How to Break a Heart (33 page)

Thad felt a swell of anger. The guys had all burst out in laughter, which, it turns, out, is harder to hear over the sound of breaking glass.

Now Thad looks across the table at Mabry, who is staring at him with an open mouth, like she needs a little more explanation. So he adds, “Yeah, so they were just being dipsquats, I know, but it just—” He has to stop talking. His vocal cords feel like they’ve been strung too tight.

“Oh,”
she says, like she finally understands. “Yeah. Your mom.”

After a few moments, he clears his throat. “It’s like they were making fun of
her
—not Abe.” He traces a scar on his hand. “And that word—
freak
. It just got to me.”

“Well,” she says. “Just FYI. Abe actually
is
a freak. A walking, running, fully mobile freak.”

“Yeah.” He gives her a fraction of a smile. “But you’re talking to me
now
. Not the me back then, before”—he suddenly stops himself before he can say anything gag-worthy like
before you
—“I just felt like I needed to punch something, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” she says. “I do.”

Her answer surprises him.

“You do?” he asks.

“Well, I haven’t punched out any windows, but I do know what that feeling is. It’s called
passion
.”

He snort-laughs. “Actually, I think it’s called a misdemeanor.”

“Yeah, resulting from passion,” she says. “Because you love your mother so much.”

Okay,
he thinks,
so for Mother’s Day, what should I give her? A felony?
He almost says this out loud, but Mabry’s not looking like she wants to joke around.

This all feels too serious. He can’t help but add, “Yeah, well, I shouldn’t have done it. It’s not like you flip out when people use paper shredders or anything.”

“Why would I?”

“You know,” he tries to joke. It’s lame. “Flat Stanley?”

“Oh, right.” She doesn’t laugh, though—no surprise. “No, but you know what you should have done?”

“What?”

“You should have
told
me. But you didn’t. You just used me to get back at Nick.” She is looking at him like he’s a stranger.

“Well.”
His neck feels hot. He runs a finger under the edge of his T-shirt collar. “Okay, well, fine. I wanted to tell you. Yes, that was the plan. But that’s the thing. Nick’s actually the winner, not me. He’s taking you to the dance. And
you
—you got what you wanted.”

He hopes she’ll correct him. She doesn’t. She just continues to stare at him, like things are tightening inside of her. Her jaw seems to harden. Her eyes get sharp. A cord flinches in her neck.

“You should have at least stopped me from writing those stupid articles.”

“That’s one of the reasons I
didn’t
tell you,” Thad says. “How would I have known back then that you wouldn’t have turned me in?”

“Yeah, and guess what? I basically turned you in today. Because I
didn’t
know,” she says.

“You know what? I’m actually kind of relieved,” he tells her. No more wondering. No more worrying. Whatever it’s going to be, it will
be
by tomorrow.

She shakes her head. “And now you want me to go to the Cotillion with Nick?”

No, not really,
he thinks. But instead he says, “I just want you to be able to
go
.” If nothing else, she should give him credit for that, right?

But instead, she stands up and says, “God, who
are
you?” And then she walks away from the table faster than any of the bored housewives who speed-walk around the mall, and she almost trips on the toe of her own flip-flop. Which would be funny to him if anything felt funny anymore.

I
’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,
Thad thinks, all the way home on his skateboard.
I’m sorry about the window. I’m sorry about the stupid articles. I’m sorry I can’t go to the dance. What am I supposed to do about it? Wear a freaking T-shirt with
I’m sorry
printed all over it?
Get the words stamped on his forehead, tattooed on his chest? How does anyone ever make anything right anyway? It’s not like you can ever rewind and redo things in life, like you can on TV.

The door’s unlocked again, so he goes right in. Aunt Nora’s not in the kitchen, which gives him a chance to do this right.

He goes over to the manila folder. Officer Dirk’s business card is clipped to the inside cover.

He picks up the phone and dials the number.

“OFFICER DIRK HERE.”

“This is Thad Bell.”

“THAD.”

“You might want to come over,” he tells him.

“SO YOU’RE FINALLY READY.”

Thad is slightly stunned, but not at all surprised. So Dirk did know. All this time.

“I am.”

“HEADING OVER NOW.”

Thad hangs up the phone and puts the kettle on.

“You’re making tea?” Aunt Nora asks, coming into the kitchen.

“Yep. Sit down,” he tells her. “We’re about to have company.”

“Company?” She seems baffled.

“Your friend. Dirk.”

“Dirk? He’s coming? Now?” She pats her hair and looks down at herself, as if she’s forgotten what she’s wearing. “Well, why?”

“Because I know where dad’s skateboard is, and you’re probably not going to like how it got there.”

So she sits.

yo beso
tú besas
ella besa
nosotros besamos
ellos besan

S
chatzi’s.

We are here. It’s Saturday night at the mall, and it’s just the two of us, Nick and me. The Mariela-flavored me. I want to be happy—I
should
be happy. Okay, so maybe there’s no candlelight, and maybe you can see Macho Nacho and the whole food court from the window overlooking the mall, but all in all, it’s pretty darn romantic. We are in a sit-down restaurant. In a booth. Nick is sitting on the same side as me. We have a waiter (named Bart), and we are possibly in love, or something like it. This has to be it. I mean, he’s
mi hombre
, right?
Mi amor
, I remind myself.

