Heart Shaped Rock (16 page)

It’s a rock, seemingly like all the others, at least from a distance—smooth and gray—about the size of my clenched fist. But the thing is, the crazy thing is, it’s formed into the unmistakable shape of a classic Valentine’s Day heart. There it is, this heart-shaped rock, just sitting on the beach, waiting for me to find it among its thousands and thousands of oval, normal brethren. It’s been sitting here, all alone among the crowd since God-knows-when, feeling like a total weirdo-rock, not understanding why or how it’s been formed so differently than all the others. I hold the heart-rock in my hand and run my fingers over its smooth façade, marveling at its shape. I put my finger in the little cleft of the heart. I can’t believe how much this untouched-by-human-hands stone, lying on the beach in its natural state, looks so much like a Hallmark-made trinket. If I hadn’t found it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it. I sit down on the sand, right then and there, letting all the rocks under my butt poke me uncomfortably. For several minutes, I hold that rock in my hand, my butt hurting, and I look out to sea.

My phone buzzes with an incoming text, so I take it out of my pocket and look at the screen. I’ve missed three calls from Tiffany, another from a number I recognize as Sheila’s, and two calls from a number I don’t recognize. All together, I have six new voicemails, a lifetime record for me. I’ve also got four texts from Tiffany and two from that same number I don’t recognize.

“Call me,”
Tiffany’s first text says.
“Are you ok?”
says her second one. And then,
“We need to talk.”
And finally,
“CALL ME!”

“This is Dean,”
says a text from the number I don’t recognize.
“I don’t understand what just happened. Please call me.”

Tears spring to my eyes.
Dean.
I trusted him. And I don’t care if it sounds like typical teenage hyperbole, like
Romeo and Juliet
insta-love, I loved him. I loved him with all my heart and soul. And, to add insult to injury, I actually thought, like the giggly, stupid, evil, dumbass, naïve child I am, like the idiotic, unrealistic, heinously ill-prepared-for-life fool that I am, that we’d found a forever love. Like we’d been somehow fated to meet, just like Mom and Dad. Like our love was written in the stars.

I’m an idiot.

“Please give me a chance to explain,”
Dean’s second text says.
“What did I do wrong?”

My hands are trembling. I reach down and press a button on the phone to make a call.

“Shaynee?” the voice on the other end of the call says, sounding surprised. “Are you okay?”

Up until now, my tears were small and manageable—up until I heard his voice. But the sound of his voice unleashes a tsunami of grief inside of me, and I begin to wail. “Daddy,” I scream. “Come pick me up. Please, Daddy.”

“Tell me where you are, sweetheart. I’m coming right now.”

Chapter 15

Dad ushers me into the house. He’s cradling my shoulders like I’m a ninety-seven-year-old woman out for a stroll at the old folks home. Despite his repeated queries of “What happened, honey?” during the drive home, I haven’t said anything in reply other than, “Nobody loves me, Daddy. I’m all alone.”

Dad walks me into my bedroom and seats me on the end of my bed while he turns down the covers. He reaches down and takes off my flip-flops.

“Do you want your jammies?” Dad asks gently.

I nod. “The monkey ones,” I mumble.

“Okay, honey,” Dad says, “okay.” He rummages around in my bottom drawer until he finds my favorite monkey jammies, the ones that always made Mom laugh. The ones she gave me for Christmas. “Here you go, baby.” He hands them to me. “Do you need help getting undressed?”

I shake my head.

“Okay, I’ll come back in a minute, baby.” He leaves the room.

I undress and put my pajamas on, slowly. My head is throbbing.

I crawl into bed and pull the covers up over me. My eyes hurt. My throat is scratchy. It hurts to swallow. My nose is stuffy from all the crying. I shut my eyes. Sleep doesn’t come.

My bedroom door opens.

“I brought you some soup, honey,” Dad says, holding a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup. “It’s hot. I’ll just put it here for now.” He places it on the night table next to my bed. “Here’s the spoon.”

I don’t say anything.

He sits next to me on the bed and smooths a wisp of hair away from my eyes. I close my eyes, luxuriating in his touch.

