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.