Hearts Unbroken

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  Without a word, she followed me around the corner, then down and across the hall to the girls’ locker room. “Controlling beeotch,” Emily muttered. “Stupid, stubborn, fucking beeotch.”

  Ducking into an orange stall, I said, “That sounded weirdly personal. Especially since . . . do you normally talk to teachers that way?”

  “Qualey believes Shakespeare could do no wrong,” Emily replied. “I disagreed and she nearly failed me for sophomore English. She’s been ‘no comment’ this, ‘no comment’ that on the casting controversy. Either she’s worried about saying the wrong thing or she just hates me.”

  “I don’t think it’s you,” I called. It was disappointing that the same faculty director who’d decided to change the face of student theater seemed so locked down in other ways.

  As I was washing my hands, Emily stowed her lip balm, smoothed her long tie-dyed dress, and said, “My friend Becs might let you interview her for your slut-shaming story — face-to-face, not on camera, if you promise not to make her look bad.”

  She stared me in the eye. “You wouldn’t do that, would you, Lady Lou?”

  “No way,” I said. “You can trust me.”

  The final bell rang. Emily and I rushed out of the locker room, navigating the student swarm, jostling to look. Chelsea’s name was up top. The lead. Dorothy.

  She was beaming, accepting hugs and congratulations.

  I scanned down the list. I knew moments before my brother did.

  Tin Man: Hughie Wolfe

  The editors had already called over Alexis and then Emily to discuss their respective journalistic learning curves. Alexis was back to work, helping Nick brainstorm his latest editorial cartoon. (His topic of the week? The administration had begun trying to micromanage his playlists for the campus radio station, and he wasn’t happy about it.) Ms. Wilson had stepped out into the hall to take a phone call. It sounded like she was talking to her credit-card company.

  Joey and I were waiting on deck. “Don’t be nervous,” he said, checking messages on his phone. “They’re only trying to help you achieve your full potential as a Hive reporter.”

  We were leaning, side by side, against the bookshelves under the bulletin board. Both of us with our arms and ankles crossed. We were almost touching. Almost.

  I was trying not to eavesdrop on Emily’s conversation with Karishma and Daniel, but it was obviously going well. All three had just laughed.

  “I’m not nervous,” I replied with more confidence than I felt.

  Truth was, I’d been an all-star student all my life. Karishma’s putting the kibosh on my first attempt at a feature had been an unexpected failure.

  Sure, a couple of my bylines had passed muster since. I enjoyed crafting leads. I was more comfortable with interviews, and I’d successfully proposed a more comprehensive approach to reporting on bullying. But would I be able to pull it off?

  “Look,” Joey added. “Karishma says she’ll ease up on the reporters once you’ve all got more experience. In no time, Lou, she’ll just pull you aside privately when you need direction.”

  Maybe Shelby had been right that he was just posturing, but I’d had enough. “Do you have to be so damn condescending?”

  “Lou, Joey!” Karishma called as Emily stood to leave the editors’ station. “You’re up.”

  I hated that because we were both assigned to Features, the editors were going to give Joey and me feedback together. Sometimes Karishma took her team philosophy too far.

  For the occasion, she and Daniel had cleared their work space, neatly stacking their local papers to one side. Joey and I took seats across from them. I opened my notepad. My plan was to keep my head down, record everything I was told, and then stick to questions.

  I wouldn’t get any better at the job if I let my ego get in the way.

  Meanwhile, I didn’t mind listening to their “all hail Joey” duet. He deserved the praise, but I dreaded his know-it-all presence once they began peppering me with helpful tips.

  “We’d like to focus on the respective features you turned in for Friday,” Karishma said.

  Joey had put together a feel-good story about a junior who’d biked the long way across Kansas over eight days last summer to raise money to fight muscular dystrophy. It would go live tomorrow morning. Daniel tapped Play, and we all watched the video again.

  “Not bad, huh?” Joey nudged. “I found that royalty-free music —”

  “It’s okay,” Daniel said. “It doesn’t suck or anything.”

  “We’re not going to make you redo it to run next week instead,” Karishma added. “You get the basic facts out, but the emotional connection could be stronger.”

