Page 10

Shane had expected to pass out now that he had access – at least temporarily – to a mattress. But after another twenty minutes of staring at the ceiling, he’d found himself wandering aimlessly around the house, running his hands over their things, contemplating his bizarre change of circumstance.

Hats off to how totally shit your life is that little kids can offer you more than you can offer yourself.

All the furniture was frayed from cat claws, though he had yet to see any cats. There was a liquor display cabinet full of empty bottles. The couch was covered in a strange assortment of throw pillows embroidered with totally gross motivational sayings, like you have to look through the rain to see the rainbow and live every day like it’s your last . He chuckled despite himself at the one that said it takes more muscles to frown than it does to smile . There were tubes of varying shades of red lipstick littering every surface.

He liked the basement best. He wasn’t sure why, but he had the distinct impression that nobody went down there but Laney. In the main area of the rec room, two sagging velour couches were set up in an L-shape, facing a small TV surrounded on either side by stacks and stacks of movie rentals. She must have rented from every video store in the province and just never gone back, because there were at least a hundred.

Eventually, the niggling voice in the back of his brain became a very loud one suggesting he hadn’t toured the entire house. But his stomach churned, despite being full for once, at the idea of snooping in the girl’s room, no matter how intriguing she was.

Probably just pink stuffed animals and posters of boy bands.

By 1:00, he caved.

He pushed open her door and searched for a light switch but didn’t find one. In the dim light from the tiny window, he saw a bronze chain hanging from the ceiling and pulled. The light and ceiling fan turned on with a lyrical whooomp whooomp whooomp noise, cool air rushing across his face in the tiny room.

There was a weird looking bed, the frame shaped kind of like a couch but made of brass. Her comforter was an ugly-ass brown and grey pattern, faded and worn. He hesitated, eyes darting to the door, before he reached out and touched it. It was as soft as it looked, but he felt distinctly weird touching her bed and turned his attention to the doorless closet. It had sharp corners, like it had been added as an afterthought by somebody who wanted to stub their toes in the dark.

Her wardrobe appeared to be mainly black, and a lot of it must have been her older brother’s hand-me-downs because most of the shirts he could see looked like large men’s concert tees.

Or maybe she has a boyfriend.

Or maybe you’re an asshole.

On a ledge beside the bed were stacks and stacks of books. He ran his hand along the spines, books in every colour and size, so many titles... He recognized the names of some, but most looked intimidatingly unfamiliar. He’d never been a reader, diagnosed with dyslexia when he was young, but the letters and words didn’t jumble up on the page. He could see them fine. Read them fine. Spell them fine. He just couldn’t hear them in his head; written words slipped through his mind like quicksand. It didn’t matter how many times he read something, the same sentence over and over, it was like someone had stuck a crumpled bill into a vending machine that just kept spitting it back out.

By age ten, reading had become something to fear. By thirteen, it was worth throwing punches over.

He’d barely made it through grade nine before leaving school for good. He couldn’t imagine reading all these books, this many words, and understanding them. How many universes did she have, floating around in her head?

He picked up a brand-new looking hardcover off her nightstand. The front said Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, and the scrawny kid on the front looked kind of like Dustin. He tried to read the back three times before he gave up.

At the foot of her bed was a bulletin board. He leaned in, expecting to see magazine cuttings or any of the stupid shit he used to see on girls’ walls, back when he’d had opportunities to be in a bedroom with one. But all that was on the board was what looked like some poems, handwritten in cursive, and three photos. One was of a mangy looking orange tabby cat. One was of her and Dustin, her arm freely draped around him, at least a foot of space between them but her head thrown back in a laugh and Dustin staring at the floor with the ghost of a smile on his lips. And the last was of a much older guy with long grey curls in a Pearl Jam t-shirt, standing in a garage beside a motorcycle and holding a beer. He squinted at it, wondering if this was her dad. He looked too old to be her brother, although who the fuck knew with girls like Cody’s cousin popping out babies at sixteen while the forty-five-year-old payday advance lady proudly showed off her swollen belly.

“That’s Jerry,” said a quiet voice, and Shane jumped so high his head hit the low ceiling. He blinked, rubbing his head, eyeing Dustin who had appeared in the doorway.

“Who’s Jerry,” he asked, wondering if Dustin was offended by him snooping in his sister’s room. The kid didn’t seem to care.

“Just Jerry,” he said.

“He your dad?”

“No.”

Shane clicked off the light and moved towards the doorway, pulling the door shut behind him.

“Sorry dude,” he said. “I shouldn’t be snooping.”

Dustin shrugged. “She won’t care. She likes you.” But he said it with a frown, a slight edge to his voice.

“She likes you, more,” he said gently. Dustin didn’t respond, but his ears pinked. Shane smiled at him. “Do you want to show me your room?”

Dustin blinked, and then headed upstairs. It felt like yes.

He paused for a moment, not really wanting to leave Laney’s room. It smelled like lavender. And sunshine.

He rolled his eyes at himself. So poetic. And followed Dustin up the stairs.