“That girl is so weird,” Carmen declares once she’s out of earshot. The other girls give each other uneasy glances, but I glare at Carmen. How does she not realize we’re in the wrong here?
“You’re just jealous that I have more hearts than you,” Jess eventually says, elbowing her in the ribs.
“Am not!” Carmen says. “Okay, what’re you guys doing? Open yours.”
Just when I was thinking about calling Carmen out for being more of a jerk than usual, I open my first paper heart.
Ella,
It’s normally you who is the sentimental one with these paper hearts. But now it’s my turn. We’ve been through so much this year and I don’t know what I’d do without you by my side. I want to make this last semester before college the most memorable one yet.
I love you more than pizza at Gino’s, Bachelor Mondays, and all the Froyo toppings. And we both know that’s A LOT.
XOXO Carmen
When I look up from reading the letter, Carmen’s smiling like she knows I opened hers first. I mouth I love you too while Jess and Katie are busy reading their own letters. Carmen reaches out to me under the table and squeezes my knee.
At the beginning of sixth grade, when my family moved to town, I dreaded being the new girl in school—but Carmen claimed me day one. She still reminds me of that from time to time. She tells me imagine if I didn’t befriend you. I can imagine. I remember worrying the whole summer whether I’d have someone to sit with at lunch. Luckily, I totally got to avoid being the loser new girl because Carmen swooped me under her wing. Never mind the fact that she later admitted she just wanted to be my friend because I was pretty. I knew I was lucky to have her.
I’m still lucky, even though I have to remind myself of that sometimes. Because even though she can be a lot, there’s a lot to love. Plus, I know deep down she’s not as tough as she makes it seem and she values our friendship over anything. Psychologists say that if you’re friends with someone for over seven years, it’ll last a lifetime. We’re going on seven now, and that’s just one of the reasons we’ll be friends forever.
The other paper hearts are from guys I only sort of know. The first is from a boy named Andre Johnson who I used to do student government with. It says Happy Valentine’s Day. Planning the dance has been impossible without you. We miss your fun ideas, planning expertise, and of course, you. You’re welcome back at any time.
For a brief second, I wish I were busy calling florists to get the best deals for flowers and decorations.
The sadness must show on my face, because Carmen grabs the paper heart out of my hand and reads it.
“Who does this guy think he is?” Carmen says. “You’re over student government and you can make your own decisions. Next.”
I nod and read my next paper heart. It’s from a boy named Greg. I only know who he is because he’s on the baseball team. At least I know that much, so his paper heart makes sense.
Roses are red, violets are blue, it would be an honor to get struck out by you. —Greg
I laugh as I read it out loud. “Do you think he wrote it or one of his teammates?”
“Who cares? He’s cute!” Carmen says.
Jess eyes her. “When I liked him sophomore year, you said he was too short.”
“Yeah, for you,” Carmen says. “Not for Ella. Find someone you can wear your Jimmy Choo heels with to the Valentine’s Day Dance.”
“Well, Miss Five Foot Two over here takes all the tall guys like Pete,” Jess says. She says it staring at my last paper heart like it could be from him.
“I know what you’re thinking, and no, it isn’t,” I say.
“How do you know? Everyone wants our high school’s best couple to get back together.”
My cheeks warm. That may be true, but there’s no way this is from Pete. People sometimes get creative with their paper hearts, but this one is beyond. Before I can argue that it isn’t Pete, Jess’s long arm reaches across the table and she snatches the paper heart from me. I try to grab it back, but she’s already unfolding it. When it’s fully opened, she frowns.
“What?” I ask. “Who’s it from?”
“It doesn’t say,” she says, frowning again at the letter. “It doesn’t really say anything.”
“What does that even mean?” Carmen asks, reaching for the paper.
“Can you guys be careful, please?” I whine. “You’re going to rip it.”
Carmen ignores me and grabs the letter from Jess’s hands. When she’s done reading it, she looks at me.
“She’s right. It’s from another weirdo.”
“Can I be the judge of that, please?”
Carmen pushes the paper across the table to me. I read it once and then twice, like the words will magically click into some sort of meaning—but they don’t. I blink at the three words that I don’t understand: Clover and Gold.
“Oh come on. Why am I the only one who doesn’t get to know?” Katie complains. I hand her the paper.
“Do you have any idea what that means?” Carmen asks.
I shake my head as Jess whips out her phone and begins to type. “Nothing comes up on Google,” she says.
“Sorry, girl,” Katie says, sliding the paper back to me. “I don’t know what it means either.”
I frown. “But, guys, what do I—”
“Just forget about it,” Carmen says, then starts talking about the game tonight. But I don’t care about the game, I think, staring at the watercolored piece of paper in front of me. I care about who sent me this mysterious paper heart.
* * *
Once the bell rings, Jess and Katie go in one direction and Carmen and I head in the other. She has study hall now, so she always comes with me to my locker because it doesn’t really matter if she’s late.
