Secret Heart

by Dreger,Danielle

  “Why?” I blurt.

  She is sheepish when she says, “I was looking for potential bands to play Prom. The rest of the Prom committee wants a DJ but I know a band would be better.”

  “And you thought of us?”

  She nods. “Everyone around here seems to love Detonate the Gazelle.”

  “Do not get a DJ,” Scott warns. “I will not come to Prom and I will not dance if that is the music choice. I refuse to bust out some of my sweet, sweet moves for some lame ass Douche Jockey spinning songs that were popular when my parents attended this hellhole.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re not getting a DJ,” Madison says. “You can still bust a move.”

  “Which band?” I ask. I can’t keep the disappointment of not being chosen from edging into my voice.

  Madison taps the table nervously with her fingers. Her nails are painted magenta for Valentine’s Day. The glitter in the paint sparkles in the fluorescent lights overhead every time she moves her fingers. “I was hoping Detonate the Gazelle might play Prom. That is, if you are interested.”

  “Hell yes, they’re interested,” Scott says dancing around the table pausing only long enough to hug Madison. Scott isn’t in the band, but he’s our biggest fan.

  “That’d be awesome,” I start. “But I gotta make sure Janet and Monica are on board with this.”

  “Janet and Monica?”

  “The other two-thirds of Detonate the Gazelle,” I supply.

  “Oh, right.” Madison bites her lip. “They might not be?”

  I shrug. “They should be. We’ve got band practice tomorrow night. I can find out then and text you if you want.”

  “Okay,” she says and I hand her my phone so she can add her number. Even though it’s for a completely legit reason, I can’t hide my smile. I now have Madison’s number.

  Scott doesn’t notice. He’s writing out a dozen flower-gram cards to himself.

  “Carnations aren’t even romantic,” I tell him. “I don’t know what they stand for but they sure as hell don’t stand for love.”

  “Actually, they do. At least the red and white ones,” Scott says as he hands Madison a twenty and a five from his Hello Kitty wallet, the one that I gave him as a gag gift for his birthday last year and that he still insists on using.

  “Are you sure about this?” Madison asks while making his change.

  “What can I say? I want the world to know that I’m loved.” He pockets the dollar.

  “Right,” I say with an exaggerated eye roll. I turn back to Madison. “This happens every year. The truth is he’s in love with himself.”

  “No, I’m not.” Scott grins and points at me, “Careful. Your eyes might stick like that and then we’d have to start calling you Crazy Eyes.” His smile fades and he continues. “Avery is a tad bitter.”

  I turn back to Madison. “Don’t you think selling stems to send to people you hate is a shitty thing to do?”

  Madison shrugs. “I guess. But it’s tradition.”

  “So it’s tradition for some assclown to send me two dozen stems every year?” I counter.

  We’re quiet for a long moment as a sophomore girl comes to the table and gives Madison two dollars before scribbling out a flower-gram. Scott isn’t the only one who sends them to himself.

  When the sophomore is out of earshot Madison says, “I’m sorry that happens to you. I guess I’ve never really thought about it like that. I’d rather get no flowers then a bunch of stems.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say trying to smile but my lips refuse to turn up. “It’s not like you sent me the stems. I wasn’t coming over here to be an asshole or anything. I only wanted to give you a hard time about the price. My mom’s the florist that donates them every year. That’s how I know how much they cost. Too many summers bleaching flower buckets and writing cards for cheating husbands.”

  “Your mom is Bev of Bev’s Blossoms?” Madison asks.

  Scott laughs and the tension is broken. “No, her mom is Blossom.”

  I punch Scott hard in the arm. “Stop being a dick,” I say before turning back to Madison. “Yeah, my mom is Bev.”

  “It’s really nice of her to do this,” Madison says.

  “It is good publicity,” Scott says rubbing his arm where I hit him. “You know, for when all the future twat waffles here have to send flowers to their girlfriends when they screw up.”

  Madison raises an eyebrow and I clarify. “He works holidays for my mom.”

