Heart Shaped Rock (8 page)

“Let’s see who can hold their breath the longest. The loser has to grant the winner a reasonable wish.”

I clear my throat. “Well, I guess that depends on the wish. What will you wish for if you win?”

“No, no, no, Walkie-Talkie Girl, it doesn’t work that way. Neither participant’s prospective wish shall be stated beforehand. Each of us has to take a leap of faith and trust that our faith won’t be abused.”

Where did this boy come from? He’s otherworldly.

“I’m willing to take a leap of faith and trust you, Shaynee—wait, what’s your last name?”

“Sullivan.”

“I’m willing to take a leap of faith and trust you, Shaynee Sullivan. Are you willing to trust me?”

I’ve never met anyone like him before. “How old are you?” I ask.

“Seventeen. So, are you in?”

“Don’t you want to know how old I am?”

“You’re sixteen.”

I gasp. “How’d you know that?”

“Lucky guess,” he says. “Are you in?”

I think for a moment. If I win, he’ll have to grant me a “reasonable” wish. I could have a lot of fun with this. And there’s, like, zero risk I’ll lose this bet. Little does he know, I’ve been singing since I was three years old. Mom always marveled at how I can hold a note for days and days and days.
Mom.

He’s cute, Shaynee,
her voice says in my ear.

My breath catches. I haven’t imagined Mom’s voice even once before now. It’s jolting. It’s disturbing. Slightly panic inducing, even. I look into his blue eyes. They’re reassuring.

He subtly nods at me.

Do it, Shaynee. Take a leap.

“What’s your last name?” I ask.

“Masterson.”

“Okay, I’m willing to take a leap of faith and trust you, Dean Masterson. I’m in.”

He smiles broadly.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to smile if I were you, Motorcycle Boy. You’re going down.”

He laughs. “Oh, you
are
a badass, aren’t you? An adorable little badass.”

I’m on fire.

It takes me a second, but I find my voice again. “I’m sure that ‘adorable’ line usually works like gangbusters for you—probably on every girl you’ve met in your entire life... and, for that matter, it’ll probably keep on working on every girl you continue to meet on this planet forevermore”—I shake my head, struggling to regain my focus... What did I start out trying to say here?—“but, you see, Frodo, I’m not every other girl. I’m not falling for your lame-ass lines. I warned you, my heart isn’t normal.” I’m lying, of course. Not about the abnormality of my heart, but about his effect on me. The truth is I’m absolutely falling for his “adorable” line—and everything else he’s peddling—hook, line, and sinker.

“Intriguing,” he replies, but his eyes aren’t smiling when he says this. “Okay, you’ve stalled long enough. Are you ready to rumble?”

“Yep.”

“On the count of three, then,” he says. He holds up his hand and wordlessly counts “one, two, three” with his fingers while we both inhale deeply.

A minute passes, then almost two. I’m beginning to feel light-headed. His face is turning red. If I can just hang in there a little bit longer, I know I can beat this guy. But I’m starting to feel like I’m going to die. I can’t stand it any longer. My lungs are burning. I gasp and inhale a large swallow of breath. He remains focused on me, still holding his breath.

“Okay, cheater, you can breathe now,” I shout at him. “You’re such a cheater.”

He exhales. “I didn’t cheat, I promise. I should have told you, though. Holding my breath happens to be my superpower, too. I sing in a band. I’ve got big ol’ singer’s lungs.”

He’s a singer, too? Damn. I feel duped. Why didn’t I ask him a little bit about himself before I agreed to this stupid bet? And now—oh my God!—I’m at this guy’s sick and twisted mercy. Who knows what bizarre and contorted “wish” he’s going to demand of me? I feel like I’m going to pass out from panic. Or throw up.

“Don’t worry, Shaynee,” he says, soothingly, like he’s talking a cat down from a tree. My face must betray my anxiety. “Remember, you put your faith in me? I’d never abuse that. Never. Not even in jest.”

Who is this guy?

I take a deep breath. His eyes are so alluring they’re almost painful to look at. “What’s your wish?”

“It’s reasonable, I promise. And painless. I want you to come see me play with my band on Wednesday night. Well, with one of my bands.”

“I... can’t,” I say. “I have to work on Wednesday.”

“After work,” he says. “We play at 7:00. You’re done with work by then, aren’t you?”

“Well, actually, yeah.”

“Okay, then, that’s my wish. The place is in Normal Heights. Not too far. That qualifies as a reasonable wish, right?”

