11 Paper Hearts (Underlined Paperbacks)

by Kelsey Hartwell

  But that night she organized a spur-of-the-moment scavenger hunt for our favorite seniors vs. juniors. I had been anxious about going because it would be a lot of girls crammed into one SUV, but I’m so glad I did because now it’s one of my favorite memories. At the end of the night we were all looking at the photo evidence of who checked what off the list. Take a picture of yourself kissing someone in the old phone booth at the Daily Planet. Take a picture of yourself getting a piggyback from a freshman. Bonus point if you get video of them carrying you across the football field. It was a hilarious night all around, but one of the funnier parts was when our teams showed each other what we did.

  I still remember being completely shocked that the juniors managed to get a photo with a teacher—one girl just happened to be neighbors with Ms. Cawfield and snapped a selfie with her in the background taking out the trash. I remember giggling with everyone until I looked over at Carmen. She was silent, her lips pressed together like she was thinking about something else entirely. When she caught my eye, she smiled like everything was fine, but in that moment, I realized what the entire night was about. Why the times she seems like she’s having the most fun, she’s really trying to keep it together. I grabbed her hand—the one with our friendship bracelet still dangling from her wrist—and squeezed hard, like I’d never let go.

  We don’t talk about it, but I know she hates that we’ll all be going to different schools in the fall. Maybe she doesn’t say anything because she thinks I’ll follow her, like I always do. I shake that thought out of my head now as I focus on what I’m going to say.

  Still, we’ve been distant lately so I’m not positive. I go from scanning my notebook to scrolling through social media to see if there are any boys I’m not thinking of. I’m stalking a quiet but cute guy in my physics class who liked the last photo of mine, when a new message pops up from someone named AndrewG on Facebook. I’m confused until I scroll through the feed and see pictures of Library Boy.

  Wow. I didn’t expect to hear from him again, especially when he didn’t ask for my number.

  When’s your next love mystery adventure?

  Maybe it’s because I adore the sound of love mystery adventure that I type back right away.

  9 o’clock tomorrow morning.

  I’m planning on catching a ride with Ashley as she goes to work. I close out and continue scrolling through Physics Class Guy’s page, when I see that Andy messaged me again. I don’t have to open it to see the two-word response.

  I’m coming.

  No you aren’t, I think, but don’t bother responding yet. I’m too tired to come up with a witty way to say not happening. Tonight was fun, but I need to follow these paper hearts on my own. Isn’t that the point?

  As I’m scanning the list of potential admirers over again, I hear a knock on my door.

  “Come in,” I say, putting my notebook on the nightstand next to my phone.

  The door cracks open and my dad peeks his head in. Lately, his hair has been getting grayer, but according to him that just means he’s getting wiser.

  “I just came in to say good night,” he says. His eyes are slightly shut, like he’s really tired. He must have waited to go to bed until we got home safe.

  I give him a small smile. “You didn’t have to stay up,” I say, but he brushes his hand to the side like it’s no big deal.

  “Did you have fun tonight with Ashley?”

  “Yeah,” I say. Lying by omission was easier than this. Now I feel a twinge of guilt. Maybe Andy was right to call me a Goody Two-shoes.

  “That’s great, El. It makes me so happy to see the two of you doing stuff together again.”

  The little guilt I had before suddenly increases. “Er…yeah. Me too,” I say. My stomach feels queasy, and I know if he keeps asking questions, I’m going to tell him the truth.

  “And I’m glad you’re getting yourself out there again,” my dad says in a very Dad Way that makes even him smile. “But I know you don’t need to hear that from me.”

  I nod. “No, I get it. I’m glad too.”

  “Can I ask another Dad Thing?” he asks.

  I smile. “Sure.”

  “How’s everything been going? Do you feel all caught up with school?”

  “Yep. Nothing out of the ordinary,” I say.

  He nods. “Ordinary is good.”

  He’s right. Ordinary has been welcome these days, at least until I found the paper hearts.

  But I’m going to keep those a secret, like my loose floorboard.

  “Good night,” I say.

  “Sweet dreams.”

  Chapter 9

  The next morning, I try to dress like I could be meeting my mystery admirer.

  I have eight more paper hearts to go, so there’s no chance of that, but it’s still fun to think about. Even when there are things in your life that feel out of control, outfits are one thing you can. Planning what you’re wearing is kind of like planning for an event. You have to think about colors that clash and what will make the right statement.

  Trying to look effortlessly pretty ironically can sometimes take the most effort, though. Soon I’ve tried on practically everything I own in front of my standing mirror before settling on a sweater with black pants that are stretchy enough to ice-skate in.

  I send a picture of my outfit to Carmen with multiple SOS emojis, but she doesn’t answer. At first I see three dots like she’s going to respond, and then nothing. I hope she’s not still mad at me.

