The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things by Ann Aguirre

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—”
    “I know,” he interrupts. “I want to.”
    An hour later, I’m totally awed by Shane’s brain. He has this way of simplifying the theorems so they actually make sense. With his guidance, I’ve successfully managed to solve two problems on my own. I still can’t imagine why I would ever need to be able to figure out the length of one side of a mystery triangle, but if I’m ever kidnapped by a geometry-obsessed madman, maybe I won’t die.
    “Make sense now?” he asks.
    “Yeah, I think I got it. I’d love to pull my grade up to a C before midterms.”
    “I’ll get you to a B by the time the grading period ends.”
    I say without thinking, “If you do, I’ll love you forever.”
    It’s the sort of joke I’d make with