Foolish Hearts

by Emma Mills

  I head to the bathroom partway through the evening—I got detailed directions this time, and hopefully no one decides to end their relationship right outside the door while I’m in there—and I pause in the hallway as I pass a cabinet with a host of photos sitting atop it. The largest is a silver-framed family portrait of the Prewitts on the beach, wearing white shirts and khakis, posing in the setting sun. Gideon’s dad looks a bit older than his mom—he’s got gray-white hair, impeccably styled. One of his arms is slung around Gideon’s shoulders, the other around Dr. Prewitt’s waist.

  Another frame sits next to that one, a dual set of school photos of Gideon and Victoria that look pretty recent. Beside that is a small round frame with a picture of two babies in it—one of those department-store portrait type things. They can’t be more than a year old, sitting on the ground next to each other in front of a blue background, wearing little matching white-and-blue sailor suits.

  I pick up the frame to get a closer look.

  One baby is bigger than the other, with a round face and very little hair, and his mouth is open wide in a laugh. The other baby, with dark hair and eyes, is staring solemnly at the camera. Or, presumably, at whatever stuffed toy was being held up behind the camera.

  It’s clearly baby Gideon and Noah. Best friends since forever.

  I put the picture down, a small smile on my lips, and reach for the frame sitting behind that one, partially obscured.

  This one’s a picture of Gideon alone, maybe three or four at the time. He’s wearing pajamas patterned with sheriff’s stars and proudly clutching two Toy Story dolls: Woody in the crook of one arm, and Buzz Lightyear in the other. He’s smiling big, all chubby cheeks and gappy teeth.

  It makes something bloom in my chest. Some fondness, unbidden.

  I startle when someone rounds the corner suddenly, and the frame slips from my hand, knocks the edge of the cabinet, and falls to the floor facedown.

  “Oh gosh.” It’s Paige. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “It’s okay.” I kneel down and turn the frame over. The glass has cracked.

  Great. Excellent. Not only was I creeping, but there’s now evidence of my creeping. There’s collateral damage as a result of me being a creepy creeper.

  I glance up at Paige. Her gaze snaps to a spot behind me just as someone else enters the hallway.

  “Dr. Prewitt,” she says, and I turn, the frame in my hands, as Gideon’s mom approaches. “I’m really sorry.” Paige grimaces. “I knocked it right off the cabinet, I’m such a klutz.”

  “No big deal, hon. Let me take that. Looks like it’s mostly big pieces, but we should vacuum just in case—” She goes to take the frame from me, but her eyes widen. “Oh, honey, you’ve cut yourself.”

  I look down, and it appears I have, just the tip of my pointer finger, a couple of beads of blood blooming from it.

  She takes the frame and sets it aside. “Doesn’t look too deep,” she says, examining it from several angles. “We’ve got a first-aid kit in the bathroom under the sink. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

  “I can do it,” Paige says, stepping around the glass zone, guiding me by the elbow past Dr. Prewitt and into the nearest bathroom.

  She turns on the faucet and lets it run for a moment, tests the temperature; meanwhile, I stand there holding my finger like a useless git. It’s starting to throb.

  “Why’d you do that?” I say as Paige moves my hand under the faucet, even though I’m perfectly capable. “Why’d you say you broke it?”

  “You had panic eyes.”

  “Sorry?”

  “You know.” She looks at me, face stricken, eyes wide. Then her expression softens back into an easy smile, and I’m reminded once again that she’s a pretty great actor. “Panic eyes.”

  “I just … didn’t want…”

  For Gideon to know that I was creeping on pictures of him as an adorable kid? For Gideon to know that I think he was an adorable kid? For Gideon to know that I think he’s adorable now?

  “No problem, I got you,” Paige says with a wink, switching off the faucet and grabbing a wad of toilet paper. She presses it to my finger and then goes under the sink for the first-aid kit.

  “Thanks,” I say weakly. I watch as she searches through the kit, and suddenly I remember my one a.m. promise to Iris. “Um, hey, so … have you heard TION’s new single?”

