by R. R. Smythe
I’ve tortured Claire by familiarizing her with the classics. Elizabeth Bennett is one of my heroes. While I couldn’t convince her to read Pride and Prejudice, I did manage to get her to watch the BBC miniseries.
I think of Lizzie’s impulsive sister, Lydia, who was reckless, selfish, and silly.
“I know… Apple is a Lydia.”
“Yes, she is. And unfortunately, half the school is Lydias. It’s an epidemic nowadays. Louisa and Jane would be appalled.”
I smile and squeeze her hand. I imagine returning to school and the grin dies on my lips.
We’ve been friends since we were eight. Claire was always the one, the show-stopper. She dragged me into the spotlight with her from my self-imposed exile behind books and glasses. She’d pitched my black, goth-y clothes, and tamed my dark red frizz into perfectly spiraled curls. Convinced me to try contacts.
But it wasn’t me. Not really. Changed the wrapper, but the filling was the same.
Inside, I still loved books, and words, more than… most things.
As if reading my thoughts, Claire says, “I’ll drive you to school and help you with your books all day.” Her blue eyes cloud with concern.
I sigh, resigned. “Okay.”
“How’s the new book coming? Have any more publishers responded?”
I laugh a little. I don’t mean it to sound cold, but it does. My eyes flick to the computer. I don’t want to admit my writer’s block. I haven’t typed a word since the surgery.
“No, not yet.”
“They will. Your stories are fabulous.”
I don’t take her too seriously. This from someone who thinks Glamour is literature.
Claire’s phone beeps a text message. She reads it and responds with lightning fast thumbs. “I have to go. I’m going to miss the bus.” Her white teeth worry her bottom Crimson Kiss colored lip. I know — I bought her the shade months ago.
I feel guilty, she shouldn’t worry about me. She should go be a normal teenager. That’s what I’d be, if I could. “I’m fine. Go already.”
She wraps her pinky around mine. “You hang in there. I need my best friend back.”
I nod, keeping the smile plastered on my face till I hear her feet pound down the stairs.
The room tilts as my breath rattles out. I jam my eyes shut.
Everything is different. I’m different. I don’t know who I am since the operation. It’s like my insides are split and are warring over my new heart. I flutter between utter helplessness and a raging, angry determination, which drives me out of bed and forces me to be brave.
I stare out the window, my fingers spread against the pane. My mare, Charlotte, trots around the fence, flicking her head and snorting.
I can’t ride her. Can’t run. Can’t even flippin’ climb steps without having to stop and take a rest.
I have to figure out a whole new me. I slither back down under the covers and crush the pillow over my face, muffling my sobs.
Chapter Three
Re-entry
I pause outside the cafeteria door, with a whole new understanding of my heart in my throat. My fingers splay across its shiny metal — all I have to do is push it open.
I close my eyes, exhaling my anxiety through my lips.
I should’ve let Claire drive me to school when she offered. Lunch started five minutes ago. I planned the timing precisely, to draw the least attention. Right now, everyone will be buzzing around, filling lunch trays, generally getting settled.
If I was doing this, I needed to do it now.
Someone brushes past me, swiping my shoulder. I gasp, my nerves short-circuiting with anxiety. I turn in time to see… who is that?
A new someone, who I’ve never laid eyes on. His blue-green eyes scan the length of me in a quick and obvious assessment and flick forward in the space of a breath.
I intend to just steal a glance, but I’m riveted. I stare, embarrassingly, at his thin lips, dark wavy locks, and the light peppering of hair across his cleft chin. Wow. Inside, my stomach pitches like the jerky start of a Ferris wheel. And soars up in the same fashion. He’s beautiful.
In a very non-Gettysburg way. He crosses the cafeteria, completely oblivious to the stares. It was his eyes. They looked… I crack the door and peek through it like a pathetic stalker.
They looked old, somehow. And sad? They spoke more than any other part of his face; as if they had the depth to deliver the punch of a Shakespearian sonnet with one somber glance.
