How to Build a Heart

by Maria Padian

  I so get all that.

  “Sam told me you were really sad and he felt like he missed it. He doesn’t ever want to miss it again. That’s why he was checking in with me. Because he knows we’re friends.”

  Aubrey’s expression hovers somewhere between touched and suspicious. I’m guessing she’s wondering what else he might have said, but doesn’t want to push it. In case he didn’t.

  “He’s a good brother,” she says.

  I nod in agreement. That he is.

  Then, her expression changes as something else occurs to her. “He’s also the dumbest smart person I know!” she exclaims. “Did he meet you at Perry’s?”

  I nod again.

  Aubrey buries her face in her hands. “Unbelievable. Melissa’s crew practically lives there. One of her best friends works there!”

  So. Barista Girl #2 is a bestie. Note to self.

  But Aubrey makes an interesting point. Why choose a public place where his girlfriend hangs? It was either because the meetup was completely innocent and he had nothing to hide, or . . . he wanted to force an issue with Melissa.

  Or he’s a complete blockhead. Which seems to be what Aubrey thinks.

  “I’d never been to Perry’s before,” I tell her. “He bought me a salted-caramel steamer.”

  “Steamer Girl,” she says. As if she’s been tearing through the pages of a detective novel and finally learned the identity of the killer. “You do know you’re a hashtag, right?”

  “So I’ve been told.” I sigh.

  This earns me a half smile. “Welcome to my world,” she says. “You are now an official target of the Sam Shackelton’s Avenging Exes Club. Good luck.”

  I skip telling her about me and luck.

  “How bad is it?” I ask.

  She looks thoughtful. “Depends,” she says. “Do you care about your reputation on social media?”

  “I don’t really do social media. So I guess the answer is no.”

  Aubrey looks as if she can’t decide whether to be impressed or astonished. “Not even Facebook?” she asks.

  “Oh, I mean, yeah, I have a Facebook page, but so does everyone’s grandmother. I meant Instagram and Snapchat.”

  “How do you survive?” She’s not being sarcastic. So I decide to be honest as well.

  “Well, for one thing my mom makes me pay for my phone service, so I’m always running out of data. And for another? Even though it’s all totally fake? Those apps make me feel like a loser. Like the whole world is better looking and having more fun than me.”

  Judging from the expression on Aubrey’s face, I’m guessing parents who don’t automatically pay for everything isn’t part of her worldview, either. She breaks eye contact and picks distractedly at a button on her cardigan before answering.

  “My folks pretty much cover everything. Kind of bratty, huh?”

  “Kind of lucky,” I correct her. I decide not to add what I think of luck.

  “And those apps? Sometimes I think the point is to make people feel bad.”

  “Sounds right.”

  “You’re all over both. Hashtag SteamerGirl is pretty much trending at County.”

  I stare at her. She’s got to be exaggerating. “Without a photo? How could I be trending?”

  “Libby took a pic of you at Perry’s. Thing is, it’s from far away and blurry, so you can’t tell who it is. Just that it’s a girl with dark hair wearing hoop earrings. Which kinda threw me—I didn’t know you had hoop earrings . . .”

  “Who the hell is Libby?”

  “Melissa’s friend. Who works at Perry’s.”

  So now Barista Girl #2 has a name. Not that it helps. Is it even legal for her to snap pictures of me and plaster them all over the internet?

  “What can I say? People are stupid. And jealous. And paranoid.” I give the wheels on her chair a little push and look pointedly at her when I say that, earning me a soft smile. I can tell she’s already feeling better.

  “You know, my dad has this funny saying,” she says. “‘Even paranoids have enemies.’”

  “Meaning . . . ?”

  “Maybe there is something to some of this?” Aubrey holds her gaze steady on mine, waiting for a response.

  “I don’t have a thing with your brother, Aubrey,” I tell her. “I’m not cool enough for Sam. But . . . I’m not going to lie to you. He’s really hot. And really nice. And I noticed, all right? That doesn’t mean I don’t like you.” I let that sink in. The fact is, it’s true. She’s an immature pain in the ass, but she’s also kind and funny and honest. With absolutely no ego, which is amazing in someone so talented and rich.