  She tapped Pause. “You’re coasting on bells and whistles.”

  The editor in chief pulled up my personality profile on Dylan. “This is a smaller story, an everyday kid story.”

  I braced myself, but Karishma surprised me. “Lou, you got him to open up. Reading this, I have a strong sense of what it feels like to be a teenager working at a gas station.”

  Glancing at Joey, she said, “I’m intrinsically impressed by anyone who can bike across the state, especially for a good cause. But I didn’t gain anything from watching your video.”

  “Gain anything?” Joey echoed.

  Daniel, who wasn’t exactly Mr. Sensitivity, explained, “It was a blah effort.” Gesturing to Joey’s images alongside my text, the managing editor added, “But your photos are solid.”

  “Yes,” Karishma agreed. “They’re terrific.”

  I would’ve added my praise, but I suspected Joey didn’t want to hear from me right then.

  DIVERSE CAST TO JOURNEY TO OZ

  by Emily Bennett, Hive Arts/Entertainment reporter

  Updated 1:23 p.m. CT Friday, September 18

  “I almost didn’t audition,” senior Chelsea Weber said. Yet the cast list posted on Sept. 16 named her to play the role of Dorothy in the EHHS production of The Wizard of Oz. Performances are scheduled daily from Nov. 20 to Nov. 22 in the auditorium.

  Weber explained that, in prior years, she had been passed over for significant roles in My Fair Lady, Hello, Dolly!, and Oklahoma! She added, “It’s not like anybody ever said, ‘Hey, you’re Black, so forget it.’ But when people start talking about their ‘vision’ and whether you’re a ‘fit for the part,’ it’s not hard to figure out what they really mean.”

  Faculty director Lisa Qualey announced in an e-mail to students on Aug. 1 that “every student who auditions will receive fair and equal consideration.” She declined further comment.

  Qualey’s approach has generated some controversy.

  “Everybody knows ‘fair and equal’ is code for lowering standards to give an unfair advantage to minorities,” said Rochelle Ney, founder of Parents Against Revisionist Theater (PART). “It’s trying to fix old discrimination with new discrimination instead of moving forward. It’s a sad state of affairs when we’re so politically correct that the truly talented kids are pushed aside so that some teacher can advance her personal agenda. We simply cannot allow this sort of reverse racism to take root in East Hannesburg schools.”

  Other major roles went to junior Brent Baker (Lion), sophomore Madison Cohen (Glinda), senior Jessica Davis (Aunt Em), senior Garrett Ferguson (Wizard), senior Taylor Nelson (Wicked Witch), junior A.J. Rodríguez (Scarecrow), and freshman Hughie Wolfe (Tin Man).

  Hughie, our rising stage star, chose the restaurant. After morning services at a Methodist church, we ended up in Lawrence for fancy burgers. Billie’s Down-Home Diner has the look of a 1950s joint, complete with a soda fountain, except for the flat-screens on the walls.

  My cousin Fynn asked, “What’s the rehearsal schedule?”

  Through a mouthful of sweet potato fries, Hughie answered, “Every day after school.”

  “Chew, swallow, speak,” Mama reminded him. “Three-part plan.”

  “He’s just excited.” Daddy cooed at Fynn’s toddler. “We’re all excited, aren’t we?�
��

  Aiyana beamed up at him. Shiny brown eyes. Chubby, smiling cheeks. Dimples!

  Hughie raised a finger, chewed, raised a second finger, swallowed, raised a third, spoke. “Until seven p.m. Oh, except Fridays. Every day after school except Fridays.”

  “How about you, kiddo?” Fynn began. “Any chance you could spare an hour or so to proof web copy for me? I’m hoping to launch the new Arts and Crafts Co-op site next week.”

  My summer internship with him had officially ended when school started, but I’d offered to do extra work for extra cash. My cousin insisted on paying me minimum wage, plus ice cream.

  “No problem,” I said. “I’ve got time.” Or I’d make time.

  Carrying his joyfully clapping daughter, Fynn excused himself to pick out a song on the flashing jukebox. His wife, Natalie, was off cohosting a baby shower in Topeka.

