to alarm.

  “I went to find the boy, Dad. Dean. I went to find him but he wasn’t there.”

  Dad’s exhale leaves little doubt he’s rolling his eyes in utter exasperation. “Enough already, Shaynee. You can go see this Dean over the weekend. You’ve been working extra shifts at the coffeehouse, going out with your friends on weeknights, and even ditching classes ever since you met this Dean character. This has to stop. No more going out on weeknights.”

  I don’t answer him. My head is still in my hands.

  “Are you caught up on all your school work?”

  I shake my head without looking at him.

  “You’re not gonna work another shift at Sheila’s until you’re totally caught up.”

  This entire conversation is totally bizarre and foreign to me. I’ve never had to be monitored or disciplined regarding my schoolwork before, or, really, about much of anything at all. I’ve always just taken care of things on my own, without any need for supervision.

  Lennox enters the room, apparently attracted by the exciting and most unusual sound of me being scolded by Dad.

  “I’ve got it covered, Dad,” I croak out.

  “So you’ve said. But now I’m going to make damned sure of it.”

  Dad stands over me, apparently expecting me to say something. When I don’t, he sits down on the couch. “Shaynee, whoever this boy is, he’s not worth falling apart over. If he can’t see how wonderful you are, then he’s not worthy of you. I think it’s time to move on.”

  I look up at the sky. “Dad, you just don’t have a clue what’s going on here.” I sigh. “I just wish I could talk to Mom.” I know it’s a low blow, but it’s the truth.

  “Believe me, so do I,” Dad mutters.

  “Me, too,” Lennox chimes in. He wedges himself onto the blue chair with me and wraps his arms around my neck. I rest my forehead in the crook of his neck. Suddenly, a thought that’s been rolling around in my head like a gumball finally pops out the chute. I jerk my head up. “Dad.” I’m overcome with urgency. “I promise I’ll get all my homework done, and I know I’ve been terrible and irresponsible and untrustworthy, but I have to go to Sheila’s tomorrow night. It’s Open Mic Night. He’ll be there.”

  Dad leaps up from the couch. “No way,” he booms. “You were down at Sheila’s three times this week already.” He gets ahold of himself. “You’ve been acting like a lovesick puppy, and you haven’t been keeping up on your responsibilities. You’re the one that wanted to take all honors and AP classes, and now you’ve got to live up to your obligations. If you want to see this boy—and I’m beginning to think that’s a very bad idea, by the way—then you’ll have to wait until the weekend, and then, only if you’re completely caught up with all your assignments.”

  I don’t say anything. But what I’m thinking is this: Nothing and no one’s gonna keep me away from Dean. Not even you, Dad.

  Chapter 26

  It’s Thursday afternoon. I’m sitting in my car, scanning the crowd of kids leaving Lennox’s middle school. This is our usual pick-up spot, but today he’s running late. Where is he? Lennox is usually right at the very front of the emerging crowd, gleefully sprinting and bounding down the sidewalk. But today, he’s nowhere to be seen. I’m annoyed. I’ve got so much homework to do, I’m seriously having a nervous breakdown.

  Finally, after what seems like forever, Lennox bursts into my car and slams the door. “Just go!” he yells.

  I turn to look at him, intending to scream at him for keeping me waiting, but the look on his face stops me dead in my tracks. “What’s wrong?” I ask, instantly panicked. His face is red and tear-stained. His eyes are wild.

  “Just go,” Lennox says again. “I just wanna go home.”

  “Lennox, tell me what happened.”

  “It’s stupid Dexter Bagley again,” Lennox cries. “I was just going to get my backpack on the rack, and he started calling me King of the Dorks in front of everyone. ‘Hey, Dork. Are you gonna go home and play dragons?’” he says, mimicking his torturer. “He called me Puff the Magic Dorkus, and everyone was laughing.”

  I’m seething. “Dexter Bagley?” I repeat. “Show me.” I begin scanning the exiting droves of kids.

  Lennox looks up and squints at the masses. After a beat, he points and says, “There. In the green shirt.” He’s pointing at a big kid with curly black hair.

  “Stay here,” I command, and stomp out of the car.

  I march over to Dexter Bagley just as he’s throwing his head back to cackle about something he’s just said. I can see his pink bubble gum wadded up at the back of his jaw. Punk. “Hey, Dexter.” I say, my voice laced with ice.

