Hearts Made for Breaking

by Jen Klein

  Okay, let’s be honest here: I knew the second Ardy arrived at REACH. I didn’t do anything about it because he didn’t give me the slightest indication that he would welcome any interest from me. I like boys who I can flirt into submission. Boys who aren’t a risk.

  So, yes, I noticed all the cuteness when Ardy transferred here, including the first day we actually spoke to each other. It was in English. Ms. Shelton had stepped out of the room, which meant everyone was talking or messing around on their phones. I was busy texting Rahim when I noticed the smell of blueberries. I ignored it until then I caught a whiff of grape—the chemical version. Like grape gum or those stickers the teachers used to give us in kindergarten. No one to the right or the left of me was doing anything suspicious, so I turned around, sniffing the air. Ardy, sitting behind me, raised his hand to show me what was in it: a purple marker. “Someone left a box of them on my desk,” he said.

  He uncapped the green one and waved it toward me. Its scent was unmistakable. “Apple.”

  “Fake apple,” he clarified, and then touched the tip of the marker to his index finger, drawing a bright green line down to his palm.

  “If you keep doing that, your hand is going to smell like a fake fruit salad,” I told him.

  “There are worse things.” He pointed the marker toward my fingers. “Do you want a fake fruit salad hand, too?”

  I shook my head, and then—I don’t know why I did this—I reached into my hair and separated out a long strand. I twisted it a little and wiggled it toward him. “I don’t mind fruit salad hair, though.”

  Ardy first looked startled, then pleased. He took the lock and, holding it in his fingers, drew the marker down the length of it. The color barely showed up faint green on my brown hair, but it was there. “Cool,” he said. “I’m Ardy.”

  “I’m Lark.”

  “I know,” he said.

  We exchanged smiles, but then Ms. Shelton returned, so I faced the front of the classroom again. Still, as our teacher started to talk about The Handmaid’s Tale, I shook my hair out in the most nonchalant manner I could muster.

  Nothing happened.

  So I leaned back farther and ran my hands through my hair, purposefully allowing the ends to trail onto Ardy’s desk. There was a pause, and then I was rewarded by the slightest tug from behind. Also the faint scent of bananas.

  Or, rather, fake bananas.

  Later, in a hidden corner of the teachers’ parking lot, Rahim noticed my markered hair. I told him it was an art project, and then we went back to what we were doing.

  And although I still can’t explain it, there was something I liked about all those little pastel tendrils.

  “What are you thinking?” Cooper asks, and I realize I’m holding one of the empty smoothie cups and my right thumb has dug a hole through its top edge.

  I pull my hand away and lick mango syrup off it.

  “I think I’m kind of weird,” I say.

  “We all are.” He doesn’t sound flippant. “The key is finding someone whose weirdness matches your own, right?”

  I scoot closer and lean my head against his shoulder. “We match,” I tell him.

  “Yeah.” He leans his head against mine. It’s nice because he’s warm, and it’s starting to get a little chilly. I mean, it’s Southern California, so it’s not that chilly, but we’re spoiled here. The minute the sun ducks behind a cloud, everyone’s all like, Where’s a sweater?

  “Why do you like Ian?” I ask him from my comfortable position. To be honest, I can’t quite imagine it. Ian is so…boring. At least in comparison to Cooper, who is funny and loud and unabashed, which is why I hate to see him dimming his light for someone who doesn’t deserve it, who doesn’t deserve him.

  “You know I met him at work,” says Cooper.

  Cooper works at the downtown Burbank movie theater. Not only does that afford him ample opportunity to meet people, but it also means that when Ian first laid eyes on him, he would have been wearing something similar to what Ian wears in regular life: a crisp white shirt under a red vest.

  It’s so dorky.

  “He came in alone,” says Cooper. “I don’t know anyone else who goes to the movies alone.”

  Like a loser.

