The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things by Ann Aguirre
“Yeah. I’m not dumb, swear to God, but this stuff…” I trail off.
“He just doesn’t explain it well.” Shane tilts his head toward Mackiewicz’s classroom.
The man’s got tenure and he’s coasting. He gives us pages to read, rambles for an hour about Pythagoras, and then expects us to figure this stuff out from the text.
“You mean at all,” I mutter.
“If you’re struggling, I could help you.”
I’m surprised speechless.
Misreading my silence, he goes on quickly, “I know I don’t look like a math geek, but—”
“When?” I cut in. “I work Monday and Thursday afternoons.”
“And you have your green thing on Wednesday night.”
I’m ridiculously thrilled he remembers. “I’m not sure if I’m continuing with that.”
He falls into step as I glimpse the jocks already moving down the hall. They don’t have long attention spans, so they’re probably thinking about lunch or the next kid who needs to be taught a lesson.
“How come?”
I shrug, not wanting to get into it.
But he does, apparently. “I heard you broke up with your boyfriend. Is that why?”
We’re outside the cafeteria, other students pushing to get their tater tots. I consider letting the lie stand because it makes me sound cooler, less stupid, but if I’m mad at Ryan for lying, then I can’t start that way with Shane. Because gazing up at him now, just glimpsing the magic of his eyes through his tousled curls, I want this to be the start of something.
“Eat lunch with me,” I say then. “And I’ll tell you about it.”
Not everything. I won’t betray Ryan’s secrets, but I want Shane to know I’m not on the rebound; it’s not like that. It’s knottier and more complicated in some ways, but in others, it’s dead simple. I’ve been looking Shane’s way since he strode into my geometry class.
He hesitates. “I usually hide out behind the school.”
“With the burners. Do you smoke?” It’s a general question, but I mean weed more than tobacco. In my opinion, either is gross.
“No. Can’t afford it, even if I wanted to.”
“Do you?” I ask, joining the end of the lunch line.
“Sometimes. It might be nice not to care.”
Being numb is good for a while, until it’s not anymore.
“They’re fooling themselves,” I say. “It’s better to deal with your shit head on. Life doesn’t get better if you look away.”
Shane swivels his head sharply toward me. “No joke. Sometimes you absolutely have to stare it down.” But he seems astonished I know that.
Yeah, I’m full of surprises.
Waiting in line doesn’t offer the usual annoyance because I’m standing with Shane. But there’s going to be an awkward moment soon; the way he dresses makes me suspect that there’s not a lot of spare cash at home. So I put a few extra things on my tray, food I’m pretty sure he’ll eat, and pay the cashier. He’s frowning as he follows me to the table. Not the one I usually sit at with Ryan and the rest of the eco crew. Farther down, there are some random sophomores, but they won’t tell juniors like us to screw off.
“You don’t eat meat,” he says, staring at the burger.
I’m shocked he remembers me mentioning it at the Green World meeting. “This hardly qualifies. It’s probably eighty-five percent soy anyway. But it’s not for me.” I slide the paper plate toward him.
Shane shakes his head. “Thanks but I’m not hungry.”
“It’ll make me feel weird to eat alone. Plus, I can’t afford to pay you to tutor me. The least I can do is get lunch now and then.” A guy’s pride is a delicate thing—I know enough from dealing with Ryan not to say more.
I just start eating. A few seconds later, he digs into the un-delicious burger, as if he was damn near starved. I down a few more bites of limp salad before saying, “I guess I promised you a story.”
“Somewhat.”
The sophomores can’t hear us down the table, as it’s loud in here, but I pitch my voice low just in case. “Basically, Ryan was never my boyfriend. He just let people think we were together. Because I’m an idiot, I didn’t guess why.” Those last words come out bitter.
“So why did he do that?” I hear all kinds of nuances in his voice, questions, doubts.
Here’s where it gets tricky. “It’s complicated. He lied to me, though, and that’s what I can’t just get over. Maybe someday we’ll be friends again, but for now…” I shrug.
