Severed Heads, Broken Hearts

by Robyn Schneider

  “What is up with you?” she demanded. “You’re hanging out with Toby Ellicott and joining the debate team?”

  Charlotte was still in her song squad skirt, ribbons tied around her ponytail, a little blue paw print painted on her cheek. But her expression was far from cheerful.

  “Well?” she asked, waiting for an explanation.

  But the thing was, by my reckoning, I didn’t owe her one. Not for something as trivial as whom I chose to eat lunch with.

  “So you and Evan,” I countered. “Awesome. You’ll have my vote for Homecoming Court.”

  “Oh, please,” Charlotte protested, a little too vehemently. “That’s not why we’re together.”

  “Of course not.” I held back a smile, noting how my comment had infuriated her.

  “This is ridiculous,” Charlotte said. “You should come back to our lunch table. It’s not your place to sit with those losers. Bring your snotty prep-school girlfriend, even. I don’t care.”

  “They’re not losers. And Cassidy and I are just friends.”

  “Yeah.” Charlotte laughed. “Because so many girls see you and think, ‘Now that’s a guy I’d like to be just friends with.’”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I was fairly certain that most girls saw me and thought, That’s the kid who almost died at Jonas’s party. Used to be a star athlete, but he’s, like, crippled now. Isn’t it so sad?

  I raised an eyebrow, waiting for Charlotte to voice the truth of what everyone wasn’t saying. Instead, she sighed and swished her skirt as though I exasperated her. It was a move I recognized from the halcyon days of junior year, when we’d just started dating.

  “Ohmigod, Ezra! Get a clue. You’re all brooding and depressed now, and don’t even ask me why, but dark, deep, and twisty totally works for you. You could have anyone you want, so ditch the social outcasts and stop sulking over your sprained knee.”

  My sprained knee—right. I didn’t even know what to say to that, so I did what I always did around Charlotte—around all of my old friends, really. I shrugged and said nothing.

  “Listen,” she said, stepping closer and pouting cutely. “I’m having a party next Friday. You’re coming, right?”

  Now I was sure she was flirting. But the thing was, I wanted no part of it.

  “Actually, I’m not. I’m busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Debate tournament,” I said, enjoying myself. “All weekend, unfortunately. Out of town.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  I leaned in, closing the distance between us and knowing that I would get away with whatever I said next.

  “I’m as serious as a car crash.”

  I gave her my most winning smile before heading back to the table.

  AS WE WALKED back to my car, I turned around only once. The sun was setting, and the lights strung between the palm trees in the parking lot had just come on. But even in the purpling night, with the glow of hundreds of tiny lights reflected against the In-N-Out window, I could see them sitting there in the large corner booth, the one they’d taken for just the three of them. Their food was finished, but they hoarded the best table in the place as though it was theirs as long as they wanted it.

  Not so long ago, I would have been there with them, inhaling a Double-Double after tennis practice, dipping my fries into my milk shake just to make Charlotte squeal in disgust. I would have laughed at Evan and Jimmy’s antics, because we all knew they were only doing it to see how long until I made them stop.

  “We’re going to get kicked out,” I’d warn, shaking my head. “They’ll take a mug shot of us in those stupid paper hats and hang it on the wall to shame us.”

  And eventually, when Justin Wong came over to pointedly clear our trays, I would have shot him an apologetic look when the others weren’t watching, knowing that we’d been wrong but had gotten away with it anyway.

  “Well,” Cassidy said, climbing into the front seat, “that was exquisitely unpleasant.”

  “Welcome to the OC, bitch?” Toby offered.

  “Let’s just go.” I put on some music, not wanting to talk about it. Arcade Fire was on the local college station, crooning about growing up in the suburbs. I concentrated on the lyrics until I turned back onto Princeton Boulevard.

  “Tumbleweed,” Toby noted. “Fifty points if you hit it.”

  “In Soviet Russia,” I said, doing a terrible accent, “tumbleweeds hit you.”