  Cooper notices my expression. “Like a baller,” he continues. “Ian walked right up and asked for my favorite combo on the hundred-flavor soda machine. I said something gross, just to mess with him. Like Pibb Zero–Vanilla Coke–Iced Tea or something. After his movie, he walked out—”

  “Alone.” I can’t help myself.

  “Right.” Cooper ignores my subtext. “He asked if he could have a refund because his drink was so bad…or could I give him my phone number instead.”

  I nod. I’ve heard this story before. Besides, Ian’s still a loser who goes to movies alone. I don’t say it, but it’s like Cooper reads my mind.

  “Solo movies are actually great,” he says. “You can be in the world on the screen. You can lose yourself.” He takes my hand again and gives it a gentle squeeze. “You might give it a try sometime.”

  But why would I, since I have friends who will go with me?

  * * *

  By the next morning I have decided that Cooper is right, that I need to figure out if I actually like Ardy. Which, I guess, means getting to know him.

  This is new for me.

  Usually I blow right past the getting-to-know-you phase and move straight into the making-out phase. Admittedly, it might be a flawed system. Once you’ve catapulted over that first piece of the relationship road map, you don’t throw your car into reverse to check out the place you skipped. And that place is the scary place. It’s where someone could notice that my house is a festival of fury and I’m so much weirder and messier than the self I present to the world.

  So how does this work?

  Ardy and I only have English together, and the teacher gave us a new seating chart. Now Ardy and Hope sit on the opposite side of the room, so it’s not easy to make conversation there. I can always try lunchtime, but of course that comes with Hope as an audience member. Maybe I can catch Ardy after school, but I have to drive Leo home.

  So, with very few options, I rely on my old standby: the white lie.

  I take Leo home and run inside to spruce up. I swipe an extra layer of mascara around my light brown eyes—almost the exact same color as my more-tangled-than-curly hair—and add a dusting of peach to my cheekbones. I try on a tank top before going with a navy blue V-neck T-shirt. I’m about to leave when I rethink my needs and add an extra swipe of deodorant under each arm.

  The neighborhood is quiet as I pull up in front of Ardy’s house. Half a block down, a young father chases his toddler up and down the sidewalk, but there are no hordes of screaming kids or barking dogs.

  I sit in the car for an extra half minute, trying to calm my nerves. I check my teeth in the mirror, slick on some pink lip gloss, and chew a mint before getting out and heading for Ardy’s porch. I’m about to knock on the door when a ninja opens it.

  I step backward, startled, and the ninja gazes at me. She has Ardy’s pale skin—because, of course, this is Ardy’s mom—and a sleek inky ponytail. She’s wearing an army-green canvas vest over a tight black shirt and black jeans, with combat boots on her feet and a square leather messenger bag slung diagonally over her body. Ardy’s ninja mom cocks her head. “Can I help you?”

  “Um, hi. I’m Lark. I know Ardy from…” The game. My daydreams. “School.”

  “Lark?” She juts a hand at me, and I accept it gingerly, feeling like she could kill me with her pinkie if she wanted to. “Ellen.”

  She gives my hand a firm squeeze before letting go and stepping back to gesture me inside. “Ardy?” she calls into the depths of the house.

  Ardy appears almost immediately. He looks back and forth between us, surprised, his eyeb
rows floating above the frames of his glasses. Before I can say anything, his mom—I mean, Ellen—smiles at him. “I have that location scout. I’ll pick up dinner on the way home.” She nods at me. “Nice to meet you.” And then she’s gone.

  I turn back to Ardy, not sure how to proceed. I’m shocked that his mom left us here alone, but also shocked that I’m here in the first place. Finally I just blurt out the lie. “I think I left a hoodie here. Light blue. Have you seen it?”

  “No.” He stays very still for a moment, like he’s not sure what to do with me. I don’t say anything else, because I certainly don’t know what to do with him, either. Especially when all he’s giving me is a single syllable and a long, inscrutable dark brown stare. I’m about to garble out some version of thank you and leave, but he motions me farther inside. “We can look for it. To make sure.”