  Paige looks up at me, surprised. “It’s so good! I’ve been listening to it nonstop.”

  “Do you, uh, think it’s better than ‘Without You’?”

  “Oh, definitely,” she says. “It’s a whole new sound for them, I think it’ll really help them break through.” A pause as she unscrews the cap on a tube of antibiotic ointment. When she speaks again, it’s a bit hesitant: “But I think … I still think ‘Breathless’ is better.”

  “Oh.”

  “Just … in case anyone was wondering.” She glances up at me.

  And then Gideon appears in the doorway. “I heard there was an injury,” he says, brow wrinkled. “You okay?”

  “I might lose the finger,” I say, but he doesn’t smile, just steps into the bathroom while Paige applies some Neosporin.

  “Lemme see.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “My mom’s a doctor, I should probably look.”

  “Your mom who’s a doctor already looked and said it was fine,” Paige replies.

  “I think you’re supposed to get a second opinion on this kind of thing,” Gideon says as we all watch Paige wrap on a Band-Aid.

  “All done!”

  “Thanks,” I say again. “Sorry.”

  “For what?”

  Being a nuisance. Property damage. Coming to this party in the first place. I just shrug.

  “Your bedside manner needs work,” Gideon says as Paige starts putting the first-aid kit back together.

  “Why’s that?”

  “You didn’t even kiss it to make it better. That’s like an integral part of the process.”

  “Good point,” Paige says, and then claps Gideon on the shoulder. “As the child of a doctor, you’re probably more medically qualified for that part of the process than I am.” Then she swiftly stows the kit away and slips past Gideon, throwing me another wink before she heads out.

  Leaving me. And Gideon. In the bathroom. Alone.

  “Should I…?” he says after a moment, glancing at my hand, which I’m now cradling to my chest for no reason at all. The pain’s settled to a dull twinge.

  “You don’t have to.”

  “Want to.” He shifts closer. “But not if you don’t want me to,” he says, quieter, and oddly serious.

  I swallow. “It is an … integral … part of the process.”

  He smiles a little, takes my hand in both of his, points my finger, and raises it to his face. I feel the warmth from his mouth, the press of his lips on top of the bandage.

  I never think about my hand being small. I never think of any part of me being small, really, but it looks small in Gideon’s.

  He lowers my hand but doesn’t let go. I try to say “Thanks” but the word sticks in my throat, comes out more like “Thurnk.”

  He just smiles, and I realize how close we’re standing.

  “Gideon, Mom wants to—” Victoria sticks her head through the door. I back away abruptly, bumping into the sink behind me. Gideon grabs my elbow to steady me.

  Victoria looks all too knowing. But she simply says, “Cake time,” and then disappears.

  thirty-one

  I text Iris that night:

  Talked to Paige re: “Scandal Season.” She said it was better than “Without You” but not as good as “Breathless.”

  The little text bubble pops up instantaneously, indicating that Iris is typing.

  The three little dots pulse for a while until a message appears, much too short for the time spent crafting it.

  Were those her exact words?

  I mean not like exact exact but I said do you think i
t’s better than “Without You” and she said yes definitely and then she said she still thinks “Breathless” is better.

  She still thinks? She said that she still thinks it’s better?

  Yeah basically?

  SHE BASICALLY SAID IT OR SHE ACTUALLY SAID IT CLAUDIA

  You do not need to scream at me, I type, frowning.

  Sorry, she replies, and then right after: I’m sorry.

  Why does it matter?

  “Breathless” was our song.

  Huh.

  Yeah.

  So … what does that mean? Does Paige still like you or is “Breathless” just categorically a better song than “Scandal Season”?

  Oh my God I’m going to poke you.

  Good luck trying.

  * * *

  I meet Iris after class on Monday so we can walk over to Danforth together.

  When I near her locker, I see she’s there, backpack on, arms folded. But she’s not alone.

  I’m already too close to turn around and disappear when I clock Paige, standing a few feet away from Iris, her bag on one shoulder and an envelope in her hands.