  I sit on my bed, waiting for a response that never comes. I tell myself to be patient. That she’s just busy doing something and she’ll text me any second. But I don’t want Ashley to leave without me on her way to work. She started working when she wanted to be able to pay for guitar lessons. Two years later she still has the same job, and she’s pretty good at the guitar too. Sometimes I think she’s listening to music and it’s just her practicing in her room.

  When Carmen doesn’t respond, I decide I’m going to have to make this outfit call on my own. At least not yoga pants and UGGs, I think, remembering Andy’s remark before I head downstairs.

  Ashley’s sitting at the kitchen table, eating cereal. She nods at me when she sees me to say good morning as she continues crunching loudly. It would be a fine exchange if it wasn’t for the fact that she’s not in her usual barista outfit—all black with a hat that says cool beans. Instead, she’s in Under Armour, and her puff ski jacket is draped around her chair. But I guess it doesn’t matter so long as she drives me first.

  “I need a ride to the ice-skating rink,” I say, thinking my best approach is to just ask.

  She takes a sip of the milk. “Can’t. Me and Steve are playing hooky and going snowboarding.”

  “Okay, so you’re not working. Even more reason you can drive me.”

  I don’t even bother asking her when she started snowboarding. We always ski together, but maybe this was another thing she thinks is stupid.

  Ashley shakes her head. “Steve is going to be here any second,” she says.

  “Ashley, I need a ride! Can Steve take me?”

  She shakes her head, mouth full of cereal. Her phone starts buzzing, so she shoves a last bite into her mouth before carrying it to the sink. “Not today, Ella.”

  I stare, dumbfounded, thinking about what to do next. Both of my parents work on Saturdays. Should I kill her with kindness? Bribe her? Now is the time I wish I had some cool piece of jewelry to offer her, but we have such different styles she wouldn’t bite even if I did.

  She must see how anxious I feel, because she scowls at me like it isn’t her fault I’m feeling this way. “Can’t you just ask Carmen?” she asks.

  “She must be busy. She hasn’t texted me back all morning,” I say, mentally debating whether now would be a good time to start pouting. I’m not above it,
especially when my plans are at stake.

  “No offense,” she says looking at me. “But this is an example of why you should just get over this not-driving thing.”

  I glare at her. “Offense taken.”

  “Sorry, girlie,” she says, but she’s not sorry. She’s just making it clear she’s not going to do it.

  I’m about to beg. My brain starts thinking of all the ways I can say please, please, please, please! without sounding as desperate as I feel. I could tell her about the paper hearts, but would she even care? It doesn’t seem like it.

  I storm over to the key ring on the wall and take the keys to the car. They’re the same ones I used to drive the car with, except Ashley has replaced my floral key chain with a retro-looking one of a mix tape. When it opens up, it fits her AirPods inside. Well, hopefully she’s not trying to listen to music today, because I’m driving.

  Honestly, I don’t even care if she does. I can’t believe her right now. Why is she being so difficult?

  I make my way out to the driveway, where the car is parked, and open the driver’s side. As soon as I sit, my butt is cold on the leather. I have the urge to get out of the car—and being freezing isn’t the only reason.

  The main one is that I haven’t driven since the accident.

  The car is completely stationary, just sitting here in my driveway, and my heart still starts racing a mile a minute. You’re going to be fine, I tell myself as I’m buckling my seat belt. It’s just like riding a bike. But I can’t bring myself to lift the keys to the ignition. The ridges of the metal are now pressed into my skin from squeezing it so hard.

  Once I realize this, I loosen my grip. Get it together, I tell myself before forcing my hands to start the car. There’s a part of me that hopes the muscle memory will help me remember the accident, but it only reminds me of the last time I attempted to get behind the wheel—I couldn’t leave the driveway without having a panic attack. This time will be different, I urge myself.

  I think about turning the music on, but what if there’s a song playing that makes me jumpier? Then, because I’m already panicking, I start wondering what I was listening to when I crashed. Why are you thinking about that now? I plead with myself.

  But it’s too late. I’m already thinking about that and how one wrong move in a car can send your vehicle spiraling. Horrible questions and thoughts begin to spiral in my mind. How many people crash in perfectly fine weather? How many people text and drive or goof around with their friends in the backseat? How many grandmas can hardly see but still have their licenses? The bad possibilities keep popping into my head faster than I can stop them—so quick that before I know it, my breathing is faster too. I try breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, like you’re supposed to do when trying to stay calm, except I’m anything but calm right now. As I look down at the steering wheel, I can feel my mind blacking out, like it sometimes does when I’m really nervous. Then suddenly I go from breathing fast to feeling like I can’t breathe at all. With the last amount of energy in my body, I reach for the door handle.

  I’m still breathing heavily, but the second I’m outside the color returns to my eyes. I’m relieved but frustrated at the same time. Driving is my only option to get to the next paper heart unless I ride my bike all the way there….Or is it?

  I reach for my coat pocket and pull out my phone to message Andy my address, worried that he’s going to take his time to respond since I blew him off last night, but he responds instantly.

  Is this a new clue?

  I reply.

  No. My address.

  Are you admitting I’m good at solving mysteries?