“I love you, Shaynee,” he says, his voice cracking. I open my eyes and look at his face. Tears stream down his cheeks. “You’re not alone. No matter what happens, you’re never alone. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

I begin to cry, too. “Oh, Dad. I met a boy. And I
loved
him, Dad. I really, really loved him.”

He exhales audibly, as if he’s been holding his breath. “Oh, honey.” He touches my face, wiping at my tears. “That’s what this is about?”

I nod.

“If he didn’t love you back, then he’s blind and dumb.”

I cry harder. I don’t know how to even begin to explain the situation to him. All I can think to say is, “He’s actually super smart.”

Dad laughs. “Well, if you love him, I imagine he would be.”

I close my eyes, willing the tears to stop.

“I’ll leave you alone for a little bit. Eat some soup, baby.” He gets up and leaves the room.

My phone buzzes on the night table next to me. I reach over and turn it off without even looking at the screen.

I close my eyes, trying to trick my brain into thinking it’s asleep. I think of the soup next to me, and my stomach somersaults. I turn over onto my other side. After a few minutes, I hear the door to my bedroom creak open behind my back. My bed lowers and jerks with the weight of a body crawling in next to me. I feel small arms wrapping around me from behind. A little chin rests on the back of my shoulder.

“What are you doing, Lenny?” I croak out. Because, for the life of me, I have no idea what he’s trying to do. “Leave me alone.”

“I’m climbing up into the tree with you, Flint,” he whispers. “We’ll stay up here in this tree, together, for as long as it takes.” He squeezes me tight, as buckets of tears stream out of my eyes. “I guess you’ll just have to deal with my chimpy arms holding you tight.”

The house is quiet. The light streaming through my window looks like late morning. I look at the clock. 10:27. I do a quick mental inventory. It’s definitely Friday. I’ve missed school. Dad must have shut off my alarm. A wave of panic washes over me. Did I have any tests or big projects due today? No. I sigh with relief.

I hop out of bed and, after a quick trip to the bathroom, peek into Lenn’s room. Gone. I walk down the hall and poke my head into Dad’s room. Gone. I shuffle into the kitchen. There’s a note on the counter.
“Shaynee, sometimes sleep is more important than school. Call me when you get up. I love you, always and no matter what. You are never alone. Love, Dad.”

“Hey, Dad,” I say when he picks up the line.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Better, actually.” But that term is definitely relative because I still feel like a crap sandwich.

“Eat something,” Dad says, clearly not aware of my internal dialogue. “There’s some leftover chicken in the fridge.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Do you want me to come home and stay with you? I already had my meeting today, so I can come back home now... ”

“No, I’m okay, Dad. Really.”

“You promise to call me the minute you need anything? Please, Shaynee, you scared me last night.”

“Dad, I promise. I’m feeling better. I’m not gonna do anything wacky. I promise I won’t freak out. No more Shaynee-monster. I’m fine.”

“Okay, well, just remember I love you.”

“I know. I love you, too.”

We are about to hang up the phone.

“Hey, by the way, Shay, give Tiffany a call. She called me, worried about whether you made it home last night. She said she’s called and texted you a thousand times and you haven’t answered her. She was worried when you didn’t show up for school today. What’s going on?”

“Oh,” I groan. “Uh, yeah. I said some really horrible things to her yesterday. Things I can never un-say. I don’t even know where to begin... ”

“Well, you’d better call her, Shay. When I told her you’re okay, she sounded relieved—but then she just sounded pissed.”

“I know, I know. But I’ve gotta tell her I’m sorry in person. A text or phone call would be so... not enough.”

“If you say so. Okay, well, rest up. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Dad.”

We hang up the phone.

I rummage around in the fridge and grab some of that chicken Dad mentioned. I eat a cold drumstick. I’m starving.

I wander into the family room. I sit on the blue chair.

I can hear Mom’s voice whispering to me to sing.

