How to Break a Heart

by Kiera Stewart

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” he says. “I barely know you.”

  Ouch. Somehow that hurts worse. I mean, we have a history!

  “So I guess those three weeks in fourth grade meant absolutely nothing to you.”

  He laughs—like he thinks I’m joking!

  “Anyway, you’ll be over this ridiculous idea of love soon enough,” he says.

  “You sound completely heartless,” I tell him.

  “Sometimes I wish I were,” he says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” he says. “All I’m saying is that the stuff you believe in, it’s all dumb. Love is for chumps. You’ll get that soon enough.”

  I fight the urge to put my hands over my ears and hum over his words. I reflexively look over to Sirina for support, but she’s giving me this smug smile. It’s two against one.

  “Okay, fine,” I say. “But just for the record, you are the enemy of all things beautiful and free.”

  “Aw, you got me where it hurts,” he fake whines. “I better go cry myself to sleep.” Then he makes his voice high and mock pleasant. “Buh-bye now!”

  “Bye, Burrito Face,” I say, even though he’s already hung up the phone.

  Hunter jerks his head up. He must smell A-Bag, because a second later the door opens. Hunter jumps up from under Sirina’s feet and scurries toward the door.

  “Hey, loser,” Aaron calls out. “I’m home!”

  “Hey, A-Bag,” I call back. “No one cares!”

  He comes into the room. “Oh, look, it’s two of the three stooges!”

  Sirina launches Hunter’s tennis ball at him. Aaron twists girlishly to avoid the ball, but it hits him in the stomach.

  “Smooth move, Ex-Lax,” I say. It’s the best I can come up with.

  “You better be glad that didn’t go through the window,” my brother says to Sirina.

  “Relax,” Sirina says. “You know I have a better arm than you.”

  Aaron looks at me. “Seriously, M-Hole. Mooove.”

  I look right back at him, defiantly. “We were watching my show.”

  But then Aaron threatens to fart us out of the room, so we leave in a hurry, with Hunter following behind us. There are very few things worth enduring the odious Essence of A-Bag.

  Upstairs in my room, I say, “I don’t know who was more obnoxious—A-Bag or Thad.”

  “Definitely A-Bag,” Sirina says. “At least Thad has a point. Like I said before, Mariela’s your woman.”

  “Yeah,” I say, but kind of weakly.

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Mabry?” She says my name slowly. “You’re going to do this, right?”

  “Yes. I already told you.”

  “Because I need my best friend back. I can’t take it anymore, watching you get your heart broken over and over. For once, I’d like to see you claim your power.” She is practically pleading with her eyes.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m definitely in,” I tell her, my eyebrows lifting. It’ll all be okay, I tell myself. If she’s my true friend, she’ll be happy for me.

  “Okay.” Her face relaxes. “Come on. Let’s see your best Mariela.”

  I glance up at the mirror across my room. What I see is a standard-issue eighth grader with skinny jeans, flip-flops, and a hoodie. “Well, problem one: I don’t look like her at all,” I say.

  No. Mariela has the kind of infectious beauty you almost feel like you could catch if you look at her for too long.

  “Well, maybe try acting like her. Act confident.”

  “But I don’t feel confident.”

  “That’s why it’s called acting. Just try it.”

  “Seriously?” I ask.

  “Yes, seriously. Don’t forget—Mariela’s a character on a TV show. She’s a pretend person. That lady who plays her is acting a part. If she can do it, you can, too.”

  I look at myself in the mirror. My shoulders are hugging inward, protectively. I relax them a little and roll them back, which, even though it makes me feel a little taller, also makes me feel a little exposed. But Sirina says, “Good,” so I take a breath and try to go with it. I realize that I haven’t been breathing deep enough—that the air is stuck in a small area in my lungs, and when I breathe deeper, I feel better. I smile at Sirina in the mirror.

  “Better,” she says, smiling back.

  I put on a little mascara. It can’t hurt. I lean my head over and fluff my hair out, then whip my head up and check myself once again.

  “Good. That’s much more Mariela,” Sirina says.