“So are you actually going to the game tonight?” Carmen asks once we get to my locker. She pulls a lip gloss out of her white leather backpack, and I get a whiff of strawberries as she puts it on in front of the mirror hanging on my locker door.
“Maybe,” I answer.
She blinks at me. “Why do you always do this, Ellie? Please, for me? I’ve been talking to Anthony…and I could really use my best friend there.”
“Anthony? Basketball Anthony Barbo?”
She smiles. “Yeah, I think I really like him. We’ve been texting a lot. I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I didn’t want to jinx it or…” She trails off, looking down.
“Wow. That’s great,” I say, trying to sound supportive and not completely surprised since we normally tell each other everything right away. “Really. I can totally see this.”
She looks back up. “So, will you come to the game?”
“I promise to think about it,” I say, and I smile because I do desperately wish I could be the person she remembers. It’s just not that simple. She narrows her eyes at me in a way that makes me feel like she’s looking for her best friend.
I’m about to say something when the bell rings and I quickly forget what it was. I sigh.
I’ve been holding out hope that one day—maybe, just maybe—I’ll remember why I left the Valentine’s Day Dance early by myself. Why I broke up with Pete three weeks before the dance when we were Arlington High School’s most perfect couple. Why I can’t remember putting those three items in my secret hideaway.
But if I can forget something that I was just thinking about a second ago, how on earth am I supposed to remember all that?
“I—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“We’re already late,” she says. “I’ll see you later.”
When she leaves, I don’t chase her and tell her that I’ve changed my mind. That of course I’ll be her wing woman.
Instead, I open my backpack and look at my mysterious paper heart again before walking to class.
People like to use the phrase on brand, especially when they’ve figured theirs out. But what if you don’t know what your brand is yet? What if you think your brand is one thing and it’s completely different? Like when Dunkin’ Donuts dropped the “Donuts” from their name but kept selling donuts? Talk about delusional.
I guess if someone were to ask me how I viewed myself before the accident, I would’ve said your typical high school girl who works hard but also likes to have fun with her friends. Aside from my type A tendencies, which sometimes get the best of me, I would have said my life was pretty great. On the outside, it may even have appeared picture-perfect.
It wasn’t until after my accident that I realized that might not be my brand after all. Or at least, that wasn’t how other people saw me.
When the news broke that I was in the hospital, more people than I ever imagined sent me flowers. When the flowers died, my mom and sister kept the cards for me in a shoe box so I could read them once I was up to it. One day while I was on bed rest, my sister came to my room to bring me water. I don’t remember what prompted me to ask to see the pile she saved for me. Maybe I was in a good mood that morning—but all I remember is feeling the complete opposite later.
Ashley handed me the shoe box, and I read the cards one by one. None of them were mean, per se, but the messages behind the wording started to get to me. A girl named Sadie wrote, I know we haven’t been friends since middle school after that sleepover but I just really wanted to let you know I’m thinking about you and I hope you’re okay. I had never really thought about how we drifted apart, but she was right—we did. I’d never realized there was a real reason, though.
To be honest, I didn’t even know what sleepover she meant. For the most part, my sleepovers were pretty typical. We would paint our nails with the newest Essie shades or do facial masks. We always did karaoke. Sometimes we’d play a game called Truth or Text, which is basically Truth or Dare but instead of a dare, the person next to you can send a text to anyone in your contacts. I was happy just painting nails, but my friends insisted that we play, and I, being the pushover I am at times, agreed. The game got tense, especially when embarrassing texts were sent. Carmen said that was what made it so fun. But maybe it wasn’t fun for everyone?
There was another card from a girl named Alex McCormack that said I know we’ve had our differences but that she donated to GoFundMe because no one should have to go through what I did. Another from a girl who has been in my homeroom for the past three years who started off by explaining who she was because I probably didn’t know. It wasn’t that she intended to be hurtful—she finished the note saying that she can’t wait until I’m back on my feet. But it hurt, like all these cards did. They were all heartfelt well-wishes, but to me the underlying message was that people didn’t see me the way I wanted to be seen. I read between the lines—they saw me as someone who didn’t care about anyone but myself.
The worst part though, was that maybe they were right.
I remember touching the bandages on my chest and wondering if I was ugly on the inside too. I quickly shoved away the thought. If my mom saw me crying one more time, she’d make me see my new psychiatrist until I was twenty. But the thing about thoughts you try to shove away is that they push back harder than most.
As I started putting the cards back in the shoe box, I vowed to be different. I still didn’t know what “brand” I was, but at that moment I realized I’d rather it be anything else.
Still, rebranding yourself is easier said than done. That was months ago, and at this rate, I might as well wait until college.
I sigh before staring at my watercolored paper heart again, wondering who the sender could be. At least the message isn’t like any of the get-well cards, I think, but I still have this feeling in me that I’m supposed to know what Clover and Gold means—or that I did once, anyway.
Like this mysterious paper heart shouldn’t be so mysterious at all.