  I honestly like her.

  Aubrey stands. She reaches into her backpack and pulls out a paper ticket. “He wants you at the championship game at the civic center on Saturday,” she says, thrusting it at me. “He said, ‘Here, bring a friend.’ Each player got four family tickets.”

  My head spins. These tix cost fifteen dollars I don’t have.

  “Are you sure? ‘A friend’ doesn’t necessarily mean me. He just doesn’t want you to be the kid alone with the parents,” I tell her.

  She eyes me like I’m a rotten lawyer who’s just made the most unconvincing case before a jury, and now my client is going to get life in prison. “Yeah, he’s not that stupid,” she says. “He knows I only have one friend.”

  I don’t argue with her there.

  “It’s general admission seating,” she tells me as we walk together to the printing station so I can collect my chemistry sheet. “The place is huge. Want to drive over with me and my parents? I don’t think you’ll find us otherwise.”

  “Maybe,” I tell her. “Let me check out the car situation with my mother.”

  “We can pick you up,” she offers.

  “That’s totally inconvenient for you,” I say quickly. “No worries, I’ll get there. And I’ll find you.” How big can this place be?

  “I’ll save you a jersey,” she adds.

  “A what?”

  “Jersey. Each player’s guest gets a jersey with his name and number on it to wear during the game. Sam’ll get four, so . . . one for you.”

  “Great,” I say. Willing myself to breathe in. Breathe out. Keep walking. Is this really happening? “But is that a good idea?”

  Aubrey tilts her head, confused.

  “Won’t me sitting in the stands with you wearing Sam’s jersey just confirm everything Melissa’s been saying?”

  Aubrey links her arm through mine. “Very dangerous,” she says. “But since they’re going to talk about you anyway—why not give them something really good?”

  19

  Aubrey was right: the civic center is enormous. And the crowd is huge. The line for ticketholders extends out the front doors, while the line for ticket buyers stretches down the block. Parking in the “event” lot costs twenty dollars, but miraculously enough, I find a metered spot on the street that costs me four quarters.

  Also in the miracle category: Earl is covering my shift at the market. It’s a huge favor because the manager doesn’t like us to take off, and I’m going to miss that cash. (Luckily, I got paid yesterday, so my phone is now juiced with minutes. For now, I’ll take the loss.)

  Even Mami cooperated. She didn’t blink when I asked for the car keys and told her I might be back late. I don’t know whether helping the Jacksons is earning me Niña Bien Points or she approves of me hanging out with a friend from St. V’s, but whatever—I’ll take that, too.

  The only hitch in these plans is Roz. Heading out to the game, I passed her. She was on the sidewalk, across the street from the market. She usually wanders over there on Saturdays during my shift, and she seemed more than a little surprised to see me driving off when I should have been ringing up beers, freezer-burned ice cream bars, and bags of pork rinds. She shot me thi
s WTF? look as I whizzed by, but I just smiled and waved. Didn’t even slow down.

  Predictably, my phone buzzed within seconds.

  Roz: Where you goin?

  I waited for the first red light before answering.

  Me: Meeting a St Vs friend

  Roz: Skipping work to meet a friend????

  Roz isn’t stupid.

  Me: Can’t text and drive talk later

  I turned off the phone. And the guilt. I mean, I’m just going to a basketball game, right? Not robbing a bank.

  The inside of the civic center is a ginormous echo chamber. Even though tons of people have turned out, voices bounce off the walls because the crowd doesn’t even begin to fill the seats. I scan the audience: the Clayton County fans are a mass of blue and gold on one side, while the folks from the opposing team are a sea of green and yellow. Way, way down on the floor, the boys warm up, their uniforms strangely bright under the powerful lights. Even though I’m seeing this in real life, the lights make it look like high-def TV.

  I aim for the blue. In the center of the stands and fairly close to the floor, a group wears players’ jerseys. I try to locate the Shackeltons.

