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October 31
Listening to my Linkin Park playlist and humming along to 'Numb', I sit cross-legged on one of the kitchen chairs and wait for mom to get back home. I didn't want to leave Marla alone at home but Shane made me promise I'll talk to either of my parents today about diabetes. Honestly, it's not something I'm looking forward to. The past couple of interactions haven't been all that positive.
I lick the chocolate off my lower lip and stare down at the bar in my hand. Ever since I told Shane why I don't eat chocolates anymore, he's been getting me more and more of them. Today, when I asked him why he kept doing it, his answer was somewhat cheeky but totally honest.
'I want you to associate me with chocolates so eating them won't remind you of Carter but me instead.'
'Are you trying to replace my brother?' I'd teased.
'I'm trying to replace your bad memories with good ones.'
His logic was pretty flawless and made me giddy insight. The mere thought of Shane does that to me now. It's the smallest of things, the slightest nudge of our arms when walking side by side, the smile he has on his face when our eyes meet, the blush that creeps up his dimpled cheeks when he says something seemingly romantic and cute.
Sitting face to face in the small Gloria Jeans cafe, I'd asked him about his plans for college.
'Are you even sleeping these days?' I'd asked. 'You look like a raccoon.'
'I was going more for a panda look but raccoon works too,' he answered.
Leaning over our mugs -- mine of iced latte and his of nutty mocha -- I'd smacked his wrist.
'You can never be serious, can you?'
'I'm a terrible person.'
'You sure are.'
'Well, aren't you sweet.'
'I blame it on my non-insulin-producing pancreas.'
Shane laughed but the conversation drifted away from what I wanted to ask him. Yes, he was good looking as hell. What I wanted to focus on more was the circles under his eyes and the slightly reddish tinge to his eyes.
Now, being back in my kitchen and away from Shane, I kind of wish I hadn't let him subtly change the topic. I hate to admit it but there's hardly anything I know about his life aside from the fact that his mom wants him to study IR and his dad wants him to play football. I don't know if he has any siblings or why he's friends with someone like Carlos, where he lives or what he does for fun.
Yet, for some reason, I like him.
I like him and I'm more than willing to admit it to myself.
The sound of the door opening reaches me through the music and I turn down the volume, looking up and straightening in my seat.
Mom comes around the corner, merely glancing at me before stepping towards the fridge. It's the same old routine: she'll pour herself some wine and down it before pouring herself some more that she'll take to her room and not leave it for the rest of the day. Her sunken cheeks and darkened eyes, the already large coat hanging off her shoulders ... she's losing weight without even knowing it.
"I have to tell you something," I cut to the chase.
Mom stops with her hand on the door of the fridge. Her eyes revolve to meet mine and I avert mind, jumping off the chair and stuffing my feet into my fluffy slippers.
"I have diabetes," I tell her, tossing my test results on the kitchen counter.
Her gaze follows it and she tilts her head, frowning down at my past blood sugars.
"I fainted in school last week," I tell Mom whose gaze snaps up to my face. "The nurse recommended some tests and I got them done. The doctor says I'll need lifetime insulin therapy and he needs to meet either you or dad to discuss it since I'm not old enough to direct my own treatment." I scoff. "Funny, since I'm already managing everything else myself."
"Taylor --" Mom breathes, her eyes widened in horror.
"I'm not whining or complaining or anything," I say, tugging at the hem of my T-shirt so that it reaches halfway down my thighs. "You don't have to come see a doctor or anything because I already got the prescription. I can inject myself and all that so you don't need to do anything. I'm just telling you so you know what to say if you get a call from a medic or someone that they found me passed out on a sidewalk --"
"Tay," Mom sobs dryly.
"I'll be fine," I conclude, my voice emotionless as I turn away from Mom and leave the kitchen without a backward glance.
Mom doesn't call me back, and I don't know if she tells dad about my tests or not. Neither she nor dad come to my room to ask me anything, and I leave it the next morning, heading straight to Marla's house. The first thing I see when I get there is a ruckus of boys and girls, hurrying this way and that as Marla's big mom yells into a phone.
"No, I ain't listening to your bullshit about your son bein' sick because I don't know the hell you talkin' about!" she snaps, smacking Cole on his head as he races past her after Mika.
"Yo, Toot Toot," he screeches as he passes me by and barges out of the house.
"Sorry, Tay!" Mika calls over his shoulder as they file side by side into the Chevy Georgia rolls out of the garage.
I watch them leave, laughing to myself.
"No, I won't listen to your sorry ass," Mama Harley yells into the phone, brandishing a big hand around as if she wants to slap whoever she's talking to. "My daughter been cryin' since she got back and I'm gonna fly up to Boston and beat your boy's ass up, ya hear me?"
She hangs up, slamming the landline phone into its stand on the wall. I wince, feeling sorry for the poor reciever of her insults. I have a vague idea of who it was.
"Good morning," I say to her when she turns around.
Her broad face cracks into a faint smile though her eyes continue to flash with rage and sadness.
"I'm going to head up and see Marla," I tell her.