I roll my eyes. I hear Claire’s too loud voice, ringing in my head — “You read too much, have a crazy imagination, and that flare for melodrama is killin’ me.”
I push the door open, managing the best strut I can, considering. I’ve learned, navigating the jungle of high school, it’s always best to appear confident. It keeps the savages at bay. Even if your new heart is painfully loud, and sweat is popping out from pores you didn’t know existed.
I mean, I was hot at one time. Not Claire-hot. Before I became Gandhi-thin. Not that I cared. In my opinion, being hot is entirely overrated and a crap-load of work.
Claire’s eyes light up, shining a beacon of acceptance, which blinds me to the gawkers. I focus on her, head in a straight line, and attempt to block out everyone else. Her face breaks into a genuine smile, and she pulls out the chair beside her. I feel a hundred sets of eyes on me, all around, like I’m stuck as the center-stage-star of an Imax theater.
Haven’t they ever seen a freak before?
I feel my heart, too far back in my chest, beating hard. I walk a little faster, strut disintegrating. Only three more feet.
I reach the table and collapse into my seat, feeling the red climb my face like a blushing, wandering ivy.
Claire grabs my hand under the table. “Welcome back, stranger.”
I spend a few minutes deflecting questions from vaguely interested cheerleaders who quickly return to their idle chatter of who’s-wearing-what-where, and tune out the has-been, already old news.
“Mia, here comes Steve.”
My hands twist under the cafeteria table. My boyfriend? I’m not entirely sure that’s what he is anymore. My life has been surreally split down the middle, much like my ribcage, to before my surgery, and after.
Before, the amount of time Steve spent with me was linear to my recent weight loss. Another five pounds gone, another five days without a word from him. It wasn’t like we were soul mates, but he was my ever-present date to every dance, every party.
After my operation, he dropped off the face of the earth; or at least the town of Gettysburg. Not responding to text messages, never visiting. Claire thought it was the tubes. She said he visited once — took one look at me wired to every machine and turned and left without a word.
I’m doomed with the curse of perception. I notice everyone around me. Their facial expressions scream volumes of what’s in their heads, and I’m rarely wrong. Even if they try to hide it. Like now.
Apple Jones, cheerleader bod extraordinaire, and quite possibly the most self-absorbed human on the planet, is watching Steve’s approach with what can only be described as mad-dog hatred. What’s up with that? Has he been… with that, while I was lying in bed, fighting for my life? Because I would never give in? My nostrils flare with anger.
Claire notices. She’s always telling me to get angry. To stop being such a doormat. A wicked smile twists up the sides of her mouth.
Steve stands beside me, shuffling uncomfortably, trying, but not meeting my gaze. My hands ball into fists. The whispers flare inside, taunting sounds, as if saying, ‘She won’t do it, she’s weak.’
I bite my lip and my hands itch to punch him. Right in that big-fat-football-hero face. I’m seeing him in a brand new way. Like a wide, blinding light has opened in the cafeteria ceiling and illuminates him. With a flashing sign of POSER suspended over his head.
“Um, hi, Mia.”
“Hi.” My voice is flat. Everyone is watching. Even a few teachers. It’s like a bad soap op
era.
“I, um, meant to call.”
“Save it, Steve.” His brown eyes flash up, eyebrows raised. His mouth drops open. I’ve never said anything remotely rude to him in my life.
“Well, I’ll call you. We’ll talk later.”
“Whatever.” I turn my back on him and snatch a fry off Claire’s plate. I wait a full minute, chewing. “Is he gone?”
“Yep.” She laughs her too-loud laugh. “What’s gotten into you?”
I open my mouth to tell her about the whispers. That’s the great thing about Claire — I really can tell her anything. But something stops me. “I don’t know. The drugs, maybe?”
I desperately hope it’s the drugs. That’s preferable to losing my mind.
Apple, undeniably the most irritating girl on the cheer squad, squawks, “I don’t care if he has a weird walk. That boy is smokin’. You can’t deny he’s hot.”
I turn to see who she’s talking about and find the new boy in her crosshairs. I stare after him.
