Foolish Hearts

by Emma Mills

  Paige looks toward Gideon, smiling. “I’ll go,” she says, getting up, and they disappear into the other room.

  It’s quiet for a moment, the opening credits ending, the movie starting, but then I catch Madison leaning over to Alicia in my peripheral vision. “Would literally not return without popcorn,” Madison says in a low voice, and they both snicker as Alicia pulls out her phone.

  Del must notice me looking, because she tilts her head toward me.

  “They started a Heartmark account,” she says. “JustGideonPrewittThings. It’s where people post all the strange things Gideon says or does.”

  I frown, and Madison shakes her head.

  “Not in a mean way, not to make fun,” she says. “We love him, obviously. It’s just … sometimes he says or does something so random it’s like he’s a life-form from another planet who’s failing at blending into life on earth but trying, like, really hard, and you just have to share it with other people.”

  I glance at Noah, because surely he wouldn’t let people make fun of his best friend in earnest, but he just nods. “It’s true. He does at least one JustGideonPrewittThing a day.”

  “Like what?”

  The group explodes with them, the movie temporarily forgotten.

  “He doesn’t like green M&M’s even though they all taste the same.”

  “One time he said towels shouldn’t be too soft.”

  “I’ve seen him cry at two movies, and those movies were Spy Kids and Spy Kids 2.”

  Del chimes in late: “He prefers cereal to be soggy. I’ve heard him talk about it. He pours the milk in and legit lets it sit for like ten minutes before eating it. If I didn’t know him, I’d be, like, what kind of serial killer shit is that—”

  “Pun intended?” Noah says with a grin.

  “Ugh, no. I mean straight-up, weaving a sweater out of your shower-drain hair, serial killer nonsense. But with him, it’s not, it’s just…” She shrugs. “A Gideon Prewitt Thing.”

  I blink. “I don’t know what to do with this information.”

  “But aren’t you glad it’s been collected somewhere for future use?” Madison says with a grin.

  “If you ask me,” Del says, “the most valuable piece of information is to never get him started on the fact that he has the same name as a Harry Potter character.”

  “Hashtag it’s spelled different, hashtag I had it first,” Madison and Alicia say in unison, and then break into giggles.

  Paige and Gideon return eventually, when focus has returned to the movie, and they’re each holding several bags of microwave popcorn. They hand them out and then sink down onto the free section of the sofa across from Del and me, whispering to each other about something.

  I realize I am not very interested in watching this movie.

  “I’m gonna grab a drink,” I say to Del, and she hmms noncommittally, more engrossed in Pixar than I expected her to be.

  Iris is still in the kitchen when I head back through, though now she’s engaged in conversation with Lena and a couple of other girls from our class.

  I go to grab a soda off the island in the middle of the kitchen, but I don’t really want it, and, anyway, something about Iris’s expression puts me on alert.

  I can hardly believe it, but the unflappable Iris Huang looks … flapped.

  “Honestly,” Lena is saying, and though she’s smiling, it belies the sharpness in her tone. “I don’t get why you’re even here.”

  “Yeah and I don’t get why your face is like that,” Iris replies, but it’s not her best, and she seems to know that.

  “Why don’t you run along and play with your own friends?” Lena says. “Oh. Wait. I know. It’s because you don’t have any.”

  “I have friends,” Iris says, but it lacks the usual acidity.

  “No, Iris. You don’t. What you had were people who put up with you so they could hang out with Paige.”

  Something flashes across Iris’s face, just for a second, and then it settles into a blank expression.

  But I see it. I see her grip on her drink tightening.

  “Name one person who likes you, and not because of Paige, and not because your dad could buy them a Major League baseball team,” Lena continues. “Name one person who genuinely, actually, likes you for you.”

  It would be very easy to walk away right now. Or to stand and do nothing. But it would be very hard to feel okay about that later.

  I swallow. And I step forward.

  “Me,” I say. “I do.”

