How to Build a Heart

by Maria Padian

  Roz considers. She looks like she just took a bite of something disgusting and can’t decide whether to swallow it quickly or spit it out. “Not that I’d ever take her side or anything, but why would Melissa lie about that? Sam, on the other hand, has total motivation to lie. If he’s seeing someone else.”

  Good point. But here’s what I don’t tell Roz: the other night, he didn’t seem like someone who had a new girl waiting on the bench. Guys who do that are relieved when they break up with the old girl.

  And when he finally came inside, Sam looked upset. Aubrey and I had just nabbed a couple slices of pizza and were escaping with them downstairs to the playroom. The Four Corners paper bag Sam carried was crushed. The chips were . . . not okay.

  “Dude! D’you sit on them?” John Mayhew said as Sam unloaded the contents on the counter. He took it down a notch when he saw Sam’s expression. “What?” he asked.

  “Might have just broken up with my girlfriend,” we heard as Aubrey closed the door behind us. I might have also heard a few cheers?

  Aubrey groaned. “Great,” she said. “Another one bites the dust.” She flicked on the lights to reveal a finished basement, complete with comfy chairs, another big-screen television, and a pool table. As we settled on a couch, I pressed her.

  “I thought you liked Melissa.”

  Aubrey took a big bite of pizza. She considered my question as she chewed. “I like her fine. But I try not to get too attached,” she said. “Girlfriends come and go quickly around here.”

  “Hmm. Is your brother the ‘love ’em and leave ’em’ type?” I couldn’t help asking.

  “You’d think,” she said, laughing. “But no. He feels bad after breakups. He’s the old-fashioned, romantic type. He buys them flowers. Plans nice dates.”

  I was trying hard not to appear overly interested in this information. “So why all the breakups?” I asked.

  “Hasn’t found the right one, I guess.”

  It occurs to me now that the one person in the whole world I would love to talk to about this is the last person in the world I can talk to about this. And I sure as hell couldn’t do it now: the concrete mixer is louder than a dozen lawn mowers buzzing at once. Roz and I can barely hear each other. As we near Jack, Mami, and the workmen, I can see the first dribs of gray gunk sliding down a long chute and plopping into the area marked off for the foundation. I decide to say one last thing before the noise grows deafening and shuts down all discussion.

  “You know,” I tell Roz, “I’ll bet Melissa’s wrong. Why would he bother to cheat? He could just break up with her and move on.”

  “Yeah, but they’ve been seen together,” Roz explains. “She supposedly doesn’t go to County.”

  “How do you know all this?” I ask.

  “Everyone knows. Apparently, Sam took her out at that place downtown. Perry’s? One of Melissa’s friends works there. Everyone’s talking about it. They’ve even given her a hashtag: SteamerGirl.”

  We’ve reached the site and can’t hear ourselves think, so we stop talking. Mami holds Jack by the shoulders, just for good measure, but she needn’t. He’s stone-still and staring as gallons of concrete gush into the space where our house will rest. Even Roz seems caught up in the action.

  Which is good. Because I don’t know what to say. If I told her the truth, she’d just think I’ve completely lost my mind.

  No way would Roz believe I’m Steamer Girl.

  17

  Mami has a remarkable gift for connecting me with work.

  It’s Wednesday (a school night!), and I find myself in an apartment in downtown Clayton, babysitting some kid (granted, she’s adorable) so her parents (the Jacksons) and Mami can attend the Habitat Homebuyer Education class. It’s this thing all new owners have to do, where they learn about everything from sticking to a budget to draining the pipes in a house. I think I’d rather jab pins in my eyeballs than sit through all that, but Mami is into it. She really likes meeting all the other Habitat families.

  Jack had to come with me (can’t leave him alone), and I’m sandwiched between their warm bodies, reading, on a couch that might be scratchier than ours. Adrienne Jackson has enormous eyes and a head covered in teensy cornrows. She wears Winnie the Pooh pajamas and smells like dryer sheets. She loves being read to, and while the good news is we brought three library books, the bad news is she only likes one.

  Piggie Pie.

