11 Paper Hearts (Underlined Paperbacks)

by Kelsey Hartwell

  True, but I still did.

  Andy studies my face. “What’re you thinking?” he says.

  I look at him, debating if I’m going to tell him. It’s the one thing I won’t be able to take back, but it’s what is best.

  “I know you’ve given me a year, but I need more time.”

  Chapter 25

  Spring

  “We could sell carnations,” Tommy suggests. He’s the freshman who gave me my paper hearts in the cafeteria back in February. I learned his name when I rejoined student government in March.

  “We can be more original than carnations,” Sarah says, shaking her head. The two braided buns on the sides of her head move back and forth.

  “But how?” Brian asks. “The only other thing on our fund-raising list for the Spring Fling is a kissing booth, which will never get approved by Principal Wheeler.

  Sarah looks at me, because we spent the weekend brainstorming.

  “Sarah and I have been thinking,” I start. “It’s a little more complicated than hearts, but if we do a flower design, we can hold the same fund-raiser we have for the paper hearts.” Sarah reaches into the bag she bought at the Brooklyn Flea last weekend when we went on a day trip together. She pulls out two paper flowers we made as examples on the train ride back. “Voilà!” she says, holding them up for everyone to see. We used cool patterned pink paper and cut it in the shapes of lilies.

  “Oooh, let me see!” a girl named Patrice says, grabbing one. Sarah passes the other to another girl, Lauren, next to her.

  “How’s copying ourselves original?” Tommy argues.

  “It’s totally different,” Sarah says. “Besides, everyone needs a little pick-me-up for spring. What better way to spread cheer than with paper flowers?”

  As the others in the group nod, the vote becomes unanimous. We’ll be doing paper flowers to raise money for Spring Fling. Sarah squeezes my hand in excitement.

  My first idea back on the planning committee is approved.

  * * *

  After the meeting, Sarah and I drive to Smoothie King to celebrate. Ashley comes too. I order a strawberry-and-pineapple one, and once we all have our drinks, we find a table outside.

  “To the Idea Queen,” Sarah says as she raises her smoothie. Ashley raises hers too.

  “You guys don’t have—” I start.

  “Come on!” Ashley interrupts. “We’re just waiting on you.”

  I reluctantly raise my smoothie and we toast.

  “Thank you both,” I say before taking a sip. “For celebrating with me…and, well, for everything.”

  A lot of things changed after I found my last paper heart.

  I haven’t spoken to Carmen since the night of the Valentine’s Day Dance. I’m not saying there won’t be a day when I forgive her. But if I let her back in now, I won’t forgive myself.

  I haven’t spoken to Jess either, but Katie has been reaching out a lot lately, apologizing. She asked if we could meet up at Pink Drinks to talk. I said I’d love to talk but that we should try something different for a change. The plan is still in the works, but we’re getting together next week.

  In the meantime, I rejoined student government and became friends with Sarah again, which is amazing because we’re both starting school at Columbia in the fall. We haven’t been friends again for very long, but it feels like I’ve known her for ages. From everything I’ve learned over the past year, I can say one thing: people change like the weather, but you have to find the friends that brighten your day like a ray of sunshine and the ones that will be by your side in a storm.

  Oh, and those social media passwords I could never figure out—I tried Andrew’s birthday and was finally able to log in to my accounts. Life is funny like that. I have also created a new page just for my book quote calligraphy, which has been exploding.

  “You don’t need to thank me again,” Ashley says now. “I think a hundred and one times is enough. Although you could…,” she says, looking at Sarah. “Never mind.”

  “Could what?” I demand. “Say it.”

  She bites her lip. “I’m just wondering when you’re going to thank Drew. He was part of it too, you know.”

  My cheeks burn at his name. Maybe because she called him Drew instead of Andy. Plus, he’s all I’ve been thinking about these past couple of weeks, no matter how hard I’ve tried to forget him. The irony is not lost on me.

