The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things(66)

“Well, I saw your light, and it’s pretty early. We were up late.”

It’s true; I’m running on five hours of sleep. “You can come in if you want.”

Shane steps into my room, but leaves the door open, so we don’t get accused of dirty deeds, if my aunt wakes up unexpectedly. His blue gaze flicks around, taking in the pictures I’ve cut from magazines and framed, the tangle of beads and Christmas lights that I’ve draped around my mirror. This room is cheerful, but I wonder what he thinks of it the second time. The throw pillows are piled on the floor beside the bed, so he steps over them in coming closer.

Shane perches on the edge of the bed, studying me with a faint frown. “You know me better than I do you. And I feel like an * for just realizing it.”

My chest hurts. I rub it, trying to reduce the tight sensation. Too sharply, I remember the group home and the way one of the workers had to restrain me. See, they’re trained on how to hold an out-of-control kid. I can still feel Mr. Rennick’s arms around me, hard and impersonal, to keep me from hurting anyone, myself included. I remember the crunch that came before, when I hit the girl I caught going through my things, crimson spattering from her nose. I remember the burn of the knuckles I scraped on her teeth and the raw feel of my throat from constant screaming. Rage has a scent, bitter and metallic.

“What would you like to know?” The question tastes like blood because I don’t know if I can be honest with him. But I’ll try. That’s how much I trust Shane.

“I know your dad died when you were seven … and you lived in a bad part of Chicago when you were with your mom.” He pauses as if to think. “Then you came to live with your aunt when your mom took off?”

No, he’s skipped a whole section in my life, one I prefer to pretend never happened. “There was some time in government housing between the two. Gabby is my dad’s half sister, and it took time for social workers or whoever to make the connection.”

Please let that be enough for now. Please.

“How long?” he asks.

This much, I can manage. It’s like tiptoeing around the edges of a chasm. If I fall in, I’ll lose the person I’ve built in the last three years. She might have started as a persona I created so Aunt Gabby wouldn’t send me away, but little by little, I feel like this Sage could be real. I want to live her life, not the one I left behind. People can do that, right? Make up their minds to change and be better. It’s possible. Please, let it be.

“Until I was thirteen.” That’s not strictly true. I can’t give him the timeline without telling him everything, though, and I’m not ready to do that. I want to live in this dream a little longer.

“So, like, foster homes or what?”

“And a group home, when the foster home didn’t work out.” I don’t explain why.

And he must sense my reticence because he doesn’t ask. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to avoid. I guess you understand how come.”

“Yeah,” I say softly, gratefully. “I get it. And I’ll help you anyway I can.”

“I know you will, Princess.”

I used to make fun of girls who let guys give them quasi-adorable pet names, but I don’t say a word. It makes me happy that he’s reclaimed one that used to bother me. I melt a little, and Shane reaches for me. His arms feel warm and strong, his hands splaying over my back. He holds me for a while, then he says, “This might seem weird at this hour, but I need to borrow your laptop.”

“Not a problem.” I get it for him and hand it over. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I’ve been thinking about this for a while. And I need to apologize to Mike, the guy I stayed with in Michigan City. He was nothing but nice to me, and I was an *.”

“Your mom’s friend. But why are you sending this at five in the morning?”

Shane taps my nose gently. “No ’net at home, remember? I’ll have to make a special stop at the library if I don’t do it now, while it’s on my mind.”

“That makes sense.”

He nods, logging in to Gmail. I realize I don’t have his email address, so I peek at it, memorizing music4life, along with four numbers. At first I think, it’s a PIN, then I decide that’s probably the year he was born. After I do the math, I realize it’s too long ago.

“What’s 1994?”

Shane lifts his shoulder in a sheepish shrug. “The year Kurt Cobain died. I used to be really into Nirvana, I opened this account when I was younger.”

“Mine’s Ecogrrl60167,” I mumble. “So I can’t talk.”

“Isn’t that the zip code here?”

“Yep. I’m creative that way.”

“I don’t know if he’ll care, but I feel like a dick for what I put him through. None of it was his fault. I just … went nuclear or something.”

“You were in shock.” I don’t know if that’s the right word for what he went through. He spent years watching his mom die, taking care of her, but not knowing when it would end. Then … it did. It would be hard to deal with that.

Shane hesitates, pausing between words, deleting and erasing, and I glance away from the laptop, not wanting him to think I’m reading over his shoulder. A few minutes later, he sighs and says, “There, sent. An e-mail’s not enough, considering all the nights cops dragged him out of bed because of me.”