The Truth About Heartbreak

by Celeste, B.

  “Thought you’d be chilling with your grandfather tonight,” Oliver tells him, taking a seat in between the two of us.

  My eyes go to Everett real quick. Why would he be with his grandfather?

  Everett shrugs, sipping his drink. “He told me to stop suffocating him with my constant worry, so I figured I’d come over. The others doing game day?”

  Oliver nods.

  I feel a little left out, not that I mind. There’s no reason I should be part of this conversation, but I don’t want to offend them by trying to leave again.

  Everett kicks his feet up on the edge of the table. He’s in his socks, which are off-white from wear. The bottoms have a brand stitched into them that I’ve never heard of, not that it means anything. Before Bridgette took me out, I only shopped at Walmart. Usually, my clothes came from there or other foster kids when they stopped fitting in them.

  The hand-me-downs are still in my duffle bag tucked under the bed, even though I have a closet and dresser full of new clothes. All the new stuff is nice and not just fancy dresses like Bridgette wears. She took me to at least ten different stores and had me pick out things that are “my style.” I don’t know what my style is though, so she helped me choose casual things like jeans, sweaters, and a couple of plain dresses. She did pick out a few formal dresses for me when we go out to some fancier gatherings. Kind of like the gala Oliver saved me from tonight.

  I’m not sure how I’ll survive something that’s supposed to have all those people if I can’t even be around one of Oliver’s friends. It makes me feel pathetic. More so than usual.

  “What are we watching?” Everett asks, looking at the screen. It has moved onto some cartoon I don’t know, and Oliver must not be a fan of. He takes the remote and channel surfs.

  Everett doesn’t want to talk about his grandfather, that much is clear. I don’t ask why, even though I’m curious. I know my place, and it’s not in his business.

  The boys start talking about basketball, another topic I’m clueless in. I tune them out and replay the conversation I had with Oliver. I haven’t talked about myself to anyone for as long as I have with him. It’s progress, really good progress that Jill will be happy with.

  I wonder if I’ll see Jill again. She’s been my social worker my whole life. She doesn’t look that old, but she’s really in her late forties with no family of her own. She has a dog though. It’s a tiny brown fluffball that she’s let me play with whenever I’m around him. His name is Winston, which I still think is a weird name for a dog. But my name is River, so I can’t judge.

  When I hear my name, I startle back into reality. Both the boys are watching me expectantly, leaving my lips parting and cheeks pale.

  “I-I’m sorry.” Drawing in my inner cheek, I bite down on it. The temporary pain eases the tension that their focus gives me. I don’t like when people stare.

  “No big,” Oliver dismisses. “Rhett just wanted to know if you made any friends yet. I should have probably asked that by now.”

  Are they asking because they want me to sit with someone my own age at lunch? Oliver told me he hopes I make friends fast and have someone to talk to. Maybe they don’t want to come to and sit with me anymore.

  Lie to them. “Yes.” I nod for good measure.

  There’s a girl in my art class that tells me my paintings are pretty. Her name is Stephanie, but she prefers Steph for short. She and I are opposites in appearance. She looks healthy, not like my absent figure that needs more meat, something Darlene reminds me of daily. Her hair is so blonde it’s almost white, which she says is natural and not bleached. And her eyes are a warm shade of blue, full of wonder and excitement unlike my dull and empty brown ones.

  We don’t talk outside of art, even though we share a few classes together. Sometimes she’ll wave to me in the hallway, but I’m usually busy keeping my head down and watching my feet take me from point A to B.

  Oliver shifts, pride lighting his face. “That’s awesome, Riv.”

  Riv? I’ve never had a nickname before.

  Everett doesn’t say anything, just tilts his head and watches me. He does that a lot, watches people. It’s like he’s trying to figure everyone out, understand what isn’t being said.

  He looks like he sees through my lie and it sends a shiver racing down my spine.

  My throat tightens. “I think … I’m going to go to bed.”

