The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things (2 page)

I take my seat, wondering if this is the day when math lightning strikes, and suddenly all of the theorems will make sense. Since fakery seems like the only answer, I get out all my supplies, notebook, pencil, iPad. One cool thing about JFK, we aren’t using textbooks anymore. They’re all available electronically, and the school subsidized iPads. Of course that meant cutting metal shop and drivers ed from the budget. Doesn’t affect me, as I refuse to drive on principle until affordable electric cars are widely available as an alternative; I’d prefer a solar one, but Ryan says I should keep dreaming. As for metal shop? Well, I tried to build a birdhouse in eighth grade. It didn’t end well. God only knows what would happen if I attempted to weld.

I’m fiddling with my supplies when Mackiewicz shuffles into the room. He’s wearing the gray sweater with the red stain. People reluctantly settle down, folding into their desks like grumpy origami dolls. Geometry is the only class where I sit near the burners, who slouch in the back, letting sunglasses and hair hide their bloodshot eyes. Most of them, I suspect, doze off before Mackiewicz sits down at his crooked desk.

The bell rings. Anyone who enters at this point is officially tardy.

Before the teacher can numb my brain with an hour of droning, the door creaks open, and a new kid slides in. New Kid is kind of a big deal because people don’t move to Farmburg, Illinois, by choice; you can guess what’s around here by the name of the town. He’s almost as tall as Ryan with a mop of brown hair, not curly, but messy and hiding most of his face. Though it’s late September, he’s got on an old army surplus jacket, which pretty much hides any sense of chest and shoulders. His legs are long, though, feet encased in battered boots. They’re not Docs, more like something soldiers would actually march in. His jeans are faded, torn up and down one leg, but in his case, I don’t think it’s a fashion statement. You can tell intentional grunge from pure wear. He keeps his head down as he hands a slip to Mackiewicz.

The math teacher skims it, then drops it on his desk. “Please welcome Shane Cavendish, transferring in from Michigan City. Take any empty desk.”

What Mackiewicz hasn’t told New Kid Shane is that he’ll be stuck wherever he sits for the rest of the year. I wish I could warn him. Shane never looks up entirely, his shoulders hunched like this is a horrible ordeal. Though I was thirteen when I first hit JFK, I still remember that awful feeling, like a pit in my stomach, because starting over just sucks so hard, especially when other stuff is bad, too.

Shane skims the room and then he’s coming down the aisle one over from me. He drops into the desk with the uneven leg. It rocks a little, making it annoying to write, but he doesn’t move even after he discovers the fault. It’s like he just wants to disappear, but people watch him get his supplies out like it’s fascinating.

Finally, Mackiewicz gets started on the lesson, and I tune out. Fifty minutes later, my brain switches back on. My notebook is empty. As the bell rings, I scrawl the assignment, which I’ll make a mess of, into my work diary. I’d like to say something to the new kid, but before I can, he’s up like a shot. At the door, Dylan Smith, one of the jocks, shoulder slams Shane into the jamb, and his buddies do the same on the way out. Yeah, I guess they’ve decided where he fits in the pecking order. Because he doesn’t have the right haircut or the right clothes, he’s an auto-reject? It totally sucks.

“You all right?” I ask, but if he heard the question, he’s ignoring me.

He doesn’t turn. I tell myself it’s because if he acknowledges my concern, then the bad junk is real. To face the day at the new school, he told himself,
This time it’ll be different.
You can lie to yourself about all kinds of things. Until you can’t, anymore. Until reality pounds a hole through your fantasy castle and the reality check must be cashed.

But he must be fronting because nobody ever
wants
to be lonely. You just pretend not to care if anyone talks to you because otherwise, you’re the desperate loser begging for friends. Whatever, Shane’s gone, long strides eating up the hallway, and he’s not even rubbing his shoulder, like he’s used to pain.

For some reason, that bothers me.

CHAPTER TWO

After school, I stick a Post-it on Emily Franklin’s locker. Seeing as she dumped her lunch tray everywhere in the cafeteria, I figure she could use an ego boost. I don’t always stick around to watch people read like I did that first time. Sometimes I have places to be.

Like today.