  They both look at me. Lena blinks, clearly surprised, but then her lips curve into a smile. “Sorry, who are you?”

  She is full of shit, and we all know that, because there are only fifty girls a grade at PLSG, and even I could name all of them. Lena herself sat next to me in chemistry sophomore year, and we were in the same reading group in world literature.

  “Iris’s friend Claudia.” I grab Iris’s wrist. “Let’s go,” I say, and guide her away.

  She follows, but when we reach the hallway, she shakes out of my grip roughly.

  “I don’t—that wasn’t necessary,” she says with a glare.

  “She was being a jerk.”

  “I didn’t need you to do that.”

  “I was just … trying to be nice.”

  “Well, don’t. I don’t need you to feel bad for me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I don’t need you to lie then.”

  “I didn’t.”

  I’m not entirely sure whether that’s the truth. Iris just blinks at me, and I continue anyway. “We’re … friends. Kind of. Right?”

  She’s still frowning at me, but it’s a different kind of frown, a considering sort of one.

  “I … guess.”

  “Okay. So. That’s that.”

  * * *

  Just because we are newly declared kind-of friends does not mean that Iris wants to spend the rest of the party with me. She disappears after that and I don’t see her again.

  I don’t really feel like going back to the family room (like watching Gideon and Paige all night), so I go out to the backyard instead. It’s quiet out there and landscaped to high hell. A pool sits in the center of the yard, a big rectangle lit from within and sparkling, though it’s too cool to swim. The whole pool deck is in brick, with big cushioned lounge chairs along one side. Ideker Ford must be doing pretty well. That or Ideker Volkswagen, Buick, BMW, Hyundai, Subaru, or Volvo is picking up the slack.

  I take a seat on one of the lounge chairs and watch the water ripple until I hear a door open and shut behind me.

  I glance over as Gideon sidles up to the chaise next to mine.

  “I thought you were coming back,” he says.

  I shrug. “Just wanted a little quiet.”

  “Mind if I sit?”

  “Why would I mind?”

  “Don’t want to disturb the quiet,” he says with a crooked smile. I gesture to the seat and he sits, stretching his legs out in front of him. He’s got on a pair of old-looking brown leather boots that are kind of at odds with the sneaker-of-the-month culture pervasive at Danforth and PLSG. “Smooth job answering a question with a question by the way. Super ninja deflecting skills.”

  “I’m a level fifty deflector,” I reply.

  “Out of how many levels?”

  “How many levels do you think?”

  “Deflected!” he says, throwing his arms in the air like he’s blocking blows. Then he settles back in his chair. “So.”

  “So…”

  “If you could have one superpower, what would it be?”

  “That’s like the most cliché question in the world,” I say.

  “Because it’s a good question!”

  “There are literally only two responses. Either you want to fly and that means you’re outgoing and free-spirited or whatever, or you want to be invisible and you’re an introvert.”

  “What if I want to do both? What if I want the power of invisible flight?”

&n
bsp; “Like Wonder Woman’s plane?”

  “Yes, I want Wonder Woman to ride me around the sky.”

  I snort.

  “Okay,” Gideon says with a grin, “take the normal answers off the table. What non-cliché superpower would you pick?”

  “You say yours first.”

  He presses farther back against the cushion of the chaise and contemplates the sky for a moment. “I would want the power to listen to my favorite songs again for the first time,” he says finally.

  I look over at him. “Seriously?”

  “Is that weird?”

  “All the superpowers in the entire universe. Anything you could possibly dream of. And all you want is to listen to your favorite songs again for the first time?”

  “Why, what would you pick?”

  “No, don’t deflect, that’s my thing. Why? Why that?”

  He shrugs. “It’s the best feeling. The first time. Why wouldn’t you want to take something you love and go back to the very best part?”

  “Maybe I don’t think the first part is the best part. Maybe I like the part later on. Hearing a song so many times you know all the little ins and outs of it. Experiencing something so many times that you can just … live in it. Maybe I like that better.”

