The Queen of Bright and Shiny Things by Ann Aguirre Page A

Ryan, just hyperbole, but with Shane, it gains layers. He gives me that look again, the one that x-rays through my skin down to my bones, until I feel like he can view my heart. That should be a terrifying, creepy feeling, but it’s more of a relief, like I don’t have to hide; there’s nothing about me that could scare him because he’s been through so much himself.
    God, how I want that to be true.
    “Then I better apply myself,” he says softly.
    To what? Geometry? Or making me love you forever? Oh God. My stomach swirls.
    “I never do this,” I tell him.
    “Study?”
    I huff out a breath. “No. Show up at someone’s house uninvited. It’s so rude.”
    “I was just cleaning up a little.”
    The place is already as spotless as it can be, given its condition, but I spot a shimmer of broken glass in the trash can. So his dad’s a drinker. I don’t say anything, but I register him noticing. Shane may not say much, but he’s the most observant person I’ve ever met. Which is why it’s odd that he hasn’t said anything about my hair. I mean, it’s stupid and self-centered to want him to, given the mess he’s dealing with, but I’m not 100 percent enlightened. I want him to think I’m pretty, and I wish he knew I’m fighting my way out of the fog for him .
    “I should go—” I start, before it gets awkward.
    But at the same time, he asks, “Would you—”
    Then we both break off. Does he feel like I do? I hope he’s nervous and excited and scared, and it feels like the start of something he wants desperately. I wait for him to go on, urging with my eyes.
    Finally he murmurs, “You want me to play something for you?”
    Oh God, yes. Please. Because I’m afraid my voice will reveal pure breathless glee, I just nod.
    Shane goes back to his bedroom and returns with the battered guitar he was playing in the music room. He tunes it with a few expert thrums and I focus on his hands: long fingered, scars on the knuckles, hard but graceful. I’d imagine lacing our hands together but I might hyperventilate.
    The song is haunting, and he plays with his eyes shut, head tilted back. After a few bars, I recognize it as one Aunt Gabby plays sometimes—“Collide” by Howie Day. I’ve never listened to the lyrics so closely before, but when Shane sings it, I find it impossible to do anything else. His acoustic cover is quiet and slow, a hint of melancholy, so it feels like a breakup song, though I don’t think that’s what it’s about. The line about being tangled up with me? Yes. Please. By the time he strums the final note, holding it until it feels like a touch, I suspect I’d agree to anything.
    “You’re really good,” I say.
    Understatement .
    “Think so?” And he’s not asking for an ego boost. For a moment, his heart shows in his eyes. I’ve seen yearning before, but never so raw, and this isn’t for me. He wants to be good, probably for the same reasons I push for good grades and lots of clubs. Like me, he needs to get out of here; he’s running toward something bigger and brighter.
    “The best I’ve ever heard, who wasn’t already getting paid for it.” That’s actually not saying much. My car issues mean I don’t go to many concerts. But I’m sure he’s talented.
    “I’ve got some original songs, too, if you’d like to hear one sometime.”
    “Sure,” I say, as if I’m not inwardly screaming that he wants to see me again. On purpose. But the last thing I want is to get him in trouble. “Do you need me to head out? What time’s your dad—”
    His fingers clench on the neck of his guitar and he gives me a measuring look, before apparently deciding to spill. “I won’t see him again for a while.”
    “Where is he?” That’s not what I want to ask, and he knows it.
    “He’s a truck driver. He didn’t even have a place until the court dumped me on him. He just put up at short-term motels between long hauls.”
    Judging by the crappy accommodations, Shane isn’t close