  “I think you should at least talk to him. You said it yourself on the train ride this weekend that you miss him.”

  I glare at her. “Whose side are you on?”

  “We just want you to be happy,” Ashley says. “And you were so happy with Andrew. What’s holding you back?”

  “He tried to re-create our love story. I get how that’s romantic, but it’s just not…” I trail off.

  “Not what you wanted your love story to be?” Sarah finishes.

  I nod. “I know it’s silly. And after all that, I can’t imagine Andy…I mean Andrew. I can’t imagine him wanting to be with a girl who turned down a romantic gesture like that. Talk about ungrateful. All this time I’ve known him, I thought he was slightly jaded about love because of some old girlfriend, and that ended up being me. I don’t want to mess up more than I already have,” I say, looking down at my smoothie.

  “Why can’t you just say all that?” Sarah says, like it’s easy.

  “Oh yeah, like when you didn’t want to tell me we were actually friends because Carmen said she’d tell me and everyone else you were crazy?”

  “That’s different,” she says. “I didn’t want to confuse you during an already confusing time. And I didn’t tell you that so you could use it against me, you jerk.”

  “We’re just surprised that you don’t have a plan, is all,” Ashley starts. “I mean, think about everything I did for you. The spying on you to find out where you were. The organization of the paper hearts, plotting when to deliver each one. Pretending to be you is hard.”

  “Who said I don’t have a plan?” I say, pulling a paper heart out of my bag.

  “What heart is that?” Ashley asks.

  I shake my head. “It’s not one of the hearts you gave me. It’s a new one I wrote to Andrew. I just haven’t figured out what to do with it.”

  Sarah and Ashley’s eyes widen. “Give it to him!” they yell in unison.

  “I can’t just give it to him. I haven’t seen him in weeks….”

  “So? He waited for you for a year,” Sarah says. “Don’t you get this is a love story meant to happen?”

  “It’s true,” Ashley says. “Why do you think I broke up with Steve? You gave me hope for a better love story.”

  I look at both my best friend and my sister pleading in front of me.

  “Come on,” Ashley says. “You were the one who started this paper hearts thing for a reason—so people could tell one another how they really feel. This is your chance.”

  “When should I do it?”

  “Now!” they scream again in unison.

  “But really,” Sarah says. “And I happen to know he’s working.”

  I take a deep breath before nodding. They’re right—this is something I need to do, not just for us but for me.

  If I’m being honest with myself, he’s the real reason I felt so lost this year. Now I know why—he borrowed my heart like a library book, but he never really gave it back.

  * * *

  My palms are sweating as I make my way up the steps of the library to where we first met.

  Or at least where I remember meeting Andrew.

  When I walk inside, he’s sitting at the front desk, reading a book. I sigh. His hair is a little messy like the last time I saw him.

  He looks up and his mouth drops. I quickly walk over to him.

  “Hey,” I say when I reach the desk.
<
br />   “Hey,” he says back. All my nerves disappear as his dimple appears.

  “I don’t mean to bother you at work,” I say. “But I have something I wrote. Something I need to read to you. Is that okay?”

  He looks around. “Only if you use your library voice.”

  I smile. “I can do that.”

  I reach into my purse and remove the paper heart I’ve been carrying around with me for a couple of weeks. The creases in the paper are deep from how many times I’ve opened the letter and then refolded it. The words I’m about to read are practically memorized.

  “ ‘All my life I dreamed about how I’d meet my person. Maybe at a concert or across the room. I’d read stories and hope that my love story would be like a fairy tale. It sounds cliché but it’s true,’ ” I say. I look up from my paper and see Andrew smiling. My hands are shaky as I clutch the letter, but his smile keeps me going.

  “ ‘But it’s not the beginning of a story that matters. It’s how you end it. If my accident taught me anything, it’s that life isn’t picture-perfect. You don’t get to plan what life throws at you. You can’t plan love. But you can plan to do what makes you happy.’ ” I look up with a small tear threatening to escape my eye. There’s no need to read the letter now. The rest is straight from the heart.