  Then: the familiar cry of the Energizer Bunny.

  “Woo-hoo! Izzy! We’re over here!” Her voice cuts through the din like a blade through butter. She’s standing in the middle of the jersey-wearing pack, waving. I raise my hand, signaling that I’ve seen her (and she can stop now, please), and begin to descend the steps in her direction . . . when I trip and almost land on my face.

  Correction: I don’t trip. I am tripped. Some girl’s entire leg shoots out from an aisle just as I’m passing (this is not subtle), catching my foot and sending me flying forward—teeth, nose, and chin first.

  Falling is weird. As it happens, you think: Uh-oh. I’m falling. This is stupid. How do I make it stop? I can’t make it stop! It all goes through your mind in half a second, and you so badly want to turn back the clock . . .

  But here’s the thing about luck: Even for those of us who have none? Sometimes it finds you. An extralarge dad has chosen this very instant to get out of his seat and buy nachos for his kids. So instead of shattering my face on the stone stairs, I plow into his solid, wide back. He barely sways. I regain my balance.

  “Whoa, are you all right?” he says, his steadying hand on my arm. “Be careful.”

  “Sorry,” I tell him. Then turn.

  The girl with the leg at the end of the row looks everywhere but at me. She’s pasted a bland look on her face. It’s soland, a test of her brain function would probably reveal zero activity. Everyone in the rest of the row, all girls, stares straight at yours truly, waiting. There’s something ravenous about their expressions. Like I’m a bloody steak and they haven’t eaten in weeks.

  Melissa sits dead center. As our eyes lock, I see her raise her phone. Like a weapon.

  With every ounce of will I can muster, I force the fakest, friendliest smile ever. I waggle my fingers in this sickeningly sweet wave. I blow Melissa a kiss.

  “Hey, girls!” I call out to them. “Hope y’all are havin’ a great time! Go, County!” I pray they shoot video. I suspect one does: the girl sitting right next to Melissa holds her phone up for so long that Melissa grabs her wrist and pulls it down, fury on her face. “What?!” I hear her exclaim, confused.

  I climb over people to get to Aubrey and practically fall into the empty seat she’s saved for me. I’m shaking with anger.

  “Tell me you weren’t just talking to Melissa,” she says the second I’m seated.

  “Oh, I was absolutely talking to Melissa!” I assure her.

  Aubrey looks like she can’t decide whether I’m the coolest or the craziest person she’s ever met. Before she says anything, however, her mom, a few seats over, calls to me.

  “Izzy! So glad you found us! Here!” She tosses a soft bundle at me. I unfold it: it’s a Sam jersey. There’s a big blue “7” on the front and back, and “SHACKELTON” emblazoned across the shoulders.

  Yes. Another photo op.

  I yank the thing over my head: it falls midthigh, like a nightshirt. Aubrey wears an equally big one. I pull her to her feet.

  “On my count, ‘Go, County!’ Okay?” I tell her. A smile stretches across her face. We both turn in the direction of Melissa’s crew and raise our fists in a victory pump. I count to three.

  “Go, County!” Aubrey and I yell. The hundred or so people around us think we’re showing some school spirit, and take up the chant, clapping. Only Melissa and Co. know better.

  Aubrey laughs as we fall into our seats.

  “I can’t believe you!” she says. “You do know we’ll be all over her Insta now?”

  I shrug. “The best defense is a great offense.”

  “Funny. Sam said something like that this morning,” she replies. “But he was talking about the game.”

  The jerseys never come off. Definitely not during the game, which Aubrey and I spend mostly on our feet, screaming. Most definitely not after the final buzzer, when a couple of County students rush the court—then pretty much everyone does, in a big blue-and-gold frenzy of celebration. I’m right there with them, bouncing up and down like . . . Aubrey.

  Who knew? I’m a basketball fan.

  We wear our jerseys as we pack the civic center lobby, waiting for the freshly showered-and-changed players to emerge from the locker room and load into the streamer-strewn buses that will transport them back to the high school. With a police escort, lights flashing. With a line of rowdy students following in their own cars, horns blaring.