  I turn all the way around and peek at my reflection over my shoulder. If I hold my eyebrows at just the right level, and angle my head in just the right way, and position my hands on my hips, well, it’s almost convincing.

  Sirina studies me in the mirror. I turn and look directly at her.

  “Well, hello, heartbreak,” she says in a smoldering voice. “Thy name is Mabry.”

  And then we start cracking up, and it feels good enough that when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, looking satisfied, looking—I don’t know—maybe a little bit powerful, it starts to seem possible. For a second, just a second, I wonder what being a heartbreaker would feel like. Victorious? Triumphant? Maybe you can make a fruit out of a flower after all.

  Sirina stays for dinner. Stephen’s eating with us tonight, too.

  My mom’s a lawyer. She’s always busy, and as far as I know, Stephen’s the only boyfriend she’s ever had. My brother and I don’t even have a father—I mean, technically, we do, but my mom never met him. She chose him from a piece of paper at the New Beginnings Fertility Clinic, so it’s hard to think of my father and not picture Flat Stanley, the traveling piece of paper from a book my mom read to me when I was little.

  Flat Stanley’s name was John. He was a graduate student in engineering; his ancestors were German and Dutch. That’s about all we know about him. Surely there must have been more exotic choices—a Tahitian island gentleman, perhaps, or an Argentinian cattleman, even. Or—oh!—an Egyptian prince! But, no. She basically chose a version of Stephen. Well, you could say that my mom definitely has a type, despite not having a romantic bone in her body.

  The topic of the night is, of course, the Case of the Broken Window and the investigative series we’d like to write. We’re filling them in on the rumors—the ex-con pen pal, the murderer, the man-clog-wearing substitute teacher—and the fact that Officer Dirk won’t give us any info.

  “Well,” my mom says, “the school probably just doesn’t want to add to the hype. It can be a distraction.”

  “But the rumors are a distraction,” Sirina says. “And there are so many stupid ones out there right now.”

  “Oh! You know what I heard?” Aaron says. His eyes are big, like he’s just bursting to tell us some sort of secret.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I heard that it was this guy serving time for some computer crime. An old boyfriend of Mrs. Vander-Pecker.”

  “Our principal?” It’s hard to imagine, but I do try.

  “Yep. But he was released after ten years in the joint. And his first stop? To see her. But then, guess what?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “He saw your face, and he was so grossed out that he just threw himself out the window!”

  “Oh, shut up!” I say, irritated not just with him, but with myself, for allowing him to get to me.

  “Aaron!” my mom practically whines.

  He just laughs.

  My mom shakes her head at him. To us, she says, “I’d be careful about listening to the rumors.”

  “Well, what do you think happened?” I ask.

  “There’s clearly not enough evidence to know with any level of certainty at this point,” my mom says. “But I’d say that it probably wasn’t a premeditated act. It sounds like it was some kind of emotional outburst. Someone was upset about something.”

  “A crime of passion!” I say. So La Vida Rica! “So you think it cou
ld’ve been over a broken heart?”

  “How would that make sense?” Sirina says, and laughs. “A broken window for a broken heart?”

  “Let me take this, Ellen,” Stephen says to my mom. To us, he says, “You see, kids, relationships can be very complicated. That’s why there’s a Facebook status for it.”

  A-Bag grins. “Ah, this from a man who has eighteen ‘friends.’”

  “Aaron!” my mom says, annoyed. “Go finish your dinner in the kitchen.”

  “Aw, it’s okay, Ellen,” Stephen says. “He’s just razzing me.”

  My brother looks too happy as he pops up from the table and says, “Sayonara, suckers!”

  My mom changes the subject by asking Stephen about what’s happening at his school, which starts a brain-numbing flow of words like curriculum and budget and superintendent. There is nothing intriguing or exciting about any of these topics, and it’s all a little hard to endure, especially when there’s a crime of passion underfoot.

  After dinner, I walk Sirina to the door. “Shoot me if I ever get that boring, okay?”

  “Can’t we just settle for a slap?” she asks. “A vicious one?”

