The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things(35)

With a contented sigh, I plop down at the end of the sofa and then eat about half of my stuffed peppers, before remembering to praise her cooking. I’m afraid if I don’t, she’ll start doing takeout all the time. “This is so good. Uhm. Just so you know, we’re apparently having a small party on Sunday.”

“How small?”

“Like seven guests. We’re having lasagna.”

She cocks her head, thinking. “I have plans on Friday, but if you do the shopping on Saturday, we can put a couple of pans of lasagna together that night, and then bake them right before your friends come over on Sunday.”

“Plans, huh? UPS Joe strikes again?”

Her cheeks color. “Just call him Joe.”

“Noted. It’s awesome you’re letting me do this. I’d hate to tell everyone tomorrow that it’s not on, after they ask their parents and everything.”

“Next time, I’d appreciate more notice, but … this is a momentous occasion.”

“It is?”

“You’ve never wanted to invite people over before.” I hear the ping of happiness in her voice—that I’m doing normal things, making new friends, and having them to our house to eat pasta. If I’d known it would thrill my aunt this much, I’d have rounded up some random people to feed earlier.

“I guess not.” It seems like a bad idea to tell her that this was a conversation that got away from me, not some master plan to come out of my shell. “I’ll make sure to give you more than two days next time … and of course I’ll do the shopping. I can get some salad stuff, too.”

“Sounds good.”

While my aunt watches TV, I finish my dinner, then take my plate to the kitchen and clean. I have to prove that I’m not more trouble than I’m worth. Life with my mom was hell, and the group home was just as bad—in a different way. Everything was regimented, and I had no privacy. The first month, I shared a room with a girl who kept trying to smother me. Eventually, the housemother caught her during a random bed check and she was relocated. They were always searching our rooms for contraband and taking away our scant privileges, but sometimes I couldn’t help fighting. Sometimes it was self-defense.

I wash the dishes, wipe the counters and stove. The floor looks okay, so I’ll leave it.

“You don’t have to,” she calls, but she hates cleanup.

Since I can’t cook like she does, this division of labor makes sense. I’m learning, though. I can do a few of her recipes. Hopefully by the time I move out, I’ll have a respectable number of dishes, so I don’t wind up living on Maruchan. I had enough of that in elementary school, and I’m not looking to repeat the experience. Without noodles and gas station burritos, I probably would’ve starved. It’s hard to imagine sometimes; there’s such a demarcation between then and now, but once you’ve been truly hungry you never forget the feeling. And it’s hard not to think about where the next meal is coming from.

It’s ten, so I spend an hour on homework, and then fall in bed. It’s one before I finally drift off, and even then, my sleep is sporadic, plagued by the Dream. There are half-empty liquor bottles everywhere. I break one. Another. The glass sprinkles over me. I walk on it, but there’s no pain. I’m crying, but I can’t feel it; my face is numb. The tears taste like salt in my dry mouth, and my feet are bleeding. The red stains crushed packs of cigarettes, and my toes nudge a bright yellow lighter. Yellow on a stoplight means caution, but I pick it up anyway.

Smoke and licking flames, and there’s only my heartbeat pounding in my ears, my ragged breathing. I jolt upright in a pool of sweat. My aunt doesn’t know the Dream is haunting me again, or she might insist I go back on meds. But I hate how they screw with my brain. I want to feel things, even if they’re bad. I have to learn how to deal.

At six, I’m wide-awake, so I get up. Scramble some eggs. I do everything I can to be a good niece, a good kid. She’s the only thing standing between me and the system; and on days like today, I feel irrationally scared that my good, safe life could inexplicably implode. It’s the kind of fear that my old therapist would pick apart with a fine-tooth comb, asking me endless rounds of why, why, why. Then he’d offer me a new prescription.

I suspect I’m so nervous because I have a date with Shane tonight. I think.

School is school. There’s no quiz in geometry, but I did my homework right. Now we’re moving on to a new set of theorems, so I need more tutoring from Shane. I love that he waits for me after class, and that the jocks seem to have forgotten about him, mostly. Dylan gives us both a look, but he has bigger fish to fry, as from the loud convo, there’s a senior walking around in a sweater vest and bow tie. Clearly that challenge cannot go unanswered.

Shane smiles as we step into the hall together. “I put in an application at the P&K.”

“And?”

“When they found out I could work any hours, they hired me.”

I hug him to celebrate the awesome, and when his arms go around me, I swear my heart skips a beat. He smells of laundry detergent, sunshine, and fresh air, no cologne, no body wash. And that works for me in a big way. I imagine pressing my lips to the curve of his jaw. In helpless reaction, I curl my fingers into his army jacket, hoping he won’t notice my unsteady breathing. His eyes are so, so blue …