Heart on a String

by Susan Soares

  “Darren knows him. Brandon, I mean.”

  Her words somehow threw off my equilibrium, and I bumped into a group of skater dudes.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled to them. Once the skaters stopped giving me the evil eye, I said to Zoe, “He knows him?”

  “Yeah, I was talking to him about—” She stopped to grab a lip gloss from her purse. “Oh don’t worry, though. I didn’t like say anything about you or the letter. I just brought up the accident, and mentioned Brandon’s name, and asked if he had ever heard of him.” She puckered and applied some cherry-scented gloss to her lips. “Trust me, when Darren said he knew him, my mouth, like, hit the floor. So I guess he’s pretty quiet and sits in the back of class most of the time. They have two classes together — wait, maybe he said three. So I can totally tell you where he’s going to be this afternoon.”

  I didn’t know what to feel — relieved that Zoe’s boyfriend had done all this work for me without even trying, or terrified that now I had this information and I had to actually do something with it.

  “So I was thinking you might want to wait till the end of the day to spring this on him. I mean, no sense in completely messing with this guy’s head early on, right?” I’m not even sure what look I was throwing at her, but she suddenly became a bit sheepish. “Not that you’d be completely messing with anyone. What I’m trying to say is he ends with biology. Room 312.”

  We walked into English class together and sat down. The shrill sound of the bell rang through my eardrums. My stomach felt like two rams were butting their heads together.

  “Do you have the letter?” She lowered her voice as Miss Leaks started writing on the board. I nodded to her. “What do you think you’ll say?”

  I shook my head and glanced toward the clock. It was eleven-fifteen. That only left me a few hours to think about it. But somehow I didn’t think that was long enough.

  As Miss Leaks went on about Slaughterhouse Five, I was busy making a list of bullet points.

  * Hi, you don’t know me but I have something that belongs to you.

  *Brandon? We need to talk.

  *Hi there. This is yours.

  *Brandon? My name is Marissa. Maybe we could go somewhere private.

  *You’re Brandon Carter, right? I think we have something in common.

  *Hey, could I speak to you for a minute?

  *This is awkward, but here, this is yours.

  *Hey Brandon. I know this might sound crazy, but I have your brother’s letter.

  UGH! I spent the entire class coming up with lame openers, none of which would work.

  “Maybe you should just do it off the cuff. You know, a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants type of deal.” Zoe adjusted her beaded bracelets as we walked through the halls on our way to our fourth-period class.

  “Hi, have you met me?” I said.

  “Right, Miss Planny-McPlanner-pants. Okay, well good luck. I have to go straight to art class after school, so text me the minute you’re done.”

  How could I face the rest of the afternoon without Zoe’s support? It would be so much easier if she were there with me when I did it. Maybe a bit more awkward for Brandon but easier for me. We waved as I watched her walk away toward her trig class. The halls began to empty as the last warning bell rang. I needed to get to chem lab, and fast, but my feet wouldn’t move. As the final bell rang, my body slowly slumped to floor.

  Mr. Glidman, the guidance counselor, found me on the floor. “Marissa? Are you all right? Are you hurt? Can you stand up?”

  I didn’t move, but I heard him talking. His questions were coming so rapidly that I wasn’t sure what to answer first. “I… I think I’m okay.” After I stood up my head began to feel hazy and I started to wobble, so Mr. Tucker grabbed my arm.

  “I’m taking you to the nurse.”

  Lying on the nurse’s cot sounded better than chem lab, so I went.

  The nurse, Mrs. Flynn, gave me a bottle of orange juice to drink. I told her I hadn’t eaten yet today, so she assumed that my blood sugar levels were too low. Maybe she was right. As I sipped the sweet juice slowly, I hoped that the rest of the day would fade away and somehow the letter would magically get into Brandon’s hands.

  “Why don’t you lie down and rest for a bit?” Mrs. Flynn coaxed my head back onto the little pillow, which was about as soft as one-ply toilet paper, and somehow sleep overtook me.

