How to Build a Heart

by Maria Padian

  She flashes me her classic give-me-a-break face. “Please. Stop. I made a hole in one of their precious windows. Boo-freakin’-hoo.”

  “There was shattered glass everywhere!”

  “Yeah? So what?” Her voice keeps getting louder. “They’ll fix it. But some things, Izzy? They can’t be fixed. So when it comes to breaking things? You rule.”

  I don’t know how to respond to this. I’m not sure she’s wrong.

  I’m sorry I lied to her. But I’m not sorry I’m with Sam. And that’s the part we can’t fix.

  “Can I ask you something?” Roz continues. “How the hell did you even meet him?”

  “His sister goes to St. V’s. She sings in my a cappella group.”

  Recognition unfolds across Roz’s face. Like we’ve been playing a game of hangman, and she finally has enough letters in place to identify the mystery word.

  “That’s what happened to her!” Roz says. “The little sister. I used to see her around school, then I didn’t. What, she transferred?”

  “She hated County even more than you do. If that’s possible.”

  “Not possible,” Roz says. “I heard she was whacked out. Is she?”

  Something in my stomach curdles. Like when you squeeze lemon juice into a glass of milk: not a good mixture. The guilt I feel about lying to Roz becomes something else when she describes Aubrey as “whacked.”

  “I think the term for it is ‘depressed.’ She’s doing better now.”

  Roz’s eyes narrow. “Poor little rich girl,” she fake-sighs. “My heart is broken for her.”

  “Wow. That sucks.” The words come out before I can stop them. “Have you ever noticed, Roz, that the only person you have sympathy for is yourself? Everyone else is a jerk.”

  She stares at me in amazement. “You actually think you’re friends with these people,” she says. “That’s why you defend them.”

  “I’m not ‘defending’ anyone. I just don’t hate everybody.”

  “I have news for you, Izzy. You’ll never be one of them. Take a look in the mirror. Guys like Sam Shackelton? They might try you on. But when it comes right down to it, you don’t fit. You’re just the poor girl from the trailer park. Bet he doesn’t know that, does he?”

  It’s a threat. It’s the rock she hasn’t thrown yet, and she’s letting me know: I can mess you up.

  Just like I could mess her up by going to the police.

  It’s amazing how much damage we could do to each other. Like crabs in a bucket.

  I carefully unlatch the door. From down the hall, I hear the sounds of the television and Shawn coughing. There’s a dish rattle from the kitchen. Gloria’s finally up. I realize I won’t miss never stepping foot in this place again. I face Roz.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you,” I tell her. “That was wrong. But from now on, you stay away from me. And my family. Don’t come by anymore.”

  I leave without looking at the expression on her face. Because I know I won’t be able to handle that.

  22

  Here’s what you want to do after you break up with your best friend: curl up in bed and cry.

  Here’s what you don’t want to do: deal with anything important. Like Habitat. But when I swing open our door after the showdown with Roz, there they are in the living room: Mami, Betts, and Mr. Lyle. The place smells like fresh coffee, and they’ve all got pens in their hands and open notebooks on their laps. Planning is happening. Which is fine as long as it doesn’t involve me.

  No such luck.

  “Here she is!” Mr. Lyle exclaims. So happy to see me. The man has a camera into my soul: he knows what I’m feeling. And thinks it’s funny.

  “Uh . . . don’t let me interrupt you!” I try, edging toward the hallway and my room.

  “Just the person we need!” he continues. “Please, join us, Isabella.”

  As I surrender to a corner of the Scrouch, Mami rises, squeezing my shoulder.

  “Café con leche?” she asks, heading into the kitchen. “There is just enough coffee left.”

  Something’s up. Warm milk, heaps of sugar, and a dash of strong coffee is my little-girl comfort drink. It’s running neck and neck right now with salted-caramel steamers.

  They want something from me. And I’m not going to like it.

  “Sure.” I turn to Betts. “What are you all plotting?”

  “Building schedule,” she says. “How do you feel about moving out of this palace before summer’s over?”