  Thus, I’m in Ardy Tate’s house under utterly false pretenses, and I’m making a show of looking around for a nonexistent piece of outerwear. Not in the kitchen…not in the living room…did I take it into the bathroom? Nope, not there, either…

  Finally we’re back in the dining area, where we started. I’m standing by the chair nearest to the door, and he’s on the other side of the retro table. I shrug. “I guess I must have left it somewhere else.”

  “Maybe it’s in your car?” he says.

  “I’ll look,” I say, though it’s ridiculous to think that I wouldn’t have looked there before driving over here. “I should go. Homework.”

  But Ardy doesn’t move toward the door. Instead, he sets his hands on the back of a chair, leaning his tall frame over it. “Do you have a lot? Of homework, I mean?”

  He’s making conversation. That’s nice. “No. Not that I have to turn in. But I have to study for a test tomorrow. Calculus.”

  I almost don’t say it, because so few kids at REACH take calculus. There are two classes, both honors, and there are only a dozen students in each. Mentioning that I’m one of them always makes me feel like I’m either bragging or flying a nerd flag. But Ardy doesn’t look surprised, like so many others do. The look he gives me is more like respect. At least I think so. It’s hard to read his expressions. “Fifth period’s got the same test,” he says. “Do you want to study together?”

  Huh. So Ardy’s in the other calc class. That’s interesting.

  I nod, and by the time five minutes have passed, we’re sitting across from each other at the table, our textbooks and papers spread out in front of us. Studying.

  Or at least pretending to.

  And by that I mean I’m pretending to.

  Twenty minutes later we’re in the exact same position. The only sounds have been paper rustling, bodies shifting, and the occasional throat clearing. Also, eight minutes ago, I broke a pencil lead and had to get a new one. It’s been a whirlwind of activity. I’m not learning anything about Ardy, and the silence is making me nervous. This is new to me. I’m not usually silent with boys unless it’s because we’re busy kissing.

  I don’t notice that I’m Being Weird until he points it out. “What’s that?”

  “What?” And then I see where he’s gesturing—my left hand—and realize I’m tapping my fingers against the surface of the table. Deliberately, in a pattern. “Sorry.” Heat rises to my cheeks as I quiet my fingers. “I’ll stop.”

  “You don’t have to.” He’s looking at me, curious. “But what were you doing?”

  I pause, staring at him. Not sure how to explain, or if I should. He tilts his head, waiting for an answer, and because I don’t have another white lie on deck, I shrug. “It’s this thing I do.”

  Despite my best efforts not to let it happen, my face flushes again. Even though Ardy’s not looking at me like I’m a weirdo. He merely looks interested. “Oh yeah?”

  Since I’m already admitting it, I continue. “Yeah, it’s my pattern.” I guess this is a trial run at letting him get to know me. “I’ve been doing it since I was a kid.”

  “The exact same pattern?” he asks, watching my fingers. Which, now that we’re talking about it, are going again.

  I force them to stop.

  “I think it’s from growing up with a sibling,” I say. “We were always so obsessed with fairness. If Leo got a cookie, I got a cookie. If I got to pick a show to watch, he got to pick one. It was a thing.”

  “I can see that.” Ardy has folded his arms and is resting his elbows on the table, hunching over it so he can look at me. Intense.

  “It kind of bled over into life,” I tell him. “That sense of justice. Of needing things to be fair. If I stepped over a sidewalk crack with my left foot, then I had to step over the next one with my right foot. To be fair.”

  “To be fair…to your foot.”

  I raise my chin. “It’s not perfect logic.”

  Ardy smiles at that. It’s a wider smile than I usually see on him. “I bet it made for some funny-looking walking.”

  “Probably.” I smile in return. “At some point the fairness thing changed, and it wasn’t enough to be equitable only as far as portions went. I needed to be equal in chronology, too.”

  “Okay, now you’ve lost me.”

  “I’ll demonstrate.” I raise my left hand and waggle my fingers, then tap my hand against the table. Here we go.