  “There are no tumbleweeds in Soviet Russia,” Cassidy put in. “But speaking of the KGB, what was up with your ex-girlfriend?”

  I laughed hollowly.

  “She informed me that I’m upsetting the status quo. And also that she’s having a party next Friday.”

  “So are we,” Toby said. “And I can guarantee you, ours is going to be far better, and far more exclusive.”

  “It will,” Cassidy assured me. “You’ve yet to experience the undiluted awesome that is a hotel-room party.”

  “My single regret in life,” I replied.

  “I don’t know,” Toby mused, “that mullet you had in sixth grade was pretty bad.”

  Cassidy laughed.

  “He’s lying,” I said. “It’s physically impossible for my hair to mullet.”

  “Since when is mullet a verb?” Toby grinned.

  “Since you started lying about my having one,” I said, turning into the school lot. It was just starting to fill up with cars for that night’s football game.

  “I’ll drive Cassidy home,” Toby said, digging for his keys.

  “I’m fine,” Cassidy protested. “I don’t know why you’re all so afraid of coyotes.”

  “I’m not,” Toby said. “I’m afraid Faulkner’s gonna offer to put your bike in his trunk again, and we all know he’ll kill himself lifting it.”

  “You’re an asshole,” I informed him.

  “At least I didn’t have a mullet in the sixth grade!”

  14

  CASSIDY AND I never told anyone where we’d gone during Teacher Development Day. We hadn’t sworn to keep it a secret or anything, but it felt strangely private, tangled in the things I’d confessed and in the brief moment when she’d pressed her lips against my cheek. Somehow, though, Toby could sense that something had passed between us, and he was less than thrilled about it.

  “That’s why I drove her home,” he explained in the lunch line on Friday. “It’s . . . she’s not what you think. She’s unpredictable.”

  “Then stop trying to predict that she’ll wreck me,” I replied, paying the lunch lady for my sandwich. “What’s this about, anyway? How well do you even know each other?”

  “Biblically, Faulkner. We know each other biblically.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  “Well, our teams hung out sometimes. We invited each other when we had room parties,” Toby said. “And there are these little flirtations that happen—debate-cest or whatever you want to call it. She’d act like she couldn’t get enough of someone for about a day, and then she’d lose interest completely. She leaves a trail of broken hearts, and she either doesn’t realize or doesn’t care.”

  I took my change from the lunch lady.

  “That’s the problem? Remind me never to tell you what goes on at tennis camp,” I said, grabbing some napkins.

  “I’d make a dropping-the-soap joke, but I sense that the lunch ladies won’t appreciate it.” Toby picked up a Styrofoam container of “General Chicken” and gave it a dubious sniff before handing over some crumpled dollar bills. “There’s something different about Cassidy this year, and I don’t know what’s changed, but I have a bad feeling about it. Now what do you think? Is this chicken in general, or some specific type of chicken they’ve neglected to identify?”

  “It looks disgusting.”

  “Obviously. But does its disgustingness remind you of anything?” Toby pressed hopefully. “General Tso’s chicken, perhaps?”

  I glanced at it again.

  “It�
�s generally disgusting chicken,” I informed him.

  “Hmmm,” Toby regarded it sadly. “I think you’re right.”

  I SPENT THE weekend digging myself out from beneath a pile of work. Moreno wanted a “practice essay” on Gatsby, which apparently differed from a real essay, most likely in a way that didn’t exist. Coach Anthony wanted fifty key terms by Tuesday, handwritten, to prevent us from using copy-paste. And I had a take-home quiz in Calculus. The only bright point was Sunday night, when Cassidy finally flashed Morse code at me from her bedroom window.

  HI, she said, flashing it twice. HI HI.

  I still remembered Morse code from my Cub Scout days, and I reached for the switch on my desk lamp and flashed HI back at her, wondering and half hoping that she’d ask me to slip out and meet her in the park.

  But her window stayed dark after I replied, even though she knew I was there, watching. So I went to sleep thinking of her, of the curve of her back in a light cotton dress, of her hair twisted up into its crown of braids, of her, leaping from the zenith of the plastic swing set and clearing the sandbox, turning a neat lap around the whole of Eastwood, California, while I stood there, trapped in the dreariness of it all, numbly watching.

