Heartbreakers

by Ali Novak

  “Yeah, her,” Drew said as he sped up to make a yellow light. “It just so happens that her gallery is only a few blocks away.”

  “A few blocks away from what?” Drew was purposely dragging out his explanation to build suspense, which was nothing short of annoying. “Come on!” I was bouncing up and down in my seat. “Tell me!”

  “No patience whatsoever.” He shook his head, but there was a glimpse of a smile on his face. “It’s a few blocks from a radio station where the Heartbreakers will be doing an autograph signing this weekend.”

  “Are you for real?”

  Drew lifted his chin, and a smirk flashed across his face. “Well, Cara was really disappointed about not being able to go to the concert, and that got me thinking. There has to be something else Heartbreakers-related that would make her happy. So I googled a list of their public events. We could drive down and get one of their CDs signed or something.”

  “And?”

  “And visit your art thing.”

  “Yes!” I exclaimed and pumped my fist in the air. “Cara won’t stand a chance of beating us this year.”

  “I know,” he said and brushed off his shoulder. “No need to thank me.”

  I rolled my eyes but smiled inwardly. Something inside my chest was shifting.

  When Cara’s cancer came back again, I knew it was different than the first two times. The knot in my gut told me that if this treatment didn’t work, Cara would never get better. It was a heavy feeling to carry around, almost as if a hundred weights had been tied to my heart.

  Even now, I knew there was nothing I could do that would make Cara’s cancer disappear. But for the first time since the recurrence, I felt like those weights were slowly being cut loose. It was silly, because what would an autographed CD do? But if it could lift Cara’s spirits, then maybe she stood a chance.

  “Do you think Mom and Dad will let us go?” I wondered, chewing on the inside of my cheek. If they didn’t, my surge of hope would dissolve and bring me lower than before.

  Drew shrugged. “We’ll be together,” he said, “so I don’t see why not.”

  “Okay, good,” I said, nodding at his answer. “Are we really doing this? Road trip to Chicago?”

  “Yeah,” Drew said. “Road trip to Chicago.”

  Chapter 2

  I pressed my forehead against the passenger-side window and let my eyes drift over the buildings slipping past me. Drew and I had been driving all night, and thankfully we arrived in Chicago well before the morning rush hour. It was still dark, but a faint purple light on the horizon hinted at the coming sun. Even though it was too early to check in, we were making our way through downtown to find our hotel. Drew wanted a place to park the car and leave our luggage.

  I stayed awake during the drive to keep my brother company, and now I was too tired to focus much on anything. If I didn’t get caffeine soon, I would never make it through the day. Just as my eyelids began to flutter closed, a green sign caught my attention. I shot straight up in my seat.

  “Drew, stop! It’s a Starbucks!”

  He jumped, accidentally jerking the wheel to the left, and the car swerved a foot into the next lane. There wasn’t much traffic to crowd the five o’clock streets, but I could see the alarm on his face.

  “Jesus, Stella, you could have gotten us killed,” he said and let out a shaky breath when he successfully pulled our car back into the right lane. “That scared the crap out of me.”

  “Sorry,” I said as he found a parking spot on the side of the street. “Coffee’s on me. What do you want?”

  “Just a regular cup of joe. None of that creamer crap.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “That’s disgusting,” I told him as I unbuckled my seat belt.

  “That’s how you’re supposed to drink it,” he told me as he settled back into his seat to wait.

  Grinning to myself, I climbed out of the car and headed toward the shop. When I stepped inside, a bell rang above me and the smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted me. There was one employee behind the counter, a middle-aged woman with frizzy hair, and she was taking the order of the only other customer in the shop.

  As I waited for my turn, I studied the boy in front of me. He was tall and lean and must have been around my age, but I couldn’t get a good look at his face. Light-brown, wavy hair poked out from underneath a beanie, and he was wearing a fitted white T-shirt, designer jeans, and a pair of gray Vans: simple but stylish. I couldn’t help but look him up and down a second time. Normally I was into guys with big muscles and facial hair, but something about this boy was interesting. His whole look screamed artsy, and I liked it.

  “That will be two ninety-five.” I watched as the boy retrieved a wallet from his pocket, pulled out a five, and handed it over. After giving back his change, the woman said, “I’ll be right back. Gotta grab the soy milk out of the other fridge.”

  “That’s chill,” he answered and tucked his money away.

  The barista disappeared through an employees-only door, leaving me alone with the boy. As he waited for her to return, he beat his hands against the counter, re-creating the rhythm to a song. I cleared my throat to let him know he wasn’t alone, and he turned, finally noticing I was standing behind him.

  He offered me a smile. It was one of those full-face smiles accompanied by an adorable set of dimples, and all I could do was stare like an idiot. Something about him struck me, almost as if I knew him from somewhere, which was ridiculous since we had never met. I touched my camera out of habit, and his smile faltered. Neither of us moved for a moment, but then the boy forced another grin onto his face and waited, like he expected me to say something.

  Unable to stand his gaze any longer, I glanced up at the huge chalkboard menu hanging above us. Even though I already knew what I was ordering, I deliberately studied each item. They really should have another employee working. He was still watching me, and I tried my best to ignore him.