  Oliver frowns. “It’s not even nine thirty.”

  I’m usually in bed long before now. Not that I sleep right away. It always takes a while before I’m use to a new home. Except this one is different. I can explore at night, see rooms I’m too afraid to visit in the daytime. I wait until everyone is in their rooms to sneak out of mine. So far, my favorite place is Robert’s office. It’s lined with bookshelves on one wall and littered with paintings that look expensive. I’ve gone through two books so far, reading a few chapters a night. But mostly, I go and look at the artwork.

  “I’m tired.” Another lie.

  Everett doesn’t call me out on it, but I know he knows I’m just trying to get away. Maybe he doesn’t want me around, he just pretends for Oliver’s sake. He’s a good friend in that way.

  They both tell me goodnight and I leave before either can try convincing me to stay. When I’m changed in a pair of fluffy pajama pants with pizza slices on them and a comfy white shirt, I curl under the blankets and stare at the ceiling. It’s made of fifty-eight white tiles, all pristine and clean without any flaws. Everything about this house is perfect.

  How do I fit in?

  5

  Everett / 17

  I ace my Hawthorne paper and get out of taking the final, which eases anxiety I don’t admit to anyone I have. Tests aren’t easy for me, I need time. Perkins knows that even though I’ve never said anything to her. Unlike half of these teachers, she cares about her students.

  When fourth period comes around, I skip out on study hall. Oliver is busy working on some last-minute assignment, so he doesn’t pay attention when I tell him I need to be somewhere.

  The cafeteria is still the same loud volume it always is during middle school lunch, but the difference is there’s one less person. River isn’t in her usual seat, and I start wondering if she was being honest on Friday when she said she made a friend. A few sweeps of the room reveal she’s not in here at all.

  Frowning, I consider going back and telling Oliver. But River lied for a reason. Whether she’s embarrassed she hasn’t made friends yet or because she doesn’t want to be a bother, I don’t know. My money is on the latter.

  Thing is, I don’t know where to look. She could be hiding out any number of places to avoid this crowd. I’ve done it before, slipped away somewhere nobody would disturb me. For me, that place was the silent area in the library. None of my friends like being seen in there, so it gives me time to catch up on books without being messed with.

  What’s River’s equivalent of that?

  I check the library and gym for her with no luck and wander the halls for about twenty minutes before remembering something she told me shortly after we met. On instinct, my feet guide me to the art room in the east wing of school. Through the narrow window on the door, I see the back of her head, her red hair flowing down her back in a ponytail as she works on something in front of her.

  Debating on disturbing her, I draw my hand away from the door before finally walking in. She doesn’t turn but her body stiffens as I approach. Mrs. Cohen is helping another student in the lab positioned behind her desk, probably with some photography crap I don’t comprehend. Art isn’t really my thing, but I’m always impressed with what people can do.

  Like River. Over her shoulder, I notice dark lines curved into what appears to be a woman. The charcoal she’s using makes the drawing pop against the white stock paper, the open space visibly consuming the woman who looks to be in anguish. The medium coats the side of River’s palm and pads of her fingertips from shading.

  She stops moving completely, par
tially shielding the image with her arm. I step aside, pulling out the stool next to her and sit down.

  “You’re not at lunch.” It’s a stupid observation to make but it’s out there.

  She doesn’t answer or move.

  “Did you at least eat?”

  Nothing.

  My chin tips toward her drawing. “That looks good. What is it?”

  It’s pointless to ask because I know she won’t answer, but it’s worth a shot. When she doesn’t say anything, I breathe in a heavy breath and exhale.

  “Listen,” I bargain, “Oliver doesn’t care if you haven’t made friends yet. It takes time for that to happen. I was here a few months before your brother started talking to me.”

  This time she looks at me, her brows furrowed in. From this distance, I realize her dark eyes are a shade of coffee, a little lighter than the espresso that I see Margaret drink sometimes. I’ve gained her interest at least, and that’s a step in the right direction.

