The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things(9)

When I walk past the music room, I hear something that stills me in my tracks. People push past; I’ve become a rock in the middle of a rushing stream, but I can’t move. Then someone shoves me from behind, not on purpose, but the result is the same. I slam into the lockers past the classroom and bounce. The underclassmen who were wrestling don’t even notice that my brain has stopped firing.

Shane Cavendish plays like it’s his reason for living.

I don’t write that on the Post-it, of course. That would just get him beaten up even harder. Instead I scrawl, You’re awesome on the guitar, because the jocks might think that’s cool and leave him the hell alone. It’s a long shot, as I don’t have any particular cred with their crew, but being a musician is pretty spectacular. I can’t breathe for how good—how remarkably talented—he is. And I suspect that if he found out anyone was paying attention, he’d stop playing.

Backtracking to his locker will make me late for class, but it’s worth it. I stick the note just below the vents, as I always do, but this time it feels weightier, more, somehow, like this is a turning point. Shaking off the odd sensation, I dodge into econ with a mumbled excuse. Sadly, it holds no weight with Mrs. Palmer. Unlike the male teachers, she isn’t impressed with talk of “female problems,” so I get my first detention of the year, only the second I’ve ever had.

Since tomorrow is Friday and I have standing plans with Ryan, I ask, “Can I just get it over with tonight?”


I calculate; school lets out at two forty-five. An hour of sitting in silence, and I’m supposed to be at work at four. If I hurry, I can still make my shift at the Curly Q. Which sounds like a diner, but it’s actually a salon. I’m not qualified to do anything but shampoo hair, sweep up, and answer the phone, but it’s better than fast food. I work two afternoons a week from four to eight, which earns me spending money for the week. Since I’m under eighteen, I get paid fifty cents an hour less than an adult; that makes me a bargain. After detention ends, I’ll just need to pedal hard to keep Mildred from yelling at me.

Mrs. Palmer glances up from scribbling down my doom. “Can you get a ride home?”

“Yeah.”

I’ve always got my bike out front, and the town is small enough that I can ride anywhere I need to go from school. This is the one positive aspect of living in a tiny burg like this, especially given my opinion of privately owned fossil-fuel-burning vehicles, which covers nicely for my lingering fear

“Then it’s fine with me. I’ll let Mr. Mackiewicz know.”

The math teacher is on detention duty? Awesome. Math sucks, but I might learn something if Mackiewicz wasn’t such a black hole for hope. With such a good time ahead, economics drags even more than usual. I’m feeling bummed about the afternoon’s prospects as I take my place in Mackiewicz’s classroom, right up until Shane slips in. There are other people, too, mostly burners who cut class more than they attend. The room fills up, but I watch as he comes down the aisle toward me and settles in the desk next to mine.

Questions clamor in my mind, and before I realize it, I’ve blurted, “Why are you here?”

His brow goes up in quiet amusement, which is when I notice his black eye. “For fighting, of course.” Sardonic tone.

“You mean when those *s jumped you?”

“The athletic department needs them. I’m superfluous. So, obviously, I need to work harder at getting along with my peers.” Though he’s trying to be cool, bitterness seeps through his flat tone like rain through a crack in the roof.

“That is so unfair.”

Shane shrugs. “Welcome to life. What’re you doing here? Doesn’t seem like your kind of place.” He offers a smile that makes me feel … I don’t even have the words, but it’s a longing that curls my toes.

“Mrs. Palmer has no tolerance for tardiness,” I answer.

“Harsh.”

“Not really. I was late, so I’ll do my time.” With him sitting beside me, it doesn’t even feel like punishment anymore.

Until Mackiewicz shuffles into the room and demands that we quiet down and do our homework. I do … for the ten minutes it takes him to doze off. The burners are already asleep, which leaves Shane and me alone for all intents and purposes. He digs into his backpack and produces the pink Post-it I left him. I guess he’s heard about the Princess.

“You left me this?” he asks.

I nod, feeling heat wash my cheeks.

“When did you hear me play?” He studies me through those thick, curling lashes, giving me the I-see-you look. I could curl up in that expression like it’s an afghan.

“Just before last period.”

“Explain to me why this was worth a tardy.”

So he knows, then. It sounds stupid when I try to articulate it; my reasons come out in a whispered jumble, about making somebody’s day better when things are total crap. I talk about silver linings and being the queen of bright and shiny things. He’s listening, but I sound crazy. I know I do. It’s pointless, possibly even pretentious, to think I could make a difference. I end my rambling recitation by saying as much.

To my surprise, he shakes his head. “No way. I’m sure there are people who are glad that you pay attention to them, who need to know someone gives a shit.”