So I really shouldn’t be thinking too much about
mi amigo
.

Bart is not a very good waiter. He hasn’t refilled my Coke or brought us silverware. He even made a joke about how far our allowances will go in a place like this (which, as it turns out, is not very). He places our cheese-dip “fundue” in the middle of the table, and drops a basket of bread dippers right next to it.

“Ladies first,” Nick says.

I reach for a dipper, and then stop myself. Mariela wouldn’t eat with her hands, I remember. “I think I need a plate. And a fork.”

“Right,” Nick says. And then he raises his hand like he’s an honor-roll student in a social studies class.

Bart does notice, thankfully. “’Sup, little buddy?” he asks.

I feel the awkwardness simmering inside of me.

“Um, it’s just that we need, um,
plates
? And
utensils
?”

“But’s it
fundue
,” Bart says. “A traditional finger food.”

Nick clears his throat. “It’s just that—the
lady
—would like them.”

I feel like such an imposter. If Nick could see the usual me—the hanging-out-with-Thad me—would we even be sitting here together tonight?

Bart brings back two napkin-rolled forks and knives and two miniature plates, and follows it up with an unnecessary bow. Nick smiles at me.

I smile back. I try to enjoy myself. I’m the closest I’ll be for a while to being on a real date, in a real restaurant, with waiters who wear tuxedos and ferry around bottles of wine. Where there will be candles with real flames. Where items on the menu will require familiarity with a second language. Where the larger waiters aren’t giving the smaller ones wedgies in the kitchen.

I use my fork to place the dipper into the fundue and put it on my tiny plate. I take a small bite of mine and try to chew politely.

He gives me an awkward smile, and looks at his dipper, and says, “So, I wanted to ask you something.”

What are the chances he’ll ask me what my favorite food is?
I wonder in a flurry of panic.
Or my middle name?
But I know it’s going to happen, and instead of the excitement I had expected, I feel sick inside.

“Mabry.” Under the table, he takes my hand in his. He fixes his eyes on mine. “Will you please go to the Cotillion with me?”

This is the moment. I open my mouth. I take a breath.
Yes
is the word I’m supposed to say. I once very much wanted to say
Yes! Yes! Yes! With all my heart, yes!
But here, now, I can’t get that simple word out.

Because I don’t want to anymore. The
yes
doesn’t feel real. Nothing about it feels real. My whole fascination with Nick feels like a stage set.

All I can wish for is that life had sound tracks like
La Vida Rica
—heavy, serious, mood-setting music. It just makes sad things easier. Without it, the words cut through the air like missiles, blowing through the space between us that is yet undefined.

My heartbeat is starting to speed up, sweat is starting to swim around under my skin, making its way to my pores. All my forehead muscles seem to be migrating toward the ceiling.

“Nick?” I pause. If only you could buy time as easily as you can buy some heart-shaped jewelry at the mall kiosk. “I’m sorry. But, I, uh, think I have to break up with you.”

It’s the first time I’ve ever uttered that phrase to anyone, and the words seem both heavy and trivial at the same time. They’re just words, my head says. Still, even if they can’t break bones, words can definitely break hearts, and possibly damage other organs. I mean, when my heart is breaking, try to convince me that my spleen isn’t somehow involved.

“Break up?” Nick’s face seems to melt a little. His eyebrows drop and his cheeks sink. “Why?”

I shake my head, like if I try hard enough, an acceptable answer will pop up, like a Magic 8 Ball. It doesn’t. How do you explain to someone that everything you thought you wanted was all wrong? That you were living someone else’s life—a character on TV’s! That you feel now like an exhausted actor who just wants to call it a day and go home? That “real” feels like a whole different thing than it did just a month ago?

He stares, as if in a trance, at the fundue bowl. And I realize that this heartbreaking business really sucks big-time.

“I’m sorry, Nick.”

He releases my hand under the table. It’s clammy and wet, and I have to wipe it dry on the hem of my skirt.

“I thought this is what you wanted,” he says without look- ing at me.

“It was.” It all feels so once-upon-a-time.

“I thought we, you know
, liked
each other.”

“We did! We
do
, but—”

Through the glass that separates the restaurant from the mall, I see a hand waving manically. I squint. I see that the hand belongs to Thad Bell. When he sees me gawking at him, he gestures for me to come out.

“Hey, Nick?” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” But he still gets up and lets me out of the booth. Or maybe I’ve sort of nudged him out of the way.

I get through the entrance and am face-to-face with Thad. “What are you doing here?” I ask. My voice comes out annoyed, but really, I’m not sure how I feel. Yes, maybe annoyed, but also excited and scared and curious and thrilled and confused and, well, basically, like a bolt of electricity has just traveled through me but I’m still trying to figure out what happened, and if I can move, if I’m hurt, if I’m okay, or what.

“Hi,” he says. He looks nervous. He is holding a cabbage, or at least something that looks like a cabbage. “Am I too late? Did you already say yes?”

“No, I—” It seems too hard to explain what just happened.

“Oh, good.” He seems to melt a little with relief. “Because guess what?”

Chicken butt?
I’m tempted to say, but I’m not really in a chicken-butt kind of mood. “What?”

“I can go.” He looks strangely excited.

It’s like my thoughts are trapped in molasses. “Go?” Though I have no idea what’s going on, I
am
sure of the fact that my face is practically doing acrobatics, trying to find a proper expression.