A Matter of Heart (15 page)

W
hen the final bell rings for third period, I'm ready and waiting for the interview, my stuff still inside my pack, my hair brushed and my lip gloss reapplied after seeing Connor during the passing period.

The lip-lock with Connor was more of a lip-skid. I went in for the kiss and he jerked away. He said Mrs. Kennedy, the VP, was right behind me, but then it wasn't really her at all. I ended up smearing his cheek with deep berry gloss and then trying to wipe it off. Not exactly smooth. I'm losing my touch on dry land too.

Now I'm waiting, and Mr. Ruelas glances at my empty desktop and the pack I haven't unzipped. He looks away as if he's embarrassed, and I suddenly understand. Heat floods my face. There's no student runner coming to get me. No pass excusing
me from world history. No Maryann Engels waiting to ask me about my life as a swimmer. Just Mr. Ruelas and another quiz. I unzip my pack, but it takes another thirty minutes before I stop looking at the door every time a chair squeaks.

The truth is lodged liked a rock in my gut. Someone else is getting interviewed today.
Thank you, Coach
. Yeah, he's worried, but not about me. It's all about the program. It would be bad publicity for a swimmer to faint in the pool—can't risk that.

The quiz stares up at me from my desk, but I can barely see. My eyes are swimming. I nearly laugh at the thought. They're the only part of me that is.

As soon as I see Jen, I know exactly who Coach picked to replace me. She's waiting for me in the parking lot after school, leaning against her car and looking miserable.

“I have to tell you something,” she says as I walk up.

“You got called down to do the interview.”

Her eyes flare. “You know?”

“It was either that or your cat died. And you don't have a cat.”

She smiles sadly. “I'm sorry, Ab. It sucks so completely. This whole thing. I didn't know what to do.”

“Did you say no?” Then, before she can answer, before she can do more than stiffen and stare openmouthed, I shake my head. “Forget that. Forget I ever said that, because I didn't mean it. Of course you said yes. I would have said yes too. It's a really cool thing.”

“Yeah,” she says, hurt in her eyes. “For me, it is.”

Okay, so that's a slap and I deserve it. This is my best friend—if Coach pulled me, at least I should be happy that he chose her. But I'm not happy, and I don't know if I can be.

“Jen…,” I say, an apology in my voice. I hug her close, loving her as much as I hate myself. “You're amazing and you deserve this. You do! I should be happy for you and instead I'm feeling sad for myself.” I close my eyes against her hair. “Maybe I am heartless.”

“No,” she whispers, and hugs me back. “But you might be human.”

When we break apart, there's a wry smile on her face. “I was terrible, if it's any consolation.”

“I doubt that.”

We get in the car and pull on our seat belts. “I couldn't figure out where to look—the camera or the reporter.” Jen backs out of the parking space, shaking her head at herself. “And what was I supposed to do with my hands? I kept waving them around. I'm going to look like a giant spaz on TV.”

“No, you're not.”

She pulls out of the school lot and into traffic. “It was weird being there with Alec,” she adds. “He was so charming, I almost forgot.”

I straighten the seat belt across my chest, hiding the hitch in my breath. “Forgot what?”

“That he's a dick.”

Jen turns into the parking lot of the strip mall, and I nod. I'm having the same problem.

I
t's not a church, but Jen and I stand there a minute as if in worship. And in fact, the Savers Superstore is something to behold. Together we look out into the huge expanse of wantables. “Think how amazing it would be if the store were filled with water,” Jen says.

“A super-sized pool?”

“And we'd get to all the sale stuff first because we swim faster.”

“But what about the popcorn? Soggy popcorn.”

Jen nods seriously as we turn toward the snack bar and suck down the scent of rich, buttery popcorn.

“Smells good,” Jen says.

“Mmm,” I agree. “And so does the scent of a bargain.” I point to the aisles just off to our right. There's a little section of things for a dollar, and we used to spend hours there while one of our parents shopped. I always ended up with some wind-up thing
that broke in ten minutes while Jen carefully picked out something practical, like a pair of sunglasses guaranteed to protect her corneas from UV rays.

She sees me eyeing the dollar bins and grabs my arm. “Do not get distracted.”

“They might have squirt guns,” I say hopefully.

“We're not after squirt guns.” She narrows her eyes into an evil stare. I'm not sure if she's wearing black today in honor of our Halloween shopping, but she looks tough in a fitted black tee, black jeans, and her high-tops. “Serial killers need machine guns.”

“Can we get the kind with sawed-off barrels?” I ask.

“You are such a novice.” She steers me past the jewelry racks and into the kid's clothing section. “No one saws off machine-gun barrels. Do you not know anything about murder history?”