I think for a moment. I have to admit, I’m intrigued. What kind of emo-screamer-thrasher-ska-punk band will my ears be feasting on here? “Is it an all-ages club?” I ask, scrunching up my face with concern.

He laughs out loud.

I’m offended. “It’s a reasonable question. I’m
sixteen.”

“I’m sorry.” He chuckles. “You’re right, it’s a totally reasonable question. It’s just, well, wait ‘til you see the place.” He recovers himself and looks at me with solemnity. “It is most definitely an all-ages club.”

I sniff the air, not sure I accept his apology. “And it’s safe for me to go there at night?”

“Yes. Very, very safe. I promise.” He puts his hand on his heart to emphasize the sincerity of his promise.

I squint my eyes at him, trying to read between the lines. His expression is clearly one of utter amusement, but I don’t understand the joke.

“You wouldn’t welch on our bet, would you, Shaynee?” His face suddenly reflects genuine anxiety.

I pause, intentionally letting him wonder if he’s caught this particular fish on his line. “You’ve put your faith in me,” I finally declare. “I won’t abuse it.” This last part elicits a huge, toothy grin from him that makes my cheeks burn.

“Excellent,” he says. “So, listen, admission is five dollars, so I’ll put you on the guest list. Make sure you tell the guy at the door your name, okay?”

I smile. I’ve never been on a guest list before.

“Let me give you the address.”

I stand up and grab my phone out of my bag. “Shoot.”

He stands up and brushes the sand off his jeans as he recites the street address. “Hey, as long as you’ve got your phone out, lemme get your number—”

“Hey, Shaynee.” It’s Jared. Oh my God. Crap.

Jared puts a cup in my hand. “I brought you a soda. Oh, Dean. Hey.”

They know each other?

“Jared.” Dean’s tone is polite, but not particularly warm. “You know Shaynee?”

“Oh yeah,” Jared says. “We go way back. Right, Shaynee?” He bumps my shoulder with his.

I look to Dean. “We just met fifteen minutes ago.” I look down at the cup of soda. I never drink soda.

“Dean.” A guy with strawberry blonde hair, a goatee, large stud-earrings and tattoos covering his forearms rushes toward us, panting. “Dude, there you are, man. Come on. We’re so effing late.”

“Hey, C-Bomb,” Jared says.

C-Bomb, or whatever his name is, doesn’t even glance at Jared. He’s practically jumping up and down with nervous energy. “Where’ve you been this whole time? We gotta go
now,
man,” he shouts at Dean. “We still gotta get all your gear from your house and load it into my truck.” He looks at his watch. “Damn, we’ll be lucky to have time for a sound check.” He pulls on Dean’s arm.

“Shaynee,” Dean says calmly, “this is Caleb, also known as ‘C-Bomb.’”

I wave awkwardly.

“It’s really great to meet you, Shaynee, and I’m sure you’re an incredible person and we’d have tons to talk about if we had the time, so I’m sorry I can’t get to know you better right now, but, dude”—he turns to Dean—“we’re gonna be so fucking late if we don’t go right this very second.” He looks back at me. “No offense.”

“None taken.” I look at Dean. “It sounds like you’ve gotta go.”

Dean nods and looks at his watch. “Our band’s got a gig—oh, wow, like,
right now.
Hey, you wanna come?”

Jared shifts his weight, as if to say, “
Hello, I’m standing right here
.”

“I... ”

“There’s no time for romance, man,” C-Bomb yells, clearly at the end of his rope. “We’ve gotta go.”

“I’m not gonna just leave her standing alone at a party, man,” Dean suddenly roars at C-Bomb. His intensity surprises me.

“She’s not alone, man,” Jared shouts, matching Dean’s intensity. “I’m standing right here.”

Whoa, yelling boys.

Dean steps toward Jared, the muscles in his jaw pulsing with tension, his hand clenched into a fist.

This is a frickin’ testosterone-fest. Watching these boys beat their chests is making me want to pull on my hair.

I take a step back from the commotion.

My movement attracts Dean’s attention. He turns abruptly away from Jared and steps toward me, his features instantly softening. “Are you okay?” he asks.

C-Bomb looks like he’s going to have stroke.

“Yeah,” I say to Dean with as much confidence as I can muster. “I’m fine. You should go.”

Jared shifts his weight, clearly feeling ignored.

“And Jared,” I say, looking at him—and when my gaze falls on Jared, his Tootsie-Roll-eyes light up—“I never thanked you for the soda. So, thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” He smiles broadly.

Now it’s Dean who shifts his weight.

“Dude... ” C-Bomb begins, about to blow a gasket. He’s bursting out of his skin.

