How to Break a Heart (7 page)

Although he probably shouldn’t admit that. Especially if he’s calling someone else ridiculous.

Thad sees an orange cone right in front of him. Crap. They’re doing construction on the sidewalk—he didn’t expect that. He has to skate into part of the street. A car honks at him. His muscles freeze for a second, and he almost loses his balance. He’s embarrassed by his response, and by the prickly remains of fear that crackle in his fingertips. He shouldn’t be scared of anything anymore—there’s not a whole lot left to lose, and if he’s going to lose anything else, well, then,
bring it on
.

He shrinks a little lower on his board. It’s so different, this new world on wheels. Until you’re on them, you never really think about where you can go, and where you can’t. Better cross this route off the list—it’s too rocky for wheels of any type.

He skates through an intersection—a four-way stop but no cars—and rolls back onto the sidewalk. He relaxes a little, and navigates around some crushed glass on the pavement. A car drives slowly by. Could it be an unmarked police car? A detective? He feels a queasy panic rise from his stomach to his throat. But it’s just a man, a regular man, who doesn’t give him a second glance.

He takes a breath and tries to reason with himself. So he punched out a window. Okay, on school property. Okay, on government property. What’s the worst they can do? Arrest him? Maybe. Send him to juvie? Possibly. Or maybe they’d slap his family with a big, fat fine. Make them pay to replace the window. Great. Like Aunt Nora needs that.

Everyone should be glad that it was a window he punched out, and not Nick Wainwright, who deserved it a lot more than that innocent plate of glass. It’s probably also a good thing that Nick was so amazingly clueless. That Nick hadn’t realized Thad had overheard him, that Nick hadn’t gotten a good look at him, or at least hadn’t recognized him if he did. Otherwise, he’d already be in deep stew.

Another car heads toward him—a little blue Volkswagen bug, being driven by a blond lady with sunglasses. She smiles at him through the car window and he feels a sudden urge to impress her. He jumps on his board and does a switch stance—at least he thinks that’s what it’s called—left foot forward now. But the car drives on, and the left-foot-forward thing doesn’t feel so good. He jumps and switches back, but his ankle gives way and he hits the pavement, his injured hand suffering another blow. He’s not sure if he’s mad at himself or at the laws of gravity, but he feels a familiar stab of injustice, and gives the pavement a good stomp with his foot like a stubborn four-year-old. He’s thankful that no one is there to see his mini-tantrum, and gets back up and jumps on the board like it never happened.

Tricks are overrated anyway,
he thinks.
So are people like Nick Wainwright.
He used to like Nick. They were on the same Little League teams back in third and fourth grades. They once went to a Star Wars revival together, Thad as Chewbacca and Nick as C-3PO. In third grade, Thad had spent the night at Nick’s; that night the cat vomited up a mouse in Nick’s bed. It was one of the greatest, most disgusting moments in each of their lives.

But today—well, Thad wouldn’t have known words could hurt so much, especially coming out of someone he used to like. But maybe that’s why they do feel so bad. You expect stupid crap like that from other people, not from someone you used to consider a friend.

And Nick used to be a friend.

Used to be
. That phrase pretty much describes everything in his life.

He can’t wait until Nick is put in his place.

He stands up tall and sticks his hands in his pockets. Just a nice, easy, casual zip home. Okay, a little wobbly, but who cares? Why not pretend he has nothing to worry about? He makes himself look bored again. No prob. No rush.

Except that he knows there probably is. He’s afraid to look at his phone. Not just because he’ll fall if he does, but because he’s sure he’s about fifteen minutes late. And Aunt Nora’s waiting. He feels a wave of guilt about that—he told her he’d be home. But then, a stab of annoyance. He’s thirteen—isn’t he supposed to be out having fun anyway?

Part of him wonders what would happen if he were to just skate away into the sunset, but most of him knows that he’s headed back home. Sunsets are probably overrated, too, and anyway, it’s cloudy outside.

Mrs. N.
—

I’ve made some changes to Mabry’s article, which you’ll see in this draft.

—
Sirina

THE VINDICATOR

The Official News Blog of Hubert C. Frost Middle School

Band
Blows Hard
Gears Up for Spring Concert

If you 1) own earplugs; and 2) have absolutely nothing better to do next Tuesday night, then please be informed that
Bandemonium, the Hubert C. Frost Middle School Band, will be performing a collection of
ridiculous choices
favorites
such as
the godforsaken
“Hero’s March” and “Warrior’s Dance” for the annual spring concert next Tuesday night, in the cafetorium at 7 p.m.

Math teacher and band leader Mr. Greer promises
free earplugs to first fifty attendants.
that members of the audience will be in for “a real treat.”

The concert will include several soloists, including Kailey Kinnell on
dying whale
saxophone
and
award-winning clarinetist
Kipper Garrett
on clarinet
(see profile below).
Who is actually pretty good. Seriously, you should take your earplugs out for him. He is magical.

The concert is free and open to the
pubic.
public.

