How to Break a Heart (21 page)

W
hen he comes back into the kitchen, Aunt Nora is giving him this weird smile. “Who was
that
?” she asks.

“No one,” he says, embarrassed to have been overheard.

“Oh, it was definitely
someone
.” She still has this strange smile on her face.

Oh god,
he thinks. He doesn’t need Aunt Nora grilling him. “It was nothing.” He brushes past her, opens the refrigerator, and stares.

“There’s some of that chicken in that Tupperware container. And mashed potatoes,” Aunt Nora says. “Your mom ate half a plateful today.”

“She did?” He looks over at Aunt Nora.

She nods, looking pleased.

“Why don’t you just sit down, okay? I’ll make you up a plate.”

Thad takes a seat. It’s not like he can’t heat it up himself, but sometimes it’s nice to be doted on.

“So,” Aunt Nora says as she puts the chicken on a plate, “how is everything?”

“Oh,” he says. “Okay, I guess.”

“You know you can always talk to me, right? About anything?”

“I
know
,” he says automatically. Since the accident, nearly every adult says that. It’s like he’d be doing them some massive favor or something by spilling his guts. He finds it hard to believe, and even harder to take seriously. What good would it do anyway?

He watches her put the plate into the microwave, pour a glass of milk, and bring it to him at the table.

“About school,” she starts. “We can’t put it off much longer, you know.”

“I know,” he says.

Aunt Nora sighs. The microwave dings. She stirs the food inside and restarts it, leaning on the counter.

Thad feels her looking at him, but he finds a scratch in the surface of the table and traces it with his thumbnail.

“He’d want you to be in school by now,” she says.

His throat starts to tighten, but thankfully, the timer dings again, popping the bubble of tension that always seems to be floating somewhere in the air around him.

She sighs again and takes the plate out, but it’s too hot. She winces, plops the plate down on the counter, and shakes her hand.

“I’ll get it.” He stands up to get the plate while she runs her fingers under cold water, then goes to the table and starts in on the mashed potatoes.

Aunt Nora dries her hand and leans back on the counter. “It won’t always be like this. She’s getting better.” And then she smiles again, but it’s a whole different kind of smile than the one she gave him after his phone call. It’s a better smile. Nicer, somehow.

And then—
Dude,
he thinks,
a better smile?
What’s he doing? Turning into Mabry or something?

“What’s funny?” Aunt Nora asks.

“Oh,” he says, surprised, realizing that he’d just snort-laughed out loud. “Nothing, really.”

She tilts her head, looking so left out.

So he says, “Did you know there are like a hundred and twenty-six kinds of smiles?”

“No, I did
not
know that.” She laughs. It makes him feel that soft, melty feeling toward her again. “Is this what you’re learning in online school?”

“No,” he laughs. “Just from some girl.”

Some girl.
The words that fly out of his mouth feel wrong somehow.
Some girl
doesn’t sound at all like Mabry. But, he reminds himself, that really
is
what she is. Some girl he knew in fourth grade. Some girl who has a stupid, pitiful belief in quote-unquote love.

“Just some girl, huh?” Aunt Nora says.

And he takes another bite of mashed potatoes and says, “Yep.”

Just some ridiculous girl.

yo bailo
tú bailas
ella baila
nosotros bailamos
ellos bailan

T
hat night, I get out of the shower to find that
Nicolás
has called twice in a row!

He must be deeply in love!
Desperate
with love!

The icon on my phone shows two voice mails! I check the first. I can barely hear him, it’s like he’s talking underwater.
GAH!
He could be professing his limitless love—little gems, little gifts of words and thoughts. How frustrating it is that I can’t hear him!

The second message is no better. Maybe something about a “sandwich bag.” Or could I have heard that wrong?

It’s so upsetting. What am I supposed to do? Call him and ask him to repeat everything he said? What if he’s also getting ready for bed—brushing his teeth, maybe? I can just imagine. It won’t be the same. He’ll be like,
I don’t remember, exactly. I was basically talking about how you were the most amazing, gorgeous person in the whole wide world and something about the cockles of my heart, and—Hey, can you hang on for a sec? I gotta spit.

I try calling Sirina once again, and she finally picks up. But before I can really tell her about the voice mails, I have to cut her off.

“HE’S­CAL­LIN­G!!I’LL­CAL­LYOU­BACK!”

It’s
him
! My
Nicolás
! I click over and try to subdue my excitement, for Thad’s sake, if nothing else.

“Hel-
l
ooo
?” I say. I try to make it both womanly and nonchalant.

“Oh, hi, Mabry,” he says. Like a man in love. Humbly, sweetly, and slightly embarrassed at the depth of his poetic emotions, I’m sure.

“Hi,” I greet him again.

He does one of those laughs that isn’t really a laugh. It’s like when you’re supposed to laugh, but all you can do is make that awkward
huh-huh-huh
sound. And then he asks, “So, what, uh, are you up to?”

“Oh, I’m just…” I can’t tell him what I’m really doing, which is listening again and again to his voice mails, trying to decipher the messages, with both purpose and passion. So I think,
What would Mariela be doing?
I picture her dancing. She is wearing a red sleeveless dress. She turns toward the camera, her gaze serious, a rose between her teeth. “Getting ready for salsa,” I say.

