How to Break a Heart (9 page)

“You better be glad that didn’t go through the window,” my brother says to Sirina.

“Relax,” Sirina says. “You know I have a better arm than you.”

Aaron looks at me. “Seriously, M-Hole.
Mooove
.”

I look right back at him, defiantly. “We were
watching
my
show
.”

But then Aaron threatens to fart us out of the room, so we leave in a hurry, with Hunter following behind us. There are very few things worth enduring the odious
Essence of A-Bag
.

Upstairs in my room, I say, “I don’t know who was more obnoxious—A-Bag or Thad.”

“Definitely A-Bag,” Sirina says. “At least Thad has a point. Like I said before, Mariela’s your woman.”

“Yeah,” I say, but kind of weakly.

She narrows her eyes at me. “Mabry?” She says my name slowly. “You’re going to do this, right?”

“
Yes
. I already told you.”

“Because I need my best friend back. I can’t take it anymore, watching you get your heart broken over and over. For once, I’d like to see you claim your power.” She is practically pleading with her eyes.

“Yeah, I know. I’m definitely in,” I tell her, my eyebrows lifting. It’ll all be okay, I tell myself. If she’s my true friend, she’ll be happy for me.

“Okay.” Her face relaxes. “Come on. Let’s see your best Mariela.”

I glance up at the mirror across my room. What I see is a standard-issue eighth grader with skinny jeans, flip-flops, and a hoodie. “Well, problem one: I don’t look like her at all,” I say.

No. Mariela has the kind of infectious beauty you almost feel like you could catch if you look at her for too long.

“Well, maybe try acting like her. Act confident.”

“But I don’t feel confident.”

“That’s why it’s called
acting
. Just try it.”

“Seriously?” I ask.

“Yes,
seriously
. Don’t forget—Mariela’s a character on a TV show. She’s a pretend person. That lady who plays her is
acting
a part. If
she
can do it, you can, too.”

I look at myself in the mirror. My shoulders are hugging inward, protectively. I relax them a little and roll them back, which, even though it makes me feel a little taller, also makes me feel a little exposed. But Sirina says, “Good,” so I take a breath and try to go with it. I realize that I haven’t been breathing deep enough—that the air is stuck in a small area in my lungs, and when I breathe deeper, I feel better. I smile at Sirina in the mirror.

“Better,” she says, smiling back.

I put on a little mascara. It can’t hurt. I lean my head over and fluff my hair out, then whip my head up and check myself once again.

“Good. That’s much more Mariela,” Sirina says.

I turn all the way around and peek at my reflection over my shoulder. If I hold my eyebrows at just the right level, and angle my head in just the right way, and position my hands on my hips, well, it’s almost convincing.

Sirina studies me in the mirror. I turn and look directly at her.

“Well,
hello
, heartbreak,” she says in a smoldering voice. “Thy name is Mabry.”

And then we start cracking up, and it feels good enough that when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, looking satisfied, looking—I don’t know—maybe a little bit powerful, it starts to seem possible. For a second, just a second, I wonder what being a heartbreaker would feel like. Victorious? Triumphant? Maybe you can make a fruit out of a flower after all.

Sirina stays for dinner. Stephen’s eating with us tonight, too.

My mom’s a lawyer. She’s always busy, and as far as I know, Stephen’s the only boyfriend she’s ever had. My brother and I don’t even have a father—I mean, technically, we do, but my mom never met him. She chose him from a piece of paper at the New Beginnings Fertility Clinic, so it’s hard to think of my father and not picture Flat Stanley, the traveling piece of paper from a book my mom read to me when I was little.

Flat Stanley’s name was John. He was a graduate student in engineering; his ancestors were German and Dutch. That’s about all we know about him. Surely there must have been more exotic choices—a Tahitian island gentleman, perhaps, or an Argentinian cattleman, even. Or—
oh!
—an Egyptian prince! But, no. She basically chose a version of Stephen. Well, you could say that my mom definitely has a type, despite not having a romantic bone in her body.

The topic of the night is, of course, the Case of the Broken Window and the investigative series we’d like to write. We’re filling them in on the rumors—the ex-con pen pal, the murderer, the man-clog-wearing substitute teacher—and the fact that Officer Dirk won’t give us any info.

“Well,” my mom says, “the school probably just doesn’t want to add to the hype. It can be a distraction.”

“But the rumors
are
a distraction,” Sirina says. “And there are so many stupid ones out there right now.”

“Oh! You know what I heard?” Aaron says. His eyes are big, like he’s just bursting to tell us some sort of secret.

