Heart Shaped Rock (9 page)

“It’s not like that,” Tiffany says. “I just meant he keeps reminding me to pay extra attention—”

“Tiffany. It’s okay.” I muster a smile to soften the edge in my voice. “If I have a panic attack and start freaking out, I’ll just fit in with all the other groupies at the foot of the stage. He won’t even notice.”

She inhales sharply.

“Really. I’ll be fine.”

“Well, okay then.” Her mouth is a thin line.

We drive in silence for a few minutes.

“So, Motorcycle Boy’s hot?”

I purse my lips and furrow my brow, appearing to give the question due consideration. Finally, I say, “Motorcycle Boy’s smokin’ hot.”

Tiffany squeals.

I laugh.

We pull into my driveway.

“’Night, Peaches.”

“’Night, Tiff. Thanks for the ride. I had fun tonight.”

“Me, too. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Roger that.”

After a hot shower, I flop onto my bed in my pajamas, my wet hair twisted into a towel. I check my phone. No text from Tiffany. I look at the clock on my nightstand. Midnight. I should be exhausted, but I feel totally energized.

He’s a singer. What does his voice sound like? Does he actually sing, or is he more of a screamer? A wailer? Can he even carry a tune? Does his voice match his face? Ah, his face. His lovely face. I try to imagine that face singing, and the thought overwhelms me. I’m surprised to realize I can’t wait to watch his band on Wednesday night. I close my eyes with a sigh.

I’d never abuse your trust in me,
he said.
Not even in jest.

I open my eyes and sit up in bed.

The silver box is staring at me from across my room. With a sharp exhale, I get up and retrieve it from my dresser. I sit back down on my bed, cross-legged, in front of the box.

“Happy Sweet Sixteenth Birthday, Shaynee. Love, Mom,
” the tag says in Mom’s handwriting. I touch the swirling lettering with the tip of my finger and feel the indentation of her pen in the paper. Slowly, I peel the wrapping paper off the package to reveal a lidded box underneath. My heart’s racing.

With a deep breath, I lift up the lid of the box.

There’s a DVD inside with Mom’s handwriting across its face:
“Watch this, Shaynee-Bug. Happy Birthday.”

I sit, paralyzed, staring at the DVD for what seems like a very long time.

Finally, slowly, I take it out of the box, ever so carefully, as if it’s a baby chick in my hand, and place it on my desk. I put the torn wrapping paper inside the box, and place the box inside my closet, toward the back. I cover it with a sweatshirt.

And then I crawl into bed and turn off the light.

Chapter 8

I’ve got a huge paper about the Industrial Revolution due on Tuesday. This would normally be bad news, but right now, I’m grateful that there’s something to take my mind off the slowly ticking clock. Wednesday can’t come soon enough. I hate myself for acting like a pathetic groupie, but I can’t stop imagining myself at the foot of a big stage, watching Dean the Rock Star. Does he write his band’s songs? Or do they play cover tunes? Does he play an instrument? What instrument does C-Bomb play? How many guys are in the band? And, the biggest question of all, what does Dean’s singing voice sound like? I close my eyes, trying to imagine it.

Finally, after what seems like seventy years (and after much distracting attention paid to the manufacturing processes developed from about 1760 to 1820), Wednesday thankfully arrives. My plan is to change at Sheila’s at the end of my shift and head straight to Dean’s show over in Normal Heights. I stand in front of my closet, considering what I should pack in my backpack to wear to Dean’s show.

Dean.
I’m gonna see Dean again. My stomach lurches in excitement.

What do I have in my closet that screams, “I’m not a total dork and I go to rock concerts all the time?” Nothing. I have nothing that even remotely suggests I’m cool. It’s been unseasonably warm this week, so I opt for a simple yellow sundress I haven’t worn in ages.
I love you in yellow,
Mom always said.

After school, I hightail over to Sheila’s. Luckily, it’s not crazy busy, so there’s plenty of time for Tiffany to remind me how the heck to make all the concoctions. After only a few refresher lessons, I’m feeling pretty confident about the whole
barista
thing. I’ve even mastered making a heart-shaped swirl on top of a cappuccino.

Sheila comes to check on Tiffany and me multiple times. “How’s it going?”

“Great,” Tiffany says.

Sheila looks to me. “Are you good?”