  “So, did you eat?”

  She blinks, the uncertain haze in her eyes slowly clearing. Then she shakes her head, her bottom lip drawing into her mouth. Her eyes lower back down to her project.

  Glancing at the clock, I frown. There won’t be enough time for her to get lunch and eat it at this point. Tapping my fingers against the tabletop, I stand. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

  Walking out of the room, I head toward the nearest vending machine. It’s not the healthiest, but at least it’s sustenance. Oliver said Darlene offers to make River her lunch every morning, but she never accepts. I may not have known her for long, but I think River worries she’s in the way—a burden. I see it every time Oliver asks if she wants to join us and she goes to her room instead. Even when Bridgette offers River something, she rarely accepts.

  Slipping a few ones in the cash slot, I select a few items. I’m pretty sure River has a sweet tooth, so I choose regular M&M’s along with pretzels and a brown sugar Pop Tart. When I make it back, she’s right where I left her. Her project already has a few additional pieces to it, the curve of the figure’s body reaching out to something; something she hasn’t drawn yet or maybe won’t draw at all. I pretend not to notice and drop the food next to her.

  “You need to eat,” I say plainly. “Oliver won’t like it if he knows you’re skipping lunch.”

  Her eyes widen as they meet mine.

  I give her an assuring smile. “I won’t tattle, but that doesn’t mean he won’t find out. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but he’s kind of a know-it-all.”

  The curves of her lips waver like she wants to smile but refrains. They flatten back out, all hint of amusement gone in a nanosecond.

  Brushing it off, I push the Pop Tart in her direction. “Personally, I think these are gross. I’m more of a strawberry Pop Tart guy. Or a s’mores. But the vending machine only had these, so it’s what I got.”

  Her nose scrunches. “Strawberry?”

  “Not a fan?”

  Her head moves back and forth.

  “Huh.” I examine the other snacks. “I guess the only type of fruit I like are processed, artificial, and filled with sugar. Like these.”

  Another ghost of a smile.

  “Anyway, you should eat one of those.”

  Before I can stand up, her lips part and eyes follow their way up to mine. In a quiet tone, she murmurs, “Thank you.”

  I nod. “No problem.”

  When I leave, I notice her hand moving to the M&M’s instead of the Pop Tart or pretzels. I think back to the trail mix and smile to myself after remembering the missing chocolate candy.

  She’ll fit in just fine with the James’.

  I walk into our small suburban house to Granddad coughing up a lung. He says he feels better but he’s lying. No wonder Grandma’s heart gave out. He’s too stubborn for his own good.

  Margaret gives me a sympathetic smile and carries an empty bowl into the kitchen, probably Granddad’s soup. He’s pickier about what he eats these days. It’s because he can’t stomach half the stuff he used to, which he chalks up to old age making his palate change.

  I call bullshit.

  He ignores me.

  Dropping onto the couch and tossing my backpack onto the floor, I give him a once over. He’s settled in his chair, the one Grandma bought him after he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. She wanted to get him something nice to rest in because chemo would wear him out. The footrest droops a little on the right side and the cushions are flattened from the amount of time he spends in it. He sits there every chance he can. It reminds him of Grandma, I think.

  “Don’t give me that look.” He huffs out another raspy cough, making me frown. It sounds deeper than before, like it’s settling in.

  “What look?” I raise a brow, the picture of innocence.

  He finally peels his eyes off the show he’s watching. Every afternoon, I come home to see him consumed in Judge Judy. I used to sit and watch it with him, but I grew tired of the stupid court cases and drama. I witness plenty of that crap at school.

  His eyes narrow, causing his wrinkles to crease worse than they already do without him scowling. Frankly, he’s always been bitter. It’s what makes him, him. But lately, his patience has worn thin, like he’s tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of everything. One day after school I overheard him tell Margaret that he just wants to be with Mabel, my grandma, again.

