The Inmate (8)

But Shane can’t afford a new car. Or even a used car. Even though he works every weekend at the pizza parlor, the only car he can afford is one that he bought from the junkyard.

And now you know why my parents will never approve of him. Because according to them, much like his car, Shane is “trash.”

Shane rolls down the passenger side window of the car. “See you tonight, Brooke! Seven-thirty!”

“Seven-thirty,” I repeat obediently.

After that confirmation, Shane’s car zooms away, making a lot more noise than a car rightfully should because his muffler is also from the junkyard. I watch the Chevy disappear around the corner because I’m just that kind of infatuated with him. The kind where I have to watch him disappear into the distance. It’s sickening, I know.

“So what are you doing at seven-thirty, Brooke?”

I come toppling down from my cloud of love (I mean, lope) at the sound of the voice from behind me. I didn’t notice that Shane had parked dangerously close to the Reese household, which he’s usually careful not to do. Tim Reese is standing on the front lawn, raking up the last of the leaves from the fall.

Tim. Damn.

“Nothing,” I say.

Tim arches an eyebrow at me as I look up at him. I am still not used to looking up at Tim. I’ve known him since we were both in diapers, when he went by Timmy and had a face full of freckles, like a freckle bomb had exploded in his face. He was always a couple of inches shorter than me, then he suddenly shot up about a year ago. I still can’t quite get used to it.

“Are you meeting Shane at seven-thirty?” Tim presses me.

I avert my eyes. Chelsea might be my best friend, but Tim knows me better than anybody in the world. “Maybe…”

Tim’s blue eyes darken. “I can’t believe you’re still dating that jerk.”

My parents hate Shane, but Tim hates him even more. He hates him with a strange passion that I don’t entirely understand. Tim isn’t the kind of guy who would judge somebody because they drive a third-hand car and live in an old farmhouse that’s one loose shingle away from being condemned. There are other reasons he hates Shane.

“Tim,” I mutter, “stop it.”

He rubs his chin. The freckles have mostly faded in the last few years, partially because he’s careful to stay out of the sun. But I miss Tim’s freckles. The freckles were adorable. Without them and now half a head taller than I am, he’s become handsome, but he’s not adorable anymore. Moreover, he seems like a different person. A different kid from the one I spent the summers with, running screaming through the sprinklers in his backyard.

“Shane’s a jerk,” he declares.

“Oh, come on…”

“He is,” Tim snaps. “Him and all his football buddies are a bunch of bullies. I can’t believe you don’t see it, Brooke.”

I shift between my feet in Tim’s yard, which is muddy from the moisture in the air. The air is heavy and damp, and I can feel my hair starting to curl. The forecast called for heavy rain and thunderstorms tonight, and Chelsea and I are intending to reach the farmhouse before it begins. So I should get a move on, but I hate the judgment on Tim’s face, and I’m desperate to prove him wrong. He doesn’t know Shane the way I do. I used to think Shane was a jerk, but he’s not. He’s a good guy, and I really like him. I lope him. Tim just can’t see it. I wish he could.

“If you got to know Shane,” I say, “I bet you’d like him.”

Tim snorts and shakes his head.

“Listen,” I say, “you should come tonight.”

He narrows his eyes. “Come where?”

The words spill out before I can overthink them. “We’re meeting at Shane’s house tonight. His mom is going to be out of town. It’s going to be me and Shane and Chelsea and Brandon.” I raise an eyebrow hopefully. “And you?”

“Sorry, I’m going to pass.”

“Come on, it’ll be fun! Just tell your parents you went to Jordan’s house—they’ll never check. We’re all going to spend the night.”

Tim tilts his head to the side, considering it. He used to make that same expression when we were little kids. It used to be so easy back then. I would go over to Tim’s house and there was no discussion about boyfriends or bullies or any of that. I would come over and we would play. And back then, I felt like it would always be that way. It felt like Tim and I would always be friends that way.

Tim was the one who bought me the snowflake necklace I always wear. He got it for me for my tenth birthday, because one of our favorite things to do together was play in the snow—sledding, building snowmen, having snowball fights—whenever it snowed, the first thing I would do was tug on my boots and snowsuit and head over to Tim’s house. The necklace was the first genuine piece of jewelry anyone had ever gotten for me. Considering I’ve had it on every day since then and it hasn’t turned my neck green, I suspect he must have spent a fortune on it. He was probably saving all year to buy it for me.

“Fine,” he says. “Why not?”

Vaguely, I’m aware of the fact that Tim never, ever says no to me. But I try not to think about it. There are certain aspects of my relationship with the boy next door that it’s better not to analyze too deeply.