  He looks at me for a moment and then nods. “Okay. Yeah. I can see that.” A pause. “Now you have to pick one. But it has to be unconventional. No flying or invisibility. No super spit.”

  “Is super spit conventional?”

  “You know what I mean. What would you pick?”

  I think about it for a moment. “I would want the ability to see the future.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s sort of an all-encompassing power, isn’t it? You could see what numbers are going to win the lottery. What stocks are going up. What choices you should make to have the best life you could ever possibly have.”

  “I mean, sure you could make money off it, but how would that make it the best life you could possibly have? Beyond money?”

  I shrug. “I feel like if you can see the future, you’ll never make a wrong decision. Because when it comes time to decide something, you just look into the future of all the possible outcomes, and pick the thing that will lead to the best one.”

  Gideon considers this for a moment. “I would hate not having surprises,” he says finally. “I would hate feeling like everything was predetermined.”

  “But it’s not. You’re determining it by … looking ahead and picking the best thing.”

  “Maybe the best thing’s not always the best thing. Maybe shitty things have to happen to get you to the right place.”

  “That sounds like something someone who’s never had shitty things happen to them would say.”

  He frowns. He’s about to speak when the door bangs open behind us.

  “GIDEON PREWITT, GETTIN’ INTO IT,” someone bellows.

  “That’s a way better title for your mixtape,” I say as a guy I don’t know comes up behind Gideon and engulfs him in a bear hug.

  “This dude right here,” the guy says, “is a fucking treasure.”

  I watch Gideon stand and turn to embrace him fully. The guy thumps Gideon soundly on the back, bro-style, but Gideon just hugs him in a surprisingly earnest kind of way.

  “You’re very drunk,” Gideon says when they pull apart.

  “Gonna drive me home later?” the guy says.

  “Of course.”

  The guy looks from Gideon to me and then back again, eyes widening. “Did I interrupt?” He drops down to a loud whisper. “Was magic happening?”

  Gideon looks embarrassed, meeting my eyes for a second and then looking away. “I mean…”

  I can’t tell if he’s embarrassed because magic was not actually happening, or because I’m the person being implicated in the magic.

  For a moment, it’s very awkwardly silent.

  “I, uh, think I’m gonna head back in,” I say finally, sliding off my chaise and standing up. “Getting kind of cold out.”

  “Gideon is very warm,” the drunk guy says too loudly. “He’s known for. Warmth. If you need someone. To warm you.”

  Gideon looks like he wants to melt into the ground.

  “See you guys inside,” I say, and head in.

  twenty-one

  Zoe is over at our house, gaming with Alex, when I get home from the party.

  “You’re later than I thought you’d be,” she says, setting her laptop aside.

  “Wanna play?” Alex says, but Zoe stands, grabbing my arm.

  “I want to hear about this party.”

  So Zoe and I get ready for bed, and I tell her about the party and about Gideon. After the awkwardness of the drunk guy’s interruption, I ended up back with the movie-watchers. When Gideon joined us again, minus the drunk guy, he started toward the spot where Del and I were sitting, hovered awkwardly for a moment, and then moved back to the empty spot beside Paige.

  “He sounds goofy,” Zoe says. We’re lying in bed and I’ve got my teddy bear, Mr. English, in the crook of one arm.

  “He is. Kind of. But also not?” I shake my head. I think of Madison’s description: a life-form from another planet who’s failing at blending into life on earth but trying, like, really hard. “He’s like a benevolent space prince. From a planet with three suns that are all named after him.”

  “Really.”

  “Yeah, and when it rains, they call it the ‘prince’s tears’ in their native tongue, which is so beautiful it makes you cry instantaneously.”

  Her lips twitch. “Is the space prince looking for a space princess?”

