Hiding From Us

48. erick

Before I knocked on Shain’s door, I did a quick check-up to make sure nothing about me would totally change her attitude. I was dressed in jeans the color of mud; beneath my Canucks hoody was a green polo that I wore often but nobody really noticed. I even had on the skullcap that didn’t make me look sexy. Honestly, if that couldn’t please her, then I didn’t know what could. 

     In my right hand was the bouquet of roses. They were roses for a reason: back when we’d just started dating, I’d asked her what kind of flowers she preferred. 

     ‘‘Um. Roses, I think,’’ she said. ‘’I know that makes me sound really cliché.’’

     ‘’No, it doesn’t,’’ I replied. ‘‘It’s a lovely flower. People choose not to like roses because, as you pointed out, it makes them seem cliché. But you’re choosing to like it, so it doesn’t make you cliché. How come you like it?’’

     (Because I’d been nervous at the whole boyfriend thing, I’d been attempting to act very courteous and gentleman-y, but when it got to certain points like these, Shain usually laughed a little or looked at me funny and said something like ‘‘You’re doing it again,’’ or ‘‘You know, we’re not back in the eighteen-hundreds.’’ I had just been trying to be a good boyfriend.) 

     Shain said, ‘‘Because when I was in fifth grade, I won my second spelling bee, and my parents threw this little party for me at the beginning of summer, and Robin and her family came, and they gave me some roses, and, I dunno, they just became my favourite things for the next weeks.’’ Then she looked at me with a shy smile. ‘‘Are you planning to get me flowers for my birthday or something?’’

     ‘‘Maybe,’’ I answered. I got her a mixed bouquet of flowers on our one-month anniversary (because my expectations of being a boyfriend failed me, and I didn’t have enough money to get the roses) and I got her chocolates and a single rose on her birthday. Even though I felt bad for not getting her a whole bouquet, she kissed me like that one rose was the best thing ever. And then I tossed her in the lake. 

     Originally, I’d been saving the full bouquet of roses for something special. And even though today was supposed to be special, I wasn’t sure if the roses would help.

     Her older brother Damien answered the door. He was a year older than me. 

     ‘‘Erick,’’ he said, and then sighed. ‘‘You’ve got roses. What did she do?’’

     Despite my nervousness, I cracked a smile. ‘‘She didn’t really do anything . . . I kinda messed up, and this is my way of asking for forgiveness?’’ 

     ‘‘Well, it’s courteous, I’ll give you that. She’s in her bedroom. Good luck.’’

     Hesitantly, I padded downstairs and stood outside her door, and then I took a breath, and I knocked softly. ‘‘Shain?’’ I asked. 

     Movement. Then a decrease in the music she was listening to (Thinking Out Loud by Ed Sheeran). And then she said, ‘‘Who is it?’’

     I said, ‘‘It’s me. Can I come in?’’

     ‘‘Sure, Me.’’ 

     I pushed open the door and walked in. I loved Shain’s room. She had stuff tacked on every wall space available, except for this one wall, which was completely bare and very, very green—her green screen (duh) for filming. Every other wall was covered with piano certificates, art projects, film awards, posters of the Hunger Games or Harry Potter. On her desk, there were enough notepads and pens and erasers and pencils to supply a school classroom. Her guitars—sunset acoustic and cobalt electric—rested beside her overflowing bookshelf, which had a mess of toques and scarves cluttered at the top. It was so extremely Shain that someone could almost defy her personality if they stepped in her room before they actually met her.