  This is not the answer I expected. “That soon? I thought we wouldn’t be in the new house until fall.”

  “That’s what we thought, originally,” Mr. Lyle says. “But Betts would like to try something new. A blitz.”

  “Blitz,” I repeat. “I’m sorry, but the only blitz I’ve ever heard of is from history class. When the Germans bombed London back in World War Two?”

  Mr. Lyle laughs. “Exactly, but in reverse. Instead of devastating destruction, it’s inspirational construction!” God, the guy’s peppy. And looks very pleased by his little turn of phrase.

  “It’s intense,” Betts explains. “In the past we’ve done a few blitz weekends. But I’m proposing a thirty-day blitz, full house, start to finish. I visited a Habitat site in Georgia to see how it’s done and it’s pretty neat. And volunteers like the idea of working hard for a short period, instead of seeing a project drag on for months.”

  “There’s only one drawback,” Mr. Lyle says.

  Mami returns, handing me a hot cup.

  “It moves our fund-raising schedule up,” Betts says.

  I’m beginning to see the light at the end of their dark tunnel.

  And we all know where it leads, folks.

  I take a sip of my café con leche (it’s perfect), then place the cup on the end table.

  “Let me guess, this is that big dinner thing you were talking about. And you want our whole family there.”

  “Naturally. You’d be the guests of honor!” Mr. Lyle says. “The donors want to meet you.”

  I smile at him. Or rather, I force my mouth into a smile shape. “Naturally,” I repeat.

  “You said you would do this,” Mami reminds. A low warning rumble in her voice. Like a truck full of gravel, miles away, that you can hear shift gears as it approaches a steep hill.

  “Yes, I did,” I tell her. “And you know I don’t like being paraded around, but I get why this is important.”

  Betts clears her throat. “The fund-raising dinner is for large donors,” she explains. “But a big chunk of our budget comes from smaller contributions. They add up, those five- and ten-dollar checks. Which is why we also do a letter campaign. For those people who want to give but can’t afford a seat at the dinner.” As she speaks, Mr. Lyle reaches into an envelope and pulls out an eight-by-ten sheet of white paper. It’s printed on both sides, and has the little blue say-amen people logo. He hands it to me, and I can see it’s a mock-up: no real sentences, just letters showing where the type will go. And a couple of big empty blocks.

  For photos.

  “No,” I say, handing it back. I hear Mami’s exasperated whoosh of breath.

  “Izzy,” Betts begins.

  “What part of N-O don’t you people get?” I ask. I say this without anger, looking her straight in the eyes. I don’t know how else to convey how serious I am and how little chance they have of changing my mind.

  “Sweetheart, no one is asking you to discuss anything painful,” Mr. Lyle reassures me. “Just a little something you’d like to share about yourself is all. It’s important that we bring the project to life for people! They don’t want to write checks for paint and nails—they want to help a family. Let’s introduce them to that wonderful family!”

  He doesn’t understand. Well-to-do, white, educated, well-meaning Mr. Lyle . . . who has never had to remove items from h
is grocery cart because he doesn’t have enough money, has never been stopped by some random kid who fingers the zipper on his jacket and says hey-that’s-my-old-one-Mom-dropped-off-at-Goodwill, has never watched his mother give him and his brother everything in the pot and say she’s not hungry tonight because she had a big lunch . . . He doesn’t understand.

  And if you add all the stuff he and Betts and the rest of the Habitat folks don’t understand to all the stuff I don’t tell them—like that I’m starting to date this amazing guy whose parents are on their mailing list—this whole thing is a nonstarter.

  I stand. I have no interest in my café now.

  “Count me out of the poverty porn,” I tell them.

  Mami’s eyes widen. “Dios mío, Isabella! What are you saying?”

  But Betts doesn’t blink. She rests a calming hand on Mami’s. “It’s a term of art, Rita. Don’t worry. But good for you, kid. You’re smarter than I thought, and I thought you were pretty smart. That said, you’re wrong. No one’s exploiting you. And Habitat is not charity. It’s opportunity. It’s empowerment. You spend a day on-site building your own house and your muscles ache at the end of that day, you’ll know what I mean.”