  He looks up at me, confused. “Yeah?”

  “Dexter,” I mutter quietly, like a mob boss ordering a hit. Anti-freeze courses through my veins. “I’ve got a message for you.”

  Dexter’s eyes widen. He looks to his buddies for a show of support and gets none. Then he looks at me and puffs out his chest. “Oh yeah?”

  “My name’s Shaynee Sullivan,” I declare. There’s no recognition whatsoever in Dexter’s eyes. “Sister of Lennox Sullivan?” Dexter’s change of expression conveys that he now understands exactly why I’m here. “Yeah, I thought so. So listen up, Dex. My brother tells me you’re fond of nicknames. But, see, the thing is, if you’re gonna dole ‘em out, you really ought to be better at it, show a little panache. ‘King of the Dorks?’ ‘Puff the Magic Dorkus?’ That’s all you got? Sounds like you’re not too bright—or, maybe, your victim really isn’t all that dorky, after all.”

  Dexter looks around at his friends, red-faced, but, clearly, they’re not going to offer him any help here.

  “’Cause, see, when I look at you, Dexter,” I continue, “I see a genuine dork. And in the presence of such supreme dorkitude, here’s what someone of actual intelligence can come up with: Count Dorkula. Dorka the Explorer. Dumbledork. Duke of Dork.”

  Dexter’s friends chuckle, but I’m just getting started.

  “Hey, Dorkothy,” I say, “go follow the Yellow Dork Road.”

  “Oh!” One of Dexter’s friends says, clearly amused.

  “Ladies and gentleman,” I boom like a TV host, “behold Dexter, the winner of the mirror-ball trophy—this season’s champion on ‘Dancing with the Dorks.”

  Dexter’s friends bust into guffaws at that one.

  “Hey, Dex, I bet I can guess your favorite movie. The Dork Knight Rises. And your favorite song? Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Dork. What about your favorite food? Dork chops. Of course.”

  “Of course,” one of Dexter’s friends mimics.

  “Why don’t you just go back to North Dorkota where you came from? Or, wait, was it New Dork City?"

  Dexter huffs like he’s steaming mad.

  “And that’s not all, Dorkster. In the Dork Olympics, you’d be frickin’ Michael Phelps, dude. You’d take home the gold in every single event: The Dorkathon. The Dorkathalon.” I mark the events off on my fingers as I say them. “The dork-stroke. The one-hundred-yard dork. Snow-dorking. Figure-dorking.”

  Dexter’s friends hoot with laughter.

  “And, of course, synchronized dorking—which you’d win all by yourself.”

  “Burn!” one of Dexter’s friends yells, and everyone laughs. Well, everyone except Dexter, that is. Dexter’s not laughing. He’s red-faced and silent.

  “You see what someone of actual intelligence can come up with when dealing with a genuine dork? That’s a totally different ballgame, huh? ‘King of the Dorks’? ‘Puff the Magic Dorkus’? Really, Dexty?” I roll my eyes. “Puh-lease. You really are a dorkus extraordinarius.”

  Dexter shifts his backpack on his back. “You’re brother’s weird,” he says, jutting his chin at me, but his tone lacks conviction. Clearly, this is a pathetic attempt to save face with hi
s friends.

  I step forward. “You’ve got a mom, right, Dexter?” Wow, I sound like I’m capable of murder.

  Dexter makes a face that says “Duh.”

  “Well, Lennox and I don’t. Our mom died, Dexter. And you know what? If our mom were alive right now, she’d let Lenny fight his own battles. She’d tell him to take the high road. She’d tell him to kill you with kindness. She’d tell him to turn the other cheek. But, see, I’m his mom now. And I’m only sixteen, so I haven’t fully developed my impulse control yet. In fact, I’ve got a violent streak, Dexter, I really, really do. So I guess my mom’s death was as much your sad misfortune as ours. Because she was the only thing standing between you and an iron fist to the face.” I lean into him, right into his face, and I whisper, “If you ever bully my brother again, I will unleash all my pent-up fury about my mother’s death onto your nose.”

  I turn on my heel and start striding away.

  “I’m gonna tell my mom,” Dexter calls after me.