  Betts promised me equity hours for helping the Jacksons, but I’m thinking Piggie Pie counts as hard labor and I should get time and a half.

  Adrienne’s bedtime is eight o’clock, but by seven forty-five, both kids are tucked up against me, fast asleep. I’m trapped. Mrs. Jackson left me this homemade cake—heavily frosted and doused in colorful sprinkles—that calls to me from the kitchen counter, but I don’t want to wake the kids by getting up for a piece. The parents aren’t due back for another hour. I stare around the cramped living room. The Jacksons seem to use the same home decorator as us: Designs by Cheapass and Castoff. Although they’ve got the added touch of huge brownish water stains migrating from a crack in the ceiling. It’s a brown that pairs nicely with the vomit-colored, patchy carpeting. Accented by the delicately cracked glass in the one (remaining) window frame. The other has been replaced by cardboard that Mr. Jackson inserted with the help of miles of duct tape. Their landlord doesn’t think replacing broken windows is a priority.

  I turned the sound off my phone, but from its spot where I placed it on the coffee table, I can still hear it buzz as a text comes in. I extend my arm like a selfie stick, trying hard not to jostle Sleeping Beauties #1 and #2 as I reach for it.

  It’s Sam.

  Need some advice

  I stare at the screen. It’s been radio silence from him since Big Game Saturday, and honestly? I was disappointed. I thought I’d hear something. Especially because when I left the other night, I thought something was . . . might be . . . happening.

  Aubrey had fallen asleep as we watched a movie in the playroom. The loud boy sounds had faded and I figured it was time to go home. When I climbed the stairs to the kitchen, I found Sam in there. Alone. He was stacking empty pizza boxes and throwing away paper plates. All his friends had left.

  “Want some help?” I offered.

  He turned, surprised. “You don’t have to help.”

  I saw a crumpled, sauce-stained napkin on the floor, bent to retrieve it, and, as if taking a free throw, tossed it into the garbage can.

  “Swish! Nothin’ but net!” I exclaimed.

  Which coaxed a small smile out of him. “Are you always this nice?” he asked. Like it was a serious question. No hint of joking.

  “I’m rarely this nice,” I confessed. “I save it for people who should be having a great night but instead are having a sucky night.”

  His eyes narrowed slightly. As if he was wondering what I knew. “Can I ask you something?” he said.

  I had no idea what he could possibly want to know. “Sure.”

  “Do you think I’m an asshole?”

  The question was so totally out of the blue I almost laughed. For a second I thought he was joking . . . but his expression was serious. Almost sad.

  “Not at all. Why would you even ask that?”

  “What you said the other night. About the beer?”

  That’s when Aubrey appeared, all sleepy eyes and bed head. She squinted curiously at us. “What’s going on?”

  “Izzy’s helping me clean up,” Sam said, just as I said, “I was heading out.” Awkward.

  Aubrey stared at us for a few seconds, finally announced “I’m thirsty,” and began fumbling through the cabinets in search of a water glass. Sam grabbed one of the plastic garbage bags and headed for the garage. I retreated to my car and the long drive home. I haven’t spoken to a Shackelton since.

  Now, this unexpected weird text? Whi
ch could use a little punctuation. Is Sam saying he wants advice? Or asking if I need it? Which I don’t.

  Or do I?

  Is something going on?

  I decide to answer open-endedly.

  Me: About . . . ?

  Sam: Girls

  Wow. The last thing I want to do is give him advice about other girls. That would make my crap night epically crappy.

  But I also don’t want to shut him down. Damn.

  Me: How can I help?

  Sam: Answer me one question

  Hmm. This should be interesting.

  Me: I’ll do my best

  Sam: Are all the women in my life crazy or am I just an asshole?

  I struggle to stifle a laugh; I don’t want to wake Jack and Adrienne. They may demand more Piggie Pie.

  I decide Sam deserves to suffer. A bit.

  Me: That’s actually two questions. And I’ve already answered the second. But yes to the first and if you keep asking I may change my mind about the second

  A few minutes pass before he replies.

  Sam: Ouch Really?

  Me: OMG of course not jk

  Sam: Phew

  Me: So what’s up?

