Chapter 8: She Cares

Silas left before sunrise.

Shelley stood at her bedroom window in her flannel nightgown, pressing her forehead against the cold glass. She watched the Chevy's taillights get smaller and smaller until they were just tiny red dots, then disappeared into the gray morning. The pen lay on her pillow—heavy, solid, and completely useless against the sudden emptiness in her chest.

Vera came up from behind and draped a blanket over her shoulders. "Don't stare until your eyes hurt. He'll be back in two weeks. Your dad's too tough to die."

"I know." Shelley's voice came out quieter than she meant it to. "I'm going to brush my teeth."

Downstairs, Shayne was already sitting at the table. Black turtleneck, messy hair, a cup of steaming black coffee in front of him. He was six years old and drank coffee like a middle-aged office worker. Vera had yelled at him about it three times already. He kept drinking it anyway.

"Morning, Brother."

He made a soft grunt—acknowledging her—and pushed a slice of toasted whole wheat bread onto her plate. "Eat up. Old Joe's driving us today."

The iron gates of Iliad stood there same as always, but something inside had changed.

Shelley felt it the second she walked into the prep classroom. The whispers didn't stop when she came in—they just shifted direction, like water flowing around a rock.

Emily caught her at the coat rack. "Shelley. My mom said something last night."

Shelley unwound her scarf, her stomach tightening. "What?"

"She said I should stay away from your brother." Emily wrinkled her nose, her blue eyes looking genuinely confused. "She said his eyes look creepy. And yesterday, Richard's mom told my mom that a kid who looks at people like that must come from a messed-up family."

Behind them, a red-haired girl leaned in, whispering frantically: "I accidentally bumped his backpack at lunch yesterday. The way he looked at me—it was like—like—" She shivered. "I had nightmares about it."

Shelley kept her hands busy, carefully buttoning up her coat. "Shayne just doesn't talk much. That doesn't make him a bad person."

"But my mom said—"

"Moms can be wrong." The words came out harsher than Shelley meant them to. Emily blinked. "Sorry. It's just... he's my brother."

But she knew. She'd watched all week as more and more seats around Shayne's lunch table stayed empty, as teachers stopped calling on him, as the other kids started keeping their distance like he was something dangerous. Shayne didn't seem to care. He just read his chemistry books and ignored everyone.

But Shelley cared. She cared so much it felt like something sharp and hard had gotten stuck in her throat, like a piece of that clock tower had followed her into this life.

During second period arts and crafts, Miss Marian came over to Shelley.

"Sweetie, could you come out to the lounge with me for a minute?"

The small visitor room had Persian rugs and little armchairs. Miss Marian poured a glass of warm milk and crouched down until they were at eye level.

"Shelley, I wanted to talk to you about something."

Shelley held the milk with both hands. "Is it about Shayne?"

Miss Marian's smile flickered for just a second. "Yes. Your brother is very smart, isn't he? But he doesn't seem to like playing with the other kids."

"No. He doesn't."

"Several parents have talked to the principal. Starting Monday, we're going to make a small change. You'll move to sit next to Emily—you two get along so well. Shayne will move to the window seat in the back row. It's quieter there. He can read without anyone bothering him."

Shelley's fingers tightened around the glass.

She heard what Miss Marian was saying. She also heard what she really meant. Your brother is a problem. We're isolating him. And since you two are a package deal, we're splitting up the package.

"Miss Marian, did the other parents ask for this?"

The teacher blinked. She clearly hadn't expected a five-year-old to see right through it. "Some parents... expressed concerns."

"So their kids matter more than my brother?"

"Oh, no, sweetie. Every child matters the same. Shayne just seems more comfortable on his own. We thought—"

"Can I tell him?" Shelley cut in. "Before Monday. Can I be the one to tell him?"

Miss Marian's face relaxed with relief. "Of course you can, dear."

In the car that afternoon, Shayne had his book open on his lap. The city rolled past the window in gray and gold blocks of late-afternoon light.

"Brother."

"Mm."

"Miss Marian talked to me today. About the seating." Shelley twisted the pen in her hands. "Starting Monday, they're moving me next to Emily. You're moving to the back row by the window."