  Scott nods. “Easy money and I get all the flower rejects I want. Plus, it’s good training.”

  “Training?” Madison asks.

  “In case I want to go into the business,” Scott says. “I want to do something creative, and who knows, it could be flowers. Or graphic design.”

  “Or porn,” I retort. But Madison doesn’t laugh. She’s looking behind us, where Miles and several of his friends are walking toward the table. Dylan shoves Jackson and Jackson shoves him back. Dylan sees us and sticks his tongue between his index and middle finger and wags it. I fight the urge to hurl.

  “Hey, if it isn’t the pussy posse,” Dylan says sauntering up to us. I do my best to ignore him as Scott shrinks beside me.

  Miles leans over the table to kiss Madison, ignoring us. He lingers over her for a moment and asks, “Having fun?” Miles is wearing vomitus amounts of Axe body spray.

  “Sure,” she says. I try to hold my breath but it doesn’t work. She must be immune to the smell.

  “Listen, Babe,” Miles says straightening up and shoving his hands into the front pockets of his khakis. “I can’t take you to get the flowers after school today. We’re gonna go get the new Call of Duty game.”

  I take a step back from their conversation and breathe clean air. Madison hisses, “You promised me that you’d help get the flowers.”

  “Sorry,” he says. He doesn’t even look the least bit sheepish.

  “How else am I supposed to pick them up?” Madison asks, her voice thick with tears of frustration.

  If Miles isn’t going to step up and be the man she needs, then I will. “I’ll bring them tomorrow,” I say.

  “Thanks, dude,” Miles says. Dylan and Jackson take turns shoving each other into groups of girls that walk by. They laugh every time a girl shrieks. Madison glares at them but they don’t stop, at least not until a teacher comes down the hall.

  “Tell my mom your final count or whatever and I’ll bring them by before school.”

  “Are you sure?” Madison asks.

  “She offered. Just let her do it,” Miles says placing his hand on her shoulder like he marking his territory, wafting more noxious Axe my way.

  “Yeah, no problem,” I say. Out of the corner of my eye I watch Scott edge his way away from Dylan and Jackson as the bell rings signaling the end of second lunch.

  “Thanks,” Madison says.

  “Yeah,” is all I can say.

  As I turn to head to my next class Dylan says, “Dude if we stay here any longer my dick’s gonna fall off. These flowers are gonna turn us homo.”

  I walk away before I have to listen to anything more repulsive come out of his mouth.

  IT’S NOT THAT I hate Valentine’s Day it’s that I hate all the asshats at this school. I’ve never gotten an actual flower. Until today.

  I can’t figure out who would send me this dumb pink carnation. There was no name on the tag, so I have no one to thank, or not thank. Some freshman in student council walked into Spanish with a bucket of flowers and started handing them out. The way some of the girls were squealing when their name was called it was like they were Miss America. When the freshman handed me the carnation and the bundle of stems, I held my bitch face and tossed them on top of my messenger bag on the floor

  Madison wasn’t in class. She was probably helping student council hand out flowers. She mouthed “thank you” when Scott and I carted in a million carnations this morning, but I haven’t seen her since. I thought about ditching all of the stems in
a bathroom trash can, but I know that student council depends on them to fund Prom and I’m not going to be the jerk who ruins Prom, especially if DTG might play it. So essentially all these assholes sending me stems are paying for my lesbian band to play their school dance.

  Scott is waiting for me after Spanish. He’s holding a white carnation in addition to the dozen red ones he sent himself. “Thanks for the flower,” he says holding the bouquet like he’s a beauty queen.

  “Don’t get so excited. I didn’t send you shit.”

  “This isn’t from you?” He looks crestfallen and I am an asshole for not sending him anything.

  “Sorry. Maybe it was Darren? Or someone from LP?”

  “Or a secret admirer,” he says practically swooning.

  “Or a secret admirer,” I say rolling my eyes. “This wasn’t from you, was it?” I hold up my mangled flower as we walk down the hall.

