Seven Days in June(12)

His fans thought he was mysterious—living off the grid, no signings or readings or appearances, because he was a no-fucks-given bad boy. But really, Shane was just a mess. He just didn’t want to be a mess with an audience. So as soon as he could afford to be a nomad, fucking up his life privately from hidden corners of the globe, he did exactly that.

In Tobago, he shared his beach shack with a roommate who wasn’t shocked by his sketchy table manners or infant-esque sleep patterns, because his roommate was a turtle. Shane enjoyed sharing his most demented confessions with that bartender in Cartagena, because she spoke four languages and none of them were English.

While Shane Hall had had tremendous success thanks to his writing, the writing happened to come from a person who was never supposed to be famous.

Which, in the highly conventional literary world, had only made him more so.

Glancing at his watch, he realized he was dangerously close to missing his flight. Assessing his options, Shane furrowed his brow. And then scratched at his biceps, just under his short-sleeve tee. He tugged at his bottom lip a little, distracted. Nervous tics, all. But Shane felt a faint energy shift in the room. Principal Scott’s gaze had gone from weary to…watchful.

Shane was a fidgety person (a new thing he realized, now that he felt everything). But calling attention to his mouth, his arm, his anything wasn’t fair. He knew that he pulled a strong reaction from women. He’d first realized this when he wasn’t much older than Ty. Back then, Shane hadn’t really known why he elicited this response, and he hadn’t cared. He’d just been grateful to have a card to pull, something to use when he was desperate, hungry, and alone.

You think I look like an angel? Good, maybe you’ll leave me here with the register while you get my favorite soda in the back. You think I’m a thug? Good, maybe you’ll hire me to rob your ex’s crib. You think I’m fuckable? Good, maybe you’ll give me a place to stay for a month.

Shane neutralized himself. Healthy, functional people didn’t take shortcuts.

“I’ll buy your lunch for a month,” he blurted out.

“Excuse me?”

So much for no shortcuts.

“You got Venmo? I don’t carry cash—I have poor impulse control.”

Half-heartedly chuckling, she said, “Go ’head. He’s in detent…”

Shane was halfway down the hall before she could finish the word.



Shane found Ty slumped over a desk in an empty classroom. Trancelike, he was doodling on the cover of his composition notebook. He’d scribbled on it so much that he could no longer see the designs. But if he ran his fingers over it, he could feel the grooves from the ball-point pen. Shane had been watching him do this for weeks. It must comfort him, somehow.

Ty was enormous for his age—about three hundred pounds—and at six foot four, he was two inches taller than Shane. The boy had a morose self-consciousness that quickly turned to rage if he felt embarrassed or threatened. But he trusted Shane. Shane didn’t roast him for wearing the same massive sweatpants and hoodie every day. And Shane knew that he lived with his aunt in a Portuguese-gang-run trap house (and that his mom and sister were last seen soliciting, together, in Hartford Park), but never mentioned it. Shane talked to Ty like they were the same.

Shane stood across from him, leaning against the teacher’s desk, and told Ty he had to leave Providence.

Ty didn’t look up. “Where you going.”

“To Brooklyn. The Littie Awards are there, this Sunday,” he explained. “I’m a presenter. Which is weird, ’cause I don’t go to awards shows.”

“Why.”

“Ever heard of Gayle King?”

“Who?”

“Never mind,” mumbled Shane. “I don’t go ’cause they’re meaningless. In 2013 the National Book Critics Circle gave Best Fiction to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie instead of me. Do I think she’s a superior writer? Nah. But it’s all subjective.”

The corner of Ty’s mouth curved. “You mad.”

“Hell yes, I’m mad,” said Shane. “’Cause I care. It took fortunes made and lost, one tarot-card reader, and too much AA for me to be evolved enough to say those words. I care about things.”

Ty knew he was being led somewhere. “You say that to say what.”

“Ty, why do all your questions sound like statements?”

“The fuck that means.”

“Look, I’m admitting that I care about awards. What do you care about?”

“Nothing. I ain’t soft, nigga.”

“Ain’t no niggas in here.”

Ty was confused. “You Dominican?”

“What? No. And Dominicans are niggas. Google ‘African diaspora’ and learn something. Jesus.” Shane shook his head. Time was ticking. “Listen, caring about things don’t make you soft. It makes you alive.”

Ty shrugged.

Shane eyed Ty for a moment, his expression serious. Ty looked back, challenging him.

“Tyree.”

“Yeah.”

“You need to listen to me.”

“Yeah.”

“This school is not designed for you to excel. It’s raising you up for prison. Your every move is criminalized, by design. In most schools, kids don’t get expelled for saying ‘fuck’ or get tased for tardiness or incarcerated for missing one detention. In most schools, eighth-grade boys aren’t terrorized this way. They’re allowed to be kids, nothing on their minds but pussy and Roblox.”