And he says, “Oh, I like salsa.”

I knew you were the Man of My Dreams, dear Nicolás.
My
Nicolá
s. It’s a month into the future. We are at the Cotillion. He takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor. The song starts, our feet move, first forward then back, but our eyes stay connected in a passionate gaze—I can feel his love and devotion oozing through his pupils. The other dancers step back, in awe, just taking in the pleasure of our dance—which is more than just a dance, but an expression of our true, undying love.

I let the satisfaction seep into my voice. “So, what are
you
doing?” I ask, making my voice sound warm and succulent, like Mariela’s—like a papaya that’s ripened on the tree.

“Not much. I just wanted to say sorry about those calls. My phone was in my back pocket and those, uh, those were butt dials.” Then a little panting chuckle.

“Oh!” I say. How disappointing is
that
? His butt called me. His
butt
!

“Yeah, sorry.”

I think about saying something like,
So, is that it? It didn’t need anything else, did it?
But I think about Mariela, who would never be engaging some potential suitor about his butt cheeks.

Anyway, none of that matters. He likes salsa dancing! He was made for me! “It’s quite all right,” I say in my new, ripe-fruit voice.

“Hey, Mabry?” His voice cracks a little. For a second he sounds too young. Too adolescent for my fruity richness. But then I blink and the thought goes away. It’s just Thad getting into my head. He’s like a virus.
Thaddeus vulgaris.

“Yes?”

“I wanted to say—well, thanks for interviewing me for that article and everything.”

“Oh. Sure.”

“You’re real—”
Huh-huh-huh
. “I, uh—”

What,
mi querido,
what???

“Yes?”

“Just, nothing,” he says. “Just that you’re a cool girl.”

My heart levitates. It soars. It’s like a hot-air balloon destined for
forever
.

But I hear his mom’s voice in the background—she’s calling his name. “Well, I gotta go,” he says, cooling down my hot, floating joy. “Guess I’ll see you in school tomorrow.”

He guesses.
He guesses?
Oh, he better bet his sweet phone-happy butt cheeks he will. But I just say, “I guess you will,” in my best red-mango tone.

I call Sirina the second I hang up.

“Sorry about that! Turns out they were butt dials,” I tell her.

“Yeah, you kind of freaked there a little bit.”

“Guess what else?” I say.

“What?”

“He called me ‘cool.’ He said I was a ‘cool girl.’”

“Okay, you zoid. But don’t forget you still have a heart to break.”

“Calm down. No one’s forgetting anything. That’s still the plan,” I say, doing my best to sound convincing.

She just makes a skeptical
hmm
sound.

“Anyway,” I continue. “I tried calling you earlier, but it rang like you were on the other line. Who were you talking to?”

“La policía,”
she says casually. “To see what their report says about the window incident.”

“What? You actually did that?”

“I told you I was going to.” She sounds a tiny bit annoyed.

“So what did they say?”

“Pretty much? After calling around for an hour? Nothing. Nada. Squat. They said I have to call back tomorrow.”

“Ugh,” I say.

“Exactly,” she says back.

A few minutes after we hang up, I get her text.
Good night, my three-toed scuba diver.

Good night, my bassoon-lipped heartworm,
I write back.

But I get one more text from her
. Remember what has to happen.

I know!
I write back. But I kind of feel like a kid whose mom has let her have ice cream before dinner based on the promise that she’ll eat liver and onions afterward—every bite of it. But I’m still in the ice-cream phase of this deal, so any thought of liver and onions can wait.

THE VINDICATOR

The Official News Blog of Hubert C. Frost Middle School

Spiritleaders Place Second in Sideshow at County Goat Show

On Wednesday, the Frost Spiritleaders competed in the first “America’s Goat Talent” Sideshow at the Annual County Goat Festival,
but didn’t win.
and came home with a second-place trophy.
They competed against four other middle-school cheerleading teams at the event, as well as a comedy duo from Briggville, and
an old guy
a gentleman
playing
kazoo.
mouth harp.

“We’re all excited,” said Mrs. Cassidy, English teacher and Spiritleader sponsor. “It’s quite an honor.”

The team performed a dance-cheer routine to the song “Let It Go,” from the soundtrack of the movie
Frozen
.
, which probably wasn’t a good choice after all, because Paysley Cornwell did actually let go of Sophia Allen’s foot during a move dubbed “the Spirograph.” She said it was by accident, but there is talk about Sophia stealing Paysley’s boyfriend, Chat Coddington.

The A-List, a cheerleading team from Mary Anning Middle School in Fossilton, carried off the first-prize trophy.
[click for more]

IN OTHER NEWS…

Seventh-Grade Teacher Declares Class “the Smartest Ever”

Teen Life teacher Mr. Ricardo declared his current fourth-period class to be intellectually superior to any class he’s ever taught. “You guys are the smartest ever,” Ricardo boldly stated, after a successful class project involving macaroni and cheese. However, Truce Mayhew, who was a student of Mr. Ricardo just last year, alleges that Ricardo made the very same declaration to them, and an anonymous high-school senior, who had Mr. Ricardo five years ago, stated that
[click for more]