  We wear the jerseys as we fill the Clayton County High gym, set up with drinks and snacks and a microphone for a semi-impromptu celebration rally. We wear them as the team arrives and the scream-cheers begin again, as players take turns at the mike thanking coaches, each other, their parents. We wear them as captains Darius and then Sam step up to speak.

  We definitely wear them for the pictures Aubrey asks me to snap. All four Shackeltons line up.

  It’s the first face-to-face I’ve had with Sam since the Tracfone death the other night. I will my hands to hold steady as I tell them to say “cheese.”

  There’s so much to say and absolutely no good time or way to say it. So I don’t even try.

  But then, as I hand Aubrey her phone, Sam deals with the awkwardness.

  “You look good in seven,” he says, stepping close so only I can hear. He’s doing it again: that hands-jammed-in-his-pockets-watching-me, smiling-with-his-mouth-closed-and-head-tilted thing.

  Even though the gym is a crazy zoo of noise and people, he manages, in that moment, to be the guy my baby brother bounced off at Four Corners.

  I’m beginning to understand why girls become psychopaths when he dumps them.

  “You play good in seven,” I return. “By the way, I’m keeping it. No way you’re getting this jersey back.”

  “It’s all yours,” he assures me, smiling in this slightly surprised, totally pleased way. You’d think I’d just handed him a jumbo bag of Swedish Fish. “You’re coming back to the house, right?”

  “No way she’s not.” Aubrey moves in. She loops her arm through mine. “Mom wants us to head over there now. She’s got serving people to help and needs to let them in.”

  A couple of parent types approach to enthuse all over Sam, and Aubrey pulls me away.

  We continue to wear the jerseys as we unlock the house for the “serving people,” who turn out to be caterers (caterers!) bearing trays of tinfoil-wrapped food. Two women and a guy, all dressed in black slacks and white shirts, get to work: popping trays into the Shackeltons’ double oven, setting up drinks on the patio, and arranging stacks of heavy-duty paper plates, napkins, and those silver-looking utensils that are actually disposable.

  I resist the urge to ask Aubrey how much her mom is paying them. Caterin
g looks way more fun than working the cash register at the Meadowbrook convenience store.

  The jerseys also stay on as guests—many of them wearing their own jerseys—trickle in. They stay on as the trickle becomes a stream, becomes a torrent. The team, friends of the team, parents of the team, hangers-on of the team, coaches and staff—they all find their way to the Shackeltons’ big backyard, which is alive with laughter and voices. Which smells of cooked meat and smoke and springtime as Mr. Shackelton fires up that behemoth of a grill.

  We all wear the jerseys, but the players wear their Virginia Boys Regional Championship T-shirts. They wear them as they snap multiple goofy pictures of themselves, then post them, then laugh hysterically as the rest of the Clayton County High cyberworld comments on them. They wear them as they beckon to me. A group of the guys. Standing near the wall where not long ago I was hunkered down in the mud with Roz. I look around for Sam, but he must be inside.

  They wave me over, again. John. Darius. Ned. Three other guys whose names I only know from the game program.

  “Izzy, right?” Ned begins when I wander over. “Didn’t we meet the night of the semifinal game?”

  “Actually, it was the game before that,” I say.

  Ned contracts his brow, thinking.

  I decide to refresh his memory. “You were hauling stuff. Out to the pool house?”

  His eyes open wide.

  “Ha! Busted!” one of the guys crows.

  Ned eyes me with fresh respect. And caution. Like I’m a friendly Doberman he’s not sure he should pet.

  “Yeah, that’s probably not a good topic around this crowd,” John says, winking.

  “Understood,” I tell him, winking back.

  “We were wondering,” Darius says. “By any chance . . . are you the Steamer Girl everyone is talking about?”

  I take a long drink of seltzer from the red cup in my hand and glance around the yard. Melissa was wise enough not to show her face, but two of the other girls from “pool house” night are here. Chances are pretty good they date these guys.