Suddenly, his whole body flickers, like an old silent movie.
My stomach lurches and sweat breaks on my neck.
I stare left and right. No one else seems to notice.
With every step his color mutates — sepia, flicker, black and white, flicker. Normal.
I jam my eyes shut and reopen them, blinking hard. What? What was that?
My stomach clenches. Mental illness may be a real possibility. He looks perfectly normal now.
I refocus on Claire in an attempt to gather my thoughts.
“Who is the new guy?”
I feebly try to wipe all emotion from my face, but the climbing-rash-o-fun flares again, giving me away.
Claire’s blue eyes read my expression but, mercifully, she doesn’t comment. She can’t stop her half-smile, though. “Well, a lot’s been happening since you were down-under.”
I return the smile at her use of our nickname for my transplant and resulting semi-comatose state. I shiver and push the images of blinking monitors, burning IV’s, and breathless days from my head.
“Do tell. Dish.”
My eyes dance around the cafeteria, leaping from table to table, until they find him again. He’s sitting alone, staring out at the rain. My smile dies. His solitary figure disturbs me. He, however, looks completely at ease. Three books are stacked before him, and his nose is buried in another. I have to restrain myself from bolting over — to see what could hold his interest.
“Well, Morgan’s quite the mystery.” Claire follows my stare.
“Morgan?”
“Yes, Morgan Kelly. And I’m surprised you haven’t heard anything about him yet.”
“How would I have heard anything?” My eyes bounce between Claire’s face and the back of Morgan’s head, making me dizzy. “Claire!”
“He’s Beth’s nephew, come to stay with her… permanently. There are oodles of conspiracy theories as to why.” Claire leans in, her voice lowering, “And what happened to his leg.”
I purse my lips, considering. “She’s been to see me countless times. I wonder why she hasn’t mentioned him?”
The whispers float along my thoughts, waiting for the opportunity to expand and bloat my brain with their concerns. Anxiety flushes the side of my face like a pending panic attack. Why am I afraid? I don’t understand.
My stomach feels like it’s folding in on itself from the dead-weight of dread settling at my core. I push my hands against my middle, trying to smooth out the worry.
“I saw his leg in gym. His calf is one hot mess. Seriously, that sucker is mangled.” Claire’s blue eyes dart to him once and quickly return to me.
She looks down at her plate, ready to change the subject. I’m not. “Did anyone ask him what happened? Car accident? Where he’s from?”
“He really keeps to himself. I’ve only heard one sentence from him in the past six weeks. And he’s in all my classes.”
Which means he will be in mine, too.
Claire elbows me. “Mia, dude, you can look away from him. He won’t disappear or anything.” She laughs. “When are you going back to the geeky, Alcott, history tour-guide thingy?”
“I am scheduled to work at Beth’s shop after school, if I feel up to it.”
I will crawl there if necessary.
My breath struggles, and I don’t know if it’s my crappy endurance or a hormonally induced hyperventilation.
“Well, then maybe you’ll solve the Morgan mystery for the clinging masses.” She nods her head toward Apple — whose ardent stare bristles the hairs on my neck. Apparently snagging Steve isn’t enough. She, too, watches Morgan’s every step. Girls like her can switch affections quicker than they can apply lipstick.
I close my eyes, confused. I’m seething and jealous. Over Morgan.
Over-the-top, rip-her-dyed-blonde-hair-out-from-the-roots, jealous.
I shake my head in confusion. This isn’t me.
My feelings swell like a powerful wave, and crash down. I grind my teeth together in confusion.
I don’t even know him. Yet, I feel a weird, strong attraction to him. I open my eyes to stare. And the longing, from the dream, raises its head again.
“I’ll be right back.”
I stand and cross the cafeteria. As I look back at Claire, I laugh out loud at her wide eyes and gaping trap.
As I pass the tables, every head whips in my direction; like I’m some gravitational force, demanding their attention.
The whispers are humming. I keep walking toward him. I still feel everyone’s stare and, wondrously, I don’t care. My feet carry me closer. Ten feet, five feet, two feet. I can see the way his hair curls around the back of his neck.