  I whip back around. “Please do. I can’t wait to tell your mom that you’ve been bullying the poor kid whose mom just died of frickin’ cancer. Real nice, Dex, real nice.” I continue my march back to my car.

  Lennox is waiting anxiously in the car for me. “What happened?” His eyes are as big as saucers. “I could see you talking to Dexter for a really long time. And it looked like a lot of the kids around you were laughing?”

  “Lennox, I just talked to him. I explained that he needs to take the high road. Turn the other cheek. Kill people with kindness, you know, how Mom always used to say? And you know what? He totally got it. He seemed really receptive to everything I said.”

  Lennox lets out a sigh of relief. “You really think you got through to him, Shay?”

  “Yeah, Lenny, I really do. I’m sure Mom was smiling down on the whole conversation.” I smile at him beatifically, and he smiles back—only his angelic grin, quite unlike mine, is the real McCoy.

  Lennox hugs me. “Thanks, Shay.”

  I hug him back. “Any time.”

  Good girl, Shaynee-bug. Good girl.

  Lennox and I hurl our bodies through the front door of our house and fling our backpacks onto the floor. We’re both high on totally separate adrenaline rushes—Lenn because he feels the weight of world lifted off his shoulders (or, more accurately, the weight of Dexter Bagley lifted off his shoulders), and me because I’ve discovered I’m a world-class assassin and it feels pretty darned good. Nobody’s gonna mess with my little brother. Not on my watch, anyway.

  “You want a snack?” I ask Lennox as I open the refrigerator.

  “Sure, thanks,” he responds, settling onto the couch with his math workbook.

  I proceed to make us English muffin mini-pizzas in the toaster oven. Hey, I’m a top-flight hitman and Betty Crocker.

  I look at my watch. It’s 3:45. There’s an hour and fifteen minutes before Open Mic Night starts. I shudder with anticipation. I told Tiff to text me the minute she sees Dean. I plan to do as much homework as humanly possible in the next hour, though I’ll never finish it all, and the second I get that text from Tiff, I’ll be out the door. I know Dad’s gonna kill me. And never trust me again. And impose whatever newfangled Dad Discipline he must have read about in his Parent Manual. But he just doesn’t have all the facts (understandably, since I haven’t kept him in the loop). Dad doesn’t understand that it’s been an ice age since I’ve had a chance to talk to Dean. Or how things have gotten hopelessly screwed up, thanks to me. Or that my very sanity depends on me finally getting the chance to tell Dean how I feel about him. Unfortunately, there’s no time to tell Dad any of this. I’ll just have to explain it to him after I’ve broken his express commandment and jetted down to Sheila’s. “It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission,” Mom always said. In fact, she wrote an entire song about the right way to tell someone you’re sorry: “I’m wrong. You’re right. I’m sorry.” I’ll just have to steal Mom’s words when the time comes to apologize to Dad, and hope he can find a way to forgive me.

  I’ve been sitting at my desk working on my Picasso presentation for Art History for an hour when my phone buzzes with an incoming text. I yank it out of my pocket like it’s a hot potato and gasp at the words on the screen. “No Open Mic Night. No Dean. Sheila says Dean left on road trip to San Francisco, will be back on Saturday. Hang in there. Xoxoxo Typhani.” There’s a string of sad-face emoticons and hearts and two dancing girls with kitten ears at the end of the message.

  I can’t believe it.

  I can’t stand it.

  This can’t be happening.

  I want to hurl my phone against the wall.

  I want to scream.

  Why oh why is the Universe conspiring against me? What have I ever done to deserve this? Well, I mean, other than make a snap judgment about Dean that was totally unfair and then run away screaming and flailing my arms when all he wanted to do was sing me a love song? And peel out in stupid Jared’s car right in front of poor Dean, and then ignore Dean every time he reached out to me, just wanting to figure out what the hell happened? And swallow Jared’s face right in the middle of the boardwalk for the whole world to see, and leave Dean to hear about it from C-Bomb so he could twist in the wind with a rusty knife in his heart and envision a make-out session between Jared and me of epic proportions and then formulate a horrific version of reality in his head that simply didn’t exist? I mean, seriously, other than these few things, what the hell have I ever done to bring a plague of this magnitude down upon me?

  A thunderstorm of emotion swirls inside me, rising, rising, rising like a tempest and threatening to flood out of me and wash me away. I put my head down on my desk and close my eyes.