  “Deal,” I say.

  I watch her get into her mom’s car, and wave as they drive off.

  Good night, my lily-spattered organ-grinder, I text her after I can no longer see the car.

  She writes right back. Good night, my maple-syrup moist towelette.

  Thad’s been staring at his computer screen off and on for the last few hours. It’s the first ten equations of his algebra work. It always seems to be the first ten equations of his algebra work. He’s been in a mood all day—restless and annoyed. Not even watching her stupid show, which was laughable, could snap him out of it. The only character that seemed to have a brain in her head was Mariela. He doesn’t know much Spanish, but there was enough kissing and shouting and embracing and sneaking around to figure out basically what was going on. And come on, it’s all predictable anyway.

  So I was kind of a jerk on the phone with her; so what? Thad wonders if he should send her a text or something to make up for it. Not with an actual apology, but something like Let’s meet at the mall next time. I’ll buy you a burrito. Some type of peace offering.

  But then she may ask why he was such a jerk anyway—and then what will he say? That he’s been on edge since he broke the window, worrying about the cops showing up at his house? No, wait—that he’s been on edge for six whole months, since his life exploded?

  That today is his father’s birthday, and it’s the first birthday his dad never got to have?

  That thought is like a knife in the gut.

  He makes himself look back at his computer screen, but it’s filled with stuff he just doesn’t understand. He lets out a frustrated growl and throttles the air in front of him, then gets up from the desk.

  In the kitchen, Aunt Nora’s sitting at the table, a stack of papers in front of her. “Something wrong, hon?”

  “I hate algebra,” he says. Somehow that’s easier to say. “I hate it. It royally sucks.”

  “Well, maybe it’ll be better in a real classroom—”

  “No, it won’t,” he says. “There’s no way you can take the suck out of algebra.”

  She sighs and goes back to the papers.

  “Is Mom awake?”

  “Yeah,” Aunt Nora says, and looks up. “But wait—I need you to do me a favor.”

  “What?”

  “Try not to bring your mood in there,” she says, nodding in the direction of his mom’s room. “She’s kind of in a funk today, too.”

  “Okay,” Thad says, and exhales hard.

  He walks into the room. She is lying on her side away from him. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Oh, hey,” she says, lifting her head, and attempting to roll over to her back. He sees her struggling and steps toward the bed, wanting to help her.

  “No,” she says, waving his hands away. “Let me try on my own.”

  He steps back, watches her wriggle around. His throat tightens so much that he has to look away just to take his next breath. His eyes settle on the wheelchair. It’s folded up in the corner—she hasn’t used it today.

  “Okay,” she says, facing him now, a little more upright.

  He tries to ignore the fact that her legs look twisted.

  “Would you mind rearranging my pillows?” she asks.

  He’s relieved to have something simple to help her with, something like pillows. He plumps them up and stacks them under her head.

  “Perfect,” she says, smiling at him. “Hey, how’s your hand?”

  “It’s good,” Thad says. He’s been taking good care of it, keeping it clean and covering it with fresh gauze. Wearing the gloves whenever he goes outside of the house. There’s no way he’s going to end up in the hospital.

  “Can I see?”

  He holds his hand where she can see it and unwraps the gauze a little. His knuckles look like a road map. There’s an interstate etched across the thumb side of his fist. She cringes.

  “It’s fine. It doesn’t really hurt,” he tells her. Which isn’t really true—his hand does hurt sometimes. But there’s Tylenol in the bathroom cabinet. And at least if he keeps this wound clean, it’ll heal. It’s the invisible ones that are harder to treat.

  She asks for her hairbrush. He doesn’t want to watch it fall from her hands, or see it get stuck in her hair. That’s torturous. So he says, “I can brush it, Mom.”

  She gives him an amused look. “You want to brush my hair?”

  “I—I mean, I can.” He stares at the bedside table.

  “I’ve got a few tangles.”

  “Yeah.” He smirks. “That’s why I’m offering.”

  She gives him a tiny smile. “Okay.”

