The Museum of Heartbreak (18 page)

“Pen!” Grace sat down beside me, stretching her legs out and pulling a pair of quirky vintage red-framed sunglasses from her oversize polka-dot bag. “I love this weather!”

“Me too,” I said. “I always think I like spring in New York best, and then every year fall rolls around, and I remember it's really the best.”

“Agreed. Plus you can get apple cider in the fall, and that alone trumps most everything else. Want to start browsing?”

“Well, here's the thing. My friend kind of invited himself to join us. Sorry, I hope that's okay?”

“Sure, that's cool. I asked Miles if he wanted to come, but he's on a date with Starbucks Guy!”

“Really? Awesome! How'd it happen?”

“Miles finally asked him out. I think you inspired him. They're out now. Getting coffee from someplace other than Starbucks and walking the High Line. Miles is under strict instructions to secretly text me as soon as he gets a chance. I'll let you know what he says. Speaking of, how was
your
date?”

I filled her in on everything, including Keats wanting me to read
On the Road
.

She frowned. “Ugh, not my favorite.”

“Right? I want to like Kerouac, but . . .” I trailed off.

“Here's the thing. If he's going to make you read his book, you should
make him read a book you like. It only seems fair.”

“Huh! That's a good idea,” I said. I liked the idea of balancing the book scales. “Do you and Kieran make each other read things?”

“We're actually pretty much in sync, so we're usually reading the same stuff. Our only problem is trying to keep up with each other so neither of us inadvertently spoils things,” she said. “We're both obsessed with this fantasy writer Terry Brooks—do you know him?”

I shook my head.

“He's awesome. This one time, Kieran finished one of his books before me, but because he didn't get my text about it, he totally spoiled the death of this
major
character—like
major
, but I won't say who, for when you read it. I didn't talk to him for like five minutes. It was our worst fight ever.” She sighed.

“Five minutes?” I teased.

She blushed. “Yeah, I know. Miles is always making fun of us because Kieran's and my drama is not dramatic at all. He calls it ‘dramatic minus the drama, which leaves
ick
.' But my last ex was terrible, and that drama was seriously not good, so I'm fine with ick. It's better than liking terrible guys and getting hurt.”

I bit my lip, thought of Audrey's warnings about Keats.

“Besides, Miles has got a great guy right in front of him. Isn't Oscar awesome?”

“That Miley Cyrus thing makes me laugh every time I think about it.”

“He's so deadpan, it's brilliant.”

Right then I spotted Eph at the entrance and waved, then realized he didn't see me because all his attention was currently focused on some curvy girl with spiky punk rock black hair. She kept touching his elbow.

I rolled my eyes. What about the ethereal Mia? Was she not a big deal either?

Eph typed something into the girl's phone—presumably his number—and she gave a coy wave good-bye. As soon as he turned his back to her, I saw her give a silent squeal and delighted little jump up and down with her friends.

Eph was smiling, pleased with himself, but when he saw me watching him, his shoulders tightened up and Serious Face won out. He walked toward us, skateboard under his arm, his knit cap making him seem even taller than normal. I tried to shove any lingering effects of the no-big-deal kiss down way deep inside.

When he reached us, he scanned my outfit. “You know, someday I'd like that sweatshirt back.”

The last time I saw him we had kissed, and
this
is what he had to say?

“Eph,” I said, resisting the urge to point out he was being a jerk, “this is my friend Grace.” Because she was my friend. I had a new friend. “Grace, this is Eph.”

“Ephraim,” he corrected.

I rolled my eyes, and Grace shook his hand.

“Rad shirt,” he said admiringly, checking out her Hüsker Dü tee, and then, like some scene from some terrible frat movie, his eyes lingered obviously on her chest a beat too long.

Grace's face turned scarlet. I elbowed him in the gut, hard.

“Ow.”
He shot me a nasty look and I ignored him, pulling Grace with me down the first aisle.

“So how do you guys know each other?” he asked, poking his face over my shoulder.

“
Nevermore
,” Grace said. I guessed the tone of her voice was the one she used when she was trying to pretend everything was all right. Ugh, Eph.

“What's that?” Eph asked.

“The literary journal—remember, I told you about that,” I said, trying to regain my balance, our balance.

“No you didn't.”

“Um, yeah, I did, remember? I was thinking you should send some of the dinosaurs to the journal for consideration.” I turned to Grace. “You guys publish lots of cool art, right?”

“We do,” Grace started, when Eph interrupted her.

“When did you tell me this? Was it in the middle of you talking about how
Watchmen
is just like
Hamlet
? Because sorry, Pen . . .” He pretended to yawn.

My bottom right eyelid began twitching. “I told you about it on the way to that vintage shop. Or was that”—I made finger quotes—“ ‘not a big fucking deal' either?”

He flinched, and I felt momentarily victorious.

“Language, Penelope,” he said, bouncing back smugly, and I scowled.

“I just want good things for you, Eph. I thought people should see your art.”

“If I wanted people to see my art, I'd show people my art.”

Grace glanced between us. “So yeah, I'm going to check out these books.” She practically ran across the aisle.

Eph whistled under his breath, watching her. “She. Is. Hot.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“Uhhh, nothing?” He took off his cap and ran his hands through his hair.

The kiss sat between us like a particularly ugly hangnail. I knew picking at it would make the situation worse—a hangnail so red and sore your finger hurt more than it should for longer than it should—but I couldn't stop.

I crossed my arms. “Nothing? Really?”

“ ‘Nothing? Really?' ” he echoed.

