Heart Shaped Rock (3 page)

“Faboosh,” Tiffany coos.

“Good?” Sheila asks, looking at me.

“Great. The only thing is, tomorrow’s my dad’s birthday, so... ”

“Oh, of course, honey. You’ve got to be with your dad on his birthday. Absolutely.” Her tone drips with sympathy.

I glare at Tiffany, and her face turns red.

“You can start next week,” Sheila continues. “Be sure to bring your forms back when you come.”

I nod, forcing a smile.

“Oh, and don’t forget, you’ll need to get a work permit signed by your dad. The form’s in the stack.”

On the drive home, I turn to Tiffany, my cheeks blazing. “You told her.” It’s a statement, not a question. Maybe even an accusation.

Tiffany squirms. “What do you mean?”

I squint at her. She’s feigning innocence. “Sheila almost cried when she told me to be with my dad on his birthday. And, to top it off, she said, ‘You need to get your work permit signed by your
dad.
’”

Tiffany bites her lip.

“Who tells a kid to get something signed by their
dad?
No one. Normal people say, ‘by a parent,’ or maybe, ‘by your mom or dad.’” Heat migrates across my entire face and begins to burn my eyes. “She knows I don’t have a mom. It’s written all over her face.”

“Shaynee,” Tiffany says, her tone instantly apologetic. “Yeah, I told her. You’re my best friend. I just... you know... it just came up naturally.”

Tears threaten to flood my eyes, but I stuff them down and keep them at bay.

I cross my arms and look out the car window. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to explain this dark and swirling raincloud brewing inside me, gathering strength.

Chapter 3

For the entire fifteen-minute drive from Sheila’s to my house, I stare out the passenger-side window of Tiffany’s car, not speaking, trying to contain the gale-force winds gaining momentum inside me. When Tiffany finally pulls into my driveway, I wheel around to release my seat belt—and my fury. “Stop telling everyone about my sob story. It’s not yours to tell.”

Tiffany’s face falls. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was a secret.” She’s flabbergasted.

“I just wanted
one place
on this frickin’ planet where I could be normal, one place where everyone wasn’t looking at me with pity in their eyes. I thought Sheila’s was gonna be that place for me, and now it can’t be, thanks to you.”

Tears prick Tiffany’s eyes. “I’m sorry.”

I exhale.

We sit in silence for a long moment.

“Of course it’s not a secret my mom died,” I say quietly. At the mere mention of those words, yet another horrible pang constricts my chest. “But
I
decide if I want people to know.”

Tiffany nods.

“And I don’t.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry, Tiff. I just want to feel normal again, you know? And I can’t feel normal when everyone’s looking at me like I’m made of glass.”

“I get it.”

We sit quietly again.

“No one thinks you’re made of glass, by the way,” Tiffany says softly, grabbing a tissue from her purse. “You’re strong, Shay.”

She’s wrong, of course. I’ve been a crying, sniveling, self-pitying sack of lameness for the past six months. “Just tell me the truth about something. Does Sheila really need me or am I some sort of charity case?”

Tiffany looks aghast. “Oh my God
,
yes, Sheila needs you. She’s totally short-handed now that Smelly Steven’s gone, I swear.”

The look on my face says I’m not buying it.

“I swear,” she says again, and crosses her heart. “Pinky promise.”

“I’ve already exceeded my pinky-promise limit for the week. One more and I’ll have to pinky-slap you.”

“Come on.” She holds out her pinky.

I fold my hands into my lap.

Tiffany continues holding out her pinky to me. “I’ll wait all night if I have to.”

I don’t budge.

“Come on, Peaches.” She pokes my arm with her pinky. “Don’t make me pinky-poke you into submission.”

How could anyone stay mad at Tiffany? With a roll of my eyes, I lay my pinky in hers.

Inside my house, Dad’s at the kitchen table clacking away on his laptop when I come in. “Hi, Shay. How was the job interview?”

I sit down at the table and rest my backpack on the leg of my chair. “Good. I blew her away with my mad skillz.”

“You got the job?”

“Yeah. Wednesdays and Thursdays.”

He nods.

“But not tomorrow. I already told the boss-lady it’s your birthday.”

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that. You’ve gotta put your best foot forward at a brand new job.”

“Don’t be lame, Dad. It’s your birthday.”

He half-smiles and shrugs.