I unlock my bike from the rack out front. My house is two and a half miles from school, not an easy distance, but I’m determined. Riding five miles daily should keep me fit, but it’s bulked up my thighs while doing little for my butt. There are probably other exercises I should try, but I don’t care enough. Pedaling doggedly—while responding to the occasional greeting—carries me home.

Aunt Gabby is still at work when I arrive. She manages a new age place, where they sell healing crystals and hand-dipped candles. You’d think there wouldn’t be much market for that in a small Midwestern town, and mostly, you’d be right. Which is why she spends a lot of time filling Web orders. There’s a light walk-in business, but mostly she parcels things up and takes them to the post office.

Home is a two-bedroom bungalow, the exterior painted a cheerful robin’s egg blue. The house has pine-green shutters and a fanciful menagerie of statues in the front yard. Now, in early fall, the garden is bright with orange and yellow mums, an explosion of color curling around the side of the house. The lawn itself is browning around the edges, as we’re in a bit of a drought.

We live in a western subdivision, not far enough from the town center for the farms to take over. Once you leave Farmburg, drive four miles in any direction and fields are all you’ll see. It’s a fair drive to the interstate from here, so we don’t get highway traffic often. In the spring, there’s nothing but fertilizer and in the fall, there’s the scent of cut hay. This is a peaceful place, I suppose, better than where I’ve been. Most of the houses around ours are bigger, but they lack the quirky charm my aunt has cultivated. I imagine our neighborhood looks like a patchwork quilt from above, but since I’ve never been on a plane, I wouldn’t know.

After parking my bike in the shed out back, I let myself in, passing the hand-carved umbrella stand and driftwood coatrack. Aunt Gabby has a thing for primitive arts and crafts and natural furnishings, so our place looks like a roadside museum. The result is bright and cozy. My room is nestled at the back of the house, past the bathroom. It’s small, so I’ve got a battered bureau, a bookshelf made of reclaimed lumber and cinder blocks, painted scarlet and yellow for cheer, and a daybed that we bought at the thrift store downtown, and then sprayed a shiny gold. I’ve piled the bed with tons of throw pillows in all manner of fabrics, mostly inspired from watching
Arabian Nights,
as there’s lots of satin and sparkle. I never crafted or sewed before coming to Aunt Gabby, but she taught me, so I made the pillows myself. My closet is tiny, too, but that’s fine, as I don’t have many clothes. I hide that fact by rotating my skirts and leggings with different tanks and shrugs.

I spend two hours doing homework, and then leave a note, advising her I’ll be home by nine thirty. Then I haul my bike out of the shed. It’s not dark yet, so I don’t worry about reflectors; I’ll put those on later. I have plenty of time; I don’t kill myself peddling to the library, where we hold our monthly meetings. This isn’t a school club, so we had to find someplace else to host our group. It’s open to all ages, but so far, it hasn’t taken off. Only six members have joined.

I wave to Miss Martha, the librarian, as I push through the doors into the air-conditioning. The public library is one of my favorite places in the world. It’s an old building, two-story and historical looking, with marble floors, full of nooks and crannies where people can curl up to read. The books are organized by subject and then via the Dewey decimal system. Back near the reference desk, there are a couple of ancient desktops that people can use to check their e-mail. Fortunately, I don’t need those. I saved enough money this summer to buy myself a laptop. I’m pretty stoked about that.

Since I’m fifteen minutes early, I drop off my books at the front desk and pick out a couple of new titles. I carry them to the conference room upstairs where we hold our meetings. To my surprise, somebody’s already sitting there, reading, arms propped on the table. I recognize the green Army surplus jacket before I place him—Shane Cavendish, new kid.

How did he hear about Green World?

“Hey,” I say, as I sit down. “Good to see you.”

His head jerks up; he was totally into the book and didn’t hear me at all, which makes me like him instantly. I know all about the transportive power of fiction. Back in my old life, there were plenty of days when I wouldn’t have made it if I didn’t have an exit into the pages of somebody else’s life. My breath catches as his gaze meets mine. No joke, it’s like the whole world pauses for that second. Because Shane Cavendish has the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen, aquamarine flecked with darker blue and green, fringed with long dark lashes that actually curl up toward his brows. Eventually, I notice he has a nose with a bump in the bridge, like it’s been broken, a pair of sharp cheekbones, a faint scar on his left temple, and a layer of scruff at his jaw. His mouth … no, I can’t even.

