The Museum of Heartbreak

To Tom Geier, who taught me I could, and Michael Bourret, who told me I should

I DON'T WANT THEM TO
go.

I know I will forget them if they leave now.

I think about running down the 86 flights of stairs of the Empire State Building to the street so I can hold up my hands, block their way, scream, “Don't go!”

But if I do, I'm certain one of them will eat me—probably the T. rex. It'll lift my body with its furious hands, crunch my bones with its massive jaws, chew my tendons with its sharp incisors.

I can't stop them: The dinosaurs are leaving New York City.

Hundreds and hundreds of them in all shapes and sizes, radiating out from the doors of the American Museum of Natural History, walking into the Holland Tunnel, crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, wading through the Hudson River.

They are in groups and alone:

A family of triceratops, the mother nudging a young one with her nose, an impatient stomp of her front foot.

A T. rex angrily swiping its tiny arms at abandoned cars.

A pterodactyl swooping down Broadway.

I watch them from the observation deck of the Empire State Building, popping quarters into the tourist telescope so I can see them up close: the beautiful metallic green-gray glint of scales, the way their chests heave oxygen in and out, the casually powerful swat of a tail.

They take my breath away.

They bump cars and break windows.

Eph was right. They are real.

For a second, I wonder if I should tell my dad that the dinosaurs are leaving. But I can't move, and even though there's no way all those dinosaurs could come from one building, it makes perfect sense to me, and I know then that I'm dreaming.

I still don't wake up.

They're endless and unstoppable, piling up in awkward clumps, spilling against the museum doors in waves, pushing past one another, roaring ferociously, wings beating heavily in the air.

Some of them have luggage strapped around their middles—suitcases piled up in precariously wobbling towers. Others are beasts and beasts only, snarling at one another, at the cloudless sky.

A brontosaurus ducks its long neck, trying not to get caught in telephone cables.

A brachiosaurus splashes into the river, its head bobbing well above the water line.

A giganotosaurus ducks to fit into the Holland Tunnel, scrunching its head down.

They are caravanning on highways away from the city. They leave behind footprints in the melting asphalt, broken-down trees, smashed taxis. Their weight displaces the familiar world: Pylons snap on the Brooklyn Bridge. The Hudson River sloshes past its shoreline. The aforementioned giganotosaurus creates a bottleneck in the Holland Tunnel. (A stegosaurus screams at the delay.)

They fight and growl, plod and stomp, but they are leaving.

And in that moment, I wake with a jolt—a cold sweat in the backs of my knees, my sheets tangled around me, my pillow wet from crying—and feel the familiar empty ache around my heart.

It's 4:13 a.m.

My hand flies to my neck. My necklace is just where it should be, rising and falling against my skin with each slowing breath.

Maybe in real life there aren't happy endings.

Maybe that's the point.

I breathe in and out.

I know what I need to do.

I hop up, click on a lamp. From the end of the bed my cat, Ford, squints unhappily at the introduction of light.

I dig through my desk for a notebook and pencil, then get back into bed, pulling up the covers, a fleece blanket around my shoulders. Ford closes his eyes contentedly, happy to go back to his cat dreams.

I chew on my pen cap, then start writing.

Welcome to the Museum of Heartbreak . . .

IN HER JUNIOR YEAR OF
high school, Penelope Madeira marx, age sixteen going on seventeen, experienced for the first time in her young life the devastating, lonely-making, ass-kicking phenomenon known as
heartbreak.

It happened like this:

She fell in love.

Everything changed.

And just like the extinction event that wiped out the dinosaurs, heartbreak came hurtling at Penelope Marx with the fury of one thousand meteors.

The Museum of Heartbreak (MoH) is the United States' national institution for the documentation, study, and interpretation of that particular heartbreak. It also strives to identify and understand the phenomenon in general, in hopes of preventing and avoiding it in the future.

Founded in New York City, and through the leadership of its curator and staff (the eminent seventeen-year-old feline Ford the Cat), the MoH is committed to encouraging an even deeper understanding of a broken heart by establishing, preserving, and documenting a permanent collection of artifacts and memories related to all aspects of heartbreak.

To achieve its goals, the MoH recognizes:

• That heartbreak is defined by absence: that is, something you love (e.g., a person, place, or thing; your favorite stuffed animal; a firefly-filled summer vacation; the restaurant with the amazing pancakes and fruit butter) is gone.