  “So,” he said, finally ending the silence. “That’s a nice camera. I take it you’re into photography?”

  I jumped at the sound of his voice. The boy was leaning back against the counter, his arms crossed casually over his chest. “Um, thanks,” I responded. “It’s an early birthday gift. And yeah, I’m into it.”

  “What kind?”

  “Portraits are my favorite,” I told him, as I fiddled with my lens cap, popping it off and on. “But I’ll take a picture of just about anything.”

  “Why portraits?”

  “Have you ever heard of Bianca Bridge?” I could feel a smile growing on my face, and I didn’t wait for the boy to answer. “She’s, like, the best photographer ever, and she does these amazing shots of people from all over the world. I’m actually in Chicago to visit her photo gallery.”

  “Hmm,” he said, tilting his head to the side. “Never heard of her.” Pushing away from the counter, he took a step toward me. The dog tag around his neck caught a beam of light from above, and it shimmered back and forth. “Mind if I have a look?” he asked and pointed at my camera.

  My fingers tightened around it, and I hesitated. “Umm,” I responded, not knowing what to say. The Starbucks employee trotted back into the room clutching a carton of soy milk, and when I glanced back at the boy, he lifted an eyebrow at me as if to say, “Well?” Slowly, I nodded my head. In any other instance I would have said no, but something about the boy was confident and charming. Plus, I wanted to see that smile again. I lifted the strap from around my neck, and he moved in to take the camera. As he did, his arm brushed against mine, making my skin prickle.

  “Like this?” he asked and snapped a close-up of me. I found it hard not to grin. He was holding the camera all wrong and clearly had no idea what he was doing.

  “No,” I said, reaching over to help. “You probably have to adjust the focus. Here, I’ll show you.” I put my hand on top of his and demonst
rated how to move the lens. The boy looked up at me for a moment, my hand still over his. This close to him, I could see the thick lashes that surrounded his dark-blue eyes, and my stomach flipped in circles.

  He moved the camera up to his face. “Smile,” he said, but I looked away and let my hair cascade in front of my face. “What? The photographer doesn’t like having her picture taken?” he asked as he snapped another one.

  “Not really,” I answered and took back my camera. Dropping the strap back around my neck, I held it in my hands and let out a huge breath. “I much prefer looking through the lens,” I told him. I focused it on his face for a moment before swinging around to my right and capturing the barista at work. I held the camera up so he could look at the image on the screen. “It’s best when they don’t know you’re looking at them. That way you get the real stuff. Real is when it’s the most beautiful.”

  “What if they know you’re looking?” He was closer now, and even though he had spoken in a barely there voice, I heard every word.

  Taking a deep breath, I counted to three in my head to work up some courage. Then I stepped back and focused the lens on him. He leaned in with an unwavering gaze, but with the camera between the boy and myself, he was less intimidating. I only saw a subject. My finger hit the button three times before I pulled away to study the portraits. They were easily the best pictures I’d taken in a long time.

  Finally, I answered him. “Those can be beautiful too.”

  His lips quirked up in a smile, but before he could respond, the barista finished his order. “All right, one caffe latte with soy,” the woman said, handing the boy his drink. “Sugar’s around the corner if you need it.”

  “Thank you,” he told the woman, but he never glanced in her direction. He kept his eyes on me as he reached over and grabbed his drink. Finally, after three long seconds, he turned and made his way over to the sweeteners and stir sticks.

  “Sorry about the wait,” the woman continued. “What can I get for you?” I gazed at her with parted lips. I had completely forgotten why I was even standing in Starbucks. “Hon?” she prompted me.

  “Right,” I said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Um, can I have a grande of your regular brew and a tall hazelnut macchiato?”

  “Anything else for you today?”

  “No thank you.”

  She pressed a few buttons on the register. “Okay, that will be eight ninety-eight.”

  I pulled my wallet out of my purse and searched for a ten. “I know I have some cash in here somewhere…” I muttered to myself. I didn’t want to have to run back out to the car—that would be totally embarrassing—but all I could find was my plastic, and I was only allowed to use that in emergencies.

  “I got it.” The boy slapped a twenty down on the counter and winked. My fingers fumbled as I looked between him and the money, and my credit card slipped out of my hand.

  “Crap.” I rushed to pick it up, but he was already there, bending down and plucking it off the floor. He turned it over in his hand as he straightened back up, his eyes glancing down at my name.

  “Here you go,” he said, holding it out for me to take.

  “Um, thanks.”

  “It was nice to meet you, Stella Samuel.” A half grin yanked on the corner of his mouth as he said my name. “Have fun at the gallery today.” Then he turned and exited the coffee shop. I stood in place and watched the door swing closed behind him.

  “Here you go, darling. One grande coffee and a tall hazelnut macchiato.” The barista pushed the drinks across the counter to me. “Your friend left his change behind. Do you want it?”

  “Keep it,” I told her, not bothering to look back. I grabbed the cups and rushed out the door to ask the boy his name, but when I reached the sidewalk, there was nobody in sight.

  “What took you so long?” Drew complained when I finally slid back into my seat.