A woman browsing a rack of SpongeBob pajamas gasps and looks up at us.

“Sorry,” Jen says.

“Teenagers,” the woman mutters.

We take a sharp right out of Kids and into Household Essentials—as if it's safer to have this conversation in the bleach aisle.

“You obviously haven't been paying attention during our Saturday movie nights,” Jen says.

“If you're talking about that rental you brought over a month ago, then yeah. I fell asleep during the opening credits.”

There's a hitch in her step as she looks at me. “How could you sleep? That was high art,” she says, affronted.

“It was about a guy with a gun embedded in his chest who shot people through his button-down shirts.”

“Exactly,” she says. “It's a metaphor for how the heartlessness of commerce is killing the soul.”

We've reached the toy section, which is good, because I take the opportunity to stop, bend over, and fake hurl.

“Make fun,” Jen says, looking down her nose. “But that insightful gem got me extra credit from Mrs. Wattley.”

“Seriously?” I say. “She never gives me extra credit.”

“Because you never
do
extra credit.” She points to my right. “That aisle.”

I lead the way into two rows of play guns. Jen is studying a machete when my phone vibrates. I pull it from my back pocket and check the display. “Finally,” I say.

“What?” She bends down to study a row of dart guns.

“Connor. We had a weird encounter after second period and then I didn't see him again.”

“You never see him again. He's got second lunch and then a release. Weird how?”

“I tried to kiss him and he pulled away.”

She shrugs as if I'm overreacting. “Maybe he had to get to class.”

“Connor would rather kiss than get to class. At least,” I add with a glare, “he would have before you fed him that crap.” I text an invite to meet up tonight.

She looks at me over her shoulder. “You mean the truth?”

“You know what I mean. You were trying to freak him out.”

“Maybe he should be freaked out. Someone's got to get through to you.” She stands up, holding a giant red gun, and wiggles it in question.

I shrug, but I'm distracted at the beep of my phone and Connor's reply. “He can't get together tonight. Math test.”

She switches the red gun for a rifle and pretends to aim at a display of G.I. Joe figures. “You have a math test tomorrow too, don't you?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “But I can study in the morning. I just want to know we're okay.”

Jen hangs the rifle up. “Why wouldn't you be? You think Connor is going to ditch you because you have HCM?”

“
Might
have HCM. And…no.” But Connor doesn't like complications. I lick my lips. “Jen, do you think Connor's recovery in September was a little too fast?”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Because of what Alec said?”

“He has a point.”

“You actually think Connor would cheat?”

My stomach twists around the question. The thought of it is so awful. How can I go there? “No,” I say. “Never mind. You're right.”

I distract myself by looking at more guns and pulling my thoughts back to this shopping trip and the upcoming party and anything else positive. Which reminds me.

“I found some good news online,” I say, tapping Jen's shoulder. “A blog by a conditioning coach. He said a swimmer can miss up to a month before losing their conditioning.”

“A month?” Jen reaches up high for a gun that could double as a cannon. “You mind showing that to Coach? I'd like a day off once in a while.”

“It's not exactly part of a training program, but the point is a week out of the pool isn't going to kill my chances. In fact, Dad says it's better to be one percent undertrained than ten percent overtrained.”

“As if we need you any faster than you already are.” She holds up the cannon. “What about this one?”

“Looks like a pool toy.”

She sets it back on the shelf and turns to a display of laser-sighted, double-barreled guns.

“I have a new plan,” I tell her. “I'm going to visualize positivity and have a great time on Saturday night.”

“Is
positivity
a word?”

“As a matter of fact,” I say, “it is. I looked it up. And we are
positivity
going to look amazing in our sexy serial-killer vests.”

She puts a shotgun in my hand. “What about this?”

“Nice in a lethal sort of way.” Then I add, “Seriously, Jen. I've seen you in that push-up bra. You're going to knock the guys dead with your cleavage.”

“Only if I hit them with it.”

“Ha,” I say. “You know there are guys who are interested, if you'd only—”

She cuts me off. “Do we need another lesson in frontal lobe science?”

“You can have a boyfriend without having sex.”

“I don't want a boyfriend.”

“There isn't anyone?”

Is that a teeny, tiny blush on her cheeks? “Jennifer Stein. Are you in like with someone?”

“No!”

“You are. You're blushing.”

“I never blush.”

“Who is he?”

Her eyebrows snap down. “There's no one.”

“If there was, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?”

“Why wouldn't I?” But she's not meeting my eye as she grips a shotgun and spins away. “Let's see what they have for cheap heels.”