  For a moment, I had no idea where I was. When I opened my eyes, I saw a blurry outline of a woman. It took a minute for Mrs. Flynn’s face to come into view.

  “Dear, how are you feeling?”

  My tongue felt like it had a horrible coating, probably from that juice earlier. “What time is it?” My voice sounded husky, and my head was throbbing.

  “It’s about five minutes before the final bell rings. That’s why I wanted to wake you, so you could get your things together. Are you feeling all right? Maybe I should call someone to pick you up?”

  As she looked on, I scrambled to my feet and grabbed my purse and backpack off the floor. “No, no, I’m fine, thanks.” My heart started beating out of control. Room 312, 312, must get to Room 312. I started jogging in the halls.

  “Slow down!” One of the custodians yelled as I rushed past him. There was no way I could miss seeing Brandon today. My heart couldn’t carry the weight of the letter around with me for another day. It felt like a brick in my backpack. I had to get it back to the family. To the little boy. As I reached the top stair for the third floor the final bell rang. Immediately, students flooded the hallways. With a massive disregard for personal space, I shoved and elbowed my way through. My body crammed its way toward Room 312. When I finally got there, I managed to run into someone’s back.

  “Ah, seriously!” I shouted. Then the person I plowed into turned around and I focused on his features: dark, wavy, hair and piercing hazel eyes. Brandon Carter.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Every hair on my body stood on end. “No, no, it was my fault.”

  He half-smiled and continued on his way. I stood frozen like a huge block of ice. Maybe someone would come and carve me into the shape of a life-like girl. Someone brushed me from my right side, and I snapped back into reality. As I scanned down the hallway, I saw Brandon was heading for the stairs. I rushed through the crowd, hoping to catch up. But a hallway full of teenagers desperate to get out isn’t an easy place to navigate. Luckily, I could make out his head in the sea of people. He must be just over six feet tall, I thought. When I managed to get outside, I scanned the parking lot and spotted him walking toward a black pickup truck.

  “Brandon!” I yelled. Not one of those casual, friendly type of yells, but in the frantic teenage-slasher-film type of way.

  He looked around trying to figure out who called him. I ran toward him and waved one arm in the air. To passersby, I must have looked like a lunatic. My purse kept slipping off my shoulder, and I struggled to hold onto it. When I finally reached him, I was out of breath. As I clutched my side, trying to breathe normally again, I realized, to my horror, that I hadn’t come up with a speech yet. There was panic running through me as I realized I had no idea what to say.

  “Brandon, this is, I have, you know, quiet place, awkward, in common.” Everything combined together, and he stared at me like he wasn’t sure if I was on an acid trip or not.

  “Do I know you?”

  His words were slow and sounded confusing to me. My heart was beating so loud it muffled the sounds around me.

  Just do it! Do it quick before he leaves. Like a bandage — rip it off. I pulled the plastic bag containing the letter out of my purse. “I think this is yours.”

  He had one eyebrow raised as he took the baggie from me. When he realized what it was, I watched his facial expression change in an instant — from eyebrows scrunched together in confusion one moment to red-faced anger the next.

  “What is this?”

  When he spoke a chill ran down my spine. His eyes were blank, and his stance threatened m
e.

  “It’s from… it belongs to—”

  He cut me off. “Where did you get this? Who are you? Is this some kind of sick joke?”

  I focused on a few kids passing by that were now starting to stare.

  “Answer me!” He sounded like a confrontational father.

  Unable to look at him, I focused on the ground below me. “It’s not a joke.” My voice was quivering. “I saw you at the grave the other day, and I saw the little boy with the balloon.” I wished I’d been able to stop my hands from shaking.

  “So you’re spying on me or something? Why do you have this?” He shook the letter close to my face, and I felt the heat form behind my eyes just before the tears escaped them.

  “I wasn’t spying. I just. My name’s Marissa McDonald.” Why are you telling him your name? Are you crazy? “And I was running by the cemetery. I saw you all, and then I was running back and I saw, I saw…” I was choking on the words. My face was covered in tears, and I couldn’t keep my hands from shaking.