“I’m great,” I reply. “I’m really happy to be here.”

Sheila pats my hand. “I’m really happy you’re here, too, honey.”

Heat rises in my cheeks. Sheila’s hand feels soft.

When my shift is complete, I dash into the bathroom to throw on my yellow sundress. I brush out my hair, apply some shimmery gloss on my lips, and assess myself in the mirror. Whaddaya know? I don’t look like a corpse.

When I drive my small coupe to the address Dean gave me on the night of the bonfire, a neon sign flashing “Wang Palace” greets me at what looks like a rundown Chinese restaurant. Am I in the right place? I double-check the address. Yes, this is the right place. I park the car and send a text to Dad:
Made it.

Last night, when I told Dad I’d be going out to watch a friend’s band the following night, he looked like he was going to fall off his chair. He fumbled around for what to say for a moment, and finally settled on, “Where’s the show?”

“It’s an all-ages club in Normal Heights,” I assured him. “Super safe.”

Of course, I knew Dad assumed I’d be going with Tiffany, and I didn’t mention I’d be flying solo. I scribbled the address on a piece of paper for him and promised to text the minute I got there. Dad took the paper from me, his eyes reflecting an emotion I couldn’t pinpoint. If I had to guess, I’d call it... relief? But all he said was, “Be home by 10:00 at the very latest.”

I walk up to the front entrance of Wang Palace, still not sure if the place is a restaurant or an all-ages club or what, and an old man with white hair, decked out in a checkered sport coat says, “Let me guess: You’re here to see Dean?”

I freeze. How many other girls have already shown up to see Dean tonight? Inside the club, will I be one of ten identical groupies in yellow sundresses, all of us screaming Dean’s name? I’m about to turn around when the man says, “You’re Shaynee, right? Dean told me you’d be coming as his honored guest.” He smiles at me kindly. “Your admission is free, my dear. He’s excited you’re coming tonight.”

I nod in thanks.

Dean’s
excited
I’m
coming tonight? I feel a burst of butterflies at the revelation.

I enter the building through a cracked, red door to find myself standing in, yes, an old Chinese restaurant. The tables have been pushed to the perimeter of the room to make space for a dance floor. At the far end of the room sits a large stage, filled to bursting with, gosh, it’s got to be fifteen or more musicians up there. There’s guitar, bass, drums, and keys, which I’d expect to see; but surprisingly there are also at least ten horn players, too: trumpets, saxophones, trombones, and even, wow, a clarinet. This band looks just like the big band orchestras I’ve seen in black-and-white movies.

Everyone in the band is wearing matching dinner jackets and bowties, except for the lone woman decked out in a long black dress who’s singing into an old-fashioned microphone at the front of the stage. The band is playing some kind of old-timey swing tune I’ve probably heard on elevators or at one of Aunt Leslie’s (multiple) weddings, but I can’t place it.

I scan the stage again, looking for Dean. Where is he? Am I in the right place? I must be; the man at the front door knew my name. I look for Dean toward the front of the stage, near the woman at the microphone. Nope. Is he playing one of the horns? Nope. Guitar? Nope. And then, sure enough, my eyes snap into focus, and there he is, as plain as day and as stunningly handsome as I remember him from Friday night. I can’t believe I didn’t notice him right away. Motorcycle Boy is in the back, sitting behind a drum kit, hitting the skins with brushes instead of sticks like a seasoned jazz player. He’s wearing the same dinner jacket-bowtie ensemble as the rest of the band.

This is Dean’s band? I blink my eyes intentionally a few times, willing the mirage to morph into reality. But no, that’s him. This is not what I expected. Where’s C-Bomb? I scan the stage, but C-Bomb and his tattoos and piercings and goatee and frenetic energy are nowhere to be seen.

I lock my eyes back onto Dean. He’s stroking the drums, watching the singer, oblivious to my arrival. His body undulates in time with the music. Damn, he looks radiant up there, completely absorbed in the moment. His eyes twinkle under the bright stage lights. Good God, he’s absolutely glorious.

With much effort, I peel my eyes away from Dean and look around. The room is a lot bigger than it appeared from outside. And the dance floor is huge and framed by twinkling white Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling. There are probably a hundred people here, slightly more women than men, I notice—
and
every single one of them is at least seventy years old.
Dean and I are most definitely the only people in the entire room who’ve ever heard the word “Instagram.” I’m totally confused. And intrigued. Where’s the rock band? I thought Dean was a wannabe rock star?