Shayne's eyes stayed on his book. "Makes sense. The back has about forty percent less noise. And you get along better with Emily than most kids anyway."

"Shayne."

He turned the page.

"You think I want to move away from you." It wasn't a question.

He was quiet for three long seconds. Then: "It makes sense. I'm not... I'm not what people want around their kids. Even you."

"That's not true—"

"It's fine." He looked out the window. His voice was like thin glass, perfectly flat, ready to break. "Everyone thinks that. You're no different. I don't need you to be different."

He didn't say another word to her for the rest of the ride.

At home, Shayne went straight upstairs. His door closed with a soft click that felt louder than a slam.

He didn't come down for dinner.

The next morning, Shelley knocked on his door.

"Brother. Breakfast."

Silence.

"Mom made spinach frittata."

"Not hungry."

At school, he walked three steps ahead of her into the building. At lunch, Shelley put her last piece of bacon on his whole wheat plate. He stabbed it with his fork, moved it to the edge of his tray, and ate everything else without even looking at it.

During rest time, she climbed onto the couch next to him with her blanket.

Shayne closed his book, stood up, and moved to the farthest couch by the emergency exit. He opened his book again, his back like a wall.

In French practice, she smiled at him across the paired desks. He pushed the opposite chair under the table and worked by himself.

In the car ride home, he pressed himself against the door on the driver's side, a whole seat between them.

By day three, Shelley stopped trying.

She sat at the breakfast table in silence, chewing her toast without tasting it. She didn't offer him bacon. She didn't try to sit near him during rest time. She walked to the classroom alone, her little boots clicking against the tile with a hollow sound, a cold wind blowing through her chest, whistling through the empty spaces where warmth used to be.

Fine. If he wanted to believe she was just like everyone else, she couldn't stop him. She'd been alone before. She'd been alone her whole first life. Being alone again wasn't even a surprise. It was just... going back to how things were.

That night, Vera knocked on her door.

"Sweetie."

Shelley was lying on her stomach, staring at the ceramic base of her swan lamp. She didn't look up. "Hi, Mom."

The mattress dipped. Vera sat down beside her in a cashmere sweater with the sleeves rolled up, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. She didn't ask before pulling Shelley into her arms.

"Tell me about your brother."

Shelley pressed her face into Vera's neck. "He won't talk to me."

"The seating thing?"

"I told him what Miss Marian said. He thinks I wanted to move away from him."

"Did the teacher tell you not to tell him?"

"She didn't say I couldn't."

"So you chose to be honest." Vera rested her chin on top of Shelley's bun. Shelley felt the vibration of her voice through her skull. "That was the right choice, baby. I'll handle the rest."

Vera didn't knock on Shayne's door.

She just opened it and walked in.

Shayne sat cross-legged on his carpet, three chemistry books spread around him like walls. He didn't look up. "Go away."

"Say that to my face, little boy." Vera closed the door behind her and sat down across from him, folding her legs with the easy grace of someone who could kill you six different ways from this position.

Shayne's jaw tightened. He kept his eyes on the page.

"Three days," Vera said. "How's the silent treatment going?"

"It's not a silent treatment."

"No?"

"She wants space. I'm giving it to her." His voice was clinical, detached, the voice of a kid who'd decided feelings were a design flaw. "Makes sense. No wasted energy on either side."

"Shayne. Look at me."

He raised his eyes.

Vera's expression had changed. Not angry. Something more complicated. Something that looked almost like sadness mixed with understanding.

"Do you remember what I told you when you were five? Maybe six?"

Shayne said nothing.

"I told you that being different wasn't a flaw. It was a gift. But gifts have downsides. They make you think you can figure everything out. That you can calculate everything." She reached out and touched the page of his book, her finger resting between two molecular diagrams. "Some things can't be calculated."

"She had a choice," Shayne said, and his voice cracked, just barely, on the edge of the word. "She could've lied. Told me the teacher randomly assigned seats. Everyone lies. It's normal."

"She could have." Vera's hand moved from the book to his hair, brushing back the platinum strands that had fallen into his eyes. "She had a hundred ways to protect your feelings. She chose the truth. Why do you think that is?"