  My cheeks get hot and I type back faster.

  Pick me up, will you?

  You don’t have to be so demanding Watson. JK on my way.

  I heave a sigh of relief in the driveway. Problem solved.

  Not even a minute later, his Jeep Wrangler is pulling up. I reluctantly walk over to the car. When I approach the passenger seat, the window is rolled down. Andy’s sitting there with a huge grin. “Hey there, neighbor.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Neighbor?”

  “Yeah. Me and my mom just moved down the street. The yellow house.”

  “What happened to the Florrises?” I ask.

  “Who’s that?”

  “The old couple who lived there before you.”

  He shrugs. “No idea.”

  “I thought you were a detective.”

  “No,” he laughs. “Just your driver, apparently. Get in.”

  * * *

  We get to the ice-skating rink by 9:05, but those five minutes annoy me more than I’d like to admit.

  I’m not irritated for long, though. I step out of the car and I’m reminded once again that this place is as close to magic as you can get. The mountain house itself is more like a Victorian fortress beside a frozen lake. Next to the mountain house is a large pavilion with an ice rink. If a winter wonderland exists, this would be it.

  The morning is the best time to go. In the afternoon the ice will have zigzag marks ingrained all over it from the skaters’ turns. But now the ice is crystal clear from the Zamboni.

  There also isn’t much of a crowd. One dad is there with his little girl, who can’t be older than three. They’re standing in front of us in the rentals line. She’s twirling in an adorable tutu that looks like it could be part of a Frozen costume. The mom is sitting off on the side, getting her professional-grade camera ready to capture this big moment.

  But as excited as this little girl might be, I know there’s no way her heart is racing faster than mine.

  As we wait in line, I pull out the paper heart, holding it in my gloved hands.

  The next heart is at the peak of winter wonderland.

  “Are you going to tell me what the clue is?” Andy asks, trying to peer over my shoulder. I put the heart back in my coat pocket.

  “You don’t believe me that it’s here?” I retort. But as confidently as I say that, I look around and start doubting myself. The far side of the rink is where my last Instagram photo was taken—the one I can’t remember taking because it was during those eleven weeks. But I can tell where I was skating from the trees in the background.

  “I’m not doubting you, just wondering why you’re sure it’s ice-skating. I did not sign up for cardio.”

  “The last time I checked, you did volunteer. But you don’t need to do this with me—you just have to wait for me to finish so I can have a ride home.”

  “Oh no, I can’t leave Watson hanging,” he says, stepping up to the counter as the father and daughter leave.

  I’m about to argue that he can drop the Sherlock Holmes act when the girl behind the counter asks for our skate sizes. I eye her suspiciously as I say six and a half. Maybe my mystery admirer told the ticket girl about the paper hearts, like they did to the man at the flower shop? But the girl hands me my skates without batting an eye. I sigh. So much for that.

  We gather our skates and then find a small wooden bench so we can put them on. I string my laces together quickly, ready to hit the rink, but Andy takes his time, lacing his up like he’s learning to tie his shoes. When he’s finally done, he pulls the laces undone and starts over.

  “Really? What’s taking so long, diva?” I ask him.

  “I’m not being a diva. I’m just trying to figure out if I need new skates. I think they messed up my size. These are so tight.”

  “They’re supposed to feel tight. Have you never skated before?”

  “Yeah, just not with rentals,” he says with a nervousness in his voice that makes me wonder if I buy it. “What, you don’t believe me?” he asks, reading my face and smirking. “I bet I can go around this rink seventeen times before you.”

  “You’re such a guy,” I say.

  His sm
irk disappears. “What does that mean?”

  I start walking toward the rink. “That you’re confident for no reason.”

  “Oh, I have a reason,” he says, taking a step too and noticeably wobbling.

  I stifle a laugh.

  “I’ll get the hang of it,” he says, taking another step toward me.

  “We’re just walking now,” I laugh. “Wait until we’re on the ice.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” he says, pulling a beanie out of his jacket pocket and putting it on. If I didn’t know he had never skated before, he could’ve fooled me. Something about him looks like a pro hockey player. Probably because of how tall he looks now. He’s already over six feet, and his skates make him look even taller. But I definitely don’t tell him this—his ego is big enough as it is.

  “Just try to keep up. I’m on a mission here, remember?” I say.

  Then I take a deep breath of the refreshingly cold air. I’m so excited I’m practically skipping on my way to the rink.

  I scan the rink for any clues. The girl back at the counter didn’t seem to know anything. Did anyone else? Would they recognize me? So far, I only see a custodian in the corner mopping up something that looks like spilled hot chocolate by the outdoor fire.

  Maybe I should’ve paid more attention to the first girl at the entrance. She was too busy on her phone to even care that she worked at an ice-skating rink on a beautiful mountain. All I really remember is that she had light brown hair in a long braid that rested on her shoulder and slightly covered her name badge. Only the letters ie were visible, which could basically mean any name: Marie, Allie, Cassie, Julie…