I glance back to Dean, and I’m startled to find he’s staring right at me. When our eyes meet, he smiles from ear to ear.

I grin like a moron and wave.

A white-haired gentleman approaches me, drawing my attention away from Dean.

“Will you do me the honor of this dance?” he asks. “I’m a sucker for a pretty girl.”

I jerk my head to look up at Dean onstage, and even from a distance I can tell that he’s chuckling. My prospective dance partner is maybe two inches shorter than me—and I’m not particularly tall. “No, thank you” is about to roll off my tongue, but when I see the look of hopeful anticipation in the man’s eyes, I can’t bring myself to reject him. I nod. “Thank you.”

He takes my hand and whirls me onto the dance floor among the other scattered couples moving easily around the floor.

Just as I’m about to say, “You’ll have to show me what to do,” the man puts my left hand on his tiny shoulder, then grabs my right hand and positions me. With his hand resting firmly on my back, we begin whirling and swirling, slowly, around the dance floor. As we move, he sings along to the song, seemingly transported to another time. I feel like an old-time movie star in a flowing ball gown.

When the song ends, the man bows to me and claps his hands in front of his face, smiling sweetly. I notice a wedding ring on his left hand, and instantly I know, without knowing
how
I know, that his wife has died. A pang rises up in my chest.

He leans in close. “Are you here to see, Dean, sweetie?”

I nod.

“You picked a good one.”

I glance over at Dean. His eyes are already on me.

The man continues, “And
he
sure picked a pretty one.”

I manage a grateful smile, though I can feel my cheeks blazing crimson.

The band starts playing another song, this one slower, more of a waltz. In a flash, another gentleman comes between my new boyfriend and me, saying, “May I cut in?” and without waiting for my reply, he sweeps me into the same positioning as the first man did. My second dance partner has dark gray hair and an ample belly. His eyebrows are bushy and his ears are big. He’s a bit heavier on his feet than my first partner, but his eyes are kind.

“
One
-two-three,
one
-two-three,
one
-two-three,” he says softly. He has a New York accent. “Like this, doll,” he instructs, exaggerating the up and down movement he wants me to mimic as he counts. I think I understand and begin alternating between tippy-toes and bended knees as we move along the dance floor. “That’s it, cupcake,” he says. “Now you got it.” Despite myself, I begin laughing, surrendering myself to the music and our swirling movement across the floor.

After two more partners, I begin to feel a bit winded and light-headed. “I’ve got to catch my breath for a minute,” I tell my latest partner. And, truth be told, I’m dying to get an undistracted eyeful of Dean on stage.

As I make my way to the edge of the dance floor, I sense Dean looking at me; and when I gaze up at him, yes, indeed, he’s staring at me so intently, so fiercely, he takes my breath away. Dean motions to one of the trumpet players, and the guy walks over to him. Dean whispers something in the trumpet player’s ear, and the guy takes Dean’s place behind the drum kit. Now Dean heads to the front of the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the bandleader says into the microphone, “it’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for…Let’s hear it for our very own crooner, Dino!”

Everyone in the place applauds and cheers.

Dean thanks the bandleader and takes over the microphone. “Hey there,” he says, scanning the crowd, his face aglow under the stage lights. When Dean finds me in the crowd, he beams at me. “Are you having a good time tonight?”

I know he’s directing the question to me personally, so I grin and nod in reply.
Actually, I’m having a freaking fantastic time tonight.

“We love you, Dino,” a male voice yells.

Dean’s attention is drawn away from me, back to the audience. “Oh, hey, Larry. I love you, too.” Everyone laughs. “So maybe some of you have noticed that I’ve got a special guest tonight?” Every eyeball in the place shifts to me at the edge of the dance floor. “It’s kind of hard
not
to notice her, right?” Someone in the audience whistles, and Dean laughs. “My sentiments exactly.” I feel myself blushing. “I’ve had to sit up here all night long, watching all you guys making moves on
my
date, and I’m starting to get jealous.” He gazes back at me. “Shaynee, this one’s for you.” He motions to the band. “Hit it, fellas.”