  I happened to glance up at the nearest muted flat-screen TV. The news ticker reported that a bombing in Egypt had been linked to a terrorist group.

  I counted four screens in my line of vision.

  Bombing, bombing, bombing, bombing.

  I felt the tinge of sadness, the shudder of horror.

  Watching made me feel helpless, but it seemed selfish to look away.

  From the jukebox, Elvis wailed “Heartbreak Hotel.”

  Chitchat had turned to the lulling monotone of the reverend’s sermon. Daddy said, “I’m sure he’s a fine, godly man, but it was a blessed miracle that I managed to stay awake.”

  We’d been switching off between the Baptists and Methodists, focusing on well-established, community churches. Inclusive congregations.

  Compatibility mattered more than denomination.

  Only Mama seemed to notice my distress. She gestured for our server to come over. “Excuse me,” Mama began. “Could you please change the channel?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Like the rest of the waitstaff, Phoebe (according to her name tag) sported a checked pink-and-white shirt with black slacks. She skipped to the service station, switched from the news channel to a fashion channel, and skipped back.

  “Better?” she asked. “Once the KC Chiefs pregame begins, we’ll put that on.”

  “Thank you,” Mama said, glancing at her watch. “We’re ready to order dessert.”

  On screen, a statuesque model pivoted in a silvery mesh evening gown involving large metal buckles and a baffling array of straps.

  It kind of looked like something you’d use to catch lobsters.

  Rain touched her beaded smudge necklace. “Can you imagine wearing that in public?”

  “I can’t even imagine how I’d get into it,” I replied. “Or out of it.”

  “Lawn shears?” Fynn mused out loud.

  Aiyana tossed an onion ring into the air and burst into giggles.

  Before long, everybody was pitching in their opinions on the various high-fashion designs, the show’s lighting, and the celebrities with front-row seating.

  Suddenly, on four screens, a white girl with jutting collarbones strutted onto the runway in a shimmery, sleeveless turquoise mini, clear platform shoes, and an enormous Plains-Indian-inspired headdress decked out in glittery white-and-blue feathers.

  Headdress, headdress, headdress, headdress.

  Our conversation faltered. Our laughter faded.

  We turned our attention back to Aiyana, to each other, where it belonged.

  Our jovial mood rebounded. When Phoebe returned with pecan pie à la mode, Mama said thank you and asked her to turn off all the TVs.

  After school on Monday, I grabbed the mail at the end of the driveway on my way in. Daddy was still at work. Hughie was at his first day of rehearsals, Mama at class in Lawrence. Flipping through the stack, I tossed the ads into recycling, the bills onto the kitchen table.

  Then I hit the unmarked white business envelope. At first I figured it was a notice from the homeowners’ association.

  I pulled the letter out. It was short and to the point.

  “There is no place like home.”

  Go back to where you came from.

  I dropped it to the countertop and backed away, reaching for my phone to text Mama.

  Later, my parents called a family meeting in the great room.

  Mama had already asked me to slip the piece of paper into a large Ziploc bag to preserve any fingerprints. She planned to take it to the police station the following morning.

  “Obviously, this is someone local,” Daddy said. “Someone who could slip it into our mailbox.” He’d already talked to a few neighbors, and so far, nobody seemed to have seen anything.

  Beside me on the cowhide couch, Hughie asked, “What do they mean by ‘where you came from’? Cedar Park?” My brother’s complexion is darker than mine, his hair almost black. He takes more after Mama that way.

  “Not Texas,” she replied, rubbing her eyes. “Not Oklahoma, either.”

  My parents sometimes joke that, teaching high school, Mama has personally seen more conflict than Daddy did as a dentist in Iraq. Neither of them scares easily.

  Their calm might’ve been a bit forced, but this was nothing more than an anonymous typed message. Hostile, yes, but they were determined not to overreact.

  “They think we’re immigrants,” I clarified, still stunned. It’s not the first time that’s happened. Especially in Texas, people would sometimes assume we’re Latinos.

  No big deal. And, hey, a lot of Mexican Americans are Indigenous, too.

  But the vile note we’d received that day was no good-natured mistake.