We’re silent.

He goes back to his keyboard.

I reach down to my backpack and pull out the stack of forms Sheila gave me. “You’ve gotta sign these so I can start bringing home buckets of cash, Pops. Apparently, California has this weird thing about protecting kids from slave labor.” I put the papers on the table in front of him.

“Hmm,” he says, picking them up. “Weird.” He peruses the stack. “Are you sure you can handle a job and still get all your schoolwork done?”

I raise my eyebrows at him.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ve got it covered.”

“I’ve got it covered.”

Dad looks back down at his laptop.

I look at my hands on the table. Wow, I can’t remember the last time my nails were this long. I’m used to seeing them clipped down so I can finger my guitar strings.

“I got you a fish taco,” Dad finally says after a couple minutes. He motions toward a white paper sack on the table. “Light on the white sauce. I remembered this time.”

“Roberto’s?” I ask. But I’m not even hungry.

“Of course.”

“Thanks, Pops.”

He reaches for the bag.

“I think I’ll shower before I eat. I’ve got steamed milk in my hair.”

“What happened?”

I’m about to say, “I killed my patient.” But then I remember Dad wouldn’t be the best audience for a snarky comment about a dead patient, so, instead, I say, “Don’t ask.”

I get up from the table and shuffle down the hall toward my bedroom. My room is directly opposite Lennox’s.

Midway down the hall, I freeze. From behind Lennox’s closed door, I hear the familiar walk-down of a bass line, followed by the opening riff of a country fiddle. A tidal wave of rage explodes inside my brain. I race into Lennox’s room, frantic to turn off the music. But just as I burst into his bedroom, there it is—her voice. I’m too late.

Lennox lies on his stomach on top of his bed, his math workbook spread out in front of him. He snaps his head toward me in shock when I rush through his door and bound toward his iPod.

“Turn it off!” I scream, fumbling with the device.

But it’s no use. Mom’s unforgettable voice has already filled the room. “It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission you always say,” she sings, her husky voice edged with sass, “well it’s time to pay the piper, time to step up to the plate... ”

I grab hold of the iPod and turn off the song, my chest heaving up and down with the effort.

“I was listening to that,” Lennox shouts.

“Not anymore, you’re not.” I’m seething. I’m enraged. I’m screaming at the top of my lungs. “I don’t want to hear her voice!” Tears have filled my eyes and begin flooding down my cheeks, despite my recent decision to banish them forevermore.

“Well, I do,” Lennox shouts back, matching my intensity. “She was my mom, too. And I want to hear her sing to me.”

I grip his iPod in my hands so hard my knuckles are white. “It’s not
her
anymore,” I shriek. “It’s an illusion. It’s her digital ghost. She’s not singing to you.” I’m screaming hysterically. My throat is on fire. My eyes are bulging out of my head. “She can’t sing ever again.”

“She’s singing to me from heaven,” Lennox cries. “She’s here right now, in this room right this very second.” He looks around the room. “And she likes it when I play her music.”

He reaches for the iPod in my hand, but I jerk my hand away.

“Give it to me,” Lennox yells.

I clench my teeth, choking back my sobs, and then I hurl the iPod against the wall with all my might.

Lennox lunges after it, horrified, as if I’ve chucked his puppy out a ten-story window.

Dad bursts into the room and lunges toward me. “Shaynee—”

“No,” I scream, jerking away.

I streak out of Lennox’s room and race across the hall into my own, slamming the door. Dad and Lennox follow right behind me.

I stomp my feet like a maniac. “No one plays her music in this house.” Even as I say these words, I know I sound deranged.

Lennox darts over to my closet, flings open the door, and begins rooting around on the top shelf under my sweatshirts. I rush toward him, intent on stopping him, but when I arrive at Lennox’s side, he’s already got the box in his hands.

The box.

It’s wrapped in elegant silver wrapping paper and an enormous silver bow on top. The tag, written in Mom’s handwriting, says:
“Happy Birthday, Shaynee. Love, Mom.”
The box has been whispering to me from my closet, night and day, for the past month. Now that it’s out in the open, I put my hands over my ears. I want to pull out my hair. I want to scratch deep, bleeding grooves into my arms.

