Three Sides of a Heart

by Natalie C. Parker

  His eyes snapped open, and he sat bolt upright, as if waking from a nightmare. “What happened? That thing, where is it?”

  He swung his legs to stand. Papers, tacky with his blood, plastered his back and knees. When his feet touched ground, his knees buckled. I caught him before he fell.

  “You’re moving too fast. Sit. Rest,” I said.

  He didn’t fight, but I felt his neck crane. Heard the recently dead tendons creak. “Where’s Niya? She was with me when I got attacked.”

  “Jermaine, I have bad news.” I cradled his head to my chest. “But I want you to know, no matter what comes next, it’s going to be me and you. I promise.”

  Waiting

  SABAA TAHIR

  Pineview is hot. It sounds like there’d be acres of shady redwoods around here, doesn’t it, what with the “pine” and the “view”? Well, no pines around here. No view, either, unless you consider the California Aqueduct and the I-5 worth looking at. Even the spinach fields are dried up.

  But the lucky yuppies driving from San Francisco to Los Angeles and back still need gas and food. So despite fallow fields and Valley fever and a nasty drought, Pineview endures—a pimple on the otherwise majestic map of California.

  If I was driving by, I’d speed past, telling myself I’d get gas someplace less pathetic. Fortunately most drivers aren’t me.

  Since summer started, it’s been busy, busy, busy. Which is good, because private school costs money, money, money, and I’ll need that money in the fall. Though Dad doesn’t seem worried. He threw me a party complete with Stanford colors when I graduated last week. I swear, all forty residents of Pineview came. No, I’m kidding, it was more like fifty people.

  Still kidding.

  Anyway, my point is that Pineview is unremarkable. Which means that some people who live here just stand out. I’m not one of them. I’m brown, and everyone here is brown. I’m just a different kind of brown—South Asian, instead of Latina.

  But Félix Sandoval—he stands out. He’s got that look in his eyes, like he’s doing something with his life. Like me, Félix is going to Stanford. Unlike me, he got a full scholarship because in addition to having annoyingly perfect grades, he is about ten feet tall and plays basketball. We’re probably the only two kids in this entire stretch of the I-5 with a tree as their mascot in the fall. (Seriously, a tree? Come on, Stanford.)

  “Poe!”

  At first I pretend I don’t hear Félix. I’m in the station’s walk-in freezer, stacking drinks, and it is very plausible that his drill-sergeant bellow wouldn’t make it back here.

  “Pooooeeee!”

  It’s the stupidest nickname in the world, and I place full blame for it on my AP English teacher. A month ago, he made me read one of my poems out loud in class. It happened to be about death, so Félix started calling me Poe. Which is strange, because we don’t exactly move in the same social circles. My friends play Assassin’s Creed, read J. R. R. Tolkien, and worship Pink Floyd. His friends play basketball, limit their reading to the Taco Bell menu, and worship Floyd Mayweather.

  You think I’m exaggerating. I am not.

  “I’m in the freezer, Félix! Doing your job!”

  I crack my back, cursing Sam—my best friend and the station’s go-to stock boy—yet again for getting himself thrown in jail. (First offense, meth possession. He’d just turned eighteen. His public defender got a reduced jail term by persuading the judge that Sam was using with no intent to sell. In any case: Stupid. As. Hell.)

  Félix was a desperation hire, the only person who applied for the job after Dad posted the help wanted sign. Why he applied is one of Pineview’s greatest mysteries (along with why Señor Arena, who manages the Subway attached to our gas station, puts up with his crazy wife). Félix spends more money on one pair of jeans than I spend on iTunes in an entire year. Rumor is that his mom’s a big-shot lawyer who sends him guilt money every month from DC.

  When I shared my puzzlement with Sam before he left for prison, he cocked his head and lifted arched black brows I always wanted to trace with my fingertips. “I can tell you why he wants the job,” he said. “But you’d get mad at me.”

  “Only because I’m mad at you all the time anyway.” I punched him—a little too hard, maybe. But who cares? He didn’t feel it because Sam’s arms look like they got really hungry one day and swallowed rocks but never digested them.