My hands begin to shake. My courage breaks. I abort mission.
He has a book propped up before him as he eats.
His blue eyes speed across the page, sweeping from left to right, with the urgency of someone cramming for an exam.
I pass by close enough to read the spines of the books.
A Long Fatal Love Chase by A.M. Barnard.
I gasp as I read the second title. My obsession, my favorite. And a book I’ve never known a man to pick up by choice.
Little Women.
Chapter Four
The Hardened Heart
I take a deep breath as Orchard House comes into view. Of course, it’s not the real Orchard House, which would be in Concord, Massachusetts, but it’s Beth’s facsimile. When Beth moved to Gettysburg and ran an ad in the paper for a Louisa May Alcott historical guide, well, I couldn’t believe my luck. I’d been obsessed with Little Women since I was nine, and now here was the opportunity to not only be paid to talk about my bizarre interest, but to do so under the mentorship of a true Alcott descendent.
I’d love to major in history or English — as I have no less than four historical romance novels half-completed and stored on my hard drive… but both of my parents are doctors, and quasi-intellectual snobs, so my dream is impossible. They tend to think of any career outside of medicine as ‘futile.’
And refer to my writing as… my little hobby.
I hear Beth’s melodic voice as I reach the stoop. She’s conducting a tour. The walk from school to the shop has left me breathless. I lean one arm against the doorframe, taking exaggerated breaths, filling my lungs. Waiting for my heart to catch up with my overachieving body.
I let Beth’s voice flow over me, honey-warm and soothing. “Louisa May Alcott had three sisters — just like the famous March sisters in Little Women. In fact, the March sisters were modeled after Louisa’s siblings. Louisa, of course, was Jo.”
The whispers are humming again. It’s a real tune this time.
Heat rushes, tingling my nose, and I realize tears are coming.
I am tone-deaf. Or at least I was.
My new heart hammers, now from a fear-inspired adrenaline rush. This is the first time I’ve ever heard a tune inside my head. I forget to breathe as I focus solely on the music. Which I know. But how do I know
it?
I whimper and press my shaking hands against my temples as I slump to the stoop. My breath shudders out; I swipe angrily at my tears.
Heart transplants don’t rewire the brain, do they?
My perception prickles. Someone’s watching me. My eyes lift, peering through the stained-glass in the door to meet Morgan’s sharp gaze.
He looks at Beth, fully immersed in her theatrics, and his mouth softens. He weaves through the tour group to the door, slipping out onto the porch.
I get a good look, now. His face isn’t perfect — his nose a little too large and slightly crooked, as if broken in a fight. You barely notice it though, because his lips and eyes are magnetic, alive. They both rise and twitch in a million tiny movements, expressing in tandem the turmoil in his head.
“Are you hurt? Should I have Beth summon the doctor?” His strong, wide palm cups my elbow. “You are ghost-white.”
The tune in my head stops. My mouth is open, and I’m not breathing again.
“Are you the girl who had the operation?”
Finally, my voice chooses to return to my ridiculous, love-struck vocal cords. “Y-yes. I’m Mia.”
He gives a sharp nod. “Morgan. Do you need to go home?” He bites the side of his mouth, shooting a wary glance at the car, then the barn. “I could fetch the carriage?” I almost laugh.
He plays the part perfectly… He’s already decked out in Civil War attire. As is Beth. As I should be, if I could quit having a mental breakdown every few minutes.
“No, I’ll be fine. Can you just help me inside? Once my hands quit shaking, it usually means I’m on the upswing.”
He grips me under the elbow, and I lean into him to hobble inside. My heart sings. Melodramatic as that may be, no other word fits. His warm chest against the side of my arm fills me like one of Beth’s elixirs; the cure-all for everything that ails. I swallow and feel the squirm of unease wriggling in my stomach.
This… infatuation… bothers me, on many levels. This is not me; I’ve never even dated someone for more than five months. And even when I did — I wasn’t one of the fawning, preening types who had no life or thoughts outside of her love life.