Heart Shaped Rock (25 page)

Well, here goes.

The white-haired man in the checkered sports coat is manning the front door, just like he was the other Wednesday night.

“Hello again,” he says when I approach. “You couldn’t stay away, huh?”

I smile at him. “Something like that.”

“There’s no one on the guest list tonight, honey... ” He’s looking at the clipboard in his lap. I begin to reach into my purse for my wallet. “Just go in, honey. You can be
my
special guest tonight.” He winks. I smile gratefully and walk through the painted red door.

I’m greeted inside with a blaring saxophone solo, followed by the lilting voice of that same woman in the long, black dress. The entire band, as before, is decked out in matching dinner jackets and bowties, and everything’s exactly as it was the last time I was here—except... No, no, no. Someone besides Dean sits behind the drum kit. Where’s Dean? Is he on the dance floor? I begin scanning the floor excitedly. Is he watching me right now from a dark corner? My eyes dart around nervously.

“Well, hello, cupcake.” It’s my dance partner with the big belly and bushy eyebrows. “Wanna take a twirl with me, sunshine?”

“Have you seen Dean?” I’m shouting above the music. Or maybe I’m just shouting.

“I haven’t seen him all night, sweetheart,” he says casually, as if his words aren’t bringing the entire world crashing down around my head. He puts his hands up as an invitation to dance. “I’m sorry... ” I mutter, and take off running toward the kitchen.

I bolt through the swinging door, yelling, “Mr. Jimmy!” I sense extreme disappointment in my imminent future. “Mr. Jimmy?” I yell again as tears begin to form.

“What happened?” Mr. Jimmy responds, rushing toward me, clearly alarmed. “Is Dean okay?”

“I don’t know,” I cry. “I don’t know where he is.” A panic attack is simmering inside me, tightening my chest and spinning my head.

“Dean never came today,” Mr. Jimmy says. “It’s the first time he just didn’t show up.”

Now my panic attack arrives with full force. I teeter and slam myself down onto the nearest chair. Mr. Jimmy puts his hands on my shoulders to steady me.

“Do you know where Dean is?” he asks, clearly worried.

All I can do is shake my head.

The minute I stride through the front door of my house after my fruitless visit to Wang Palace, I can feel Dad’s wrath.

“Where’ve you been?” Dad seethes the moment he lays eyes on me. “You didn’t call or text. I called Sheila, and she said you left work an hour and a half ago. I was worried sick.”

I crumple onto the blue chair in the family room and put my face in my hands.

“What happened?” Dad asks, rushing to me. In an instant, his anger has turned to alarm.

“I went to find the boy, Dad. Dean. I went to find him but he wasn’t there.”

Dad’s exhale leaves little doubt he’s rolling his eyes in utter exasperation. “Enough already, Shaynee. You can go see this
Dean
over the weekend. You’ve been working extra shifts at the coffeehouse, going out with your friends on weeknights, and even ditching classes ever since you met this Dean character. This has to stop. No more going out on weeknights.”

I don’t answer him. My head is still in my hands.

“Are you caught up on all your school work?”

I shake my head without looking at him.

“You’re not gonna work another shift at Sheila’s until you’re totally caught up.”

This entire conversation is totally bizarre and foreign to me. I’ve never had to be monitored or disciplined regarding my schoolwork before, or, really, about much of anything at all. I’ve always just taken care of things on my own, without any need for supervision.

Lennox enters the room, apparently attracted by the exciting and most unusual sound of me being scolded by Dad.

“I’ve got it covered, Dad,” I croak out.

“So you’ve said. But now I’m going to make damned sure of it.”

Dad stands over me, apparently expecting me to say something. When I don’t, he sits down on the couch. “Shaynee, whoever this boy is, he’s not worth falling apart over. If he can’t see how wonderful you are, then he’s not worthy of you. I think it’s time to move on.”

I look up at the sky. “Dad, you just don’t have a clue what’s going on here.” I sigh. “I just wish I could talk to Mom.” I know it’s a low blow, but it’s the truth.

“Believe me, so do I,” Dad mutters.

“Me, too,” Lennox chimes in. He wedges himself onto the blue chair with me and wraps his arms around my neck. I rest my forehead in the crook of his neck. Suddenly, a thought that’s been rolling around in my head like a gumball finally pops out the chute. I jerk my head up. “Dad.” I’m overcome with urgency. “I promise I’ll get all my homework done, and I know I’ve been terrible and irresponsible and untrustworthy, but I
have
to go to Sheila’s tomorrow night. It’s Open Mic Night. He’ll be there.”