  “Oh, Mom,” I whisper aloud. “What am I gonna do?”

  But there’s only silence.

  “What am I gonna do?” I say again, this time a little louder, my words landing with a thud onto my desk.

  Sing.

  I open my eyes.

  Sing.

  I sit up.

  Sing, Shaynee-bug.

  I look over at my guitar in the corner.

  Sing.

  I get up from my desk and grab my guitar.

  Without even stopping to think, I sit down on my bed and begin to play. I play all my favorite songs, from Taylor Swift to Imagine Dragons. My fingers stumble on the chords several times—it’s amazing how much muscle memory I’ve lost during my self-imposed musical hiatus—and the tips of my fingers are tender from not having pressed down on the strings like this in so long, but I sing loudly over the fumbles and the pain without stopping. And with each new song I play, I feel my hardness giving way to softness. The anger and anxiety and regret and pain that’s built up and crusted over inside my arteries during the past few weeks, or, maybe even over the past year, begin to break up and get swept along into my bloodstream. Away, away, away it goes. I play and play, and new layers of rosy-pink skin begin to emerge and replace the angry outer layers that I’ve so badly needed to slough off.

  Up, up, up, up, up, and down, down, down, down, I think. I’m due for another upswing on the roller coaster. I just have to hold on tight and trust that the upswing will come.

  The heart-shaped rock on my nightstand catches my eye, and I pick it up. I run my fingers over its smooth surface and touch the little heart-indentation in the middle. I pick up my guitar again and hold it in my lap, readying my fingers to play the song I wrote the morning after the Open Mic Night Catastrophe, when I was so sure doctors had patched me together with foam and wire and egg cartons.

  I’ve got a heart-shaped rock and it does not beat. It’s a heart-shaped rock and it cannot bleed.

  Huh. The song won’t come. That’s weird.

  I sit perfectly still, my guitar perched in my lap.

  But I don’t want to sing that song, no matter how wracked with anxiety and angst and ache and regret I feel. No, I don’t want to sing that sad song about the heart-shaped rock buried inside my chest
because, I’ll be damned, those words don’t feel true anymore.

  I don’t have a rock for heart.

  Against all odds, my starfish body has done it again and regrown another heart-bud—and it’s flesh and blood, not stone. And it’s beating so fast, and with such ferocity, with such all-encompassing urgency, it threatens to bang right out of my chest, lurch across the room, and splat against the wall.

  I love Dean. I love Dean with all my little heart-bud.

  I love him whether he knows it or not.

  I love him whether he loves me back or not.

  And you know what else? I love my otter-faced, walking-emoticon of a brother. And Dad, too—sweet, well-intentioned, lost-but-finding-his-way Dad; and loyal, loving, jangling Tiffany, and brawny Kellan, and butt-kicking Sheila, too.

  And I love Mom. Oh, how I love Mom. Forever and always. And I know, down deep inside this new heart-bud of mine, that she’s still with me. And she loves me back. Forever and always.

  My little heart-bud’s bursting with the torrent of love inside me. In fact, even as I sit here with these thoughts clanking around inside my head, I can feel my little heart-bud growing and expanding and filling the empty spaces inside my chest cavity, reaching and aspiring to become the size of a normal heart.

  I put my guitar down, a smile animating my face, tears streaming down my cheeks.

  There’s no way a girl with a rock instead of a heart could feel this much love.

  There’s no way a robot-girl patched together with chicken wire and plaster and Styrofoam could ache and yearn and desire quite like this.

  And there’s no way a teeny little heart-bud could bang with this much ferocity inside my chest.

  Nope, my sad song just doesn’t feel like the truth anymore—because there’s absolutely no way in hell a badass like me could have anything other than a big ol’, full-size, beating heart.

  Chapter 27

  Even though I’ve been counting the minutes until Saturday, I’m still somehow surprised when it arrives precisely on time. I’ve been a homework-producing machine since late Thursday night, and now, on Saturday mid-afternoon, I’m finally all caught up in every single class. I’ve even read ahead to the next chapter in American History, just to give myself a little cushion for the coming week. It’s a huge relief. Having my schoolwork back on track makes me feel like my life is back on track, too. It makes me feel like me again.