Eighth-Grade Clarinetest
Better Than You Would Think
Is an Award-Winning Musician

You may not know it to look at him, but Kipper Garrett is practically a celebrity.
Since third grade, Kipper Garrett has racked up an
amazing
assortment of
trophies.
awards, the latest being the County High Notes Winning Woodwind.
He
will probably be extremely famous one day, because he
practices at least an hour every day, and
on top of that, he’s a really nice guy.
credits his success to his mother, a clarinetist herself who studied with the famed German soloist Sabine Meyer.
[click for more]

IN OTHER NEWS…

Study Finds There Is No Real Point to Being First in Line

A groundbreaking study out of the Hiram Macomb Center for Education shows that, despite popular belief, “line leaders” are no more likely to be successful than mid-liners.
[click for more]

yo quiero
tú quieres
ella quiere
nosotros queremos
ellos quieren

W
alking into school the next morning, I see Abe Mahal in the center of a crowd. He’s gesturing wildly and telling a story that I can’t hear. I spot the back of Jordan’s head and reach through the mob to tap her on the shoulder. She glances back at me and nods, holding a finger up to mean
one minute
. But Officer Dirk, the school security guard, doesn’t give her that minute.

“DISPERSE, PEOPLE!” Officer Dirk says in his all-caps voice. For once, I am on his side. I only wish for some sort of human Drano. The crowd starts to shift and break apart, and Officer Dirk swats us all away like we are houseflies. Jordan adheres to my hand, and I pull her down the hall toward my locker, where Sirina is unloading her backpack.

“What’s going on?” I ask Jordan.

“Oh my god. Somebody broke out a window downstairs yesterday after school. Abe was there when it happened.”

“Who did it?”

“They don’t know yet,” Jordan says, her eyes wide. “They heard this crash and the guy just
tore off
through an emergency exit. But Abe said he heard there was a prison escape in Mount Claire yesterday, so”—she lowers her voice—“it’s possible that a murderer was here. On. School.
Grounds
.”

“So there’s a
crime scene
? An actual
scene
?” I have a fleeting but thrilling fantasy that the producers of
La Vida Rica
have been asked to take charge of our school. There will be flower deliveries during algebra, ceviche for lunch, fitted P.E. uniforms! The health center will be staffed by stunning and elegant doctors, and nurses with white hats, and balconies will be installed on all second-floor classrooms, for both mad kissing scenes and the occasional brush with murder. And it will all be set near a beach.

Sirina looks at me, her eyes getting a rare sparkle of excitement. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

It’s probably not salsa lessons for P.E., I realize.

“The YoJo!” She grabs my hand and squeezes it.

The YoJo—the National Youth Journalism award—is something that Sirina has pined for since we started writing for
The Vindicator
last year. It’s a biannual contest, and each December and June she sends in our entry. But with articles like “Hands Down, Single Mittens Most Common Items in Lost and Found” and “Ding Dongs Banned from Cafetorium After Fourth Microwave Explosion,” we haven’t had much of a chance.

Sirina continues. “This is the first newsworthy thing that’s happened since we started school here. We could write an investigative series of articles! This could be our big break! Just think!”

And I
do
think. I think about Sirina and me onstage. The two of us smiling beatifically and waving to an adoring audience. Our long hair cascading down our backs. Our dresses, glittery. Our two hands together, accepting the Golden Plume.

“Should we talk to Abe?” I ask her.

“Mabry, Abe is the chief of the rumor mill. He’s already talking about escaped murderers. No, remember what Mrs. Neidelman says. Facts first. Always start with the official sources.”

I look over her shoulder. With only his loud voice, Officer Dirk is breaking apart the small clusters of people who are, undoubtedly, talking about the window-breaking incident. Or the murderer on school grounds. “Well, there’s our official source now,” I say.

We both move swiftly in his direction, dodging the crowds. “Officer Dirk,” she says, “can you tell us what happened? It’s for
The Vindicator
.”

But the warning bell rings, so he just glares at us, as if the bell’s spoken for him.

“I take it that was a no,” I say as we turn and walk in the other direction.

“Well, okay, definitely bad timing, but this is so exciting!” she says before she dashes down the hall toward her first-period class.

“I heard it was Ms. Roach’s pen pal from prison,” Jordan says at lunch. “He got out of jail and decided to come surprise her at school. He asked her to marry him but she said no, so he broke the window and ran.”

Sirina snorts. “Where did you hear that?”

“Madison told me,” she says. “I think she heard it from Allie.”

Sirina shakes her head, “Never mind. These are just crazy rumors.”

“How do you know?” Jordan asks. “Maybe it’s true. Hey, I should ask my neighbor. Her uncle works at the prison.”

Amelia jumps in. “I heard that the guy might have been part of the Russian mafia—”

“No way!”

Jordan and Amelia continue to compare details, and Sirina turns to me. “So I went down to the part of the hall where it happened…”

She keeps talking, but my eyes bounce around the cafetorium, desperately seeking Nick. He’s nowhere in sight. In his usual spot, about five tables over, Abe and Patrick are facing each other, crouching slightly, their hands held at sharp karate angles.

“BOYS!” Mrs. Hurst yells at them. “You will sit down and enjoy your lunch! No fighting in the cafetorium!”

“Hey, Mabry,” Sirina says, tapping at my hand. “Would you
please
stop staring at your kung fu fighter and start listening to me?”

“I’m not staring at him. He’s not even over there. I don’t know where he is, which is crazy. When is he ever not with Abe and Patrick?”