Shayne's throat moved.

"Because she wasn't managing you," Vera said quietly. "She wasn't handling you. She was treating you like family. Like someone who deserved the truth even when it hurt. Someone she trusted to understand."

Shayne's ears turned red. Not the bright flush of embarrassment—something deeper, something that spread to his hairline.

"She's not a chemistry problem," Vera continued. "She won't fix herself if you leave her alone. She won't solve herself. You want her back? You have to open your mouth and use your words like a normal person."

Shayne stared at the carpet.

"Also," Vera added, a smile creeping into her voice, "you've been sulking for three days while she sat at lunch not eating her bacon. I know you noticed. I know it made you miserable. Don't pretend it didn't."

"...How do you know that?"

"I'm your mother." Vera stood up, brushing off her pants. "I know everything. Dinner's in an hour. Pan-seared cod. Your unsalted steamed portion is already in the pot."

The door clicked shut.

Shayne sat still for ten seconds. Then he pulled his knees to his chest and pressed his face into his sweater.

Shelley lay on the living room carpet, wrestling with her Rubik's cube.

She'd sworn she wouldn't ask Shayne for help. She'd been working on it for forty minutes and had managed two and a half sides. Her fingers were stiff. Her eyes burned.

Behind her, footsteps. Very light. Very careful.

She didn't turn around.

Shayne sat down across from her, cross-legged, and took the cube from her hands.

"Give it back," she said. "I'm doing it myself—"

"Shh."

Click-click-click. Twelve seconds.

He pressed the solved cube back into her palm without meeting her eyes. His hair fell forward, hiding his face.

"...I don't want to move to the back row," he said. The words came out stiff and compressed, like they'd been squeezed through a narrow opening. "I'll tell Miss Marian myself. I'm sitting next to you. If anyone has a problem with it, they can talk to me directly."

Shelley looked at the cube. Then at him.

"Okay," she whispered.

"And." He swallowed. "I'm sorry. For the past three days. My... my behavior was wrong. I misunderstood what you meant. I should have asked instead of assuming the worst."

Shelley's nose stung. She threw herself forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, her bun awkwardly mashing against his chin.

Shayne went stiff. His hands hovered in the air on either side of her back, uncertain, lost. Then, one at a time, they settled against her shoulder blades. He patted her back in slow, careful strokes, like he was learning how human contact worked from scratch.

"Your... your hair's in my mouth," he mumbled.

"I don't care."

"This is really uncomfortable."

"I don't care."

"...Okay." His arms tightened, just a little. "Okay."

At the top of the stairs, Vera stood with a tray of fresh cinnamon rolls, watching. She didn't interrupt. She didn't need to.

The peace held.

Over the next two days, Shayne solved her cube every morning before breakfast. He still didn't talk much, but he walked beside her instead of ahead of her. At lunch, he took a piece of her bacon and ate it without saying anything. Shelley counted this as a victory equal to the fall of Rome.

Wednesday evening, Vera called Shelley into the foyer.

"Sweetie. Put your coat on. We're going for a drive."

"Where?"

"To pick up your third brother."

Shayne appeared at the top of the stairs, his face darkening. "Mom. Send Old Joe."

"Old Joe's missing half an ear because your brother shot him with an air rifle last week." Vera's smile was pure motherly warmth. "Nobody else is willing to go within three hundred feet of that property. That leaves me."

Shayne was silent for two seconds. Then he turned and went back to his room.

When he came back down, he'd added a trench coat over his turtleneck. His hands were buried in his pockets.

"I'm coming too."

"Absolutely not. You're staying with your sister."

"Mom. He's being forced to move. You know what he's like in tight spaces."

Shelley stepped between them, clutching her stuffed rabbit. "Mom. I want to go too."

"No." Both of them, at the same time.

"Why not?" She tilted her head back, meeting their eyes with steady determination. "I have to meet him eventually. Better in the car with you than alone at home when he walks through the door."

Vera studied her for two long seconds. Then a slow smile spread across her face. "...Good point. Car. Now."