  I drop a case of Coke and head out of the stockroom to find Félix hunched at the counter, peering over my notebook.

  “‘Dear Sam,’” he reads out loud. “‘Do they care about—’ Hey!”

  “That”—I grab the notebook from his hands and tuck it into my backpack—“is none of your damn business.”

  “You’re writing to the gringo, huh?” Félix says. “I thought you were mad at him.”

  “I can be mad at him and still write to him.” I point at a tower of soda in the stockroom. “We have to move that entire thing into the freezer before the Coors guy comes at three. Hop to it.”

  “Yes, boss.” Félix bows. “You finish your letter.”

  “Why, thank you, Félix, that’s remarkably thoughtful of you.”

  “Don’t get too excited.” He grins. “I need a favor and I’m trying to get on your good side.”

  Félix’s favor is cutting out early so he can take some girl from Joaquin High to the movies. She lives a half hour away, and the movie theater is another half hour away from that. So if he wants to be on time, he has to leave by four. Such is the dating scene in cultured and sophisticated Pineview, CA. I don’t turn back to my letter until Félix is gone and the evening rush has died down.

  June 5

  Dear Sam,

  Do they care about the drought in jail? Do you guys have to use less water? We’re limited to two-minute showers. My dad loves it, says the water bill is lower than ever. Do I even want to know the shower situation in jail? Ha ha. Okay, sorry, bad joke.

  The store’s been busy. I must say, I am shocked at the consumption of Subway sandwiches in this country, specifically the consumption of meatball subs, which we all know are the sloppy, gross younger brother of the Philly cheesesteak. How do people digest such foulness?

  Anyway, at this rate, I might actually be able to afford half of a book for classes this fall! I wish I played a sport and got a scholarship. Or, you know, had a mysterious great-uncle who could be my educational patron.

  You told me not to ask how you were, so I won’t. I hope you’re okay, that your cellmate isn’t a horrible monster. I can’t imagine you taking any crap, but still.

  Love,

  Ani

  June 15

  Dear Ani,

  Thanks for the letter. My cellmate is all right. Talks in his sleep a lot about someone named Tomas. I think it’s his kid.

  Tell your dad I say hi. You think he’d want to hire a meth head once Félix leaves?

  Sincerely,

  Sam

  My favorite time to work at the station is early in the morning, because no one ever wants to pick a fight. Pump’s not giving a receipt? Too tired; they don’t care. Out of Marlboro Menthol Lights 100’s? Too tired; they don’t care.

  I’m opening this morning, picking out Pink Floyd’s “Wish You Were Here” on the guitar and reading Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban for the thirtieth time when Félix comes in. I look up in surprise.

  “You don’t get free drinks unless you’re working, Sandoval.”

  “Chill out, Poe. I came to keep you company. It’s Tuesday.”

  “You take a bath on Tuesdays?”

  “You said last Tuesday that you hate the second Tuesday of the month because the gas tanker guy shows up and he’s always a creep.”

  Félix waves his hands around a lot when he talks, and I shift back so he doesn’t whack me in the face. It’s been known to happen.

  “I thought if there was a big, scary Mexican guy around,” he’s saying, “he might think twice about hitting on you.”

  “Fé
lix, you are too pretty to be scary, and you are only three-quarters Mexican.”

  “You think I’m pretty?” He bats his dark eyelashes at me. I smack him with the Harry Potter book, and he grins. When he catches sight of my notebook, the grin fades.

  “When does he get out?”

  “Eight months,” I say. “Six, if he doesn’t screw anything up. Just in time to miss every opportunity to do something useful with his life because he’ll be a convicted felon.”

  “Wow, Poe, bitter much?”

  “We were supposed to get out of this place together,” I say. “I always thought I’d be a doctor and he’d be a paramedic and we’d work in the same hospital, which is so stupid because paramedics take people to different hospitals, but still.”

  “And now . . . he can’t do that.”

  “Not unless he waits ten years for his record to clear, and even then, he can’t screw anything up in the meantime.”

