The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things (31 page)

I don’t answer her because it’s not, but I don’t want to go into it. I order a chai latte, realizing that I never bought Shane his hot chocolate, and it’s all I can do not to burst into tears. Taking my drink, I head to the Curly Q to offer help for a couple of hours since I missed my shift on Thursday. My boss accepts with the usual amount of complaining. Because Grace is busy and Mildred is cranky, neither of them notice my mood. For my usual four hours, I sweep up hair, shampoo a few clients, make appointments, and handle the register.

On automatic, I put on my reflective tape and pedal home. By seven, Aunt Gabby’s waiting with seitan tacos. I pick at them as she says, “I have good news and bad news.”

“Bad first. Get it over with.”

“Shane’s been sent to Ingram, as we expected. They permit only parental visitation.”

I mutter a bad word and she doesn’t chide me. “So I can’t see him.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What’s the good news?”

“He can receive unlimited letters. I got the address for you.”

“Wow. That’s old-school. No Internet?”

“From what I’ve gathered, no. But it gets a little better. Once a week—on Saturdays—he’s allowed to make one collect call.”

I’m not even sure if Shane has our home number. He has my cell, but I don’t know if he memorized it, and I have no idea if you can accept collect calls on a cell phone. I suspect not. While I’m thinking of the logistical problems, my aunt hands me a packet of fine stationery, a gel pen, a Post-it with an address on it, and a pack of stamps.

“This will get you started.”

“I’m surprised you’re not telling me I’m better off without him … that he’s trouble.”

“Everyone deserves a second chance,” my aunt says softly.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime. Let me do the dishes tonight. You write to Shane.”

My instinctive reaction is to refuse; I always clean up. But … I want to do this more than I want to be perfect. So I take a deep breath and nod. Oddly, my neck and shoulders feel a little looser as I take everything to my room and shut the door. I don’t think I’ve ever written anyone a letter on actual paper before. I put the date and the time at the top; that might be more journal etiquette than proper letter writing, but Shane won’t care.

Shane,

I wish you hadn’t done that. Dylan Smith isn’t worth your future. It meant more to have you next to me. I felt like I could handle anything then. I really miss you. I have no idea what it’s like for you there. Tell me?

The words come easier after that, and pretty soon I’ve filled a page. Before I can think better of it, I fold the paper and put it in the envelope, then lick the stamp.
Gross. I’ll mail this tomorrow.

This sucks in an understated way; I’m acutely conscious of the hole in my life. It’s not that I can’t function without him like my aunt feared, but life has gone monochrome. Shane painted my world in the brightest hues with his smile and his music. Now it’s dull and dark, the worst part of winter without the promise of spring.

Later, Lila and Ryan drag me to a movie, but it’s the opposite of fun.

So, on Saturday, I decide it’s time to take action. I’m sick of feeling sad. I leave a note for my aunt, who’s at the shop, then I ride out to the trailer to check on things. Forty-five minutes later, I push the door open. Shane’s left it unlocked, like he’ll be right back. The lights from Valentine’s Day are still hanging everywhere, the white flowers, too. He didn’t have time to take them down.

I can’t stand this. I can’t.

It smells musty in here after a few days of vacancy. The food in the small fridge will go bad if I don’t clean it out, so I bag that up, feeling awful and guilty. Wandering the trailer, I end up in Shane’s bedroom. His guitar is propped against the wall by the bed, and books are scattered on the floor. This is a tiny room with the bed built into the wall. I didn’t register much the other night; I saw only him. I lie down on his bed and pull his pillow to my chest, breathing him in. This is what home smells like.

He’s pinned a few pictures on the wall, including one of me. My chest tightens until I can hardly breathe, so I squeeze my eyes shut. I fall asleep in his bed, and half an hour later, I wake up feeling better, more centered. So I head back into the front room, where I poke around, unsure of what I’m looking for. I open the packet of photos he showed me and find some new ones. This is all Shane has left of his old life. A few minutes later, I find an old picture of his mom and dad, dated 1989. They look so young. On the back, it reads:
Jude and Henry, together forever.
But life tears people apart, breaks them down. Young, pretty Jude got cancer and Henry ran away. In my head, I hear the chorus of Shane’s song:
Life is bitter, bittersweet …

Then I find it—the postcard tacked to the wall. On the front is a photo of some diner, nothing special. Pulling it down, I flip it over and read: G
lad things are going well at your new school. If you have an emergency, this is where you can reach me.
There’s a phone number, but no address. The card is signed,
Dad.