  “Nope. Maybe you have a secret admirer,” he says.

  That’s what I thought. “Right,” I say breaking the head of the flower from the stem and tossing it in the trashcan. I add the stem to the bunch in my other hand. I borrowed a rubber band from Señora Catalana and have bundled the flowers like a flowerless bridal bouquet to prove to all of these assclowns that I can take a joke.

  “What’d you do that for?” he asks.

  “It was a prank, obviously. I’m not gonna let them think it means something to me. Fuck them.”

  “Fuck them,” he echoes as we turn down the hall to our next classes. Scott’s Economics class is next to my English.

  Madison is standing in the hall talking to Jessica who has, no joke, fifty carnations, in her arms. Her boyfriend, Trey, really stepped up to the plate. I notice Madison is empty handed. “Where are your flowers?” I ask.

  “I didn’t get any,” she says. Madison is the kind of girl who deserves flowers on Valentine’s Day. Scratch that. She deserves flowers every day. If she was my girl I’d bring her flowers just because.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  Scott hands her his single white carnation. “Here, Madison. Take mine. You should get one for doing such an awesome job at organizing the sale.”

  Madison blushes. “Oh no, Scott. I can’t take that. I sent it to you.”

  “You did?” I don’t know who is more surprised—him or me.

  “Yeah.” Madison glances at my bouquet of stems. “Where’s your flower?”

  “She threw it away,” Scott says.

  “Why?” Madison looks like I just ran over her cat.

  “I thought it was a joke,” I defend as the warning bell rings. Jessica raises an eyebrow at me before she heads off in the direction of her next class. “No one’s ever sent me one before, and I figured some prick was trying to make me think that someone was thinking about me.”

  “I was the prick who was thinking about you,” Madison says softly.

  I open my mouth to say something but the expression on her face—a combination of regret and disappointment—stops me. I need to leave before I do something stupid, or rather do something even stupider.

  “Sorry,” I mumble and head toward the open door of my next class.

  THE REST OF the day passes by in a blur. What did Madison mean by the flower? Obviously it didn’t mean anything, she sent Scott one, too. She feels bad for us being the walking targets of all the homophobes at this school. It’s why she’s such a good student council president. She actually gives a shit about how everyone feels, unlike me.

  I’m headed out to my car after the final bell rings when I spot Madison walking toward the library. I know that’s where she’s headed because I drive by her nearly every day. “Hey,” I yell and run to catch up with her, wheezing slightly. “You going to the library?”

  She stops and crosses her arms across her chest. “Yeah. I have another history paper due next week. Fun times.” Her words give me frostbite.

  “You need a ride?” I ask before thinking. “I gotta go look up something.”

  Madison is silent and the only sound is the howling winds of the Arctic Circle that surround us. When she finally says “Sure,” her tone isn’t any warmer but I sense that a thaw might be near if I apologize again.

  We’re quiet all the way to the library. It reminds me of the first time I drove her there. Tegan and Sara on the radio. She still smells like orange blossoms. I still want her.

  “I’m sorry,” I say as I pull into a spot in the nearly empty library lot. I guess everyone else has better things to do than hang out at a library on Valentine’s Day. “I’m an asshole.”

  She doesn’t look at me. Instead she stares out her window at seagulls picking apart a McDonald’s food sack in the space beside us. “No, you’re not. You’ve had a lot of crap pulled on you and I didn’t realize you would think it was a joke.”

  “Yeah, but I’m still an asshole. Admit it.” I smile at her even though she can’t see it.

  “Well, maybe a little,” she says before getting out of the car, shouldering her bag and walking toward the library entrance like I’m not even here.

  When my car door slams shut she doesn’t even turn her head. “Thanks for the ride,” she calls before into the library and I’m left standing in the middle of the parking lot trying to make sense of what happened.

  I should go back to school and find Scott and go hang out at his house until it’s time for band practice tonight. I should let Madison go and work on her paper in peace. I should not be chasing after a straight girl.