But it’s incredible, too.

Though I could probably stare at him for another five minutes in awed silence, he’s not on board with that plan. His brows pull together as he shoves his book into his bag. “What’re you talking about?”

I thought “good to see you” was self-explanatory. It’s a universal greeting and expression of welcome, isn’t it? “I’m happy the group’s adding a new member,” I offer cautiously.

“Oh.” Shane pushes out a breath. “Is there a meeting in here?”

I check my watch. “In five minutes.”

“I’ll clear out then.”

“You’re not here to join?”

“Unlikely,” he says.

That tone tells me what he thinks of people who organize and try. He’s probably a nihilist or something, who thinks it’s a waste of energy because nothing will ever get better. I admit, there are some days when I understand that philosophy. But without people agitating for change, there’s only the awfulness of the status quo.

“You’re welcome.”

“What am I supposed to be thanking you for?” His expression is outright puzzled, but he’s paying attention to me, his eyes trained on my face like he really sees me for the first time.

Which is cool, except … “I didn’t mean it that way,” I explain awkwardly. “You’re welcome to check out Green World.”

“Let me guess. You sponsor recycling drives and bug people to stop using plastic grocery bags.”

I guess that breathless moment where our eyes made contact was a one-way circuit. It’s a good thing I have a sense of humor or his attitude might bother me. “So far, we haven’t achieved even that much. Mostly, we argue and order pizza.”

Shane laughs, surprising me. His fingers relax on the edges of his ragged backpack. It was like he thought I was setting him up. In some respects, he seems like a kindred spirit, as if life has taught him to expect the worst.

“I could eat.”

“Then stay,” I say.

My heart pounds crazy hard, like, I can hear it in my ears. I’ve never said anything like that to a guy before. I wonder if he knows how bad I want to keep him here, just so I can look at him. His mop of chestnut hair has a hint of curl, and it’s pretty adorable the way it falls around his ears. In geometry, he used it to hide, but he’s not doing that now. He’s letting me see him.

“Okay.” It’s apparently that easy.

Before I can figure out where to go from here, Ryan bounds into the room, tossing his backpack onto the table with a
thunk
. He flings himself into the chair next to me, beaming, and then launches into a convoluted story about why he couldn’t get a burrito. I must admit, while I usually love Ryan’s stories, I’m not riveted by this one. It
feels
like he interrupted something, though maybe that’s just wishful thinking. At the end of the epic saga, I laugh because that’s what he expects of me. Shane goes back to reading.

The other four file in, some of them late, so it’s ten past before we’re all assembled. In Green World, there’s Kenneth, aka Kenny Wu, Gwen Reave, Tara Tanner, and Conrad Loudermilk—two freshmen, one senior, and one other. Conrad is in his twenties, but for reasons known only to him, he hasn’t gone off to college yet. Instead he putters around his mom’s house and hangs out with high school people when he’s not working at the local supermarket, the P&K. Which is like an A&P, I guess, only crappier.

Gwen is the senior, which means she has a car and the sense that she’s in charge, so she orders the pizzas—one cheese, one veggie, from Pizza the Action. The main thing you need to know about this town is, it’s a small place, so the biggest name restaurant we have in town is the Dairy Queen. The whole downtown can be traversed in five minutes on foot. There’s a strip mall toward the highway, but there’s nothing shiny in there, either, mostly low-rent shops and stuff like the dollar store, only it’s not even a national franchise; it’s called Bang for Your Buck.

Anyway.

Once Gwen gets off the phone, she calls the meeting to order while studying Shane through her bangs. I can tell she’s wondering who he is. I don’t clarify. It’s not like I own him.

But he does the talking. He cants his head at me and mumbles, “She invited me. I’m Shane Cavendish.”

He doesn’t even know my name,
I realize.
Smooth.

“Sage Czinski.”

Nobody ever spells my last name right from hearing it pronounced, and they rarely get it when reading off a list. It’s not that hard, really: suh-ZIN-skee. But I’m prepared for a career of correcting people as I go through life. My first name is kind of strange, too, but my dad always said that when I was born, he thought I had wise eyes for a baby, so that’s why he called me Sage.