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September 13

Ever since we're born, we're told that good wins and evil perishes. We're told that goodness conquers all, and it's always people who care about everyone that get a happy ending. All Disney princesses are good girls and the princes they have their happy endings are good guys. The bad guys, whether it be Jaffar or the evil witch that poisoned Snow White, lose and end up miserable.

In real life, though, I see the exact opposite.

Sitting in the cafeteria, I see evil on a table across from mine, sitting with friends and laughing. All while goodness lies in a hospital bed with a fractured leg.

Sweet sweet reality.

People call it fate but I call it bullshit. Shane Gray wasn't fated to get injured. He was there covering for Carlos who showed up late and nursing a terrible hangover. Instead of kicking him off the team for being such a negligent party-animal, the coach decided to send Shane in his place. Being the backup quarterback didn't play out in his favor.

I may not know a lot about football but it doesn't take me too long to hear from everyone what happened. The football critics have their complex theories where they analyze each move. They even provide a three-page essay to the college magazine which gets rejected by the publisher. In human language, though, I learn that someone from the other team launched at Shane to grab the ball before he hit touchdown. Although Shane was wearing his shoulder pads and knee pads, his ankle wasn't lucky enough. So when the big guy's shoe landed on Shane's leg and sent him diving on the ground, his wail of pain echoing in the stadium.

Four days -- apart from Saturday and Sunday -- Shane doesn't come to school. Everyone talks about him, telling his team to wish him luck and convey their wishes. Girls have to apply their makeup several times after randomly shedding tears that Shane has gotten hurt. I won't be surprised to hear prayers from the Church.

High school students are hella dramatic.

On Friday, though, he's back in school, his leg in a white cast and plastered so that he limps through the hallway while somehow still remaining in the spotlight. Contrary to everyone's expectations, though, Shane's neither in a wheelchair nor has crutches, leaning his weight as little as he possibly can on his bad ankle which probably hurts like a bitch.

I can't help but wonder, am I the only one who notices?

His cheeks redden with each step he takes, an unnoticeable wince flashing across his face. His smile never falters, though, barely reaching his eyes, but always there. Even when I'm sure he wants to curse people out of his way, he smiles and nods, thanking them for their wishes.

As for me, I sit in my seat and watch him limp into the cafeteria surrounded by a bunch of admirers, wondering why he doesn't have his crutches with him. He chuckles at their jokes, nods when he needs to, smiles nonstop, and answers their questions about the game. Hoisting his plastered leg on an empty chair, he sits there for an hour as people came and go. His friends take their classes and admirers sign his cast with multicolored pens. It's exhausting to watch and I don't know why I'm the one getting tired. He's probably enjoying the attention.

"Why didn't he stay home?" Marla asks at last, and I look at her to realize she's also watching Shane like I am.

I shrug. "Maybe he didn't want to miss his classes," Riley guesses.

"Maybe he's not used to being without his friends," Racheal suggests.

"Maybe he's not hurt that bad," Marla answers her own question.

"Or maybe he is but he doesn't want people to know."

My friends look at me and I sigh, hating how they always link everything to whatever they think is going on in my head. It's not always about Carter and I hate when people start thinking it is. I'm not only the sister of the boy who killed himself. I'm also Taylor.

I'm me.

I get to my feet and nudge Marla up for class. She silently follows me and we sit through World History and Geometry before heading towards the football stadium for the game. It's strange how last week's game ended and yet, we're all here for another. It's shallow, I think, their concern for Shane. A few days later, they'll all forget. Everyone's forgotten, leaving behind only a label. Just another injury on the field. Another casualty. Another death. Another suicide.

The game begins exactly as it had last time. This time, though, I can't focus on the music playing in my earbuds or the game I'm stuck at. The halftime bell sounds and I excuse myself, making my way down between the seats. Trying not to step in the spilled soda or fallen popcorn as I make my way back to the school building. It's quiet when I enter, a sharp contrast to the noise outside. Exhaling a contented sigh, I make my way deeper into the building, heading -- without knowing it -- to the library.

I push the door open, entering the dimly lit and perfectly peaceful heaven and heading towards my usual spot. The librarian looks up when she hears the door close, then smiles when she recognizes me. I nod towards her and return her smile, placing my bag on the rack. Walking towards the fiction section, I'm hoping to find a good book. What I don't expect to find, though, is a guy sitting on the floor blocking my back.

Now, if I wasn't looking down, I'd either break my own leg or his. Because Shane Gray seems to be completely at ease between the two shelves of books, slouching over a battered book lying on his lap.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I ask, my voice a whisper. It's not because I'm afraid Mrs. Malhotra will kill me or anything but rather because I don't want to disturb the sanctity of the library. Libraries are sacred. You don't make noise there or make a mess either.

