by Meg Leder
I annotated my list, hastily writing descriptions next to each item, flipping back and forth between paper scraps.
By 5:07 the list was complete, and a layer of snow had made the world outside blankly silent and new.
Ford was in such a deep sleep he wasn’t even purring, his front paw and nose twitching with some cat dream. I managed to edge my leg out from under the warm lump of his body without waking him. Victory.
And then I crept quietly around my room, collecting what I needed.
Eph’s copy of Watchmen, the one that Keats first noticed, the one that made Eph go all fanboy every time he talked about it, the one I read because that’s what you do for people you love.
The beat-up copy of On the Road from Keats, my teeth gritting in irritation from holding it again.
But also the note from when Keats asked me out in chemistry, and the little Cafe Gitane matchbook from our first date—the way he noticed things about me, the way I bloomed.
The found list from the book at Helvetica, how my lips were puffy and bruised after making out, how his lips were chapped, how I learned I could be beautiful.
The Wonder Wheel story with its clichéd protagonist and mean, mean Jena.
The note from the creepy subway guy, crumpled and scary, and the gold wishbone necklace—how I never wore gold, how now that I thought about it, I was pretty sure Cherisse had the same exact charm.
The Tonka truck gleaming yellow, from the day we helped Audrey on the playground, the day our friendship began.
My old copy of Anne of Green Gables, the one that inspired countless hours of Vivien and Delphine stories, dreamy swooning, wistful sighing.
And, from the Dead Poets phone day, the bright flyer asking people to join the journal, like a gift from fate.
The first issue of Nevermore I worked on, the one with Eph’s drawings—Mohawks and kindred spirits, a tribe, my tribe, the simple amazing miracle of words, the simple amazing miracle of someone calling your name at a party.
The crinkled dark chocolate Kit Kat wrapper—proof that the Holy Grail could be found.
A sheet of stickers—a starry night (or arts-and-craps project) paired with a black hole/dark night of the soul (or a boy wearing all black). The party invitation never meant for me, telltale blue ink on the corner, the luminous, luminous moon.
An old plastic Santa figurine from the Brooklyn Flea; how we both had days when, as Oscar told Miles, we were the most unlikeable versions of ourselves.
The red cowboy boots, and how he knew me better than I knew myself.
The gray sweatshirt I was never giving back.
A scrap of paper with a hastily sketched T. rex, the words DONT BE ABSURD scrawled below, the telltale hole of a bulletin-board pin now in the corner.
A shard of pottery—a bit of a life long gone, proof that even when things changed, something remained.
The Bearded Lady’s most cherished possession: the subway token.
And mine: one tiny, furious silver dinosaur.
When I couldn’t think of what else to gather, I placed the items in a winding line on the hardwood floor (except for my dinosaur—I wasn’t quite ready to take him off), pushing the desk chair out of the way to make room. I arranged and rearranged, added placeholders, thought, moved things around again, stood on top of the bed to get an aerial view.
I began to label the collection.
I slowed down, remembering things. A few times I caught myself staring out the window at the snow coming down, but unlike the past few days, this time I didn’t feel sad and lost, but rather dreamy and wandering, a tiny bit hopeful, definitely calm.
I wrote a note to Eph, one I would drop in his locker when he was back on Monday morning:
You are invited to the opening of the Museum of Heartbreak. Monday, after community service, in the attic at the American Museum of Natural History, 7pm. There will be dinosaurs.
When I woke up that morning, the line of items and white cards curled around the room, wrapping under the desk, around the bookcase, along the edge of the bed, leading the way like a trail of bread crumbs.
Leading the way back.
Present Day
I AM IN THE MUSEUM attic. Even though the elephant skulls are gone, I know their ghosts are here, can still catch the occasional soft sigh from empty corners.
I make sure the key my dad gave me is in my pocket, remind myself again to lock the door when I’m done.
Everything’s ready.
Grace and Miles helped me string little white Christmas lights around the ceiling and the gable windows, and it’s so pretty, the way they make tiny shadows on the wall. After they left, I taped a hand-lettered sign neatly on the door: Welcome to the Museum of Heartbreak.
All the items my backpack could hold are now arranged on the hardwood floor with their matching catalog cards—everything is in its right place.