I turn to Dean. “Seriously, I’m good. My friends will be back any minute.” I scan the beach, and thank God, off in the distance, I can make out Tiffany and Kellan walking hand-in-hand along the water’s edge, toward the bonfire. “See? There they are now.” I point. “Tiffany and Kellan.”

Dean’s gaze follows my hand. “Where?” He cranes his neck.

“There,” I point again. “The girl in the sparkly purple top next to the big guy.”

Dean scans the crowd, trying to locate his purple target. “Aha,” he finally says. True to form, he laughs and then looks at me, beaming. I don’t understand what’s so delightfully amusing to him.

C-Bomb fidgets wildly. “Dude, I’m
begging
you... ”

“I’m fine,” I assure Dean. “My friends will be here in, like, two minutes, literally. Go.”

“And, either way, I’m right here,” Jared says again, stepping closer to me. I can feel his body heat.

“Thanks,” I say weakly to Jared, forcing myself to be polite. I know he’s just being nice, but I’m feeling like the deli meat in an incredibly-good-looking-boy sandwich right about now, and it’s making me uncomfortable. “Dean, I’ll catch your show another time. Soon.” Surely, Dean knows what I mean to say is, “I’ll see you Wednesday night.” I feel like a secret agent speaking in code.

Dean shoots me a knowing smile that could melt the polar ice caps—not that they need any help melting these days, so I hear.

“See? She’s good,” C-Bomb shouts. “Let’s go.”

“Okay, okay.” Dean looks at his watch again. “Yeah, you’re right, man, we’re cutting it super close. Let’s jam. I’ll see ya soon, Shaynee.” He winks at me and my insides turn to mush—confirming unequivocally that, despite all my big talk from earlier, I really am just like every other weak-kneed girl on the planet, after all.

Dean and C-Bomb jog to the patio, where Dean quickly scoops up his helmet and leather jacket from a chair, and then Dean and C-Bomb run down Bay Street.

Jared clears his throat and moves even closer to me—so close his body brushes against my arm. I can feel his Tootsie Rolls begging me to look at him, but I can’t take my eyes off Dean’s back. Just before Dean descends into the shadows beyond the street lamp, he turns back and waves. And even from a distance, I can make out his white teeth and bright blue eyes shining through the darkness.

Chapter 7

After Tiffany drops Kellan off at his car, she turns to me, her eyes ablaze. “Tell me everything. You were smiling ear to ear when I saw you with Jared. What the heck did he say to you?”

I can’t help but grin like a fool. “I wasn’t smiling about Jared. I met Motorcycle Boy at the party.” This last part comes out as a shout.

“
You met Motorcycle Boy?
The one with the ‘beautiful blue eyes?’”

“The one and only.”

“And was the rest of his face as good-lookin’ as his eyes?”

I blush. I can’t even answer her. I look out the car window to compose myself.

“Oooooh, wow. That cute, huh?”

My blush deepens. I giggle. Who the hell am I right now?

“He’s in a band,” I say. “He’s a singer.” I suddenly remember my Wednesday night obligation and my stomach somersaults. “Oh my God, you
have
to come with me.” I feel like I’m going to hyperventilate. “I promised to come see his band on Wednesday night.”

Tiffany’s jaw drops. “Wow, Peaches is going on a date.”

“No, no. It’s not a date. I lost a bet. Never mind. You’ve gotta come. Please.”

Tiffany groans. “I can’t. On Wednesday night, my dad’s getting some hoity-toity award for all the charity work he does.” Tiffany’s dad is a surgeon. “My mom’s already threatened to disown me if I bail. I guess it’s a biggie.”

I’m crestfallen. “Please, Tiff. Your mom will understand.”

Tiffany grimaces. “I’m not so much worried about my mom getting pissed at me as I know this award’s important to my dad... ” She looks at me sheepishly.

“What if I get one of my panic attacks and you’re not there to talk me off the ledge? What if he sees me totally wig out?”

“You know what? Never mind. I’ll ask my dad. I’m sure he’ll understand when I tell him it’s for you.”

Her words hit me like a ton of bricks. I’m everybody’s favorite charity case, aren’t I? “No,” I say sternly. “It’s fine.”

Tiffany looks alarmed. “No, really. I think he’ll understand. He’s the one who keeps reminding me to...” She trails off.

There’s an awkward silence.

To what? Do more charity work? “It’s okay, Tiff. Go to your dad’s thing. He deserves to have you there. I mean it. You can’t miss your dad’s fancy award to watch a metal-scream-emo-punk band with Little Orphan Shaynee.”