  TOBY CALLED TWO practice sessions for the debate team after school that week. We matched up for mock debates on Tuesday, and I got paired with Phoebe. Cassidy played judge, sitting cross-legged on Ms. Weng’s desk and toying with the fringed ends of her scarf.

  Toby had just taught me how to flow, or take notes, the day before, and I was still using one of those photocopied grids with the arrows drawn in. It made me feel remedial. The only good thing was that Phoebe, whom I’d suspected would crush me, wound up being surprisingly terrible at debate, and had only competed at one tournament so far. After our closing statements, we handed Cassidy our notes and went over to examine the trophy case in the back of the classroom.

  The most impressive ones were a few years old at least; the legacy of students long graduated. What had once been a championship team had become a nerdy hangout destination, with its participants seeking fun rather than glory. I couldn’t imagine such a thing ever happening to our school’s tennis team—or any sports team, really. You’ll have fun if you’re winning, my dad used to say, as though it was possible to control such things.

  “Any of these recent?” I asked Phoebe, nodding toward the case.

  “A couple. The hilariously little one is Toby’s. And the plaque is Sam and Luke’s, they’re actually decent team debaters when Sam doesn’t get carried away with his Republican agenda.” She laughed slightly. “You’re surprisingly good at public speaking, you know.”

  “Yeah, well, you may have a decent delivery, but your flow’s a mess,” Cassidy said, climbing down from Ms. Weng’s desk and passing back our notes. Mine looked like her pen had hemorrhaged all over it, while Phoebe’s only had a few marks.

  “And you’re the opposite,” Cassidy continued, frowning at Phoebe. “The outline’s solid, but your delivery is unconvincing. Come on, let’s see how you two do with a different topic.”

  We practiced until four thirty, when Austin had SAT prep and I had to get out of there for PT, only I said it was the dentist. I know physical therapy’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but it still sounded bad: “therapy,” as though I needed professional help to function.

  At least it was just PT, not one of those trauma counseling sessions the hospital had insisted upon after the accident. Those I couldn’t stand, but thankfully I was down to like once a month with Dr. Cohen, the world’s biggest douche-noodle of a clinical psychologist. Seriously, his teeth were so white that they probably glowed in the dark.

  So I sheepishly drove over to the medical center, where I spent an hour on the stationary bike and treadmill, listening to the sample debates Toby had given me on audio file and trying not to wonder about Cassidy. She acted as though she’d never gotten upset over my signing her up for the debate team, and I couldn’t understand if she’d just overreacted, or was hiding her anger.

  Maybe it was like Toby had said, and she was just unpredictable. But I doubted it. Because, every night around eleven, from the other side of Meadowbridge Park, Cassidy’s bedroom window would darken, and her flashlight would blink the same greeting at me in Morse code. Always HI. HI HI. Nothing more. A beginning of an unfinished conversation that I didn’t have the guts to take control of.

  I went to sleep every night that week waiting for whatever it was between the two of us to start traveling at the speed of flashlights, but it never did. As always, she left me wanting more, and dreaming of what it would be like if I ever got it.

  15

  THE TOURNAMENT WAS being held at SDAPA, the San Diego Academy for the Performing Arts. It was one of those Mission-style campuses, all white adobe arches with mosaic tiles. I half expected to be able to hear the crash of the surf from the parking lot.

  We were running late, on account of the traffic, and barely had time to change. Cassidy, Phoebe, and I had to grab our garment bags and change in the bathrooms while the rest of the team, who had worn their suits to school, rushed to make check-in.

  All around us, the campus had become a frantic hub of students in business suits and private-school uniforms. We passed two guys wheeling file boxes stacked three high and bungee-corded together, and a girl who was reciting a monologue at a brick wall. The whole place had a desperate, last-minute air of preparation that reminded me of the morning I’d sat the SATs.