  “I get it.” Ardy gestures to my right hand. “Now you have to do the same thing with your other one.”

  “Yeah.” I tap with my right hand. “But now that was a pattern. One-two, left-right. Which you would think makes everything equal, right?”

  A faint crease appears between Ardy’s eyebrows, like he’s trying to figure it out. Like he’s trying to figure me out.

  “So now in order to be equal—in order to be fair—I have to do that same pattern, but back in the other direction.” I do it. Right, left. “Two-one.”

  “O-kay,” says Ardy, and I know I’m losing him. That he thinks I’m totally weird, with a head full of strange things, boring things.

  Except he’s smiling again. Like he’s in on a joke.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You did one-two, two-one, but now that was a pattern,” he says. “And you started on the one.”

  “Exactly!” It bursts out in something akin to a shout, and Ardy jerks back in his seat because it’s so abrupt and so loud. “Sorry,” I say, embarrassed by my display.

  But he’s still smiling. And now bigger than before.

  “I understand the dilemma,” he says. “Now you have to do all that over. The whole thing, but start on the other side.”

  “Two-one, one-two,” I tell him. “And then—”

  “Hold on.” He raises a hand, and I fall silent, watching him work it out in his head. “Then you have to go two-one, one-two, one-two, two-one. Right?”

  “Be careful,” I tell him. “You’re catching on really fast. You might start doing it, too.” My smile won’t stop spreading across my face. There’s something about telling Ardy this little piece of myself that feels good. If this is what it’s like when people are honest, maybe honesty isn’t the scariest thing after all. “It keeps going forever,” I tell him. “Into infinity. Or at least until I lose my place in the pattern. Because no matter what I do—”

  “The one always went first,” he says.

  “You get it!” I beam at him, forgetting for a moment that Hope is the one who beams.

  “I get it,” Ardy says, and then keeps looking at me. Smiling in a way that doesn’t allow me to stop smiling. Smiling in a way that—out of nowhere—makes me want to reach over and press my fingertips to his mouth. To feel his smile for myself.

  But, of course, I don’t. Because that would be weird.

  And because we’re just studying calculus, right?

  The calculus test is hard. Really freaking hard. I’m still finishing the last problem when the bell rings,
which is why—by the time I’ve dropped the test on Ms. Perkins’s desk and packed up my stuff—I don’t have a lot of time to get to World History. And that means when I rush out of the room and find Ardy lounging against the wall, arms folded, waiting for me, I definitely shouldn’t stop to talk to him.

  And yet I do.

  “How bad is it?” He grins at me, and it might be the first time I’ve seen Ardy grin. I’ve seen him smile before, but this is lighter. More casual. More…familiar.

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” I tell him, because Ms. Perkins gave us very explicit instructions not to tell the fifth-period class what’s on the test.

  “I know you can’t give details,” Ardy says. “But what am I looking at here? Like, on a scale from no bigs to drop out of school?”

  “Hmm.” I pretend to consider the question. “I’d say somewhere between ugh and sucks to be you.”

  Ardy also pretends to consider. “So…a seven, then?”

  “Maybe an eight.”

  I realize I’ve stepped closer to him. Like I belong there, like it’s easy, like I’ve already reeled him in.

  Is it possible Ardy’s the one who’s doing the reeling?

  * * *

  I grab a chicken wrap in the cafeteria before hightailing it to the school library. I don’t even have to smuggle my food in, because Will Hartsook is on duty at the front desk, presumably for extra credit. Will—who once gave me a hickey in the sports equipment room—sees my lunch but waves me in anyway. I find an empty aisle in the history section and drop my jacket to the floor so I can sink onto it and eat in peace. Although a big part of me wants to go back to the cafeteria and sit with Ardy, I can’t. He’s making me feel flustered, and it’s all new and unfamiliar and—truthfully—scary. I need a minute to figure it out, to get back in control. Here in the library it’s peaceful. No boys, no drama, no one to bother me.