I throw my chicken bone into the trash and head into my bedroom. With sudden purpose, I pull Mom’s DVD out of the silver box and walk back into the family room. I insert the DVD into the player and fast-forward it to the part I want to watch:
“Your whole life, even when you were itty bitty, you were always so good at being you because you’ve always known exactly who you are.... As long as you follow your true heart’s desire, then I’ll always agree with what
you
decide to do.... ”
I fast-forward again.
“Let me hear your angelic voice again. Because I promise, I’m listening.”

I eject the DVD and bring it back to my room. After stowing it safely back in the silver box, I grab my guitar and sit on my bed. I’m about to strum with my right hand, but instead, I reach over and grab the heart-rock on my nightstand. It’s sitting next to the cold bowl of soup from last night. I place the rock next to me on my bed. I begin to strum.

Out of nowhere, I begin playing a brand new song, and it’s as if I’ve played it a thousand times. My hands know exactly where to go; my throat knows the melody; my mouth knows the words. I sing louder than necessary. I strum harder than I should. I’ll probably break a string. But I don’t care. I double back and sing the chorus over and over and over. Then, I start at the top of the song, and sing the whole thing again.

“I’ve got two arms and two legs

A couple eyes inside my head

You look at me, see ‘normal,’ assume a heart, say ‘She’s not dead’

But what you see in this life is so rarely what you get

What you see in this life isn’t always what you’d guess

I’ve got a heart-shaped rock and it does not beat

It’s a heart-shaped rock and it cannot bleed

I am made of stone

I am made of steel

I feel nothing inside

Because I cannot feel

If you look up close, if you look into the tree,

If you dig a little deeper, pry the foam and look beneath,

You will find what I’ve been hiding underneath my sheath

My little girl’s heart, shriveled and blackened with disease

I’ve got a heart-shaped rock and it does not beat

It’s a heart-shaped rock and it cannot bleed

I am nothing inside

I’m on my knees

I’ve got nothing left to bleed

I’ve got nothing left to be

And I cannot sleep

I cannot eat

I am dead inside

I’m a crumpled heap

I’ve got a heart-shaped rock and it does not beat

It’s a heart-shaped rock and it cannot bleed

I am nothing inside

I am nothing inside

I am nothing inside

I am nothing inside

I’ve got a heart-shaped rock where my heart used to be

I’ve got a heart-shaped rock...

And now there’s no more me.”

When I’m finally done, when I’m panting and dizzy and my throat is raw, I lay the guitar down on my bed. The strings continue to hum at a low frequency, glad for their use once again. Other than the subtle purr of the guitar strings, and the sound of my ragged breath, the house is silent.

“Are you happy now, Mom?” I scream, looking up at the ceiling, my chest rising and falling. “I sang. Just like you told me to. And guess what?
It didn’t change a Goddamned thing.
”

Chapter 16

Despite the insane number of hours I slept on Thursday night after the Open Mic Night Debacle, I nonetheless sleep an equally ridiculous number of hours on Friday night, too. I guess my body’s got plenty of catching up to do. When I wake up late Saturday morning, it’s to the smell of eggs and bacon sizzling in the kitchen. It’s been a long time since our house has smelled like breakfast. It’s a welcome change. I pad into the kitchen, yawning, and find Dad standing at the stovetop shifting turkey bacon and scrambled eggs around in a hot skillet.

“Happy Saturday, Sleeping Beauty,” Dad chirps. He’s awfully chipper.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Like a champ.”

“Have a seat. Breakfast is just about ready.”

He doesn’t have to ask me twice. I’m starving.

Lennox sits at the kitchen table, reading a comic book. He doesn’t look up when I come in. Apparently, something particularly enthralling is happening in the world of illustrated dragons.

Dad puts a plate of food in front of me. It smells divine, and I immediately start gobbling it up.

“So,” he says, sitting next to me with his plate, “after breakfast, let’s go get your car down at Sheila’s.”

I feel like I’m going to choke on my eggs. “Can’t you go get it for me, Dad?” My voice is scratchy.

“No way. You’ve got to go in there and talk to your boss, face-to-face, like a big girl. And, anyway, I can’t drive down there in my car, then drive both cars back by myself, can I?”