  He stepped towards me. “Listen, I don’t know who you think you are.” His jaw was clenched tight. “And I don’t know how you got this, but I’m going to find out who put you up to this.” With that he was gone, walking away from me toward his truck.

  Run after him! Do something! Don’t just stand here like a blubbering idiot. “Wait Brandon, please, just one second.” He stopped. His back faced me, and his hand was on the handle to the truck’s door.

  “Talk fast.” His tone was flat, and he kept his back to me.

  Here’s your chance. Don’t blow it. “I was running by the cemetery. It’s one of my routes, my running routes, and my shoelace came untied, and I bent down to tie it, and that’s when I saw the three of you. I saw the little boy with the balloon, and that balloon reminded me of another balloon, but you don’t care about that, so anyway I kept running, and on my way back I saw that balloon caught in a tree near the edge of the cemetery. I don’t know why, maybe I do, but again you don’t care about that.” It was like word vomit. I couldn’t stop it. There was no way to control how fast the words were coming out, and I was barely pausing between them. His shoulders seem to relax.

  “So when I saw the balloon was stuck, I climbed the tree and got it down and found the envelope and I checked the grave to see the name of who it was for and I told my best friend and she kind of told her boyfriend and he knew you, so I just wanted to get it back to you because I know it’s important, I mean the letter is important so…”

  He turned to me now. His eyes were glassy, and I watched him take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “What’s your name again?” he asked.

  My name? What’s my name? “Me? Oh, I’m Marissa McDonald. I’m a junior.”

  A beat later he took a step toward me and seemed to study my face for what felt like a long time.

  “Marissa,” he said, letting out a long, heavy sigh.

  I started to feel like I had eaten some bad eggs. My legs were slightly trembling as I watched him rub his hands on his forehead. His gaze looked toward the sky as if the answers might be there. Or maybe he was looking to Bobby. After giving me one last quizzical look, he got in his truck and left.

  It usually stings for a bit after you take a bandage off.

  Chapter Five

  “You just caught him off guard, that’s all,” Zoe said. She stood near me drinking an oversized grape slushie while I folded T-shirts with a clipboard.

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” I added another perfectly folded, hot pink shirt to the pile I was working on. Working at Denim was the only way I could afford to pay for car insurance and gas. The job itself was pretty simple, even though my boss Taylor could be a bit of a witch.

  “Totally, I mean, I’m sure by tomorrow he’ll have had time to adjust to the situation and be okay with it.” Zoe sucked up a bit too much of her drink and threw her right hand to her forehead. “Ow, Mary Lou Hou! Brain freeze!”

  As I watched Zoe rub her temples I thought of Brandon, and I hoped he had calmed down some. I wanted to talk to him one more time. Not that I even knew what I was going to say to him when I saw him again. Somehow, I just felt like I needed to apologize or something. Methodically, I switched from the hot pink shirts to the neon green ones.

  “Marissa!” Taylor squawked behind me.

  Oh great! “Yes?” I quickly made sure the green shirt I was folding had perfect edges the way she liked.

  Taylor stood in front of me and crossed her arms. “I trust you know this is work time not social time.” She glanced over at Zoe, who half-smiled at her as she sucked up some more slushie.

  “Miss, do you have this shirt in teal?” Zoe picked up one of the shirts I had been folding.

  Taylor rolled her eyes. “Finish the green shirts and then resize the skinny jeans rack. And I don’t want to see anyone who isn’t a customer in here hanging around.” She gave Zoe one last glare before turning on her heel and heading back to the registers.

  “Ugh, she annoys me.” Zoe said.

  I realigned the pile of green shirts. “Yeah well, the last thing I need is to lose this job, so you’d better go.”

  “Oh all right, but listen, call me later, okay? I’m off to check out the shoe sale at Rio’s.” If there was one thing Zoe didn’t need any more of, it was shoes. But I had to smile as I watched her walk away ready to give her father’s charge card a workout. And I felt only a wee bit jealous. Okay, more than a wee bit, I suppose, but it’s not like I can be mad at her for having a father who makes a lot of money. Part of me can be kind of mad at her for having a father in general, since I never did. That and the fact that we don’t wear the same size shoes.