  I look up at the ceiling. “If he is, he’ll pick someone more suited to his station in life. Like, you know, an imperial senator’s kid, or a royal from a neighboring planet. Not a … humble trash robot.”

  “They have trash robots on this planet?”

  “They need an infrastructure for waste removal like everyone else.”

  “And you’re the trash robot?”

  “I didn’t say me exactly. I’m just … saying.” Magic doesn’t happen with trash robots. I think that would be widely accepted on Gideon Prewitt’s hypothetical planet.

  It’s quiet.

  “Do you like him though?”

  “Everyone likes him.”

  “Yeah, but do you?”

  I fumble with Mr. English’s bow tie.

  “He has a weird sense of humor,” I say. “I like that. And…”

  “What?”

  I shake my head. “Also, his laugh is way too goofy for someone as attractive as he is.”

  “What’s an attractive laugh? Like what would be a suitably hot laugh for him?”

  “I don’t know.” I try to demonstrate. Like some kind of throaty chuckle.

  Zoe’s shoulders start shaking, suppressing her own laughter.

  “What? I’m trying. Like—” I lower it a bit, try to get it deeper and gruffer.

  She throws a pillow at me, laughing out loud now. “You sound demented. Truly.”

  “Thank you. I try.”

  “What’s he look like?”

  I blink. I could grab my phone and find any number of pictures of Gideon Prewitt from any number of parties or games or school functions. But I realize that I already have a picture of Gideon in my room. It’s from his fifteenth birthday party.

  There was a photo booth at the arcade, and everyone was queuing up to take photos with him, like he was some kind of celebrity. I got in line behind Madison and Ainsley and forced my way into their photo op, because there was no way I was going to go into the booth with Gideon Prewitt alone. That was just way too embarrassing. I didn’t know him at all. And he was too good-looking. I was certain I’d say something stupid, because when have I ever not said something stupid?

  We took four pictures, and when we divided them up, I got the first one, because no one else wanted it. It was the only one you could actually see me in.

  Madison and Ainsley and I had crammed our
selves into the booth. Madison sat on Gideon’s lap, and Ainsley was squished beside him. And there was me, hunched over in the top corner, mostly obscured.

  Madison was grinning at Gideon, Ainsley was pulling a funny face. Gideon was laughing, his mouth wide, his eyes squeezed shut. You could only see the top of my face, really, the rest of it blocked by Ainsley’s head as she leaned forward. But you could tell from my eyes that I was smiling.

  I hung this picture in my locker for the remainder of freshman year. Even now it’s still tucked into the bottom seam of the bulletin board hanging over my desk. It made no sense, really, to keep it, because I didn’t know Gideon then, and I’ve never been all that close with Madison and Ainsley either.

  But I guess it looked how some little part of me wanted things to look. Even if it was just for a second. Like some TV version of high school.

  I get out of bed and grab the picture, return, and present it to Zoe.

  “It’s old,” I say. “But it gives you a general jumping-off point.”

  “Bawww,” she says, considering it for a moment. “He’s a cutie. Look at his floppy hair.”

  “He’s taller now,” I say, even though a photo-booth photo in no way conveys height. “His hair is longer but somehow less floppy, if that makes sense.”

  She glances over at me. “It’s okay if you like him.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “You just like his creepy laugh.”

  “I didn’t say creepy.”

  “You said he is so hot but his laugh is so creepy. You said he laughs like a deranged cartoon villain but you want to have his children.”

  “Zoe.”

  She cackles.

  twenty-two

  Iris comes up to my locker on Monday and thrusts something in front of me.

  “Do you want this purse?”

  It’s a small, coral-colored bag with a long thin strap. I blink at it and then at Iris, who is openly glaring at me.

  “Sorry?”

  “I got it online. I don’t like the color.”

  “What’s wrong with the color?”

  “The pictures were shit. I thought it was orange. This is basically pink. I hate pink. I never want to see pink again.”

  “I…”

  “Do you want it or not?”

  “You could just return it.”