  “You don’t have to … prove anything,” she’s saying as I reach them.

  Iris just stares. “I’m not trying to.”

  “Well, then … take the tickets.” Paige extends the envelope toward her.

  “It’s Lexy’s birthday,” Iris says simply, arms still folded across her chest.

  Paige looks at her for a long moment and then opens the envelope and takes one ticket out, holding it to Iris.

  Iris just shakes her head. “Take your mom.”

  “Iris—”

  “For Lexy. She’ll like that.”

  Another long look from Paige. I might as well have been painted on the lockers behind me.

  “But you love TION,” Paige says finally, her voice soft. “And they’re sold out, you can’t get more—”

  “I’m not taking the tickets,” Iris says, turning back to her locker, grabbing a book, and shutting it with a snap. “So if you don’t want them, then give them away, or tear them up, or whatever. But they’re yours, and I’m not taking them back.”

  And then she walks away.

  * * *

  I follow Iris, catching up with her on the path between the lit building and the gym.

  “You just gave Paige your TION tickets,” I say, even though we were both there.

  “Yes.”

  I blink. “Are you going to get new ones?”

  “You heard her, it’s sold out.”

  It’s quiet for a moment.

  “But couldn’t—I mean…”

  “Spit it out, Claudia.”

  “Your parents could get you tickets, right? You know … pull some strings?” With a house that big, and a corporation that large, surely the Huangs had strings to pull?

  Iris looks over at me. “It doesn’t work like that. They don’t just give me whatever I want whenever I want it.”

  I think about Iris’s room, the various Kenjis and the tapestry, and the purse she gave me because she didn’t like the color. I don’t have to say it out loud—it must come through all too clear.

  “Yeah, I know that’s how it seems. But it’s not how it works. Not all the time, anyway.”

  “So you just … gave her the tickets, even though you knew you couldn’t get new ones?”

  “I bought them for her.” A pause. “I bought them for us, to go together with her little sister. And there is no us anymore. So they might as well go.”

  It’s quiet as we cut through the Grove.

  “That was really nice of you. To do that,” I say finally.

  “I didn’t do it to be nice.”

  Would it be weird to tell Iris I’m proud of her? Because I am, oddly. Proud.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she says.

  “No reason.”

  She eyes me suspiciously. “Don’t fall in love with me. Gideon would never forgive me.”

  I start to sputter a laugh, but then, “Wait, what?”

  “We’re gonna be late” is all Iris replies, picking up her pace.

  thirty-two

  “We’ve got ticket tag going for those coveted TION tickets, five chances a day to play—seven, eight, one, four, and five! Call in and tell us the name of the last person to win and you could score tickets to see TION on the Heartbreakers tour at Soldier Field! We’ve got your hookup here on 103.5 the Jam so stay tuned.…”

  “What are we doing?” my dad says.

  I hold up my phone, the number already dialed and ready to go, seven o’clock the morning after Iris gave Paige the tickets. “We’re trying to win TION tickets. I can’t technically win ’cause I’m not eighteen. So will you call?”

  “You and Zoe have a new favorite band? How will Drunk Residential feel losing their two biggest fans?”

  “They’re not for me and Zoe.” The commercial break ends and the deejay comes back on and requests the twenty-seventh caller. “It’s happening! Call now!”

  I hand my dad the phone and hope for the best.

  * * *

  We don’t get through at seven, and the line is busy again at eight. I can’t try at one or four, but I stalk the 103.5 Twitter page and manage to find the name of the last winner in their mentions to try again at five. I make Alex call when he comes to pick me up from rehearsal. The deejay actually answers to say we’re caller twenty and to keep trying, but that’s as close as we get.

  I try again on Wednesday morning with no luck. But I’m determined. I want to do this for Iris. And if I’m totally, brutally honest, maybe I want it a little bit for myself, too.

  * * *

  A few of the fairies come to the shop on Wednesday afternoon to try on their costumes. Del beelines to Gideon and Aimee immediately, handing them each their things.