  I changed into my suit, which, I had to admit, did fit a lot better than the ones I’d rented for formal dances. The girls took longer, and I spent a few minutes standing awkwardly outside the bathroom like some sort of bodyguard, waiting for them.

  “Awww,” Phoebe said when they finally emerged, “someone looks adorable in his suit.”

  “Lies. I look like a senator,” I complained, tugging at my collar.

  “A liberal senator,” Cassidy assured me. “The kind who has a sex scandal with a high-class prostitute.”

  And that was when I saw what Cassidy had done to herself: the gold and red ribbing on her sweater-vest, the matching stripes on her tie, the gray uniform skirt, and the navy blazer draped over her arm . . .

  “Is that a Gryffindor tie?” I asked.

  “And an official Harry Potter Merchandise sweater-vest,” she confirmed smugly.

  “Ms. Weng’ll make you change,” Phoebe said.

  “She can’t.” Cassidy grinned. “I’m not out of dress code. Technically. Now come along Cedric, Cho.”

  We headed toward the indoor cafeteria where all of the teams were making camp, and I realized that I was nervous. Deeply, horribly nervous. Not about doing well at the tournament, because I knew I was pretty hopeless in that regard. I was nervous that I’d fail to see what was so wonderful about putting on a suit and talking about government. Nervous that I didn’t really belong with this group of friends after all. That I was destined to forever be someone whose defining characteristic was lost forever at seventeen, rather than found.

  The cafeteria was crowded, and Cassidy reached over and grabbed my hand as we walked in. I glanced over at her; she seemed so different from the girl who had placed a crown of flowers in my hair by the creek and told me to make a wish on a paper star. For the first time, Cassidy seemed on edge.

  Toby spotted us, waving us over to our team’s table, where Ms. Weng quickly filled us in on the schedule: We’d have two preliminary rounds that evening, then two more prelims the next morning, to be followed by two final rounds and an award ceremony.

  “Cassidy, what are you wearing?” Ms. Weng asked.

  “My Oxford tie?” Cassidy frowned, a perfect picture of confusion. “It’s from my summer study.”

  I don’t know how we all managed to keep from laughing as she got away with it, but we did. And then a flurry of commotion went up on the other side of the cafeteria: The first round had been posted. The room erupted into utter chaos as three hundred teenagers surged forward to
get a look.

  Cassidy insisted I stay behind, so I stood around awkwardly with Ms. Weng for a moment, until Cassidy returned wielding a purple Post-it with my room number scribbled down.

  I stared at the Post-it, my nerves doubling.

  “You’ll be fine,” Toby said, clapping me on the back. “We suck, remember? Go lose one for the team.”

  I laughed, feeling slightly better. I could do this. It was just a speech, something I’d done all the time at SGA meetings and pep rallies. A speech in a room where hardly anyone was listening. A speech that hadn’t even been written yet, so I wouldn’t even have to worry about forgetting my lines.

  I glanced over at Cassidy, to see how she was holding up, since she’d been acting weird all day. She was so pale that she looked as if she might faint, and her expression seemed haunted.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I’m fine,” Cassidy said, attempting a smile. “Now don’t worry about me, little protégé. Go on, fly away.”

  “Well, good luck,” I said.

  “Break a leg!” Cassidy called teasingly after me as I headed toward the A building.

  I took a route that avoided the main stairs and wound up massively turned around. I arrived at the East corridor by mistake, and was pretty disgusted with myself as I doubled back along a third-floor hallway. And then I saw Cassidy.

  Her back was turned, and she was standing next to a decrepit water fountain, talking to this old lady coach I didn’t recognize. The coach had her hand on Cassidy’s shoulder, and her expression was so grave that I didn’t dare to interrupt.

  “—but it’s wonderful to see you back here, competing again,” the coach said.

  “Thanks,” Cassidy muttered.

  I hesitated, sensing this wasn’t something I was supposed to see, and then Cassidy turned around.

  “Hey,” she said, embarrassed. “What are you doing here?”

  “Attempting to locate the west corridor?” I admitted.