  “That’s why you’re so mad at him. You guys had this whole boyfriend-girlfriend life plan. With marriage and kids and stuff?”

  I squirm. “Sam and I aren’t together. You’ve met my dad. If I even thought about dating a boy, he’d give me a horrible lecture about premarital sex and then I would have to kill myself from embarrassment.”

  “That’s like my aunt Tina.” Félix makes his voice shrill and speaks with a heavy accent. “‘You want to keep your scholarship, mijo, you better not even look at a girl! You better not even think about a girl!’”

  “Hope she didn’t hear about your hot date the other day.”

  Félix laughs and picks at the lint on his jeans. “No danger of that.”

  I just give him a look, and he shrugs. “She was nice. Boring. I kept asking her, ‘What do you like to do?’ She didn’t have anything to say.”

  “I thought guys liked girls who had nothing to say. Less talk means more . . . you know.” I hit a wrong note on my guitar, and my face gets hot. Ugh, what am I, eleven? Also, Ani, way to play into harmful stereotypes of males.

  Félix tilts his head. He’s grinning, but his brown eyes are serious. “Not this guy.”

  June 20

  Dear Sam,

  That was quite an expansive letter you sent. You shouldn’t waste so much paper.

  You’re not a meth head. If you’d been as smart as you normally are and refused to get into a car with your idiot brother, this wouldn’t have happened. You’d be in the stockroom instead of too-tall Félix, complaining about how bad my guitar playing has gotten. And maybe we’d have a chance to talk about what happened the night before you got arrested.

  Anyway. Don’t mess with the guys who really do that stuff, okay? Stay away from the bad influences. Wait, is that even possible?

  Enough about that. Do you read much in there? You want me to send you some books?

  Love,

  Ani

  June 30

  Dear Ani,

  Books would be good. Nothing to do here but work out and it gets boring. Send me trashed books though. Nothing new. Don’t want them stolen.

  Sincerely,

  Sam

  July 7

  Dear Sam,

  I have enclosed five books, which you will probably get through in fifteen minutes. They are all on my reading list for English Lit 10A in the fall. Read carefully so I don’t have to!

  Dad says you of course can have your job back.

  Okay, I tried to be subtle. I hoped you’d bring it up. But that didn’t work. So here goes. What happened between us, Sam? I know you are in prison and you have big things to think about like your life and your future and surviving every day. And I would never say something unless I thought that it was more than just a kiss. Don’t you dare tell me it didn’t mean anything, because I can tell when you are lying, even over mail. We went from zero to sixty really fast, which makes me think that you’d been thinking about it for a while. And that makes me think there’s a lot to say. Only you’re not saying it. So I have to. Except . . . now I’m not really sure what to say.

  Love,

  Ani

  Félix has been working here for almost two months, and I can finally go pee without worrying that he’s going to burn the damn store down.

  “Is it six yet?” He comes in from restocking the paper towels at the pumps, and even though it’s about two thousand degrees outside, he’s not sweating. My friends and I used to comment on it at basketball games. Every other guy would look like they’d been dunked in the aqueduct. Not Félix.

  “Yeah, you can go.”

  Félix nods, hands in his pockets. He takes them out. Then puts them back in.

  “Me and some buddies are going to a party in Fresno. You wanna come?” He doesn’t quite look me in the eye. I get the distinct feeling that he’s trying to be nice.

  God, how embarrassing. A pity invite. He must think I’m such a loser.

  Which I sort of am. Because instead of hanging out with friends, I mostly spend my time at the store, daydreaming about my best friend. About how his hands felt in my hair. And about how his chest felt against mine. And about—

  “Uh . . . Poe? You home?”

  Crap. “Party! Yes. I mean, no, I—I can’t. I’m uh, I’m—”

  “Never mind.” Félix grabs his backpack and practically runs out of the store. He looks mad, which is damn strange because in two months, he hasn’t gotten mad once, even when I’ve been grumpy with him. Before I can say anything, his truck is peeling out of the parking lot.