Dad leaps up from the couch. “No way,” he booms. “You were down at Sheila’s three times this week already.” He gets ahold of himself. “You’ve been acting like a lovesick puppy, and you haven’t been keeping up on your responsibilities. You’re the one that wanted to take all honors and AP classes, and now you’ve got to live up to your obligations. If you want to see this
boy
—and I’m beginning to think that’s a very bad idea, by the way—then you’ll have to wait until the weekend, and then,
only if
you’re completely caught up with all your assignments.”

I don’t say anything. But what I’m thinking is this:
Nothing and no one’s gonna keep me away from Dean. Not even you, Dad.

Chapter 26

It’s Thursday afternoon. I’m sitting in my car, scanning the crowd of kids leaving Lennox’s middle school. This is our usual pick-up spot, but today he’s running late. Where is he? Lennox is usually right at the very front of the emerging crowd, gleefully sprinting and bounding down the sidewalk. But today, he’s nowhere to be seen. I’m annoyed. I’ve got so much homework to do, I’m seriously having a nervous breakdown.

Finally, after what seems like forever, Lennox bursts into my car and slams the door. “Just go!” he yells.

I turn to look at him, intending to scream at him for keeping me waiting, but the look on his face stops me dead in my tracks. “What’s wrong?” I ask, instantly panicked. His face is red and tear-stained. His eyes are wild.

“Just go,” Lennox says again. “I just wanna go home.”

“Lennox, tell me what happened.”

“It’s stupid Dexter Bagley again,” Lennox cries. “I was just going to get my backpack on the rack, and he started calling me King of the Dorks in front of everyone. ‘Hey, Dork. Are you gonna go home and play
dragons
?’” he says, mimicking his torturer. “He called me Puff the Magic Dorkus, and everyone was laughing.”

I’m seething. “Dexter Bagley?” I repeat. “Show me.” I begin scanning the exiting droves of kids.

Lennox looks up and squints at the masses. After a beat, he points and says, “There. In the green shirt.” He’s pointing at a big kid with curly black hair.

“Stay here,” I command, and stomp out of the car.

I march over to Dexter Bagley just as he’s throwing his head back to cackle about something he’s just said. I can see his pink bubble gum wadded up at the back of his jaw.
Punk.
“Hey, Dexter
.”
I say, my voice laced with ice.

He looks up at me, confused. “Yeah?”

“Dexter,” I mutter quietly, like a mob boss ordering a hit. Anti-freeze courses through my veins. “I’ve got a message for you.”

Dexter’s eyes widen. He looks to his buddies for a show of support and gets none. Then he looks at me and puffs out his chest. “Oh yeah?”

“My name’s Shaynee Sullivan,” I declare. There’s no recognition whatsoever in Dexter’s eyes. “Sister of Lennox Sullivan?” Dexter’s change of expression conveys that he now understands exactly why I’m here. “Yeah, I thought so. So listen up, Dex. My brother tells me you’re fond of nicknames. But, see, the thing is, if you’re gonna dole ‘em out, you really ought to be better at it, show a little panache. ‘King of the Dorks?’ ‘Puff the Magic Dorkus?’ That’s all you got? Sounds like you’re not too bright—or, maybe, your victim really isn’t all that dorky, after all.”

Dexter looks around at his friends, red-faced, but, clearly, they’re not going to offer him any help here.

“’Cause, see, when I look at you, Dexter,” I continue, “I see a
genuine
dork. And in the presence of such supreme dorkitude, here’s what someone of actual intelligence can come up with: Count Dorkula. Dorka the Explorer. Dumbledork. Duke of Dork.”

Dexter’s friends chuckle, but I’m just getting started.

“Hey, Dorkothy,” I say, “go follow the Yellow Dork Road.”

“Oh!” One of Dexter’s friends says, clearly amused.

“Ladies and gentleman,” I boom like a TV host, “behold Dexter, the winner of the mirror-ball trophy—this season’s champion on ‘Dancing with the Dorks.”

Dexter’s friends bust into guffaws at that one.

“Hey, Dex, I bet I can guess your favorite movie.
The Dork Knight Rises.
And your favorite song?
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Dork.
What about your favorite food? Dork chops. Of course.”

“Of course,” one of Dexter’s friends mimics.

“Why don’t you just go back to North Dorkota where you came from? Or, wait, was it New Dork City?"

Dexter huffs like he’s steaming mad.

“And that’s not all, Dorkster. In the Dork Olympics, you’d be frickin’ Michael Phelps, dude. You’d take home the gold in every single event: The Dorkathon. The Dorkathalon.” I mark the events off on my fingers as I say them. “The dork-stroke. The one-hundred-yard dork. Snow-dorking. Figure-dorking.”