Seven p.m. The attic is chilly, and I’m glad I wore a thick sweater. My neck feels empty without my dinosaur necklace and the subway token, and my fingers keep wanting to twirl something, to fidget, but I try to just breathe, to be.
I know I will have the precise memory of this moment later, of the room listening around me, the subtle tap of my shoes against the wood floor.
But for now I concentrate on the past.
I remember how Audrey and I sobbed at the end of our first viewing of Titanic and how we watched it again, stopping it halfway through so Jack and Rose could have a happy ending; how we lay on the dock at her grandparents’ house and tried to count the stars; how Audrey shines when she’s talking about Paris.
I think of the way Grace’s brightness is infectious, and how Miles takes longer to warm up, but when he does, his loyalty has the toughness of steel; how when I sit with them at the Nevermore meetings, I feel a warm sense of belonging I never expected to find outside of Eph and Audrey; how they accept not who I was but who I’m becoming; how I love them for the same reasons.
I remember Keats’s hand moving through his dark curls and how I loved it so much; how he made me glow; how I don’t like that he cheated on me or that I fell out of love with him or maybe never really loved him at all, but how without him, there wouldn’t be a Museum of Heartbreak.
I think of my parents, how I get my worrying from my mom, my restless fidgeting from my dad, but how they love things like I do, dinosaurs and bird-watching and people—with their wholly, fully, marvelously ordinary love.
I remember Ellen crying, George ashamed, what they had, what remains.
And of course I think of you, Eph.
When we met, a tiny Superman putting his hand in mine, how you folded my fingers so gently around yours.
Watching your parents kiss, and later, your voice when you said you saw a real dinosaur, how we both wanted to believe it.
The red of the blood streaming down your face when I hit you, the ache of my knuckles for days after.
And our first kiss in the thrift shop, the freckles across your nose, salt water and mint, my lips meeting yours, the way our roots grow deep.
7:05, 7:10.
I don’t know what our future will bring, but I remember.
I’m nervous and my armpits are getting sweaty, and it’s 7:25, and I’m just starting to feel myself despair when you walk in, Eph.
You are stiff in the doorway, your hands shoved in your coat pockets, knit cap pulled down over your ears, your eyes taking in the room, the lights, the objects, what remains.
“Hey,” I say softly, trying to ease you in.
“What’s all this?” you ask, and I hear furious galaxies in your voice, the way broken things are crashing into each other.
“It’s for you.”
You don’t move forward, your chin jutted out.
“An old Kit Kat wrapper? Thanks for that, Pen.”
“No, it’s a museum. A museum of us, of what got us here.”
Your eyes narrow and your shoulders stiffen, but you step forward—one step, then another—cautiously taking i
n the other objects.
You stop in front of the note from Keats, the one asking me out. “Seriously?”
“Without it, we wouldn’t have kissed, at the thrift shop.”
You look up at me, your face unreadable.
“And this?”
“A pottery shard I got from Dead Horse Bay.”
You wait.
“It got me thinking about all these things that are broken or gone, but how new things come too. . . .”
You lift the dinosaur charm, and I see the memory of that night cross your face—the way your world ended.
“Eph, I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m so sorry. I need you to know how sorry I am. It’s just that what you said fucking terrified me.”
You study the charm, then look up, the hint of a smile forming.
“Language, Penelope,” you say.
I wave my hand, brushing it away, and step closer to you.
“The past week without you has been the worst ever. Since the night at the museum, my heart hurts—like it literally, physically feels terrible and achy and weird.”
You wince, kick the floor again. “I’m sorry I sprang all that on you. And I get why you don’t want to be with me, with Mia and Autumn . . . and with the way my dad is.”
I can see you pulling into yourself, your face starting to harden, your shoulders stiffening.
“No, that’s not true, not now. Please know that. You have to know that.”
I start to put my hand on your arm, but I stop halfway, not sure if I’ve earned it yet. “Eph, look at me. Look at me. You broke my heart that night.”
You scoff. “I broke your heart?”
I shake my head hurriedly. “Yeah, you did, a little. But so did Keats, and Audrey, and Grace and Miles and Oscar and May . . . and my parents and your parents . . .”
You wince.