  Sam: You

  I stare at that one for a little while. I have no idea what he could possibly mean.

  Me: I’m confused

  Sam: Sorry. I’m being an asshole. You know I broke up with M?

  Me: Might have heard that

  Sam: She’s telling people I’m seeing you. And Bree’s mad I stole you

  I stare at my screen again. I haven’t seen or heard from Aubrey since the party. But our schedules don’t overlap and we haven’t had VC rehearsal since then, so that isn’t so strange.

  Here’s what is strange: Izzy Crawford having this text conversation/flirtation with Sam Shackelton. I give myself a little pinch. But the screen doesn’t change.

  Me: Is this cos we met at Perry’s?

  Sam: Yeah

  Me: So just tell them the truth!

  Tell them I’m not seeing you and hanging out with your kid sister is the high point of my social life. Tell them Godlike Creatures don’t see, let alone date, Divas of Obscurity. I’m not on your radar. I’m not of your world. End of subject.

  There’s another long pause. Seriously, this boy overthinks. Then:

  Sam: What if the truth changes?

  I feel myself squinting at the screen like a person trying to read through smudged glasses. Is he asking what I think he’s asking? Because a “change” would mean I was dating him and he did steal me from his sister.

  Before I can think of anything approaching a reasonable response, the key turns in the front door lock. The parents have returned.

  “Oh, how sweet!” Mrs. Jackson coos when she spots me draped with sleeping children.

  I stifle the urge to shriek at them to wait in the hall because I need to answer the most important text of my entire life.

  “I can tell y’all had a good time!”

  Mami’s eyes laser-track to the cell phone in my hand. It’s glowing, so she knows I’m texting right now.

  “We should get going. It’s late and it’s a school night,” she says. She slips her arms beneath Jack and lifts him as Mr. Jackson, on my other side, hoists Adrienne. Both kiddoes barely break breath, that’s how out of it they are.

  “Thank you, Isabella,” Mrs. Jackson says as we head out. “I could rest my mind knowing our girl was with you tonight.”

  “No problem, Mrs. Jackson,” I say convincingly. It’s an Academy Award–winning performance of a single line because I manage to sound like a normal person even as another text from Sam ignites my phone. Just get to the car, I tell myself. Deep breath. He can wait a couple of minutes.

  Mami doesn’t say anything as we cross the parking lot, then deposits the unconscious Jack into the back seat. She still doesn’t speak as she and I buckle up. I take that as an invitation to finally check my screen.

  Sam: ??

  “Who is that?” Mami asks. Nicely enough. She seems tired. Before I can respond, a loud rap on the passenger side makes us both jump.

  It’s Mrs. Jackson. Holding the entire uneaten cake. I roll down my window.

  “Sweetheart, you forgot this!” she says, pushing the cake at me, plate and all.

  “Oh, no, Mrs. Jackson, please. That’s too much! Really!” Too late. She’s already lowered the thing onto my lap. Hard to balance, with a phone in one hand. I turn to Mami for help.

  “Not the whole cake! What about George?” Mami exclaims. “Just a slice! A slice is good.”

  Really? Are we actually going to attempt slicing cake in the car right now? What is my mother thinking? This is not helpful.

  Mrs. Jackson takes one step back. I’m trapped. Again.

  “George doesn’t need all that cake,” she confides. “Besides, she’s a growing girl. You enjoy that cake, honey.” Mrs. Jackson waves goodbye.

  “Thank you!” Mami calls through the window. “That is so generous!”

  Mrs. Jackson turns to her apartment and I watch her retreating back as I roll up the window. The inside of the car already smells like frosting.

  “That was very nice,” Mami says as we pull out. “Very generous.”

  With one hand I hold the rim of the plate; with the other I cradle my phone. Which has stopped buzzing. Not in the Sam-has-stopped-texting way. Not in a dead battery way.

  In the your-cheapass-Tracfone-is-out-of-minutes way.

  I had forgotten to check. Of course, even if I had checked, I’m out of cash for the month. So I couldn’t afford more minutes even if I wanted them. This. This is what I was telling Sam about luck.