  “Oh, you know. Soy milk, camera,” I rattled off. My mind was on that boy.

  Drew choked on a sip of coffee. “You spilled soy milk on your new camera?”

  “Huh?” I focused my attention back on him and then realized what he was asking. “Oh, no. Never mind, it was nothing.”

  My brother watched me for a moment before shaking his head. “Drink that caffeine up. I think you need it.”

  • • •

  “That was awesome!” I exclaimed as Drew and I stepped out of Bianca’s gallery.

  Unlike this morning, I felt energy streaming through my body, enough for me to skip the five blocks to the radio station where the signing was taking place.

  “Maybe not the word I would use,” Drew responded.

  “Oh, come on,” I said, bumping my shoulder into his. “Don’t you feel inspired?”

  “Not overly,” he replied. “We just spent all morning looking at a bunch of pictures on a wall.”

  This conversation was familiar. I’d had similar experiences with every member of my family in the past, times when I’d shown them new Bianca pieces that I was obsessing over. Nobody ever appreciated the photos, and I’d learn to shrug off their lack of interest. Mom liked to blame her sister, my aunt Dawn, for what she referred to as my “artistic arrogance,” which was when I got all snobby about a certain photograph and tried explain the vision behind it.

  My aunt Dawn was one of those posh, East Coast ladies who drank martinis like water and only bought art if the price tag had enough zeros. One time, when I was twelve, she took me to an art auction in New York. We spent three hours meandering through rows of artwork, and Dawn taught me which paintings were quality and which were not, a skill no twelve-year-old should be caught without. Of course, her definition of quality was vastly different than mine. Dawn’s choice of favorites hinged on who the artist was, not the subject, while I preferred the black-and-white photographs tucked away in the back of the gallery. There were different people in each image, which made me wonder who they were and what they were thinking.

  “But they were pictures that mean something,” I said, turning to look at Drew. I knew he wouldn’t understand, but that didn’t stop me from hoping he would. I wasn’t snobby about art the way Dawn was or the way my mom thought I was; I was just passionate about photography. And my mom could only blame that on one thing—my not-so-typical high-school experience.

  When Cara first got sick, our mom made an effort to try to keep my and Drew’s lives as normal as possible. But Cara’s treatment was long and grueling, so she started homeschooling. The three of us didn’t like being apart, not when things were so serious, so Drew and I begged our mom to let us be homeschooled too. That way, we could be with Cara and still receive an education. She finally agreed, and we never went back.

  Until freshman year, I’d loved being a triplet. It set us apart and made the other kids our age think we were cool. It was like we were exotic animals at the zoo that everyone wanted to see, and we always got asked questions like whether we could read each other’s thoughts or feel when one another got hurt. We always responded by putting on a show. Drew would pinch himself, and Cara and I would grab our sides and grimace as if we had felt his fingers too.

  It wasn’t until high school that I realized people only knew me as one of the Samuel triplets. During English class on my first day, the girl sitting next to me asked, “Are you Cara or the other girl?” as if I could only be defined by the fact that I was one of three. That was when I decided I needed to stand out from my siblings, to declare who I was and all that independent stuff. The problem was that I didn’t really know how to go about doing it.

  I thought about the girl from my English class. She had one of those scary nose rings that made her look like a bull, and her dreadlocks were dyed purple. I was willing to bet that nobody forgot who she was—not when she looked like that. But I wasn’t as daring as her.

  Although my ears were already pierced, getting a nose
ring scared me. On top of that, I was nervous that the maintenance required to keep all of my chestnut hair a solid blue—my favorite color—would be too much work. In the end, I settled for a single streak of aqua in my bangs and a small, sparkly stud in my left nostril to start my metamorphosis from Stella the triplet to Stella the individual.

  High school was going to be my chance to break away and discover who I was, and during those first few months of freshman year, I started to. Drew, who was built like our dad, tall and thick, easily made the football team. Cara had always been the most outgoing of the three of us, so it made sense when she joined the cheerleading squad and yearbook committee. But even though we normally did everything together, I decided not to try out for the squad.

  Instead, I signed up for as many clubs as I had time for—from student council, which I hated, to academic decathlon, which I also hated. Art club became my fast favorite. Not only did I love the quirky cast of kids, but there was something about imagining and shaping and creating that I found intriguing.

  I packed my schedule so tightly that, during those two months, it was as if I didn’t have siblings anymore because I saw so little of them.

  But when Cara got sick, all of our individual growth folded in on itself, and we just became the triplets again. Sometimes I would catch a glimpse of who we could’ve been from those few high-school fragments that stayed with us. Cara never went anywhere without at least three different lip gloss options, and Drew always tried to make a competition out of things, whether it was beating me in a game of Scrabble or seeing who could get a better test score.

  That’s why I held on to photography so tightly. It was my only takeaway from a time that was supposed to be mine but never really was. One of my art friends introduced me to it, and even though I wasn’t a natural, I enjoyed it enough to make an effort to improve. So while every other teenager was blundering their way through high school, experimenting and making mistakes, I was at home staying how I always had been, whatever that was—but at least I had one thing that was all my own.