“And I know I broke yours. And for that I am so, so sorry. But Eph, all that heartbreak? It got us here.”
“Where’s here?” you ask, and I see you when I met you, a small brown-eyed Superman, boldly showing me dinosaurs, telling me how the last one on earth lived in the museum, wandering the halls at night. But I also see you now, knit hat, bangs in your eyes, taller than me, handsome and familiar, kind and amazingly irritating all at once, and miraculously, cautiously, opening back up to me.
My heart beats underneath all these bones, and it is loud and awkward and real.
I walk over to you, get as close as I can, lean up against you.
What happens next, I know I will never forget.
“Eph, I miss you,” I say, and I stand on my tiptoes, kiss you oh-so-gently on the bridge of the nose where I punched you, kiss you on the shoulders—once on the left, once on the right—where I shoved you, kiss your heart where I broke you.
“And, Eph, I love you.” I kiss you on the lips, giving you all the sorrow and love and broken things I have in me.
“Huh,” you say, holding me, pushing back to study my face, a slow smile growing on yours. “That wasn’t so bad.”
“Don’t you mean it was frakking awesome?”
And then I take your hand in mine.
You don’t let go.
Acknowledgments
This book wouldn’t exist without Michael Bourret, who introduced Penelope and Eph, and Sara Sargent, who gave them their happy ending. You both get your own museum of heart love.
Thanks to the entire Simon Pulse team for being excellent Museum of Heartbreak caretakers, in particular Liesa Abrams, Sarah McCabe, Mara Anastas, Mary Marotta, Lucille Rettino, Carolyn Swerdloff, Teresa Ronquillo, Christina Pecorale, Mandy Veloso, Faye Bi, and Karina Granda.
Big hurrahs to Lauren Abramo, for being a rights-selling ninja, as well as cbj Verlag, Scholastic UK, Sperling, and Pegasus for taking on The Museum of Heartbreak.
Adam James Turnbull, your art rocks, and I’m honored that you brought the Museum artifacts to life.
I’m so very grateful for the support of my writing partners-in-arms: Tracey Keevan, Nancy Lambert, Micol Ostow, Jenny Clark, Vim Pasupathi, Holly McGhee, Gary Giddens, and The Sweet 16’s. Special shout-outs to Clara Leder, who is just as good at brainstorming ideas as she is at being a niece; Meredith Dros, for letting me glitter bomb her apartment; and Tara Felleman, for treating me to numerous celebratory margaritas.
Abundant and heartfelt thanks to all of The Museum of Heartbreak’s esteemed and kind benefactors, in particular: Deb Caletti; Gayle Forman; Jim and Pat Leder; Steven, Tina, Clara, and Jack Leder; Penguin Books; Perigee Books; Patrick Nolan; Keri Smith; and Natasha Leibel.
To my amazing friends and family—you are all the good parts of Penelope, Eph, Grace, Mike, and Audrey, combined and multiplied to the infinite degree. Thank you.
Thank you to the real-life Willo, the Thescelosaurus who once had a heart, for inspiring parts of this story, and thanks to the amazing American Museum of Natural History in New York City.
And to all the readers whose hearts have also been flattened by the metaphoric meteor known as heartbreak: Hang in there—you’re not alone. It will all pass, but in the meantime, build your museum (or write a book!).
A FORMER BOOKSELLER AND TEACHER, Meg Leder currently works as a book editor in New York City. Her role models are Harriet the Spy and Anne Shirley. She is the co-author of The Happy Book, and spends her free time reading, looking for street art, and people watching. She lives in Brooklyn, New York. You can visit her online on Facebook or Twitter @megleder.
Simon Pulse
Simon & Schuster, New York
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON PULSE
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First Simon Pulse hardcover edition June 2016
Text copyright © 2016 by Margaret Leder
Jacket photograph copyright © 2016 by Jill Wachter
Interior illustrations copyright © 2016 by Adam J. Turnbull, colagene.com
Wallpaper photograph copyright © 2016 by artparadigm/Getty Images
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Book designed by Karina Granda
The text of this book was set in Adobe Garamond Pro.
This book has been cataloged with the Library of Congress.
ISBN 978-1-4814-3210-8 (hc)
ISBN 978-1-4814-3212-2 (eBook)
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