How to Break a Heart (23 page)

I’m almost late for first period, so I don’t get to see Sirina until lunch. I tell her the minute I see her. Well, actually, Amelia blurts it out the second Sirina sits down at the table with us. I guess I had trouble keeping my mouth shut while we waited for Sirina to buy her precious Chipwich.

“When is this supposed to happen?” Sirina asks all too calmly, her mouth full of ice cream.

“Saturday.”

“Oh my darling Clementine,”
Amelia says to me. “I think he’s looking over here right now.”

“Don’t look!” Jordan says.

So I do my best not to, even though it feels like there’s a magnet pulling my head in his direction. “Is he still looking?”

“No, but Axyl’s looking at Jordan!” Amelia says.

Jordan goes rigid with excitement and squeals. “Really?”

“Act natural!” Amelia says. “Okay, he stopped.”

Sirina turns back to me. “So I called the police again. About the official report?”

“You did?” I say.

“Of course. And guess what I found out?”

“What?”

“There
is
no police report.”

“Huh? How is that possible?”

“Yeah,” she says. “According to the police, there is no broken window. There is no crime.” She narrows her eyes and shakes her head. “I know he’s up to something.”

“Nick?” I ask.

“No, dummy,” she says. She looks at me like I’ve lost it. “Just FYI, Nick isn’t the center of the universe. I meant Officer Dirk.
He’s
up to something.”

“Oh, right,” I say. “Yeah, sounds like it.”

Jordan starts calling our names. “Mabry! Sirina! Okay, so what if we don’t get dates for the Cotillion?”

“We’re getting dates! Come on!” Amelia argues.

“Well, I’m just saying, if we don’t, why don’t the four of us just go as a group?” Jordan suggests.

“Mabry will have a date,” Sirina says. She doesn’t sound too pleased about it, though. “Nick’ll ask her.”

My heart flutters, but I try to stay cool. “You think so?”

May I have this dance, he’ll ask me, holding his left hand out. And I will curtsy—

“Probably. And then you’ll have your chance to break his—”

“I
know
!” I say, slightly irritated. She can be such a buzzkill sometimes. “I mean,
shhh
. Let’s just see if he actually asks me, okay?”

“Fine,” she says, sounding irritated, too.

That night, I lie awake thinking about Sirina. I’ve been feeling bad about things since lunch. I know how frustrated she is, and I don’t blame her. It seems like we’re getting nowhere with anything on the window incident.

Sorry about earlier,
I text her.

I’m sorry, too.

I was a snit.

I was a snot.

Jajaja,
I write back. Which is Spanish for
hahaha
.

Good night, my purple-hearted castle raptor,
she writes back.

Good night, my levelheaded cuttlefish.

It’s good to know that even when it’s not a great day, there’s always a good night.

yo comparto
tú compartes
ella comparte
nosotros compartimos
ellos comparten

I
t’s Saturday afternoon.

Nicolás
is at my door.
Be still, my acrobatic heart.

Nicolás
is at my door with a picnic basket and a blanket.
Dreams really do come true.

Nicolás
is at my door and my mom calls to me from the kitchen, “Mabry, did Hunter already poop?”

And so do nightmares.

This is one of the ways I know the woman has never
truly
been in love.

“Mother!”
I yell. “I have company!”

“Oh, sorry,” she says, coming out of the kitchen. “Oh, hi, Nick.”

“Hi, Ms. Collins.”

“Mabry”—my mom looks right at my mouth—“is that my lipstick?”

“We better go,” I announce.

“You’re kind of dressed up for a picnic,” she continues, looking my red sleeveless turtleneck and black skirt up and down. And maybe I am, but this is not just a picnic, this is a Junior Cotillion proposal. It just
has
to be. Her eyes land on my feet. I’m wearing a pair of strappy sequined heels that I found on the clearance rack at Forever 21. “You’re wearing those?”

“Mother,”
I say in a seething whisper.

“Why don’t I drop you off at the park?”

“It’s. Not. Far,” I tell her, very quietly. “And. It’s. A. Very. Nice. Day.” I look at her with wide, pleading eyes, and a vise-tight smile.

She finally stops badgering us and we start on our walk. Well, for the first ten steps or so, I am walking. I am tall, elegant—the right girl for the shoes. Then it moves into teetering. For the next twenty steps, I feel like the force of gravity has changed. I am off-center, unbalanced, a little shaky. Then our walk becomes a wobble, where I am tossed from side to side, grasping for street signs, lampposts, stray shoulders.

Nick grabs my wrist—skin-to-skin contact!—to steady me. We stand there, gazing into each other’s eyes, while my heels sink slowly into the soft ground. My shoes are stuck, and I don’t even care. But then Stephen drives by and waves at us on his way to our house, which pretty much ruins the mood.