“Friends?” he repeats.
“Yeah. Friends.”
“So he didn’t break your heart.” He sounds relieved.
“Did you want him to?”
“I was afraid he had. That maybe you were talking to me…” His eyes cut away from mine.
“Because I was trying to make Ryan jealous? Not my style.”
I want to say, OMG, Shane, you think I’m a dude magnet? I’ve been Ryan’s sidekick, his not-girlfriend so long, that I have no idea what this is or what I’m doing. But I love it.
“I’m not looking for drama,” Shane tells me.
I understand the reason for the pronouncement immediately. Ryan’s watching us from across the cafeteria, but he won’t be shoving Shane into any doorjambs or cornering him in the boys’ toilet. In some ways, his silent, wounded eyes are worse. I can tell he feels horrible and that he misses me, but what am I supposed to do? After what I’ve learned, I don’t want to be his girlfriend, which is what he was shooting for when he made his big confession. I feel like I hardly know the guy, and that hurts most of all.
“There won’t be any.”
“I just … I can’t afford any trouble,” he says softly, not looking at me. “Any more, and I’m off to juvie until I’m eighteen.”
Possibly he thinks this will scare me off. But I have my dark side, too. The staff at the group home pulled me off an emotional ledge years ago, so I know what it’s like to feel completely out of control, doing stuff you know deep down is a terrible idea and yet you cannot stop. I study the rigid line of his shoulders. “Did you put that Post-it on my locker?”
He’s dead silent, but his eyes answer where his lips do not. I see the yes written in aquamarine.
In this moment, I want to kiss him so bad it hurts.
CHAPTER SIX
I don’t, of course.
This is still the JFK lunchroom, and I’m not that brave. In the end, I let him get away with not answering. It’s enough that he’s here with me and not hiding out with the burners. I finish my food, just shoveling it down, so I can say I did. I’m too nervous to enjoy the salad, especially with Shane studying me so intently. I’m suddenly worried I have lettuce in my teeth.
Afterward, Shane walks me to my next class, even though he’s not in it. Instead of saying good-bye, he brushes my hair away from my face and gives me a smile that makes me forget what subject I have this period. Then he lopes away, hopefully to make his next class before the bell. I melt into my seat before remembering where I am … and that Ryan is already sitting in the desk next to mine.
As I sit down, he glances over, but he doesn’t say anything. Around us, three girls are whispering behind cupped hands. It’s so weird to be the subject of gossip over a relationship that never existed except in other people’s minds. I heard the speculation before, but it’s different, knowing that Ryan encouraged it behind my back—that he was using the rumors. I mean, he knew his parents wouldn’t approve and that I’d be upset. Who wants to be the girl somebody pretends to date while secretly going after someone better? Yet he did it anyway. My anger kindles fresh, and I tamp it down. Rage tastes like burning in the back of my throat. Once I’m calm, I bend my head to my paper, taking copious notes that I’ll probably never look at again. Afterward, I linger over packing up my stuff to give him a chance to leave.
The day passes at the speed of snail.
Before last period, I leave a Post-it for a freshman kid the football
“Hey,” Alex calls. “I hear you’re on the market again.”
… Wait, what? He’s a freshman.
I stop. “I’m not seeing anyone.”
“Does a younger guy have a shot?” he asks, flashing me a grin.
He’s short and skinny, like Ryan used to be. Alex has a goofy sense of personal style, plus bad coordination and unpredictable skin. His hair looks like his mom cuts it by trimming around a bowl. But I don’t want to hurt his feelings.
“Only if said younger guy can pick me up in his G6.” I figure he’ll know that’s a joke since I don’t approve of fossil-fuel burning cars, let alone absurdly wasteful private planes.
He grins. “I’ll get right on that.”
