Heart Shaped Rock Page 2

The hour flies by.

  “What’s up with the nametag?” I finally ask Tiffany when the rush has settled down and we have a moment to breathe.

  Tiffany looks down, not catching my meaning. “Oh, that,” she says, glimpsing her nametag. “I just figured Sheila’s is the perfect place for a girl to reinvent herself.”

  I can’t argue with that.

  “Okay,” Tiffany says, motioning to the espresso machine, “let’s start with the basics.” Tiffany proceeds to explain the functionality of each part of the machine, taking great care to show me how to pack the espresso grounds into the scoopers. After that, she regales me with the differences between an Americano, latte, cappuccino, and café au lait. The girl’s a virtual fount of caffeinated wisdom and espressological expertise. Finally, with utmost care and precision, she demonstrates the proper method for steaming milk.

  “Just go like this, up and down,” Tiff explains, furrowing her brow with deep concentration.

  “Are you steaming milk or performing a tonsillectomy?” I ask.

  “Ha, ha. You try now. Make sure the steaming wand doesn’t come out of the milk.”

  I take over the metal pitcher from her, holding it awkwardly under the machine. “Like this?” I ask, mimicking Tiffany’s up-and-down movement with the pitcher. Immediately, a blast of steamy milk shoots me right in the face.

  Tiffany bursts out laughing. “Yeah,” she says, “just like that.”

  If I’m supposed to be performing surgery here, I just killed my patient. I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand and look around to make sure no one has witnessed my milk-tastic malpractice.

  “Okay, rookie,” Tiffany says. “Now let’s talk about the cash register.”

  For the next ten minutes, Tiffany instructs me about which buttons do what. She follows that lesson with a thousand more: how to properly clean the machine; how and when to refill the coffee beans; the procedure for maintaining stock levels of cups, napkins, and other supplies; and oh, so much more. Actually, I’m thoroughly impressed by how much she’s managed to learn after working here only a few short months. Tiffany glows with enthusiasm as she speaks, clearly giddy to display her newly acquired talents and knowledge. It’s usually me who’s tutoring her in one subject or another, not the other way around, and it’s a refreshing change.

  Throughout Tiffany’s lecture, occasional customers place orders for a “half-caff macchiato” or a “wet cap with a double shot, slightly wet,” or some other first-world concoction I’ve never heard of before today. Tiffany greets each customer like a long lost family member, and they respond to her as people always do—they gobble her up like a warm apple fritter.

  “So, is that where all the teenage tragedies come to pour their hearts out?” I ask, motioning to the small stage across the room.

  “Yeah. Open Mic Nights are Thursdays. And singer-songwriters play most other nights, too. But never on Wednesdays.”

  “Why not on Wednesdays?”

  “Sheila’s son doesn’t work on Wednesdays, and he’s in charge of the music. Jason Mraz played on that stage back in the day. So did Jewel.”

  “Really? Wow.”

  Tiffany exhales, shifting gears. “Okay. Why don’t you practice making a skinny vanilla latte?”

  “Okeedoke,” I reply, and set about making the drink.

  Tiffany has to remind me to wipe off the steaming wand when I’m done. “If you don’t,” she says, “the milk gets all nasty on there.”

  I feel defeated.

  “You’ll get the hang of it,” she says, putting her arm around my shoulder. “This is gonna be fun. I pinky promise.” She holds out her pinky to me.

  Tiffany knows I hate pinky promises. “Why don’t we just have a pig-tailed pillow fight instead?” I say. “In our pink pajamas?” But, damn, Tiffany’s face is so adorable, and those eyes of hers are so earnest, I can’t resist her. I dutifully lay my pinky in hers. Like always. “I’m already having fun,” I assure her, and I’m surprised to realize it’s the truth.

  She puts her head on my shoulder. “I love you, Shay-Shay.”

  “Babe,” a male voice calls out from the front entrance.

  “Baby!” Tiffany shrieks.