  For those of us who don’t have any, life just sucks.

  “So, who was on the phone?” Mami repeats.

  “Nobody,” I tell her.

  Nobody.

  18

  Aubrey tracks me down in the school library. I’ll give her that: she goes for a face-to-face. Not that I’d know if she was texting me. I don’t get paid until tomorrow, which means el teléfono está muerto. Sucks for me.

  “We need to talk,” I hear.

  I’m at one of the computer carrels, trying to check my assignments on Google Docs. RubyFish_guest must not have paid his/her cable bill this month because I haven’t been able to access the internet from my corner of the living room for days.

  I’ve tried explaining that to a couple of my teachers who think it’s okay to “update” the homework online. Without getting into too much detail (because frankly, it’s none of their business), I’ve asked that they give us the assignments in person, in class. But for some reason that’s beyond them. They keep adding stuff or changing things and then don’t seem to get why I miss the changes.

  News flash, people: it costs money to be an iConnected Student.

  “Hey,” I reply without taking my eyes from the screen. “Give me one minute.”

  Aubrey plunks herself into the chair next to me as I quickly scan the last page. Sure enough: my chemistry teacher added four problem sets. That would’ve been a big fat zero for me if I hadn’t checked. I hit Print, then swivel to face Aubrey.

  She wears her serious face. The one you might see on an oral surgeon peering into an open mouth, preparing to extract wisdom teeth.

  “Why haven’t you answered my texts?” she begins.

  “My phone’s dead,” I reply truthfully.

  She frowns. Phones that don’t work are not part of Aubrey’s worldview.

  “Should be fixed tomorrow,” I add. I don’t explain “fixed.”

  “Do you have a thing with my brother?”

  I can feel my eyes widen. She’s not wasting any time. “Define ‘thing,’” I auto-reply. Probably not the best idea. Raises all sorts of suspicions. She throws herself
back into the chair and releases an exasperated breath.

  “I knew it!” she declares. “Sam swore to me you two were just friends. But I had a feeling. And now with all this stuff Melissa is saying—”

  “We’re not friends,” I say, cutting her off. “I don’t know what we are, but it’s definitely not ‘friends.’” He probably hates me, I don’t add. I ghosted him in the middle of a pretty intense text conversation. If he never speaks to me again, I wouldn’t blame him.

  “Then what?” Aubrey challenges. “Because I thought you were my friend. Not another suck-up putting the moves on my brother.”

  Moves? If only. Izzy Crawford doesn’t have moves. The whole idea is so preposterous I almost laugh, but catch myself. She’ll think I’m laughing at her.

  Which is the last thing I want to do.

  “I am your friend,” I answer honestly. “And here’s what’s going on. Sam worries about you. We got together one time because he wanted to know how you’re doing. That’s it. One time. To talk about you.”

  Aubrey looks taken aback. A little whiplashed, even. She zoomed into this conversation at 120 miles per hour and now someone just slammed on the brakes. And the airbags inflated. “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him you seem to be doing fine,” I say. “Was I right? Because this doesn’t feel fine. It feels paranoid.” I don’t intend to turn things on her, but pivoting comes naturally.

  “Yeah. I mean . . . yeah,” she says. “About being fine. Not paranoid.” She hesitates. A little crease of worry forms between her eyebrows. “What did he tell you?”

  Now I’m stuck. Because I don’t want to lie to this girl. But I also don’t want to betray Sam’s confidence.

  Most of all, I don’t want to embarrass her. I’m her new friend. Her turning-a-fresh-page-on-life, Veronic Convergence, stand-up-there-and-sing-the-national-anthem-to-crazy-applause friend. She didn’t tell me the other stuff. The sad, depressed, medicated, needing help stuff. People are so judgmental and she doesn’t know me that well. Yet.

  Eventually, she’ll trust me. And I’ll tell her that I think she’s brave. And strong. But for now? She wants to step away from the sad story. She wants to be liked for herself and not because she’s Hot Sam’s sister. She wants friends who care about her, not pity her. She wants to be accepted because she’s worthy, not because she’s needy.