  He gets the brush from the top of the dresser, where Aunt Nora must have left it, and moves the chair toward the head of the bed. He starts to brush her hair close to the ends, like he’s seen Aunt Nora do. He works on a small tangle right above her shoulder, being overly gentle, afraid to hurt her even just a bit, afraid of the pain in his right hand if he were to squeeze the handle of the brush too tight.

  And then she says, “You think—I don’t know—that he’s celebrating somehow?”

  “Dad?” he asks, his brushing hand momentarily paused. Sometimes she seems like a little kid. Just how is his dad supposed to be celebrating? He’s a box of ashes. A box of ashes that cost ten dollars and seventy-two cents to ship. His mom doesn’t know that part—Thad signed for the delivery on his own. He just opened the door and there was the mailman, ringing the doorbell, holding a box. Just like any other box. And a Harriet Carter catalog—the place that sells things like toilet paper cozies. Thad had accepted them both together, his head swimming.

  “Yeah. What do you think he’s doing?”

  Sitting in the front closet, in a black box, that’s what.

  But he thinks about what Aunt Nora said—about not bringing an attitude in with him. And his mom’s smiling now, sort of. Thad can’t see her face from where he stands brushing her hair, but he can see the rise of her cheeks, and feel the burdensome, overwhelming, helpless wave that sometimes hits him. He wants to keep her smiling. So he keeps brushing and says, “Probably eating cake.”

  “Yes!” she says. “He’s definitely eating cake.”

  “And maybe hanging out with Michael Jackson.”

  “Michael Jackson?”

  “I don’t know a lot of dead people,” Thad admits.

  Then he has an idea. “Hey, Mom, Aunt Nora’s not going to work till late. Want me to go to the store and buy a cake?”

  “Oh, I—” She sighs. “That sounds fun, but honestly, I think I’m pretty tired. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” he says, putting down the brush, although he can’t help feeling a little disappointed.

  She pulls the blanket up to her chin, and he notices her feet are covered up, too. He doesn’t want them covered up—he wants to see her wig
gle her big toe. Both big toes, maybe. It could happen.

  “Mom?” he says. Maybe she’ll try, just for him.

  “Hmm?” she says, like she’s too tired for words.

  “Never mind.” He gives her a kiss on the forehead and leaves the room quietly. On the way back to the kitchen, he pauses at the front closet and stares at the louvered door. Behind that door, on a shelf, the Box of Dad sits.

  Happy birthday, Dad.

  This is the problem with love—real love, not the stupid make-believe stuff that Mabry passes it off as. On a good day, it can wind up in a wheelchair—on a good day. On a bad day, it can end up in a box that costs ten dollars and seventy-two cents to ship.

  yo corto

  tú cortas

  ella corta

  nosotros cortamos

  ellos cortan

  In the morning, there’s no sign of Sirina at school. I study my new Mariela face in the tiny mirror on the inside of the locker door, brush some of the mascara flakes from my cheeks, and try that whole heartbreak, thy name is thing silently. It feels tinny and hollow without her. ¿Donde estás, Sirina? ¡Donde estás! I finally pull out my phone and call her. It’s an illegal act here at Hubert C. Frost, but it’s like when, on La Vida Rica, Rafael had to steal food for his starving children. Something that has to be done.

  “Why are you calling me?” she asks, panicked. “You’re going to get caught!”

  “Where are you?” I hope to hear that she’s just running late, because a day of school without Sirina is a day of unbearable loneliness.

  “I had one of those auras,” she says quickly. “I’m fine; my mom’s just being paranoid and wants me to rest. I’m just going to stay home and eat Jell-O.”

  Jell-O. It’s an ongoing joke between us—ever since I made the Red Jell-O Confession. But I find it hard to laugh right now, because I always worry when she has an aura.

  The auras are part of her epilepsy. They used to come right before a seizure, but she hasn’t had one of those in almost a year. I try to remain calm. She hates it when I get too anxious about it—she tells me my stress is contagious. So I ignore the ambulance sirens and hospital scenes that are blasting through my head and say, as reasonably as possible, “But you’re okay?”