I just make a mental note of the route and jog to my bike. Before getting on, I text a message to Aunt Gabby, telling her I’m studying at a friend’s this afternoon. She’ll assume I mean Ryan, and I squelch a frisson of guilt over that. I’ll explain things to her soon. I will. Just as soon as I figure out how much to tell her. And how.
I swing by the Coffee Shop for snacks and drinks, then stow them in my backpack. Since I don’t want to arrive dripping sweat, I ride at a leisurely pace, so it takes me thirty-seven minutes to get to his place. And at first, I think the school must’ve gotten it wrong, but I recognized Shane’s handwriting on the form. So no. This is it. Nerves assail me as I walk my bike down the rutted drive, overgrown with curly dock, chickweed, and quack grass. I can’t even see a house from here, but I’m committed. At the end of the lane, there’s a decrepit trailer; the thing looks so run-down that I imagine it’s cold in winter, leaks during a hard rain, and must be an oven during the summer. It was once cream with brown trim, but that’s hanging off in rusty strips and the weather has discolored the lighter metal. The underpinning is loose, flapping in the breeze, and I’m nervous as I start forward.
Cinder blocks have been stacked up in lieu of steps long since rotted away. I lean my bike against a pile of tires out front, climb up, and knock. My heart thunders in my ears. I must be crazy for showing up uninvited. Now that I’ve seen where Shane lives, though, I’m more worried, not less. I’m scared he might be mad at me for barging in like this, but I have to make sure he’s okay, echo of a time when I desperately wished somebody would’ve checked up on me.
Mustering all my courage, I tap lightly on the door. Immediately, I hear movement inside and I brace for one of his parents to yell at me. Instead, Shane cracks the door, then freezes, staring at me in utter astonishment. The first thing I notice is that he has a second bruise, a newer one, to match the black eye Dylan gave him a few days back. And he didn’t get it at school.
“What’re you doing here?” he demands.
Yeah, he’s not happy. I decide only absolute honesty will serve. “I was worried about you. And I brought your homework.”
“Thanks.” His anger blurs into confusion. Shane looks like he can’t decide what he wants to ask next, a series of questions flickering on his face, but eventually he steps back. “You may as well come in, now that you’re here.”
Inside, it’s cleaner than I expected. The kitchen has old linoleum and there’s scratched paneling all over the place. Everything is worn, old-fashioned, and threadbare, but somebody looks after this place. I’d bet money that person is Shane. A small living room adjoins the kitchen. I imagine there’s a bath down the hall, which ends in two small bedrooms.
“Your parents won’t mind?” I ask, stepping in.
“My mom’s gone. And my dad isn’t here.”
By which I presume “gone” means for good and “not here” indicates at the moment. So he lives with his father, who’s probably the one who messed up his face. Otherwise, he doesn’t seem sick, so he must’ve skipped to hide the evidence. I close the door behind me, then dig into my backpack. First I produce his list of assignments, as promised. Next, I get out the drinks and food I brought, not much, just some chicken soup sealed in a cup, bottles of juice, and two pieces of fruit. He watches with an expression of blank astonishment.
Finally, he gestures. “Is that for me?”
“The soup and juice are. And the orange. I thought you were sick.”
“God,” he whispers. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
I try a smile. “I hope that’s a rhetorical question.”
“Seriously, how did you find me? And why did you ride all the way out here?” His jaw ticks and he glances away. I barely hear his last mumbled question. “Why do you care when nobody else does?”
“I already told you.”
“You didn’t answer anything,” he points out.
I really don’t want to admit that I skulked around the school office to find his address, so I respond to the last thing he said. “I remember how hard it was when I moved here.” I hesitate.
He’s quiet, and I can’t tell if he’s mad, if he believes me. We eat in silence while I try to decide if I should mumble an excuse and leave. There’s a darkness about him, a shadow in his eyes, and he doesn’t look at me while finishing the soup and peeling the orange. I take my time with the apple, conscious of how much noise I’m making as I chew. I can’t tell him that I’m slightly obsessed because he’s hot, and I’m intrigued because he’s a musician, and all the girl reasons behind why I’m here. So maybe—
“So you came because you were worried?” He asks like it’s never happened before. “Not because you feel sorry for me. I don’t want to be a … project.”
“Well, yeah.”
For another long moment, he’s quiet. Then he seems to come to some conclusion.
“Thank you.” Those are the most heartfelt words anybody’s ever spoken to me. Sincerity burns in his blue, blue eyes, and he’s beautiful, despite the bruises. I want to ask, but for now it’s just enough he’s not making me go.
“Since you’re here,” he adds, “want to work on some geometry?”
Not really. I’d rather stare at him or make out on the couch, but those options aren’t on the table. “Sure, thanks. But that’s not why I came. I mean, I don’t expect you to help me just because—”