And then several things continue to do the same. I have to take off my shoes completely, just to stay ambulatory. And when we get to the park, we discover it’s filled with screaming children. We find an open picnic table, but it happens to be right next to an arguing family—“You were supposed to bring the cheese!” “I
did
!” “NOT THAT KIND OF CHEESE!” “Mom, I want to go home!” “You smell awful! WHAT DID YOU STEP IN?”—so we have to move. And when we’re moving, a little dog runs up to Nick and tries to latch on to his leg. This is hardly the romantic date I had envisioned, and we have to go deeper and deeper into the park, where there is less grass and more trees, and then—

I practically hear a chorus of angels. There, under a leafy canopy, is the perfect spot. Streaks of sun shoot between the branches of the trees above. I think I hear a babbling brook.

Nick unfolds the blanket and I help him shake it out and lay it on the soft ground. We sit down and I can’t help wondering how many Glendas and Dylans are under us, their little worm hearts beating away. So
romantic
.

Nick looks at me shyly. “Are you thirsty?”

“Oh,” I say. “Sure.”

He reaches back into the basket and brings out a bottle of sparkling cider, which he twists open with finesse. He’s brought salami and some fancy cheese, along with some wafery crackers. He’s going to ask—he is! He’s just trying to set the mood. We’ll talk, we’ll laugh, maybe we’ll intertwine fingers and talk some more.

Except it hits me that I have no idea what to talk about. What do
lovers
talk about, when there are no kidnappings, or blackmailings, or secret babies to fight about? I try to summon a scene from
La Vida Rica
. I can picture a music-filled but otherwise silent montage—a candlelit dinner, a walk on the beach, an adorable moment of being caught, laughing wildly, in the rain—but it seems like if the lovers aren’t embracing, trouble is brewing.

Nick takes a bite of salami and stares at me. Is he that nervous?
Ask me to the Cotillion, Nicolás. Oh, just ask me!

He finally opens his mouth for words, not food, but it’s to ask if I want some salami.

I say, “I’ll be right back.”

I scurry off toward the bathrooms, leaving him with a full mouth. I go behind the building and call Thad.

“Collins!” he says as a greeting.

“I need your help.”

“Dude, what have you gotten yourself into?”

“This isn’t funny. I’m at the park with Nick—”

“I hope it’s a day of rainbows and unicorns and faeries—that’s faeries with an
e
.”

I don’t have time to joke with him. “Listen—”

“How are his tiny ears?”

“What? Oh, they’re fine, but—”

He laughs. “Do you have to talk really loud? Like Officer Dirk?”

“
You
know Officer Dirk?”

“Everybody knows Dirk. Anyway, so, did he ask you to that dance yet?”

“The Cotillion? No,” I say, growing frustrated. “Not yet. It’s like he wants to, but he’s forgotten how to talk completely. And I have no idea what to say. So we’re just staring at each other and it’s weird.
That’s
why I’m calling.”

“Oh, well, that’s easy. Just ask him questions about himself. I’m sure it’s his favorite subject.”

It sounds easy enough.

“No-brainer,” he adds.

“Okay, thanks.”

We hang up and I go back to Nick, who is very close to polishing off the salami.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, everything fine—it’s great.”

“Good.” Pant-laugh.

Oh no
. That pant-laugh. Is that one of those flaws? No. I won’t have it. No more flaws. No, thank you very much.

I sit down. “So, Nick—so.” I look around. What to ask him
—what!?
I grasp for something—
anything
. “What would you say your favorite color is?”

Ugh.

He looks a little surprised by my question, but then he smiles and says, “Green, I think. What’s yours?”

I tell him, kind of throaty-like, “
Well, I love red
.” As it’s, of course, the color of passion.

He nods. We look at each other, and then both look away quickly. I take a sip of my sparkling cider. And another.

“And,
so tell me
,” I try again, “where were you born?”

“Louisiana,” he tells me.

I picture a sleepy Southern town. For some reason, there are horse-drawn carriages. The women all wear puffy dresses, and their hair is swept into glamorous updos with cascading curls. They fan themselves while crying,
De-uh Lawd
. I imagine him in a suit with long tails, his hair slicked back. He is tipping his hat toward me, and he says, in a Southern accent,
May I request the
honah
of your
presence?

“Why, yes,”
I say.

“Huh?” He is looking at me strangely, I notice, as my eyes flut-ter open.

“Oh, sorry.” I swallow. “I thought—Well, what did you say?”

“I just said, ‘What about you?’ You know—where were
you
born?”

“Chicago,” I say, and try to take another sip from my empty plastic cup.

“Chicago’s nice,” he says, refilling my cup.

“Yes,” I say, although I don’t really know. All I know about it really is that’s where Flat Stanley lived. “The Windy City,” I tell him.

The Windy City.
What is the matter with me?

“So,” Nick says, “do you like salami?” He takes a piece and holds it in front of my face, as if showing it off to me.

“Yes, it’s beautiful,” I say. “All the—uh, pepper pieces.”

He still holds it there, smiling lazily at me.

“And—the—
delicious
lard dots?” I say-ask.

And then he says, “Don’t you want a bite?”

And I realize very suddenly that he is trying to
feed me
. So, despite the fact that I feel like some awkward baby penguin, I say, “Yes,” just so my mouth will have something to do, other than spurt out stupid things. I accidentally hit an incisor against his thumb.
Yeesh!
I’m not a baby penguin at all! I’m practically a Rottweiler!