  “I believe in love letters and sweet memories that you can keep forever in the back of your mind. I believe in the power of first love and second chances. I believe in looking up at the stars and the twinkle in your eyes. I still believe that once in your life you meet someone that changes everything. I may not remember how I met you, but I remember how you made me feel—and that’s why I’m here. To tell you that I was wrong. We both were. You re-creating our love story was the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me, but it’s not our love story anymore.”

  I move closer to him. “I…I want to start a new love story with you.”

  In one quick swoop he reaches across the desk and takes my face in his hands. “It would be my privilege to go on another love mystery adventure with you,” he says. My heart has never beat faster.

  Then we kiss. We kiss as people start clapping at the tables nearby. We kiss as he holds my face tighter. We kiss as I feel him smile with my lips.

  Once we finally let go, I hand him the paper heart I read him.

  “I get to keep it? Why, thank you,” Andrew says, grinning.

  “Yeah, but you have to read the clue at the bottom.”

  “Clue?” He raises an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, since I don’t remember our first real date and our second first date doesn’t count, I’m declaring today our first real date. Well, dates, really. There are eleven spots total—get ready for the best day ever.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, where are we going first?” he asks, while reading the clue underneath my message. Andrew smiles. “Okay, but you better have gone easy on me….”

  “Never,” I answer. Then I lean over and kiss him again, and it truly feels like we’re starting our new love story. And this time, I know I’m going to remember every detail.

  Acknowledgments

  A special thanks to my editor extraordinaire, Wendy Loggia, who gave this book so much love, and to my brilliant designer, Casey Moses, whose hand-lettering would make Ella proud. I’d also like to give eleven paper hearts to Bonnie Cutler, Lili Feinberg, Colleen Fellingham, Erica Henegen, Beverly Horowitz, Alison Impey, Jenn Inzetta, Victoria Rodriquez, Alison Romig, Tamar Schwartz, and Elizabeth Ward for their hard work making this book possible. Most of all, thank you to my friends, family, and real-life adventure partners for the inspiration.

  Chapter One

  Growing up in New York City is a crash course in the art of self-defense. I don’t mean learning martial arts or the proper way to use a stun gun or anything like that. I mean, quickly and accurately assessing people and situations for potential disasters so you can avoid them before they happen.

  That discounted MetroCard someone’s trying to sell you on the street? It’s a scam.

  That guy sitting in the corner of the subway car, making kissy noises and hissing in your direction? Don’t make eye contact.

  That one lonely cockroach you saw zooming across your kitchen counter the other day? It’s never one lonely cockroach. Trust me when I say there’s a million more where that came from. Have your parents call the landlord, pronto.

  Basically, if you want to survive (and keep your apartment vermin-free), you need to know trouble when you see it.

  And I know trouble when I see it.

  This morning, trouble takes the form of Jason Eisler, strolling into American History with a goofy grin and an easy stride. On the surface, there’s nothing concerning going on here. Just a teenage boy rolling into class, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, backpack bouncing with each step.

  But I know Jason too well not to be concerned. There’s a certain subtle glimmer he gets in his chocolate-brown eyes when he’s up to no good. The first time I remember seeing it, we were in second grade, and he’d somehow managed to sneak a lifelike rubber tarantula into our teacher’s top desk drawer. When poor Ms. Chen opened it up, she went paler than Marshmallow Fluff, shrieking so loudly that one of the girls at table two started to cry. Five minutes later, the principal showed up in our classroom, his bushy eyebrows furrowed with disdain as Ms. Chen explained what happened. Jason wasn’t fazed, though. He just giggled, eyes glimmering, as he followed the principal out the door.

  In the intervening decade, Jason’s pranks have become more sophisticated, more interesting, but that glimmer in his eyes is still the same. It dances a little now when he looks my way.