  When he gets back the next morning, he’s his usual cheerful self. And I feel so strange asking about his reaction yesterday that I play along.

  July 30

  Sam,

  Are you okay? I haven’t heard from you. I’m worried. Did something happen?

  Ani

  The three suits who come into the gas station are going to be trouble. I know it the second they step out of the slick black beamer. Bored, rich Silicon Valley jerk bags, propping themselves up by making other people feel worse.

  “Hola.” The white guy who walks in wears boat shoes and a suit jacket over a V-neck. The douche lord of the bunch. He tosses two bags of Funyuns and some beef jerky on the counter. “How’s your day?”

  It always starts out like this. Innocent. Polite, even. There’s the lift of the eyebrows. The “look at me, I’m being nice to the locals” look.

  “Fine, thank you,” I say. “That will be eight thirty-three.”

  “Ooo.” The douche lord’s eyebrows go higher. “Expensive! How about I buy one, get one free, pretty girl?”

  “The price is on the bag. If you can’t afford it, maybe just buy one.”

  “Oh, I can afford it.” He drops a hundred-dollar bill on the counter, and I’m forced to point to the sign that says I can’t make change for large bills.

  Now douche lord is irritated. And embarrassed. A bead of sweat rolls down his pink face. He pauses for a long time, considering me, before digging through his wallet—and handing me a ten. “You’re not very friendly.”

  I make his change. He stares at me with watery eyes, his mouth puckering when I lay the change on the counter instead of dropping it in his hand. “Nice-looking girl like you,” he says. “Stuck in a backwater like this. What a waste.”

  Ah. Here we go.

  “Not even a night school around here to make something of yourself. Guess you’ll be pumping gas forever.”

  “Guess so.”

  “Well, with an attitude like that, you’re definitely going nowhere fast.”

  Usually when this happens, I ignore it. We get a lot of assholes in Pineview, and none of them are worth more than an eye roll. But unfortunately for both of us, I’m in a bad mood.

  I grab the bags of chips out of his hands, throw his ten in his face, and point to the door. “I refuse you service,” I say. “Get out of my store.”

  For a second, he looks like his head’s going to explode. Then he opens his mouth. “You stupid b—”

  The cooler door slams, and Fé
lix’s face is thunderous when he walks out. I take a step back. His shoulders are bunched up, his chin sticking out, and he is not pretty at all. He’s scary as hell.

  “You were saying?” He walks right up to the douche lord and keeps walking when the guy starts backing up, all the way to the door. “You heard her,” Félix says at the door. “Get out.”

  The guy bolts, muttering something about illegal immigrants. A few minutes later, he and his friends are gone.

  Félix mutters under his breath. “Maldito pendejo—”

  “Félix, hey—”

  “What’s your problem?” Félix whirls on me, and he looks as grumpy as I feel. “You get a dozen guys a day in here like that. You can’t pick fights with all of them.”

  I put up my hands. “I was just going to thank you. What’s your problem?”

  “I don’t have a problem,” he snaps, before going back into the freezer. I leave him alone for a while to cool off. (Har har. Because freezer.) When he emerges a half hour later, he doesn’t look quite so mad.

  “Sam hasn’t written to me in more than a month,” I say to him. “I’m worried. Why are you upset?”

  “Because you care so much about whether Sam has written you that you don’t notice anything or anyone else.” He turns red as soon as he says it, and I’m so shocked that I barely register what he says next.

  “All I mean is that you sit here, thinking about this guy who—él se fue, Ani. He’s gone. And when he gets back, you’ll be gone. You could be . . . living life. Having fun. But you can’t stop thinking about him.”

  “What do you care?”

  Félix looks at me so pityingly that I’m actually embarrassed. Because of course I’m not a complete idiot, I know why he cares, even if I haven’t wanted to admit it.

  “Why not just go see him?”

  I mumble my answer, and Félix rolls his eyes.

  “Inglés, Poe.”

  “I never learned to drive,” I say a bit louder. “My dad can’t take me because someone has to watch the store. And before you offer, I do not need—”