Chapter 3
After school I’m helping my mom make dinner when Ashley comes in the kitchen to say she’s going to the game with Steve and then to the Daily Planet. Normally, everybody goes to the diner after a big win, but Ashley isn’t the type to go to school functions. She claims she gets claustrophobic, but that doesn’t stop her from going to see weird indie bands she likes. I eye her suspiciously, wondering if she’s really going to some sketch concert at the Chance she doesn’t want my parents knowing about instead.
My mom looks up from the taco recipe I found on Pinterest while I slice onion for the guac. “Yes to the game, but Steve has to drive you back afterward.”
Ashley’s eyes blink rapidly underneath her heavy cat eyeliner and then she lets out a loud whine. “It’s not fair!”
My mom puts down her knife. “How’s this not fair?”
“Because you don’t need to do anything. Steve is going to drive me there and back. And besides…” She starts looking at me now. “Wasn’t Ella’s curfew like eleven?”
The way she said wasn’t in the past tense makes me frown. I’m still very much here in front of her face. But this is between her and my mom, so I’m not getting in the middle.
“Yes, but—” my mom starts.
“So mine should be eleven too,” Ashely interrupts, crossing her arms for effect. Ashley has been getting into more and more confrontations with her lately, so I’m not at all surprised, but my mom’s eyes widen. She opens her mouth like she’s going to say something but then shuts it again, pressing her lips together. Then she pulls her scrunchie tighter. It’s what she does when she’s about to cave and make a last-effort Monopoly deal during family game night. I guess she’s about to cave now too.
“Is anyone else going that I know?” my mom finally asks.
“Everyone is going,” Ashley insists. “You don’t need to worry at all.” She uncrosses her arms. “Please? I really want to be there.”
Her eyes start to glisten, like she’ll cry if she has to. I know the feeling all too well. There have been so many times I pleaded with my parents because missing something felt like the end of the world. I’m ready to hear my mom ask a follow-up question, but she turns to me, putting me right in the middle, which I’ve been trying to avoid.
“Are you going?”
I open my mouth, but Ashley beats me to it.
“Yes,” she answers for me.
I snap my head toward her, ready to argue, but when we lock eyes, hers say please do this for me. I’m begging you.
First Carmen and now her. They’re acting like tonight is life or death. It seems ridiculous to me now, but there was a time when this game would’ve meant the world to me too. One of the last basketball games of senior year. Celebrating afterward with the team at the diner, where we always got free milkshakes with our meals because the waitresses would say it was another taste of victory.
“Well, if Ella goes with you, you can go. I prefer that you two stick together in case of emergency.” Then she turns to me. “But only if you’re feeling up to it, sweetie.”
Ashley bites her tongue even though the look on her face says her thoughts are sizzling like the taco meat in the frying pan.
The thing is, you can’t tell my mom she’s being ridiculous or overprotective when she’s gone through what she has. I can’t even imagine how fast my mom’s heart dropped when the doctors called to say I was in the ICU. Or how she felt waking up my dad and sister so they could all drive to the hospital together.
Ashley can imagine it, though—she lived it.
That’s probably why she doesn’t have a tantrum right now. I don’t remember being so dramatic when I was her age, but Ashley is the queen of using emotional outbursts to get what she wants. She nods calmly now, though, and without another word, it’s settled: Ashley can go to the game and to the diner afterward…if I go.
* * *
We make it through dinner withou
t talking about the game.
My dad is a science professor at Vassar College and my mom is a doctor with her own practice, so dinner is always full of interesting things to talk about. TV shows make it seem like family meal conversations are torturous, but ours are the complete opposite, especially after the accident. Now we make a point to come together for dinner. No phones. No distractions. Tonight, Ashley sets the table with our molcajete in the middle, filled with guacamole.
When my dad tells a funny story about one of his students, we all laugh, and my mom smiles at him, eyes glistening.
Not to be sappy, but whenever my mom looks at my dad like that, I know love is real.
They met back in college at the dining hall. My mom wrote her number on a napkin and handed it to him. He called her that same night, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. I know this because they love telling the story of how they first met. My mom remembers every detail, from the blue collared shirt my dad was wearing to the chocolate milkshake he was drinking with his fries. When asked the same question, my dad always says he’ll never forget one thing: my mom’s smile. He still has that napkin, so I guess you can say romantic hoarding runs in the family.
Chapter 4
After dinner I dash upstairs to my room. Everything about it looks like it came from a Pinterest board, from my bookshelf organized by color to the floating shelves on my walls decorated with plants and photos of me and my friends. It’s spotless too. Every morning I make sure to line up all the pillows on the bed so they’re stacked like it is a magazine shoot, which my sister loves to point out is just another type A thing about me.
But today has been a day, so as soon as I enter my room, I fling myself into my pile of pillows, scattering them everywhere, and toss my phone to the side. It’s been buzzing since school ended, but I’ve been ignoring it. I know they’re texts from Carmen, Jess, and Katie. We’ve had a group chat called Brat Chat since the summer before high school, when we promised each other we’d be best friends forever.
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