Lennox runs to the corner of my room, still clutching the box, and hunches over like a dog with a bone. I move toward him, but Dad puts his arm in front of me and pulls me into a bear hug. I flail my arms and legs, trying to break free from Dad’s grip, but he’s too strong. I want to pull out my eyelashes and gnaw at my fingernails. I want to do something, anything, to make the pain in my chest go away.

“No, Shaynee,” Dad yells. “No.”

Lennox looks every bit as maniacal as me. I didn’t know he had it in him. “Why haven’t you opened it yet?” he shouts. “Your birthday was a month ago.”

A guttural sound emerges from my throat. It’s a sound I’ve never heard my vocal chords make. It sounds more animal than human. I want to bang my head against the wall. I’m running out of ideas for relieving this awful pain.

Dad hasn’t loosened his bear hug around me, and I’m becoming too exhausted to fight him anymore.

Lennox continues his verbal assault. “Mom wanted you to open this on your sixteenth birthday. What are you waiting for? She knew what she was doing when she left this for you. You have to trust her, Shay.” Lennox gulps at the air. Tears stream down his face. “You’re disrespecting Mom by not opening it. She’s talking to you, as plain as day, and you’re not listening.” He clutches the box to his chest and throws his head back. He lets out a sobbing wail.

My legs suddenly feel weak.

“Tell her, Dad,” Lennox commands, his eyes blazing. “Tell her to open it.”

Dad is quiet. He opens his mouth as if to speak, and then closes it.

I’ve lost the will to fight. I go limp in Dad’s arms.

“Jesus, Dad!” Lennox shrieks. “When are you gonna
do
something around here?”

Dad bows his head. His arms loosen their grip around me.

Lennox wipes his face with his sleeve. “Well, if you’re not gonna open it, then I will.”

I’m instantly at full attention. “No,” I hiss, lurching out of Dad’s arms and pushing Lennox forcefully back.

Lennox teeters back, his face registering total shock, and I yank the box out of his hands.

“Shaynee,” Dad yells, his voice harsh, “don’t touch your brother.”

I whip my head toward Dad, trembling and pressing the box against my heaving chest. I’m a wild animal caught in a trap. My head hurts. My hands tremble.

Dad shifts his weight, unsure what to say or do next. “You don’t have to open the box,” he whispers. He looks at Lennox. His eyes are pained. “Leave her alone about the box. It’s hers. She never has to open it, if she doesn’t want to.”

Lennox stares at Dad, dumbfounded. “But—”

“She doesn’t have to open the box!” Dad repeats, this time shouting. I can’t remember the last time I heard Dad shout at Lennox. It feels oddly exhilarating.

Lennox slides down onto the floor, right where he stands, like a sailboat suddenly caught in dead air. He puts his face in his hands. “Why didn’t Mom leave a box for me?” His voice is small. “How come she only left one for Shay?” He sounds like he did when he was five years old, way back when he was cute. His shoulders shudder with his sobs. I almost feel sorry for him. Almost.

“Oh, Lenn, she
did
. I should have told you. But she asked me to surprise you on your twelfth birthday.”

Lenn turned eleven back in September, just three weeks before Mom died. Back then, Mom presented him with her prized guitar, the one she got from her daddy as a little girl. “When you play this, we’ll always be connected, Lenny-baby,” she said then.

Dad walks over to Lennox and musses his hair. “You can open it tonight. You don’t have to wait.”

Dad pulls Lennox off the floor and looks over at me with pleading eyes.

I glare at him.

“Hey,” Dad says to Lennox, “let’s go to your room to talk some more. We’ll give your sister a little space.”

After they leave my room, I stand for a moment in a daze. I feel as if I’ve just hiked up a ten-mile mountain. My legs are weak; my head is dizzy. My eyes hurt. My throat burns. I walk over to my dresser and gingerly place the silver box on top of it. Then I lie down on my bed, facedown.

And I sob.

Again.

Suck it, Lennox. Thanks a lot
.

My cell phone buzzes with an incoming text. I don’t even have to glance at the screen to know it’s from Tiffany. I know the source of the text not because I’m psychic, and not even because Tiffany is particularly predictable. (Well, okay, she’s totally predictable—she’s texting to say she’s sorry about telling Sheila about my sob story.) No, I’m certain the text is from Tiffany because, over the past five months or so, I’ve received texts from a grand total of three and a half people: Dad, Lennox, and Tiffany. (The “half” is Kellan, who texts me only when he’s trying to find Tiffany.)