  “Don’t be stupid,” he scoffs. “You’re looking at me like I’m on my death bed.”

  I hate when he says shit like that. “No, I’m not. Just wondering if I need to call Dr. Peters and get you a refill on those antibiotics.”

  He coughs again, this round wracking his whole body and making the chair creak. I keep my face neutral even though I’m wincing inside. A cough like that has to hurt his ribs but he acts as if it’s nothing. Seeing him so sick causes the physical pain in my chest to spread in the deep crevices of my body.

  “What’s the point?” he hacks, his eyes hollowing. “They ain’t working. What makes you think another round will? Doc told me it’d take a week’s worth to kick in. It has been three, kid.”

  Which is why we should get you more.

  I shrug like it’s no big deal. “Well, I’m just saying it might be worth another shot. I’m sure Marge will agree with me.”

  She walks in the room, leaning against the couch. “I’m with Everett, Henry. You need to get some relief.”

  He grumbles under his breath, probably profanities. It makes both Marge and I laugh. At least he has her to keep him in line when I can’t. They’ve been family friends for decades. Margaret was Grandma’s friend long before she met Grandpa, and she took it upon herself to take care of him when Grandma passed away. She said she promised to look after both of us.

  “Never break a promise,” Grandma used to tell me when I was little. “They’re oaths to prove your trust to someone. Remember that, Rhett boy, okay?”

  When Granddad falls asleep, Marge and I head into the kitchen. She points me in the direction of the leftover soup she made for him, chicken noodle. I settle into a chair with a bowl and spoon in front of me, blowing on the steam to cool it down.

  “He’s strong,” she states quietly.

  “I know.” He’s always been the strongest person I know.

  “He’ll fight this.”

  When the salty broth hits my tongue, my stomach growls in anticipation for more. “I just wish he wouldn’t complain so much. We’re trying to help him.”

  Margaret pats my shoulder. “You know how he is. He doesn’t like people doting on him or causing a fuss. We do both. It’s his pride at stake.”

  I grumble about how stupid that is but know it’s the truth.

  “He’s all I have, Marge.” The truth comes out in hoarse, shattered pieces. If I lose him, I’ll lose everything I have left.

  She takes a deep breath and sinks into the seat across from me. Her small, wrinkled palm covers the back of my free hand. “You have me, Everett. I know I’m no
t your biological family, but we’re family just the same. After all, I’ve changed your diapers. I’ve seen things.”

  Shaking my head, I fight off the heat that tries settling into my cheeks. She loves reminding me that she’s seen my parts when I was a baby. And as a toddler, when I apparently would rip off my pants and underwear and streak across the front lawn naked.

  There are pictures.

  Margaret is family though. After I moved in with my grandparents, Marge practically stepped in when Granddad had to work, and Grandma couldn’t bring me to run errands. They always told me family goes beyond blood. I’ll always remember that, see it in every memory.

  “I know,” I repeat, because it’s all I can think to say.

  She stands up. “I best be going. Unless you’re planning on going to the James’? I can stick around, make up the guest bed.”

  I shake my head. Oliver’s parents have an event they’re all going to. Some fundraiser for the local ASPCA. It’ll be River’s first experience at a charity function, so I figured it’d be best to sit this one out. Plus, I’m sure she’s seen enough of me today.

  “Nah, I’ve got homework to do.” Lie. I finished all my homework for this week and already have half of next week’s done. I’ll probably find another book to read until I fall asleep once I get Granddad to bed.

  Marge leans down and kisses my temple, the same thing she’s done since I was little. She tells me I’m the warmest person she knows considering the circumstances, yet my heart feels frozen. Frosted. Calculated. I’d rather invest my time in making other people better than dealing with my own shit.

  Some pasts aren’t meant to be dwelled on. Too many bad memories that have no chance of mending. My heart was shattered past the white line on county route five, along with my jaw, eye socket, and arm. No amount of endearments can take away those memories.

  “Have a good night, Rhett boy.”