  Working at a store like Denim, you soon come to realize that customers never put anything back where it’s supposed to go. Now, I know it’s my job to put the items back properly, but is it that hard to put the size eight jeans back with the size eights? I walked over to the skinny jeans rack and began resizing.

  I wondered if Brandon would be in school tomorrow. Size six in size four. Would I even be able to face him if he was? Size ten in size two. What did he tell his little brother when he got home? Size eight in size zero. How did he explain the letter to him? Size twelve in size eight. Maybe he would take the day off from school so he and his family could revisit the grave and set a new balloon with the letter free again. Size ten in size six. Would his little brother cry? Size zero in size twelve. Maybe Brandon would do it alone to spare any more grief to his little brother. Size eight in size six. Maybe he would give the letter to his mother instead to let her figure out what to do. Size two petites in size two regular. Maybe they were meeting with a lawyer to see if they could press charges against me for invasion of privacy. No, that’s not possible. Size four in size ten. I didn’t even open the letter. Size twelve tall in size ten regular. Would Brandon even accept an apology from me if I offered one?

  Once the rack was perfectly sized, I went to find Taylor to request my break. I found her sitting in her “office” — a student-sized desk and an ironing board.

  “Did you finish the skinny jeans?” She was busy working on schedules. And she hated to be interrupted when she worked on schedules.

  “Yup, they’re perfect. Could I take my fifteen now?” I was so thirsty. It felt like I hadn’t had a drink in days. My head was starting to get foggy. If I didn’t get some water in me soon there would be no way I could resize or organize anything.

  Taylor let out a heavy sigh. “Make sure they don’t need coverage at the registers. If they don’t, then yes, you can take your fifteen.” I turned to leave when she started talking again. “And Marissa, fifteen means fifteen, not twenty.”

  “Got it.” I made sure the girls at the registers were all set, and I headed for the food court.

  I was sitting at one of the tables in front of the Sweet Cones stand sipping my water while wishing I was eating a soft-serve vanilla cone. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone trying to get my attention. As I glanced
to my right, I saw Rob, a guy who works at Freshly Made, waving at me.

  “Hey! Is this seat taken?”

  Before I could reply, he sat down across from me. Rob had started working at Freshly Made around the same time I started at Denim six months ago, now. I had come to the food court to get a salad on my first day working at Denim. It was Rob’s first day too. When I asked for a Caesar salad with chicken, he gave me a chef salad on iceberg. We met each other later that day as we both walked to the employee area of the parking lot and exchanged first day horror stories. His were much worse. Anything in food service is far worse than learning to fold T-shirts with a clipboard.

  “Is your dragonlady boss working today?”

  He pushed his golden blond hair behind his ears. His bangs had gotten so long since we first met. Every now and then his icy blue eyes would linger on my collarbone, and it made my palms sweat.

  “Yeah, Taylor’s there. She’s always there. I bet she has a cot hidden in the back room somewhere. She cares way too much about that place.” I took a long sip of my water.

  Rob leaned back in his chair causing his Freshly Made shirt to stretch against his chest. “You’re probably right. But I guess it’s good to care about something though, right?”

  Better to care about some “thing” than some people. “I guess so.”

  “Oh great, the assistant just realized I left my post.” He stood up. “Hey, do you want to grab a bite or something after work?”

  His nose crinkled a little, and it looked kind of cute.

  “I can’t. I have a lot of… school work to do.” Okay, so not that much, but I had some.

  He wiped up a bit of water that had spilled on my table. “Oh, no problem. I’ll see you around then.”

  I watched him walk back with his shoulders hunched just a bit. Yes, he’s nice. Yes, he’s cute. Yes, he’s funny. But there are too many buts. He doesn’t know about my mom. Who wants to hear the sob story of an orphan? I would probably start crying if a guy said, “So tell me about your family.”