Asshole.

But now I have a plan.

Once I check to make sure I didn’t leave anything plugged in or turned on, I grab his guitar and iPod for safekeeping, get back on my bike, and race home. This time the trip takes me less than half an hour, though I’m sweaty and panting when I run into the house. After putting Shane’s stuff in my closet, I head straight for my computer, fingers crossed that the reverse lookup will work. A few seconds later, I have an address. I input that into Google maps, which tells me it’s fifty miles away. I switch to street view and zoom in, until I can tell it’s a crappy motel.
Well, Shane did tell me his dad usually just crashes at truck stops when he’s not driving. So I guess he has a room here.

I dial the number on my cell and a male voice answers on the fourth ring, sounding groggy. “Hello?”

He’s there.
Shocked, I put down the phone. I could call back, beg for his help, but it’s too easy to turn somebody down and hang up. In an instant, I make up my mind, grab the old note I left my aunt, and write a new one. Because I’m not trying to worry her, I’m specific, leaving both the name of the place, the address, and the phone number. Then I wrap up by promising to be back as soon as possible. It’s past noon already, so it might be midnight by the time I get home. She’ll be furious, as I’ve never gone for such a long ride before, but I don’t care.

I can’t breathe until I talk to Henry Cavendish.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

It’s cold as hell out here.

That’s actually a plus because I’m not as sweaty as I would ordinarily be when I ride into the motel parking lot, five and a half hours later. The place is L-shaped with the office situated at the center, upstairs and downstairs running on either side. At some point, it was probably blue, but most of the paint has peeled away, leaving gray concrete blocks. The drive is gravel, making it precarious for me to ride farther, so I get down and walk my bike.

It’s almost six, and it’s starting to get dark. Overhead, I can’t even glimpse the stars through the heavy cloud cover. The day has been gray, so the night probably will be as well. I rub my hands together while I consider my next move. I don’t have Cavendish’s room number, but it seems like I read a book where the room number is the last three digits of the phone number. I check that, and there
is
a 243 upstairs. I’ll risk it.

I lock my bike to the pole supporting the seedy
MOTOR LODGE
sign, then I head up the external stairs. My knees feel like jelly, but I push on. I tell myself it’s because I’m not used to riding so far, not because I’m nervous about confronting Shane’s dad. I don’t care if this seems like too much to other people; I’ll do anything to help Shane, anything at all.

Steeling myself, I bang on the door. At first I think he’s gone out because there’s no response, then I hear movement, shuffling toward me. He’s a tall, gaunt man with thinning gray hair and glasses, and he looks nothing like the handsome, hopeful young man in the picture with Jude. I’m not sure what I expected, but he doesn’t look like a degenerate asshole. Mostly he looks tired, squinting at me in the twilight. Behind him, there’s a TV playing, the sound muted, and the pictures cast flickering shadows in the dark room.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

I have to be sure, before I go into this. “Are you Henry Cavendish?”

His expression becomes wary. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Sage Czinski. I go to school with your son.”

He actually takes a step back, like he’s about to slam the door in my face, and the old rage ignites. I stick my foot over the jamb, keeping him from a full retreat. “You’ve done enough running for one lifetime. He already told me what a worthless asshole you were, but I’m hoping he was wrong. See, Shane’s in trouble, and he needs your help.”

“Shane prefers that I don’t interfere—”

“Bullshit. He ended up in Ingram, defending
me.
And he needs you to be there for him for once in his life. He’ll have a court date and he needs an attorney. How long do you plan to pretend he’s not your responsibility? He’s
your son.
”

“You’ve said enough. You need to go.”

“So you’re going to act like this isn’t happening? Let him rot.” I shake my head, so disgusted that I don’t even have the words.