  “I already know what you mean. And I’m happy to work. So’s my mom. But our story is our personal business. It’s not entertainment for rich people who want to peer into our sad little lives and feel good about themselves for tossing us their spare change.”

  “‘Sad’ is the last word I’d ever use to describe you, Izzy. Or your mother.”

  “Count me out,” I repeat.

  “Then you tell me how we’re going to raise the money. Because truth is, poverty porn works. Ask UNICEF.”

  Betts and I are each getting louder and angrier, and Mami’s eyes are filling, which is actually pretty bad because usually she gets mad, not weepy.

  So Mr. Lyle comes to the rescue. “Will you at least come to the dinner?” he interrupts.

  I take a deep breath. “Yes.”

  “Will you agree to let us interview your mother and include a photo of her and your brother in our fund-raising letter?” he asks.

  “I can’t control what my mother does,” I tell him.

  He looks at Betts, satisfied. “I truly doubt people will withhold giving because there are no quotes or photos of the teenage daughter in the letter.”

  Betts shrugs but says nothing and doesn’t make eye contact with me. She’s pissed.

  “Can I go now?” I ask them. One fight per day is my limit, and this is one too many.

  “Yup,” Betts says, and begins leafing through her papers.

  Mami doesn’t look at me, either. I exit.

  Here’s the thing about bad stuff: it comes in threes. My mother insists that good stuff does as well, but I really can’t recall three good things in a row. Ever. But now, as I flop onto my bed and flip open my Chromebook (RubyFish_guest is up!), number three makes its grand entrance. I go to Facebook and see that I’ve got a message. Which pretty much never happens. I click on it, and . . . there he is. Devil Spawn.

  “Hey, Cuz!” the message says. “Long time no see! Thanks for friending me!”

  Friend him? In what universe? Then, I remember.

  Damn Roz.

  23

  I stare at the screen. The blurry profile pic of the tan boy who seems to be laughing while he’s dodging the camera. I wasn’t kidding when I told Roz he’s like watching a car wreck: awful and irresistible at the same time.

  So yeah . . . I reply.

  Me: Hey back

  His message is a few days old, and I don’t expect him to answer right away. But within seconds, he responds.

  Figures he’d be online the moment I contact him.

  Mark: How the hell are ya?

  Me: Good. You?

  Mark: Can’t complain. WHERE the hell are ya?

  Me: Clayton Virginia. Been here about 8 months

  Mark: Your profile says Gainesville Florida. And your pic looks like you’re 10

  Cousin Mark obviously still has no filter. I never figured out whether he was just honest or . . . brutal.

  Me: I don’t post much. Gainesville was two moves ago. But hey don’t judge my pic! Yours looks like you’re running. Maybe from the law?

  Mark: Mighta been

  Me: Some things never change

  Mark: Got that right

  Me: Speaking of where-the-hell-are-ya: where the hell were ya? You dropped off the Facebook world

  Mark: I dropped off the real world. Back now

  Interesting. What has MarkyMark been up to? Maybe I shouldn’t be joking about incarceration . . .

  Me: ??

  Mark: Long story. Better told in person. Speaking of how come we don’t see you people anymore?

  I don’t share my cousin’s talent for brutal honesty. I also can’t throw Mami under the bus. I might be mad at her, but I’m sure not going to tell him.

  Me: I don’t know. Mami works a lot, we move a lot, it’s far

  Mark: Weakass excuses. Couple tanks of gas and a car is all it takes

  Me: Well back atcha! Why don’t you people come see us?

  Mark: Maybe I will

  I stare at the screen again. Did I really just invite Devil Spawn to visit?

  I can imagine the look on Roz’s face right now. Actually, I don’t have to imagine: I’ve seen it. It’d be the face from that day we were wolfing down nacho fries outside the market while I was describing my plans to eat healthier.

  Her WTF? face.