"How she doing?" Mama Harley asks me, smoothing out her flowery apron tied around her gianormous torso. "Hasn't left her room in nearly a week, that girl. Why she cryin' over that piece of poo? He broke her poor little heart."
I nod, lowering my gaze to the red and black carpet.
"I always knew that boy was trouble," Mama Harley rambles on, wringing her belt in her hands. "Twenty-two years ol', he is. And with all the prayin' and the perfect Muslim shit. Marla deserves better. Back in Trinidad, she would have a prince at her feet. My pretty baby. He prolly cheated with some hoe up in --"
"He's not twenty-two, Mrs. Rudder, and he's sick," I tell her calmly, fully understanding her frustration because of her daughter's pain. Despite having eight children two of whom are married and live in their own homes, Mama Harley has an ocean of love for each of them. I have to admit, her hugs even make me feel like I'm her daughter. Not only is she big and mushy but warm at the center. Kind of a like a marshmallow.
"Sick he is," she snaps.
Mama Harley sighs, her shoulder slumping and eyes filling with sadness.
"My girl's been cryin' for days," she reiterates.
I nod.
"I just wish I could take all her pain away," she mumbles. "But you know ... that's what a mother's love is."
I force a small smile. In all honesty, I've forgotten what a mother's love is. I've forgotten what it feels like to be hugged by a mother and feel whole. I don't remember what it feels like to look at my mother and know she hears and sees what I'm trying to hide. My mother hasn't been a mother for a long time.
As Friday rolls in and neither Mom nor Dad talk to me about my health, I focus my attention instead on my date with Shane. I'm excited, to say the least. I do things for Friday I don't remember doing often ... such as shaving my legs for instance. I even blowdry my hair and stuff a fresh pair of socks in my bag so I can change the ones I'm wearing when Shane takes me out after the game. I kind of wish we'd settled on Saturday evening so I wouldn't have to worry about Racheal and Riley asking questions on Friday morning. To avoid answering, I don't put on any makeup or style my hair. I just put on one of my nicest tops and a hoodie on top to camouflage myself.
The team wins the game. This time, I watch so I know. I watch Shane race with the ball under his arm and tackle his opponents. I watch him punch the air as the whistle blows and his team jumps him. I watch, clapping and cheering with the rest of the students waving around their arms and hugging strangers who share the same passion. I become a part of the crowd, disappearing behind the taller ones, coming up for air to find Shane retreating with his team towards the changing rooms.
"They're celebrating tonight," Racheal says as we make our way towards campus.
I don't answer, pondering over the thought of Shane being out with me while his team is celebrating the win he had greatly contributed in. Maybe he'll change his mind about going out tonight.
The thought evaporates with thin air as soon as I see Shane jogging toward me in the parking lot as I stand at my usual spot where we'd agreed to meet.
"Sorry I'm late." He pants, stopping before me and shaking off excess water from his hair before flipping them back. He hoists his bag higher over his shoulder, his cheeks flushed.
"You're not," I answer, taking in the sight of him.
It's strange but Shane looks exhausted. I shouldn't be surprised, knowing it's because he's been practicing for the game all day and then played. He probably just wants to go home and sleep.
"You played really well today," I comment, heat creeping up my cheeks.
Shane beams, hurriedly digging into his pocket and then the next, searching for something.
"I thought you didn't like football," he points out breathlessly.
"But I like you --" I begin.
Shane doesn't hear me, pulling out his phone and staring at the screen. He frowns and gives me a guilty grimace before putting it to his phone.
"Yes, dad?" he speaks, turning halfway away from me.
I fidget on the spot, digging the toe of my shoe into the dirt under my feet.
"Dad, we're celebrating tonight," he tells his father on the phone. "We won the game and --"
He stops short, inhaling and exhaling a deep breath as I watch his eyes close and brow furrow.
"Dad, I --"
His face contorts and shoulders slump.
"Please, can you give me a few hours?" Shane asks. He insists. He almost pleads.
Frowning, I stare at the side of his face as he drops his head and huffs.
"Two hours is all I'm asking for."
His voice is half angry but mostly helpless, catching me off guard. In all the time I have known Shane, I have never seen him this weak. This vulnerable. It's unbelievable, the perfect Shane Gray pleading for a few minutes from his father?
"Okay," he says quickly. "Okay, I'll be there."
He nods, humming twice before hanging up.
"It's okay if you're busy," I speak up before he can say a word.
Shane squeezes his eyes shut and opens them, exhaling a sharp breath before forcing a small smile.
"I just need an hour," he tells me.
"I can wait," I say.
Shane looks relieved, his smile widening. "Will you wait here or do we --"
I nod, returning his smile.
"Great." He beams. "I'll be back by --" he glances at his watch "-- six?"
"I'll be right here."
Smiling, he backs away from me with his bag over his shoulder. As Shane gets in his car and drives away, rolling down his window and waving at me, I sit down under the shade and stare at the setting sun. A part of me wants to go home and sleep, but another tells me to wait. Three hours, listening to music and playing Candy Crush, I wait for him to come back.
And Shane Gray ... he doesn't come back.
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A/N: Any theories, guys? It's time for Shane's story? What do you think is his secret?