The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things(89)

“I figured we’d talk about Ryan. This was better, I think.”

“Did you want to ask about him?” I don’t blame her if she still cares about him. They were together, so to speak, for a while. There are bound to be residual feelings. It’s impossible to turn them off and on. All around me, I see relationships in stages of coming together and falling apart. Sometimes it feels like it’s happening at the same time, like a cascade of fireworks that sets a house on fire.

“Maybe. Is he seeing anyone?”

I shake my head. “I’m not sure what’s going on with him, romance-wise.”

“It’s immature, but I’m glad he hasn’t moved on. I haven’t. Not that I have time.”

“I get it. You loved the guy you thought he was. And it’s hard to let go.”

“You’re pretty wise,” she says.

“I’m still figuring things out. For the first time, though, I think maybe I have a clue.”

She laughs. “Just one?”

Before she leaves, we take a duck-face photo together with my camera and I promptly post it on my Facebook wall, along with a tag for Ryan. My caption reads, Cassie and me, girl talk. Yep.

Ryan responds immediately. OMG. WTH! More acronyms! Cassie’s laughing so hard she can hardly stand to leave. Soon, she has to run because she hasn’t had any sleep in two days. Time for me to imitate her determination.

Like Cassie advised, I call Mr. Cavendish daily. The first time, I’m polite. “Did you know Shane’s out of juvie? He’s in foster care now. But you could save him.”

He hangs up on me.

Day after day, I’m relentless. He keeps slamming the phone down. Finally, I say, “Look, do the right thing. Shane gave his mother how many years? You can give him a few months.”

In time, he stops answering his phone, so I leave messages with the front desk. I don’t care how he feels about the office workers knowing his private business. Like Cassie said, you have to be willing to fight.

School is … normal, I guess. My geometry grades slip a little without Shane tutoring me, but Ryan and Lila take up the slack. We’re like the Three Musketeers, but I miss the fourth side of our quadrangle. Shane still hasn’t texted me.

And I haven’t received any new mail from him, either. It’s been a month since he left juvie.

Where the hell are you, Shane?

It seems like he could find some way to get in touch with me. I told him my e-mail when he was sending that message to Mike, his former guardian. If he remembers.

If he remembers me.

Pain overwhelms me. Maybe he just wants to forget everything. Start over. And it would be selfish of me to drag him back here, back to that crappy trailer, if he’s happier where he is.

And I want Shane to be happy. I do.

I just thought he was happiest with me.





CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

So I’m planting the garden without Shane.

It’s a warm day. Sunny. Green World is hard at work. Both Lila and Ryan are here, our usual members, and even the four sophomores who deserted me. They’ve all apologized. Mel told me that she reported seeing Dylan bully people, so that’s something. She’s partially responsible for his social downfall, and it’s scary how fast people turn when you’re booted off the football team. Now Dylan Smith’s a pretty face with no crew, and payback is a bitch.

So I’m absolutely stunned when he shows up here. Everyone freezes.

I’ve got my fingers in the dirt, planting the seeds according to Gwen’s directions. I don’t know that much about gardening, but I like how it looks already. This lot looks like somebody cares. We care. And I would’ve sworn Dylan Smith doesn’t—about anything except his mom, that is—so nobody knows what to say.

I push to my feet. “What’re you doing here?”

“Can we talk for a minute?”

“I guess.” I move away far enough that the others can’t overhear, but they can still see us.

“It’s weird that you said yes,” he mutters. “Nobody else is talking to me.”

There are two ways I can handle this. I can be bitter and say he deserves it, but that’s not how Aunt Gabby has taught me to behave, even to my enemies. She’s kind even to cranky old Mr. Addams, who’s forever holding up the grocery lines. And she’s the kind of woman I want to be. So I don’t tell Dylan what an * he is. I figure he knows.

“What’s this about?” I ask instead.

“My mom’s got me in therapy. She’s worried that I’ll turn into a serial killer with mommy issues or something.”

“I hope it helps,” I say quietly.

“God, this is screwed up. You know so much about me, and we’re not even friends.” He goes on, “Anyway, that’s why I’m here. I’m supposed to make things right, if I can. So I’m offering to help.”

He wants to plant a seed? Okay.

“No problem.” I point at the pile of supplies. “Conrad can get you started. He’s kind of the site foreman.”

“Really? That’s it?”

The others are frozen, watching how this goes down. They seem to be letting me set the tone. And I’ve learned the most important thing from my aunt: Forgiveness is freedom.