  Roz never has a problem choosing something and sticking with it, whether it’s a plan or an opinion. Granted, the plan and opinion she sticks with might suck, but she sticks. It drives her crazy that I waffle. Like, when I call Mark the evil cousin but still want to know what he’s up to.

  Just like it makes no sense that I’m furious with her and wish she was here right now.

  I take so long to reply that Mark double-messages.

  Mark: Reunion’s in a few weeks. You coming?

  Me: IDK. Lot going on here

  Mark: Weakass excuses again. What’s more important than fried chicken in the fellowship hall with a bunch of old ladies?

  Me: Wow make me an offer I can’t refuse

  Mark: You know that’s right. But think about it. I gotta go TTYL

  I’m about to close out of Facebook when one last message appears from him. It’s a link to the Crawford Family Reunion page. Once upon a time, I’d search for this very thing, but it turns out there are a lot of Crawfords. And they all have reunions. I’d never found the Queen’s Mountain page. Until now.

  There’s not much to it. Mostly just updated info on the next one, plus some photos from reunions past. I scroll through those photos, absorbed in checking out cousins who I haven’t seen since Daddy’s memorial service, six years ago.

  Then one of the photos catches my attention. I recognize it. Not because I’ve seen it before but because I was there.

  It’s a photo from Grandma Crawford’s sixtieth birthday celebration. I know this because she’s wearing the dress I remember from that day, and the corsage Uncle DeWitt had pinned on her. She sits on a chair and she’s surrounded by children. All her grandchildren, the Bigs and the Littles. Everyone dressed up and respectable and smiling at the camera. I recognize Amy, Mary, and Ginny. I recognize little Grace and even Jonnie. And Mark. He’s standing at the far right end, like he’d just arrived in the nick of time and someone pushed him into the picture.

  Here’s who’s not there: me.

  I have no memory of everyone lining up for that photo. It must have been taken post–cake disaster, when my parents took me back to Aunt Carrie and Uncle DeWitt’s to change clothes.

  That’s why Daddy was so angry. Because they took it without me. They wouldn’t wait. She wouldn’t wait, he told Mami
. Not five minutes.

  I don’t know who “she” was. The photographer? One of the aunties? Grandma Crawford? I’ll admit I feel bad seeing this. But my father felt beyond bad. He was livid. Mad enough to pack us up and leave and never bring us back.

  There were things going on between the grown-ups I didn’t know anything about. And it occurs to me that maybe I’ve been wrong about Mark.

  Maybe he’s not the worst Crawford.

  24

  The Shackeltons love traditions. They also love pizza. So it makes sense my first appearance as Sam’s Special Friend (we’re not using the B and G words yet) is their Friday-night pizza party.

  Which includes adults. It’s funny, I never would have guessed that someone like Sam Shackelton spends so much time with parent types. But his friends seem to be the kids of his parents’ friends. It’s like they’re an unofficial club. Of good-looking people with incredibly straight white teeth.

  Here’s how it works: every Friday the Shackeltons provide dough and sauce, while guests bring toppings and drinks. Anything goes, except anchovies. No. Anchovies. Allowed. You bring an anchovy, even as a joke? Banished from the pizza party forever.

  Other than that, once invited, always invited. And there’s no need to ask whether it’s on or not because it’s always on. You just have to confirm you’re coming so they can prepare. Mr. Shackelton comes home from work early on Fridays to fire up the outdoor brick oven, and Mrs. Shackelton starts making dough right after lunch: sourdough, whole wheat, white, beer batter.

  Aubrey’s favorite is the sourdough white pizza with garlic and fresh basil. Although the whole wheat with sausage is also pretty good. She tells me all this as we haul folding chairs from the basement. They’re expecting a big turnout tonight; it’s someone’s birthday. Mrs. Shackelton ordered a cake.

  “What about you?” she asks.

  “Huh?” I’m only half paying attention. Aubrey’s been talking almost nonstop since Sam picked us both up after school. A complication requiring some seriously creative thinking since he will expect to drive me home after. I think I have it handled.