  “What’s up, Ashley?” he calls from the front of the room. People turn to check me out, but I slide farther down in my chair and glare at the scratched desktop. I want no part of whatever he’s got planned.

  The bell chimes to signal the start of the period, and five seconds later, Ms. Henley closes the classroom door. “Take your seats, please,” she says. After everyone settles in, she projects a slideshow about the Cuban Missile Crisis onto the whiteboard. You’d think she’d go easy on us since it’s the last day of school before two weeks of spring break, but that has never been Ms. Henley’s style.

  “Today we’re going to discuss the role diplomacy played in…” Her voice trails off when the door squeaks open, and I think I see a thin curl of smoke wafting from each of her nostrils. Ms. Henley hates latecomers. Her shoulders hunch toward her ears, and I can tell she’s preparing to lay into this unfortunate soul with a tirade about time wasting and personal responsibility. But when she sees who it is, her shoulders relax again.

  It’s Walker Beech, the opposite of trouble.

  He looks appropriately contrite. “Sorry I’m late, Ms. Henley.”

  “It’s okay, Walker.” She waves away his apology with a casual smile. “We were just getting started.”

  Only Walker Beech could elicit such a warmhearted response from the iciest teacher at Edward R. Murrow High School.

  As Walker slips inside and gently closes the door behind him, I try not to stare. It’s no use, though. His body’s like a magnet dragging my attention away from Ms. Henley, who’s now gesturing toward a map of Cuba. She’s droning on about the Bay of Pigs, but all I can focus on is Walker’s hair, the way his thick brown curls defy gravity. I wonder if he spends a lot of time getting them so flawlessly tousled or if it’s a natural phenomenon. Probably the latter.

  At least I’m not the only one distracted by his magnificence. From my vantage point in the middle of the classroom, I can see at least three other people—Chelsea, Yaritza, Marcus—watching his every move. Their heads turn in unison, tracking him as he walks down the fourth row of desks, headed for the empty seat directly to my left.

  Omigod.

  He’s sitting next to me.

  In one motion, I sit up
straight and tuck my hair behind my ears, smoothing any flyaways. Not that he’s looking at me or anything. As he passes me, I get a whiff of his cologne. It smells like one of those clove-scented oranges Mom sets around the table at Christmastime.

  The moment he slides into his chair, he’s already engrossed in the lesson, notebook open to a blank sheet of paper, pen uncapped, ready to write. He squints his hazel eyes at the whiteboard, clearly fascinated by Ms. Henley’s discussion of geopolitical strife at the height of the Cold War.

  So dreamy. So mysterious.

  That’s the thing about Walker Beech—the thing that makes him the opposite of trouble. He’s always attentive in class, always completely respectful. I didn’t know him in second grade, but I’m certain he never hid a rubber tarantula in his teacher’s top desk drawer.

  Okay! Enough obsessing over Walker Beech.

  As I’m finally tuning in to Ms. Henley’s monotonous speech, I’m distracted yet again. This time by Jason, who’s fidgeting in his chair, shifting awkwardly with his arms folded across his chest. I’m sure he’s uncomfortable sitting in the front row, right under Ms. Henley’s nose, but it’s not like he has a choice in the matter. Those fart noises he made on the first day of the semester earned him the distinct honor of being the only person in class with an assigned seat.

  No one else seems clued in to Jason’s restlessness, but that’s not a surprise. Like I said, I know him really well.

  And I know when he’s hiding something.

  Right now, that something appears to be shiny and cylindrical and candy-apple red, because I see the end of it slipping out the bottom of his hoodie. He shifts again and it disappears. Behind him, Dmitry Yablokov props his phone up on his desk, angled beside his binder so Ms. Henley can’t see it—if she did, it would be locked in her file cabinet in two seconds flat. When he sets the video and slides his thumb to the record button, alarm bells go off in my head.