Shane straightens up. His wide eyes lift to my face and he blinks a couple of times. Finally, he smiles.

"Hey, I, um, reading?" He holds up his copy of The Fault In Our Stars and I roll my eyes. "Sorry if I'm blocking your way. The chairs aren't really disability-friendly so I prefer the floor for now. You can jump over me, I don't mind. Just don't step on my unbroken ankle."

I'm not sure whether to smack him for his nonchalant attitude towards his injury or laugh along with him. So, I end up smiling and squatting down next to him, folding my legs under me.

"I wasn't expecting to find you here," I tell him honestly.

"Well, I wasn't expecting to be found." Shane chuckles. "I was just looking for some peace and quiet so ..." He waves a hand around at the books that are as peaceful and quiet as can be.

"You could have stayed home if you didn't want so many people swarming you," I point out, my eyes on his cast.

He hums, causing me to look at his face again.

"You're missing the game," he says, not responding to my statement.

"So are you, which is more surprising considering you're on the team," I whisper.

Shane smiles. "It's better than sitting behind the bleachers and cursing my luck as I can't play," he whispers back. "Won't your friends worry you're gone?"

I shrug. "If you want me gone, you can just tell me."

"No, that's not what I --"

"They know I've probably snuck away," I say before he can start apologizing like I know he will. "I don't like football."

Shane snorts -- which is surprisingly more cute than weird -- and raises his eyebrows.

"You know you shouldn't be saying that in front of a quarterback," he points out.

"Why? Will you judge me?" 

"I'm not a judgmental person."

"Yeah," I breathe. "I've noticed."

A slight frown appears on his face. "Are you being sarcastic? I'm sorry, I'm not very fluent in sarcasm if you're trying to be --"

I laugh, shaking my head at how serious Shane suddenly is. He smiles, his face glowing as he watches me laugh before he joins in, color rising in his cheeks.

"I feel like you're laughing at me," he says in between.

"I'm not." I cough, trying not to sound too out of breath.

Even after several attempts, though, I can't wipe my smile off my face. Shane's wide grin -- dimples and blush and all -- isn't making things any easier.

It's odd, to be honest, I don't remember the last time I laughed like this or the last time I was this relaxed. The thought of my robotic parents, my dead brother, and whatever underlying health condition is taking a toll on me, it all slips away. Sitting with Shane, on the dirty, brown carpet between the shelves of books, I'm like the Taylor I was a year ago. The Taylor who hadn't lost her brother or her parents. I'd say the Taylor who hadn't lost herself, but I haven't lost myself yet. I'm losing myself and trying not to.

Still smiling, I lower my gaze to Shane's cast to distract myself from such gloomy thoughts. My eyes pass over the dozens of messages and notes, hearts and flowers.

"You know there are more phone numbers on here than 'get well soon' wishes?" I ask Shane.

He chuckles.

"Someone even left you her apartment address." I point my forefinger at it.

He laughs harder, shaking his head. "Would you like to write something?"

I shake my head. "I'm not giving you my address, I live with my parents."

He shoves me playfully which is such an unexpected and affectionate gesture that I don't see it coming. My mouth drops open and I turn to shove him back but he holds out a pen toward me, a smile playing along his lips.

"Do I have to?" I ask, eyeing his pen like it's a knife.

"Yes." Shane is firm. "Or I'll kick all the books off this shelf and blame it on the person with two good legs."

I gasp, feigning disbelief. "What's this? The perfect Shane Gray is blackmailing me?"

Shane blinks but doesn't answer. Huffing out a breath, I take the pen from him and look for some free space on his cast.

"What do you want me to write, Mr. Blackmailer?" I ask.

He shrugs, leaning back and watching me.

I stare at the spot as if something will come to me in a revelation. In all honesty, I don't want to leave any random message. I want to leave him something that matters. That's what he wants too, maybe. Why else would he be so insistent I write something for him?

So, that's what I do, I leave him something that matters. In the end, I get to my feet and hand him his pen back. He leans forward as much as he can, trying to read what I've written. As his smile widens, I turn around and begin walking away, smiling too, at what I've written.

'Don't just see the blacks and whites. Some grays are worth much more. - Tay.'

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A/N: I can't believe how fast I'm writing this story. Mostly because I love it already. Don't judge me, guys. I'll slow down from now on so you'll have weekly updates again. I hope you're liking the story, though. (Don't break my poor heart like I broke Shane's leg).