  The voice belongs to Kellan, Tiffany’s brawny boyfriend of the past year. He struts into the coffeehouse with his usual swagger and beelines right to Tiffany, a toothy grin covering his face. Clearly, his parents have spent a fortune on orthodontics.

  When Kellan reaches the counter, Tiffany leans toward him, her arms extended like a child asking to be picked up. “Gimme.”

  Kellan laughs. “Patience, my little chick-a-dee,” he scolds, but clearly he loves it. He takes hold of the neck straps on Tiffany’s apron and gently pulls her to him for a kiss.

  Eww. Those two are so Taylor Swift and... everyone.

  Kellan smiles at me, his eyes dancing with self-confidence. “Well, hello there, Banister Shaynee.” He nods his head in formal greeting.

  “Barista,” I mumble. “Barista Shaynee.” But he just grins.

  Kellan turns back to Tiffany. “Well, you finally got your girl here. God help any man or woman who stands between you and something you want.”

  Tiffany beams at me. “My life is now complete.”

  “Hey, I gotta get to work in a sec”—Kellan busses tables a couple nights a week at a chain Mexican restaurant on the boardwalk called Olé! Olé!—“but I just wanted to see our little Shaynee on her first day, strutting around in her fancy blue apron.” He looks me up and down. “Lookin’ good, Shay. You’ve got serious swag.”

  “Gosh, thanks,” I shoot back, my hands on my hips. “I live for your approval.” I love giving Kellan a hard time, probably because he’s never experienced a single hard time in his gold-plated life. Regardless of my sarcasm, though, he knows I adore him like a big brother (if that big brother were loud, not particularly smart, and freakishly athletic).

  “So, I just heard there’s gonna be a bonfire at Bay Street on Friday night. You girls wanna go?” For the last several months, ever since I became The Poor Little Girl with No Mother, Kellan and Tiffany have gone to great lengths to include me in their weekend plans. When they’re arranging some sort of group activity, I reluctantly join in—and usually wind up quietly experiencing whatever festivities as more of an observer than a participant; but when the plan involves just the two of them and me as their “plus one,” I almost always find a way to beg off and leave the two lovebirds to themselves.

  “Coolio,” Tiffany says. “Will we know anyone there?”

  “Some of the guys I surf with will be there with their girlfriends. You know that dude Jared I surf with at Swami’s?”

  “Yeah,” Tiffany says. “He was just here earlier.”

  Ah, I think, putting two-and-two together: The guy with the shark-tooth necklace.

  “Well, it’s his older brother having the party. I gotta work Friday night, so you two girls can meet me at the restaurant after my shift and we’ll head over to the party together. It’s just a few blocks from work.”

  “Perfect,” Tiffany agrees.

  “I’m not sure... ” I begin. But Tiffany’s not having it.

  “Oh no, Peaches, you’re coming. I’m not driving all the way out to the beach, alone, at night, to meet up with Kellan. You’ve gotta come.”

  She’s got a point. Our neighborhood is about fifteen minutes inland from the beach, and it would be a pain and a waste for Kellan to have to pick her up.

  Just then, Sheila waltzes through the front door. “Well? How’d it go, girls?” she asks, placing her palms on the counter. “Hello, dearest Kellan. So nice to see you. Now go away.”

  Kellan laughs. “I’ve gotta get to work anyway. I’ll call you later, babe.”

  “Shaynee did great,” Tiffany reports to Sheila, practically singing the words. “She picked up everything like a boss.”

  We both know that’s a gross exaggeration. My performance was one shade above hopeless, at best.

  “Fabu
lous,” Sheila says. She smiles and little lines crinkle around her blue eyes. “Well, then, I’ve got some forms for you to fill out, to make it official, honey. You’re sixteen, right?”

  I nod.

  She hands me a short stack of forms. “Here ya go.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d love to get some help on Wednesdays when my son isn’t here. And Thursdays, too; those are always the busiest thanks to Open Mic Night. Tiffany, let’s keep you coming on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, and we’ll have Shaynee-girl come Wednesdays and Thursdays. It’ll be a win-win-win.”

  “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.