By the time I get to the bike rack, the initial after-school scramble has passed. The buses are loaded and leaving the parking lot. Most people who drive take off as soon as they can, clogging the road leading away from JFK. Still, even now, there are a few stragglers in the parking lot. Two guys wearing knit hats practice skate tricks until Mr. Mackiewicz runs them off. It’s pretty funny how he makes time to be a buzzkill even on his way out to his car.
I have fifty minutes before I need to be at the Curly Q for my shift, so I’m in no real hurry. But I’m surprised when Lila hails me. She breaks away from a pack of mostly goth posers, who are piling into a gray van. Lila is tall, five ten or so, and she might look like a supermodel, if she wasn’t so into death fashion. Her long legs eat up the distance between us.
“Where you headed?” she asks me.
I can’t figure out what her deal is today. We never talk. “Work, eventually.”
“Want to get a frap?”
Oh. I think I know what this is about, so I mumble, “There’s no dirt. Nobody cheated.”
“I’m not interested in that anyway. I’m sure the story’s tedious.”
“Then what?” I don’t mean to be rude, but seriously, we barely live on the same planet.
She shakes back her super-vibrant dyed red hair. “Since you want me to lay it out, well, you’re way short on female friends. Most of mine’ve killed too many brain cells, so I’m in the market for someone with whom I can use polysyllabic words.”
“I’m flattered. I think. And, yeah, I have time for a frap.” The tiny café that serves as a substitute for Starbucks is two blocks from the salon.
“Sweet. Can I ride on the handlebars of your bike?”
“No. You can run along behind me like a spaniel.” See, I can be sarcastic, too.
Lila grins. “I could seriously get to like the new you.”
“I’m still me. Same princess. Same nice. Just…” Something has changed, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“With an angry breakup edge?” she offers.
“That works.” Anger is the wrong word, though, because I don’t permit that feeling anymore. The cost is too high when I unleash.
I wasn’t kidding when I said she could run after me. Conversation over, I swing onto my bike and head for the coffee shop, which is cunningly named Coffee Shop. There was a sign that said ANDREA’S above it at one point, but she sold the place, and the new owners took that part down. They just never mustered up the ambition to dub it anything clever. The pastries are pretty good, however, and the décor is cute, belying the uber-utilitarian name.
By the time Lila arrives, I’m already settled and sipping a latte. I smile at her as she pushes through the door, jingling the bell. She places her order, then joins me; the barista will bring her drink when it’s ready. There are a few other people in here, mostly artsy types. They like the ambiance better than the fried meat grease and dull roar over at DQ. A couple of them double-take at the sight of me hanging with Lila, as we’re not really from the same social strata.
“So why don’t you tell me what this is about,” I say, sipping my drink.
“I can’t put anything past you, huh?”
“Unlikely.” After I say it, I realize that’s Shane’s word, and a goofy-happy feeling sweeps over me. It’s absurd, but it makes me feel like he and I have a thing.
She cuts her eyes to both sides, as if there are spies from JFK nearby. “Sophomore year, I broke up with Dylan Smith.”
“Rings a bell.” Now that she’s mentioned it, I remember. “He’s such a tool. You were spirit squad, weren’t you?”
“Yeah.”
After the breakup, she hung a sharp left away from the beautiful people, swapping her dance routines and pom-poms for thick eyeliner, lots of black, and a bad attitude. Dylan went around with his crew talking about what a druggie whore she’d become without him. Personally, I thought she was better off, especially given the way he treated people he saw as lesser beings.
“At first, my old friends were all, ‘OMG, are you insane? He’s so hot, you two are the power couple.’” She shrugs. “They didn’t care that he was a controlling asshole. When I refused to ‘see reason,’ they just cut me off. I had like a month where I just didn’t talk to anyone.”
I wait, guessing there’s a reason she’s telling me this. The waitress brings Lila’s frozen mocha, which delays the story for a few seconds. Then she carries on as if there’d been no interruption.
“So in the middle of this, I get a Post-it on my locker. I don’t even remember what it said now.”
Oh. “I do. I said I loved your black corset top.” It wasn’t something I’d be brave enough to wear, but it looked stunning on Lila.