“What?” I ask.

“I heard that it was this guy serving time for some computer crime. An old boyfriend of Mrs. Vander-Pecker.”

“Our principal?” It’s hard to imagine, but I do try.

“Yep. But he was released after ten years in the joint. And his first stop? To see her. But then, guess what?”

“What?” I ask.

“He saw your face, and he was so grossed out that he just threw himself out the window!”

“Oh,
shut up
!” I say, irritated not just with him, but with myself, for allowing him to get to me.

“Aaron!” my mom practically whines.

He just laughs.

My mom shakes her head at him. To us, she says, “I’d be careful about listening to the rumors.”

“Well, what do you think happened?” I ask.

“There’s clearly not enough evidence to know with any level of certainty at this point,” my mom says. “But I’d say that it probably wasn’t a premeditated act. It sounds like it was some kind of emotional outburst. Someone was upset about something.”

“A crime of passion!” I say. So
La Vida Rica
! “So you think it could’ve been over a broken heart?”

“How would that make sense?” Sirina says, and laughs. “A broken window for a broken heart?”

“Let me take this, Ellen,” Stephen says to my mom. To us, he says, “You see, kids, relationships can be very complicated. That’s why there’s a Facebook status for it.”

A-Bag grins. “Ah,
this
from a man who has eighteen ‘friends.’”

“Aaron!” my mom says, annoyed. “Go finish your dinner in the kitchen.”

“Aw, it’s okay, Ellen,” Stephen says. “He’s just razzing me.”

My brother looks too happy as he pops up from the table and says, “Sayonara, suckers!”

My mom changes the subject by asking Stephen about what’s happening at his school, which starts a brain-numbing flow of words like
curriculum
and
budget
and
superintendent
. There is nothing intriguing or exciting about any of these topics, and it’s all a little hard to endure, especially when there’s a crime of passion underfoot.

After dinner, I walk Sirina to the door. “Shoot me if I ever get that boring, okay?”

“Can’t we just settle for a slap?” she asks. “A vicious one?”

“Deal,” I say.

I watch her get into her mom’s car, and wave as they drive off.

Good night, my lily-spattered organ-grinder
, I text her after I can no longer see the car.

She writes right back.
Good night, my maple-syrup moist towelette.

T
had’s been staring at his computer screen off and on for the last few hours. It’s the first ten equations of his algebra work. It
always
seems to be the first ten equations of his algebra work. He’s been in a mood all day—restless and annoyed. Not even watching her stupid show, which was laughable, could snap him out of it. The only character that seemed to have a brain in her head was Mariela. He doesn’t know much Spanish, but there was enough kissing and shouting and embracing and sneaking around to figure out basically what was going on. And come on, it’s all predictable anyway.

So I was kind of a jerk on the phone with her; so what?
Thad wonders if he should send her a text or something to make up for it. Not with an actual apology, but something like
Let’s meet at the mall next time. I’ll buy you a burrito
. Some type of peace offering.

But then she may ask why he was such a jerk anyway—and then what will he say? That he’s been on edge since he broke the window, worrying about the cops showing up at his house? No, wait—that he’s been on edge for six whole months, since his life exploded?

That today is his father’s birthday, and it’s the first birthday his dad never got to have?

That thought is like a knife in the gut.

He makes himself look back at his computer screen, but it’s filled with stuff he just doesn’t understand. He lets out a frustrated growl and throttles the air in front of him, then gets up from the desk.

In the kitchen, Aunt Nora’s sitting at the table, a stack of papers in front of her. “Something wrong, hon?”

“I hate algebra,” he says. Somehow that’s easier to say. “I
hate
it. It royally sucks.”

“Well, maybe it’ll be better in a real classroom—”

“No, it won’t,” he says. “There’s no way you can take the suck out of algebra.”

She sighs and goes back to the papers.

“Is Mom awake?”

“Yeah,” Aunt Nora says, and looks up. “But wait—I need you to do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Try not to bring your mood in there,” she says, nodding in the direction of his mom’s room. “She’s kind of in a funk today, too.”

“Okay,” Thad says, and exhales hard.

He walks into the room. She is lying on her side away from him. “Hi, Mom.”

“Oh, hey,” she says, lifting her head, and attempting to roll over to her back. He sees her struggling and steps toward the bed, wanting to help her.

“No,” she says, waving his hands away. “Let me try on my own.”

He steps back, watches her wriggle around. His throat tightens so much that he has to look away just to take his next breath. His eyes settle on the wheelchair. It’s folded up in the corner—she hasn’t used it today.