  But I follow Madison into the library anyway.

  MADISON IGNORES ME when I take the seat across from her and continues to unpack her bag as if I’m a ghost she can’t be bothered with. She builds stacks of notebooks, books, and index cards around her like a fortress.

  I don’t bother taking out my books, just my Moleskine and a pen to continue working on the song I started in the library with Madison all those weeks ago. I’ve been struggling with the ending stanzas but now I think I finally have it.

  I don’t want to be rescued, rescued from you, I write in my Moleskine. Madison shifts in her seat and sweeps her hair into a ponytail, unleashing the scent of her citrus shampoo. Let me breathe you in (oranges and sunshine) as the world falls away. I sneak another glance at Madison who is tapping the end of her pen against the space between her eyebrows as she reads from her textbook. I can’t tell if she’s really that deep in concentration or just pretending to be so that I won’t talk to her.

  It’s working.

  I clear my throat to see if I can get her attention. But Madison just turns a page in her book and writes something down on an index card. An apology or a joke won’t turn things back to what they were because we aren’t really friends yet, are we? It’s not like what Scott and I have. He’d never give me the silent treatment, just flat out tell me I’m an asshole and then we’d move on. But Madison isn’t Scott. Madison is Madison.

  Her silence gnaws at me until I can’t take it anymore. I add two final lines to my song, Give me a sign, a signal, a flare and I’ll promise I’ll stay before putting my pen down in the center of the notebook and pushing my chair from the table, desperate to get air. Madison still doesn’t look up so I wander around the stacks to figure out my next move.

  The library is nearly empty. Maura’s mom is helping some old guy with a computer and there’s a middle-aged guy with a seriously bad toupee and Coke-bottle glasses shelving books.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket as I wander over to the sheet music. It’s a text from Scott.

  Girl, you are so dead to me. See you after band practice?

  With chocolate and Twizzlers.

  And Zac Efron?

  And Zac Efron.

  I flip through the sheet music, looking for ideas for the Alzheimer’s Cafe thing. If I can make it my own with my music choices it won’t be the shitstorm it has the potential to become. But lady luck is not on my side. All of these songs are just as sucktastic as the ones Mr. Hawaiian shirt suggested.

 
I’m humming the melody to the She and Him cover of the Smith’s classic “Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want” when the air around me changes. I spin around and find Madison standing behind me holding something in her hands.

  My Moleskine notebook.

  For a second my heart stops and I think, Maybe she didn’t read it.

  But from the look on her face, I know she did.

  Maybe she doesn’t think it’s about her.

  The confusion in her eyes tells me she thinks it is.

  The silence around us is deafening. “Hey,” I say, trying my best to keep my voice even and cool, like this is nothing. Like she isn’t just standing there with my heart in her hands.

  “Hey,” she says. Small particles of dust are dancing in the fluorescent light overhead.

  “Did you know that the library has sheet music?” I ask holding up the book I was flipping through moments ago.

  “No.”

  “I’m trying to brainstorm ideas for that Alzheimer’s thing in a few weeks but none of these songs are working for me.”

  “That’s too bad,” she says before holding up my notebook. “I read your song.” She waits a beat. “That was a song, right?”

  “Oh. Yeah.” I wedge the songbook back on the shelf in between two other books. I think this is where I found it, but I don’t really remember how the library shelves things. The Dewey Decibel System? Awesome band name. “That.”

  Madison is biting her lip and tilting her head like she’s trying to work the words out but they aren’t coming. “Your song,” she starts. “Is it about anyone in particular?”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. I can’t lie. There’s no way to pretend that it’s not about her. Oranges? Ocean-colored eyes? “Maybe,” I say at the same time my face lights on fire. Smoke seeps from my ears.

  “Is it about me?” She asks her face paling. All traces of her winter tan are gone. My notebook is shaking in her hands.

  “I’m sorry,” I say to the songbooks lining the shelves. I zero in on Bob Dylan. “I shouldn’t have.”