  It’s not like I didn’t know things like this happened, but it’s different when you’ve found the envelope in your own mailbox at the end of your own driveway. It’s infinitely more personal when your shy kid brother’s decision to step into the spotlight is what triggers the hate.

  Rebecca is a slender, lovely white girl with delicate features, but you can hardly see them beneath her overgrown flyaway bangs. She does have what you might call a naughty reputation. Even I had heard (from Cam — who else?) that Rebecca had blown a lot of guys.

  Boys say stuff like that all the time, though. After a minor squabble, I’d let it go.

  Now that Rebecca and I were becoming friends, I regretted that.

  After what Cam had said about me, too, I could relate to what she’d been going through.

  This Hive story on sexual bullying was my way of standing up for both of us.

  At the same time, I was concerned about Rebecca.

  Going on the record — calling out your bullies — is fierce, and she was projecting “prey.”

  She walked with her head down, her shoulders hunched. She had a habit of looking over her shoulder and kept a hand over her cross-body bag.

  Rebecca lit up around Emily, though. Over the past few days, they’d starting eating with Shelby and me in the school cafeteria. Emily and Rebecca were close in a finish-each-other’s-sentences, goofy-inside-jokes, thought-of-as-a-pair kind of way.

  They called each other “Becs” and “Em.”

  “Can I read the story before you post it?” Rebecca asked me Tuesday after school.

  Karishma wouldn’t love that. “Absolutely,” I said.

  We’d strolled to a neighborhood park, and the rambunctious second-grader Rebecca regularly babysat ran ahead to the red plastic slide. Nearby, another little boy pushed an empty swing and two preschool girls affectionately pelted each other with foam lightsabers.

  A couple of moms in yoga pants looked on, splitting a thermos of what I suspected was wine — they were sort of acting like they were getting away with something.

  Rebecca and I kept our distance, side by side on the blue gingham blanket she’d brought. We’d unfurled it onto the soft grass bordering the play area.

  “Thanks again for agreeing to talk,” I said. The words sounded oddly formal, especially considering that we’d built a Tater Tots pyramid together that day at lunch. “There’s no need to stress over every word. It’s not like we’re
going to run a transcript, just a quote or two.”

  Rebecca hugged her knees. “Sophomore year, this girl in my class — her mother had died a couple of years before. When her dad began dating my mom, she was upset. But she couldn’t stop them, so . . .”

  If Rebecca didn’t want to name names, I wasn’t going to press. “She went after you.”

  I sympathized with the bully’s grief, but only up to a point.

  Rebecca reached for a stray stick on the ground. “Calling my mom a slut didn’t get the girl anywhere but trouble, so she started saying ‘like mother, like daughter’ at school and some of her friends piled on. One night, they wrote SLUT in shaving cream on my driveway. Bragged about it at school the next day. Another time, someone keyed the word into my locker door.”

  I kept my gaze on my notebook, jotting down her story.

  Rebecca drew lazy circles in the wood chips. “They still gossip about me and call ‘Hey, Slutty’ when they pass me in the halls. It’s been worse, cruder, online.”

  Now we were talking sexual, verbal, and cyber bullying. I’d have to acknowledge in my article where the behaviors blurred.

  “I’ve lost babysitting gigs because of the rumors.” Her eyes misted, but she held it together. “You know, nobody wants a slut looking after their kids.”

  Rebecca tossed the stick aside. “Sometimes guys hit on me because they think it’s true.”

  Over a takeout fried-chicken dinner, Hughie announced to the family that Chelsea and A.J. (his two fellow Oz castmates who were actors of color) had received identical anonymous notes in the mailboxes at their houses, too.

  “Blank envelope?” I asked. “Hand delivered?”

  Solemn, my brother nodded.

  Daddy unwrapped the aluminum foil around his buttered corn on the cob. “Try not to worry about it, but keep your eyes open and look out for each other.”

  Mama added, “I’ll give their parents a call later tonight.”

  The next day, on my way to French, I heard the word slut in the junior hall and pivoted toward it. I approached two girls talking at an open locker and introduced myself. “I’m doing a story on sexual bullying for the Hive. Why did you do that? Why did you use that word?”