• That heartbreak is defined by loneliness: that is, not having that thing brings about crippling feelings of sadness and despair.

• That while largely emotional, heartbreak is also a physical phenomenon: that is, it's accompanied by an actual hollow pain in your chest any time you remember what you lost.

• That heartbreak heightens nostalgia: that is, you will suddenly be confronted with remembered sounds, tastes, and memories that will bring you to your knees.

• That heartbreak comes in all shapes and sizes: big, sweeping devastations that leave you reeling; tiny, particular sadnesses that make your bones ache.

• That sometimes the biggest heartbreak of all is letting go of the time before you knew things could ever be broken.

By educating and enlightening the viewing public, the MoH seeks to remind visitors to be vigilant. Because just like a hapless old dinosaur innocently eating leaves or gleefully munching on the bones of its prey, if you have a heart, you too can be flattened by the metaphoric meteor known as heartbreak.

Enjoy your time at the museum.

Sincerely,

The Curator and Ford the Cat

ON THE FIRST DAY OF
my junior year, in the first two minutes of open assembly, the most handsome boy I had ever seen in all my sixteen never-been-kissed years sat down and raised an eyebrow right at me.

He had gray-green eyes, cool like a round stone in your hand.

He was wearing a
Catcher in the Rye
T-shirt and a navy corduroy blazer with elbow patches.

He smelled like cinnamon.

If I could have conjured the perfect boy, I couldn't have done better than this.

“Hey,” he said, tipping his head my way. “How are you liking it?”

Without thinking, I checked the seat next to me, but no, Eph was sprawled out, doodling intricately on the back cover of a notebook. I checked in front of me, but Audrey was talking to Cherisse, her back to us.

The boy was talking to me.

The boy with the thick eyebrows and the beautiful head of curly brown hair was talking to me.

“Ohhhh?” I said, and the sound came out like someone had stepped on a mouse, and I couldn't help it, I was so flustered: I poked my finger at my chest.
Me?

He nodded, a wry smile. “Yeah, you, Scout.”

My heart shot up and through my ribs to the tip of my tongue, paused for one breath, then plummeted back down even faster.

Like I'd stuck my finger in a socket.

Like I'd been hit by lightning.

Something inside me started, something with fierce, gnashing teeth and adrenaline and bone.

“How am I liking what?” I wiped my palms on my lap, willing myself to be cool, to calm down.

“Your comic book,” he said, pointing to the copy of
Watchmen
poking out of my bag. “Do you like it?”

The cute boy across the aisle was, for no apparent reason, striking up a conversation with me, and I had this giddy, fleeting thought:
Wow, maybe it is finally happening
. Also:
Thank you, Baby Jesus, for making Eph lend me his copy of  
Watchmen
.

And then I opened my mouth.

“Oh, the graphic novel? It's not mine; my friend is loaning it to me. . . .” I nodded in Eph's general direction, afraid to take my eyes off the boy. “Which is cool, because it's a first edition and he's a megafan, probably because he's going to be a graphic artist someday. . . .” The beautiful boy gave an amused nod, so I pushed forward. “Have you read it? I haven't finished it yet, but I saw the
movie and it was all right, though Eph said the movie messed a lot of stuff up. . . .”

The boy started to say something, but words were haphazardly tumbling out of my mouth on top of his. “Though I have a hard time following the graphic novel stuff, like do I read the dialogue up to down or left to right . . .” I zoomed my hands in crazy directions like the comic was in front of me. “Or maybe it doesn't matter—I don't know? But I like reading so much.”

I stuttered to a stop because I had lost my breath, but also because the boy had this inscrutable look on his face that I could only imagine meant he was trying to figure out the nearest escape route without having to interact with me again.

I winced. “Oh God, I'm sorry.”

He shrugged. “I was only making conversation. . . .”

He was only making conversation. He was only trying to be polite.

My neck flushed hot, and a large part of me wanted to get up and scream,
I am terrible at talking to boys! I am terrible at life!
and then run away as far as I could, to some solitary research station at the North or South Pole (whichever one has penguins), where I would never have to interact with another human being for the rest of my life.

(Another part of me—one so very small—wanted desperately to rewind to a minute ago, before I opened my mouth, before I knew he was only being polite, when my heart was all hopeful and electric.)

“Sometimes I talk too much . . . ,” I started to explain right as Cherisse—one of my top ten least favorite people in the world (and
that list included dictators and people who ran dog fights)—gasped: “Oh my God, Keats!”