Dexter’s friends hoot with laughter.

“And, of course, synchronized dorking—
which you’d win
all by yourself.”

“Burn!” one of Dexter’s friends yells, and everyone laughs. Well, everyone except Dexter, that is. Dexter’s not laughing. He’s red-faced and silent.

“You see what someone of
actual
intelligence can come up with when dealing with a
genuine
dork? That’s a totally different ballgame, huh? ‘King of the Dorks’? ‘Puff the Magic Dorkus’? Really, Dexty?” I roll my eyes. “Puh-lease. You really are a
dorkus extraordinarius.
”

Dexter shifts his backpack on his back. “You’re brother’s weird,” he says, jutting his chin at me, but his tone lacks conviction. Clearly, this is a pathetic attempt to save face with his friends.

I step forward. “You’ve got a mom, right, Dexter?” Wow, I sound like I’m capable of murder.

Dexter makes a face that says “Duh.”

“Well, Lennox and I don’t. Our mom died, Dexter. And you know what? If our mom were alive right now, she’d let Lenny fight his own battles. She’d tell him to take the high road. She’d tell him to kill you with kindness. She’d tell him to turn the other cheek. But, see, I’m his mom now. And I’m only sixteen, so I haven’t fully developed my impulse control yet. In fact, I’ve got a violent streak, Dexter, I really, really do. So I guess my mom’s death was as much
your
sad misfortune as ours. Because she was the only thing standing between you and an iron fist to the face.” I lean into him, right into his face, and I whisper, “If you
ever
bully my brother again, I
will
unleash all my pent-up fury about my mother’s death onto your nose.”

I turn on my heel and start striding away.

“I’m gonna tell my mom,” Dexter calls after me.

I whip back around. “Please do. I can’t wait to tell your
mom
that you’ve been bullying the poor kid whose
mom
just died of frickin’
cancer.
Real nice, Dex, real nice.” I continue my march back to my car.

Lennox is waiting anxiously in the car for me. “What happened?” His eyes are as big as saucers. “I could see you talking to Dexter for a really long time. And it looked like a lot of the kids around you were laughing?”

“Lennox, I just talked to him. I explained that he needs to take the high road. Turn the other cheek. Kill people with kindness, you know, how Mom always used to say? And you know what? He totally got it. He seemed really receptive to everything I said.”

Lennox lets out a sigh of relief. “You really think you got through to him, Shay?”

“Yeah, Lenny, I really do. I’m sure Mom was smiling down on the whole conversation.” I smile at him beatifically, and he smiles back—only his angelic grin, quite unlike mine, is the real McCoy.

Lennox hugs me. “Thanks, Shay.”

I hug him back. “Any time.”

Good girl, Shaynee-bug. Good girl.

Lennox and I hurl our bodies through the front door of our house and fling our backpacks onto the floor. We’re both high on totally separate adrenaline rushes—Lenn because he feels the weight of world lifted off his shoulders (or, more accurately, the weight of Dexter Bagley lifted off his shoulders), and me because I’ve discovered I’m a world-class assassin and it feels pretty darned good. Nobody’s gonna mess with my little brother. Not on my watch, anyway.

“You want a snack?” I ask Lennox as I open the refrigerator.

“Sure, thanks,” he responds, settling onto the couch with his math workbook.

I proceed to make us English muffin mini-pizzas in the toaster oven. Hey, I’m a top-flight hitman
and
Betty Crocker.

I look at my watch. It’s 3:45. There’s an hour and fifteen minutes before Open Mic Night starts. I shudder with anticipation. I told Tiff to text me the
minute
she sees Dean. I plan to do as much homework as humanly possible in the next hour, though I’ll never finish it all, and the second I get that text from Tiff, I’ll be out the door. I know Dad’s gonna kill me. And never trust me again. And impose whatever newfangled Dad Discipline he must have read about in his Parent Manual. But he just doesn’t have all the facts (understandably, since I haven’t kept him in the loop). Dad doesn’t understand that it’s been an ice age since I’ve had a chance to talk to Dean. Or how things have gotten hopelessly screwed up, thanks to me. Or that my very sanity depends on me finally getting the chance to tell Dean how I feel about him. Unfortunately, there’s no time to tell Dad any of this. I’ll just have to explain it to him after I’ve broken his express commandment and jetted down to Sheila’s. “It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission,” Mom always said. In fact, she wrote an entire song about the right way to tell someone you’re sorry: “I’m wrong. You’re right. I’m sorry.” I’ll just have to steal Mom’s words when the time comes to apologize to Dad, and hope he can find a way to forgive me.