The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things(4)

After parking my bike in the shed out back, I let myself in, passing the hand-carved umbrella stand and driftwood coatrack. Aunt Gabby has a thing for primitive arts and crafts and natural furnishings, so our place looks like a roadside museum. The result is bright and cozy. My room is nestled at the back of the house, past the bathroom. It’s small, so I’ve got a battered bureau, a bookshelf made of reclaimed lumber and cinder blocks, painted scarlet and yellow for cheer, and a daybed that we bought at the thrift store downtown, and then sprayed a shiny gold. I’ve piled the bed with tons of throw pillows in all manner of fabrics, mostly inspired from watching Arabian Nights, as there’s lots of satin and sparkle. I never crafted or sewed before coming to Aunt Gabby, but she taught me, so I made the pillows myself. My closet is tiny, too, but that’s fine, as I don’t have many clothes. I hide that fact by rotating my skirts and leggings with different tanks and shrugs.

I spend two hours doing homework, and then leave a note, advising her I’ll be home by nine thirty. Then I haul my bike out of the shed. It’s not dark yet, so I don’t worry about reflectors; I’ll put those on later. I have plenty of time; I don’t kill myself peddling to the library, where we hold our monthly meetings. This isn’t a school club, so we had to find someplace else to host our group. It’s open to all ages, but so far, it hasn’t taken off. Only six members have joined.

I wave to Miss Martha, the librarian, as I push through the doors into the air-conditioning. The public library is one of my favorite places in the world. It’s an old building, two-story and historical looking, with marble floors, full of nooks and crannies where people can curl up to read. The books are organized by subject and then via the Dewey decimal system. Back near the reference desk, there are a couple of ancient desktops that people can use to check their e-mail. Fortunately, I don’t need those. I saved enough money this summer to buy myself a laptop. I’m pretty stoked about that.

Since I’m fifteen minutes early, I drop off my books at the front desk and pick out a couple of new titles. I carry them to the conference room upstairs where we hold our meetings. To my surprise, somebody’s already sitting there, reading, arms propped on the table. I recognize the green Army surplus jacket before I place him—Shane Cavendish, new kid.

How did he hear about Green World?

“Hey,” I say, as I sit down. “Good to see you.”

His head jerks up; he was totally into the book and didn’t hear me at all, which makes me like him instantly. I know all about the transportive power of fiction. Back in my old life, there were plenty of days when I wouldn’t have made it if I didn’t have an exit into the pages of somebody else’s life. My breath catches as his gaze meets mine. No joke, it’s like the whole world pauses for that second. Because Shane Cavendish has the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, aquamarine flecked with darker blue and green, fringed with long dark lashes that actually curl up toward his brows. Eventually, I notice he has a nose with a bump in the bridge, like it’s been broken, a pair of sharp cheekbones, a faint scar on his left temple, and a layer of scruff at his jaw. His mouth … no, I can’t even.

But it’s incredible, too.

Though I could probably stare at him for another five minutes in awed silence, he’s not on board with that plan. His brows pull together as he shoves his book into his bag. “What’re you talking about?”

I thought “good to see you” was self-explanatory. It’s a universal greeting and expression of welcome, isn’t it? “I’m happy the group’s adding a new member,” I offer cautiously.

“Oh.” Shane pushes out a breath. “Is there a meeting in here?”

I check my watch. “In five minutes.”

“I’ll clear out then.”

“You’re not here to join?”

“Unlikely,” he says.

That tone tells me what he thinks of people who organize and try. He’s probably a nihilist or something, who thinks it’s a waste of energy because nothing will ever get better. I admit, there are some days when I understand that philosophy. But without people agitating for change, there’s only the awfulness of the status quo.

“You’re welcome.”

“What am I supposed to be thanking you for?” His expression is outright puzzled, but he’s paying attention to me, his eyes trained on my face like he really sees me for the first time.

Which is cool, except … “I didn’t mean it that way,” I explain awkwardly. “You’re welcome to check out Green World.”

“Let me guess. You sponsor recycling drives and bug people to stop using plastic grocery bags.”

I guess that breathless moment where our eyes made contact was a one-way circuit. It’s a good thing I have a sense of humor or his attitude might bother me. “So far, we haven’t achieved even that much. Mostly, we argue and order pizza.”

Shane laughs, surprising me. His fingers relax on the edges of his ragged backpack. It was like he thought I was setting him up. In some respects, he seems like a kindred spirit, as if life has taught him to expect the worst.

“I could eat.”

“Then stay,” I say.

My heart pounds crazy hard, like, I can hear it in my ears. I’ve never said anything like that to a guy before. I wonder if he knows how bad I want to keep him here, just so I can look at him. His mop of chestnut hair has a hint of curl, and it’s pretty adorable the way it falls around his ears. In geometry, he used it to hide, but he’s not doing that now. He’s letting me see him.