The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things(82)

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: Glad 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 *. 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.