“Right.” She smiles at me, the look untouched by her usual cynicism. “I was trying to show Dylan what he was missing at that point. I really needed somebody to be nice to me. It helped that you were. So now that you’re basically in that same situation, I want to return the favor. I’m not the Post-it type, and that’s your thing anyway. So…”
“Hence, the fraps.” Although I’m not drinking one, she is.
“Exactly.”
I’m no longer worried about the potential pitfalls, but I mentally go back over something she said. “Same situation? You mean Ryan’s talking shit about me?”
If he is, I don’t even. Everything freezes inside me. How can he? I’m not the one who lied on so many levels. I was just there.
“Not that I’ve heard. I just meant … you can’t hang with your usual crowd anymore. I know how awkward that can be. And I really am in the market for a new best friend. My current crew keeps me from being forever alone, but they’re not…” She taps her temple and grimaces, conveying that they suffer from stoner brain.
I can’t believe she’s just telling me this. It seems so unlike Lila, but then I realize I really don’t know her. For the first two years, I saw the side she showed while running with the beautiful people, and then the new version she created to fit in with the goth crew. Maybe neither Lila was exactly the person she wants to be; that thought is kind of revelational. It’s probably true of me, as well.
“I’m definitely willing to hang. I might be quitting a number of my clubs.” That thought pains me, as I joined them for my college application, but I just can’t see working with Ryan at this juncture.
“What’s your cell number?”
I give her the number without my usual spiel it’s for emergencies only. When I check the time, I see I need to get moving. “Work beckons. Want to set something up for this weekend?”
“Do you ever go to the Barn?”
That sounds like it would be a club, but it’s actually a barn. Oh, the joys of rural living. There’s a kid who graduated last year, still famous for hosting parties. Which strikes me as a little sad. Why does he want to be the Man to
“I didn’t last year.” But maybe it’s time to change it up.
“There’s a bash on Saturday. You want to check it out?”
“Sure.” Then I realize that transportation will prove a problem. “Can you text me the address? I’ll meet you there.”
Parties are always hosted at night, so I’ll need to ride out to the farm, which could take a while. It also means I’ll be gross and sweaty when I arrive. I’ll also be covered in reflectors. I close my eyes and sigh. Maybe this isn’t the best idea.
“I can give you a ride,” she says.
I shake my head. “It’s not that. I have a thing about cars.”
“Are you scared of them?” She sounds worried, like if this is true, I’m 100 percent weirder than she banked on, and I’ve already lost her.
Fortunately, I have a valid reason to cover the deeper motivation behind my dogged avoidance. “No, I just don’t ride in them. They’re killing the world.”
“Oh, it’s like a protest?”
“Pretty much. I know it’s not getting media coverage or anything, but I care. I’d know if I broke down just because it’s easier.”
“That’s cool,” she says, visibly relieved. Then I see an idea register. “My dad restores golf carts as a hobby. Don’t ask. If I picked you up in one of those, would you go?”
“Totally.” I can’t believe she’d do that for me. It’s so dorky and she hardly knows me. “But is that even legal?”
“They’re allowed on back roads, as long as I yield to faster moving traffic. It’ll be faster than a tractor at least.”
I laugh, but she has a point. Country roads are often clogged by farm machinery this time of year. So I offer a quick nod. “Then I’m in. I really appreciate it.”
“Where do you live?”
I scribble my address on a Coffee Shop napkin, then groan at the time. “Now I really have to jet. Mildred will eat my face if I’m late.”
That’s the owner of the Curly Q. She’s a hundred years old with thinning, dyed-orange hair. From the look of her, you’d be scared to let any of her employees work on you, but the stylists are great. They like practicing on me when it’s slow. Usually, I don’t let them do anything permanent, but tonight, I’m feeling reckless. It’s just hair, right? Since I’m going to a party at the Barn with Lila Tremaine in a golf cart it seems like I need to update my look.