I want to scream; I want to punch him. I’d love to kick him as hard as I can, right in the nuts, and it’s a hot, glorious feeling. I haven’t let myself get angry in so long because I was afraid of what would happen, what I might do. But I’m standing here, furious as hell, and if rage was deadly, Cavendish would be dying at my feet. But it’s not; it’s just an emotion like any other, and I can be mad when the situation calls for it. I can
feel
this and not lose my shit; I’m damaged but not a monster. I didn’t murder my mother; I was just a terrified kid.

To prove it, I take a step back. “You really are worthless.”

Then I wheel and run down the steps. After dark, this place is spooky as hell, so I hurry through the gravel parking lot to the crappy restaurant that’s attached to the motel. I have enough money for a side salad and some fries, so I eat those while inwardly bolstering myself for the long ride back. I feel like such an idiot. Deep down, I hoped my begging for Shane would mean something, but his dad really has cut him loose.

Thanks for taking care of your mother, son. Good luck with life.

The waitress has been watching me for five minutes, looking like she might call somebody, so I pull it together and head into the bathroom to wash my face. I slip out the back when she’s not looking and get my bike. At least it’s still where I left it. No surprise, it’s not worth much to anyone but me.

It’s scary dark. I put on my reflective tape, hoping I’m not about to become a life lesson. Since I got myself into this mess, there’s nothing for me to do but go home. Shortly after I set out, my cell phone rings. A glance tells me it’s Aunt Gabby, and I don’t want to listen to a lecture while I’m trying to keep from being run over by semis, so I let it go to voice mail. Then I text her,
I’m fine. Home late.

Hopefully that will keep her from losing her mind. After this, she’ll probably send me back to the group home, something I’ve tried so hard to avoid by being the best possible kid in the whole world. But now I just don’t care anymore.

My bike wobbles as cars zoom past me. I hope that nobody stops. And they don’t. People don’t care as much as they used to, or maybe they’re scared. I might be a lunatic or a lure, so when they pause to rescue a girl alone at night, six armed men will burst out of the bushes and mug them. Whatever. I wouldn’t get in a car unless they sedated me anyway. My principles feel like all I’ve got left.

Four hours later, I’ve never been in so much pain. My thighs burn, my arms ache, my back, too. Hell, even my ass hurts. It’s close to midnight now. I’ve got twelve messages and twenty texts from Aunt Gabby. I answer periodically so she knows I’m not dead in a ditch. That’s all I can manage at the moment, as the drainage area beside the road is starting to look inviting.

Eventually, I pass a green sign that tells me I’m ten miles from town. That’s an hour if I can pick up the pace. I’ll be home by 1:00 a.m.
Jesus.
I’m so cold I can’t feel my fingers anymore; it’s like they’re frozen to the handlebars. Seems like it’s almost chilly enough to snow, but lucky me, I get rain instead. The clouds open up as I pedal on, leaving me soaked and shivering.

I can’t do this. I can’t.

But somehow, pressing on has become the only thing in the world that matters anymore, like I’ll be giving up on myself
and
Shane if I stop moving. So I move my numb feet on the pedals, round and round. I haven’t seen any cars for a while, so I’m startled when a truck swerves off the road and stops on the shoulder in front of me. The rain pounds the pavement, glimmering red in the taillights.

If this is Dylan, I think I have to kill him.
As I consider whether I can strangle him with my bike lock, my aunt jumps out of the passenger seat.
I
realize this one is silver, not black.
Right. This is Joe’s truck.

I can hardly process what Gabby’s saying, my mind is working so slow. She’s yelling at me and hugging me, and saying stuff like
Do you know how long we looked for you? We’ve been driving up and down between here and the motel all night.

I just stare at her and she sighs. “Get in the truck, Sage.”

She’s soaking wet too now. My teeth are chattering with cold. Joe swings down from the driver’s seat and I back up. If she lets him manhandle me, if he puts me bodily in the cab, I will never forgive either of them. This is the only choice I have left, and I’ll break into a million pieces if they take it away from me. I don’t care that it’s stupid. I started this journey for Shane, my way, and I’ll finish it for him, even if they think I’m insane.