  When Gideon reenters the room, he’s wearing tight jeans, tall boots like a pirate, and a battered-looking dress shirt. There’s a scarf wrapped around his head, his hair tumbling out from under it. He is wearing a half dozen or so necklaces of varying length and a long cloak, which I know Del has spent a lot of time on.

  Del makes him spin around and examines him for a moment. Then she steps up and unbuttons two of the buttons on his shirt. Steps back, looks, then unbuttons one more so the shirt falls most of the way open.

  Gideon throws his hands over his chest. “Delilah Legere,” he says, scandalized.

  She smiles slightly. “Better.”

  “Do I look hot?” he says, striding away and then back, the cloak billowing out behind him. “I feel like I look hot.”

  “You look good,” Del replies.

  Gideon’s eyes dart to me, almost in question.

  I nod and then force myself to speak. “Not bad.”

  He grins.

  “Don’t cut your hair,” Del says.

  “I like it long,” Gideon replies. It looks good, undeniably—soft, curling nicely under his ears.

  “Good. You cut it, I cut you.”

  “Yes, Ms. Legere.”

  Del pats his cheek and then heads off.

  Gideon watches her go. “You know those people where it’s like, you know they could kill you, but it would be a privilege to die by their hand?”

  I smile.

  * * *

  Are you playing Battle Quest right now?

  I get a text from Gideon that evening.

  Yes …

  Where are you?

  At my house.

  No like in the game.

  The Central Square, I say, and then frown. Why?

  He doesn’t respond right away. I don’t think much of it; I get up and retrieve a bag of microwave popcorn I had going, and then I steer Viola Constantinople to the merchant stalls to pick up some scrolls for a side quest. After I finish with the merchant, a buxom elf named Trippola Lightyear approaches me, and next to her, a level-one human notary signore named—

  I almost choke on my popcorn.

  >Viola Consta
ntinople: Is that you for real?

  >Gideon Prewitt: yesssssssssss

  >Gideon Prewitt: codeword bloomin onion

  >Viola Constantinople: Gideon you can’t name your character after yourself

  >Gideon Prewitt: why not?

  >Gideon Prewitt: I have a great name, everyone says so

  >Gideon Prewitt: It’s the same name as a harry potter character you know

  >Gideon Prewitt: it’s spelled different though

  >Gideon Prewitt: and I had it first

  >Gideon Prewitt: btw you haven’t said hi to Iris yet

  On-screen, Gideon Prewitt begins dancing wildly.

  >Gideon Prewitt: shit I was trying to gesture

  He lunges and then executes a triple turn.

  >Gideon Prewitt: shit shit shit

  A few feet away, Trippola Lightyear stands motionless.

  >Viola Constantinople: Iris is that you???

  Trippola Lightyear does not respond. But my phone buzzes a moment later. It’s Iris:

  I don’t know how to type in the game

  Meanwhile what the fuck is Gideon doing

  On-screen, Gideon Prewitt is bowing in supplication.

  >Gideon Prewitt: Jesus all these buttons are too close together

  >Gideon Prewitt: how do I stop emoting

  >Gideon Prewitt: Claudia how do I make the emotes go away

  >Gideon Prewitt: Claudia

  >Gideon Prewitt: the emotions

  I can’t help but grin.

  thirty-three

  “Why are you a notary signore?” I ask when I see Gideon outside the arts building the next day. He and Noah are hanging around out front when Iris and I arrive.

  “Because it’s a noble profession,” Gideon says before leaning down and pulling Iris into a hug. “Hello, First Fairy!” He’s a good bit taller, so when he straightens up, still holding on, Iris’s feet dangle off the ground.

  “Unacceptable,” Iris says, kicking out weakly, but she clasps her arms around his neck, and when he whirls them around, I can see her smile.

  “He wanted something, and I quote, ‘obscure as shit,’” Noah says.

  “You were in on this?” I say as Gideon lowers Iris back down. She punches him lightly on the arm.

  “Who do you think consulted on character design?”

  “And you let him name his character after himself?”