My top left eyelid started twitching along with the bottom right. Great.

“So we're not going to talk about what happened on Friday?”

“What happened on Friday?” he asked casually, and my blood reached its boiling point.

“You kissed me!” My words came out sputtery and jagged, incredulous, clearing space around us with the volume. The bearded man standing behind the booth we were at chuckled, presumably at me, and I wondered if “accidentally” knocking over his table of button trays would get me arrested.

“You kissed me back,” Eph said nonchalantly, picking up a particularly hideous red plastic miniature Santa, bringing it to the bearded man.

“Two dollars,” the guy said.

Eph pulled out his wallet, the chain clipped to his dark jeans, handed the guy two singles, stood the Santa up on his palm, and offered it to me.

“I don't want
that
. Why in the world would you give me that?”

“It's cool?”

“Good luck,” the bearded man said meaningfully to Eph, and Eph gave him a look that said
Right?
and everything in my vision went red and spotted.

I swatted at the Santa, and it tumbled to the ground, plastic clattering on the blacktop.

“Hey!” Eph said, bending down to pick it up.

“That kiss was a big deal for me!”

“Whoa, killer.
You're
the one who said it was weird.”

“No I didn't!”

“Uh, yeah, you did.”

I decided to pretend that hadn't happened.

I folded my arms across my chest. “And then you invite yourself to the Flea, sauntering in like you're the best thing since sliced bread”—he lifted his eyebrows at the lame insult, and I internally cringed but kept barreling forward—“and you're flirting with every single female in a ten-mile radius, sleazy old-school Captain Kirk–style . . .”

An amused snort.

“. . . and then you ogle my new friend Grace and you don't even ask me how my date with Keats went and instead you buy me
that
.” I pointed distastefully at the Santa.

“Trust me: At this point I'm sorry I bought you anything,” Eph said dismissively.

“I don't think I want to hang out with you right now,” I finished.

“Um, yeah. The feeling is mutual.” He leaned over, stuck the Santa in my purse's outer pocket, so its head was peeking out. “Tell Grace I said ‘later.' ”

I watched him angle through the crowd, knit cap a head above most of the people there, until I couldn't see him anymore.

The subway token lay under my shirt against my skin, a witness, so I pulled it out and off, dropping it in my bag, and shoving that Santa monstrosity in deeper so his stupid red face—why was his face red?—couldn't watch me.

When I found Grace, she was poring over a beautiful old book with intricate fairy-tale illustrations.

“Where'd Eph go?” she asked.

“We're not getting along.”

“I sort of noticed.”

“I'm sorry. He's not usually like that.
I'm
not usually like that. I don't know what's up with us.”

Liar.

She nudged me and held up a book, a big smile on her face. “Have you read
Anne of Green Gables
?”

“About eight times,” I said.

And we both said, “Gilbert Blythe!”

“Oh my God, I was so in love with him,” Grace said. “Maybe you should make Keats read it, to balance the book equality?”

I laughed.

“So,” she started, as she picked up a pink paperback of
Valley of the Dolls
, “can I be totally nosy and ask if you guys kissed?”

Birds stopped mid-sky.

Horns stopped mid-honk.

A baby stopped mid-cry.

I thought of Eph bending closer, his eyelashes fluttering, the taste of his lips.

Wait.

Grace meant Keats.

Grace asked me if I kissed Keats.

The world resumed moving—people talking, a baby screaming, a pigeon pecking for crumbs at the edge of the sidewalk, a car driving by blaring the Rolling Stones.

Of course. Duh. Chill.
Making everything too hard yet again.

But then, a sinking feeling.

“No, we didn't kiss. Is that bad?”

“Nah. It took Kieran and me eight whole dates to even touch lips. When it finally happened, I was so freaked out. Things with my last boyfriend were really fast, but with Kieran, I didn't want to rush it.”

“Really?” I asked.

Grace shrugged. “Yeah, I know it's weird . . .”

“No, no, it's not that at all.” I wanted to tell her that knowing her made the night sky feel, if not crowded, at least a little less lonely—my star shining a little brighter with the company.

“Let's go get something to eat,” I said instead. “My treat.”

That afternoon, when I got home from the Flea, waiting for my parents to get ready for the movie, I thought about throwing the Santa away.

But some impulse in me couldn't go that far, so instead I crammed it in the back of a dresser drawer, behind all my sweaters where I couldn't see it.

THE NEXT MORNING AT SCHOOL
, I was walking to my locker, when someone squeezed my elbow, and a thrill ran electric through me.

“Hey, Scout,” Keats said, and I marveled again at the reality of him wanting to be with me. My heart pulsed in my chest, like it was trying to find its way to him.

“How are you?” I asked, leaning against my locker. I liked the way he leaned around me when I did.

“I'm not feeling so good, you know?”

I frowned. “That sucks.”

He grinned. “I don't think you're feeling so good either.”

“What?”

“You know. There's been something going around, and I thought you might have caught it too.”

“No, I'm actually feeling pretty good.”

He sighed. I decided I'd read it as an amused sigh.

“Scout, let me be frank:
I think you should cut with me today.”

Ahh—it
was
an amused sigh!

“Really?”

“Yeah. Wanna cut with me?”

I had never cut. If my parents found out, they'd freak, half because I'd never done anything grounding-worthy before, and half because they'd worry it was the first step on the path to being a delinquent. And I had a Spanish exam later that day and figured I should probably find Eph to make sure we were okay even though I wasn't sure we were. . . .