As usual, the rest of the day is a blur of meaningless high school drudgery. Classes that I don’t need, free study time I won’t use, a pointless lunch break (I didn’t pack a lunch and wouldn’t eat much anyway). I have no time for the social experiment of high school.
I end up skipping last period to sit under the big maple trees out front and photograph the leaves as they fall. It gives me something to do while I wait for Cole to be finished.
After the last bell, he finds me under the trees and plunks onto the grass, close to me. He props himself up on an elbow. I take his photo, the sunlight filtering through the leaves and dancing across his face. Having my camera between us feels safer.
“So how’s my favorite nihilist?” he asks.
“I’m not a nihilist,” I say. “Do you even know what that word means?”
He looks wounded. “Hey, I read a philosophy book once. You know, staring into the abyss and all that.”
“Ha.”
“Plus,” he adds, “I’ve seen The Big Lebowski at least a hundred times.”
“Well, that is as good as an advanced philosophy degree for sure.”
He chuckles and then grows serious. “What do I have to do to get you to laugh, Lo?” he asks. “I miss your laugh.”
“Don’t try,” I say. “Just be here. Okay?”
“Okay,” he says gently. “Did Ms. Mill come down on you very hard?”
I toss him the letter, Cole opens it.
“Uh-oh. Daddy Flanagan's not going to like this one,” he says.
“Will you come back to the house with me?” I ask, giving him the eyes again.
Cole groans. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Besides, we were supposed to watch Dog Day Afternoon again, right?” As is typical for young aspiring male filmmakers, Cole is going through a real Al Pacino phase. Again. I much prefer his Tarantino phase, but whatever.
“Fine,” I say, “but don’t start screaming about Attica again. It’s irritating.”
He tosses a handful of leaves at me and I let them fall on me, not bothering to brush them away.
“Come on,” he says, pulling me up.
We go find his beater car. As usual it’s parked in the staff parking lot, and as usual Cole gets away with breaking the rules.
When we get to my house, Dad’s not home from work yet, so I leave the letter on the kitchen table.
Cole and I retreat to the basement to watch movies, and I find myself daydreaming. I can’t stop thinking about being under the trees with Cole. With him next to me like that, so close, I felt something. For a long time I’ve been worried that I’m broken or defective. But today I felt the energy of his long body next to mine. It was like my nerve endings sparked to life for a second before snuffing out again.
“Lo?” Cole asks, watching my face. “You okay?”
I had been staring at him. I look away.
“Snapshot,” Cole says. I give him a dirty look.
“Snapshot,” he repeats, knowing full well that this is his trump card.
I take a breath. “I feel…” I trail off, unsure what to say.
Cole scoots a little closer on the big sectional couch, his long arm snaking behind me. He’s close enough that I can smell him. He smells good.
“Go on,” he says.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “I have these feelings, sort of. Sometimes. But it’s like they’re buried. And I don’t know how to dig them up.”
“I have feelings I don’t know what to do with too,” he says with a grin.
I look up at him, at his soft blue eyes. How messed up am I? There’s another Logan inside me, I know it. And she is falling in love with her best friend. But this new, broken Logan has taken over, and she says no.
He leans toward me, and oh my god, he’s going to try to kiss me. But before he can follow through, before I can stop him or kiss him first or run away or smack him or dump my Dr. Pepper in his lap, I hear a chair scrape on the kitchen floor overhead.
“LOGAN!” Dad yells from the kitchen. He’s home. He has read the letter.
Cole sits upright and moves away.
Moment ruined. Phew.
Chapter Three
Cole watches, eating tortilla chips by the handful, as Dad paces in front of me. I had expected Dad to start yelling when he came downstairs, but he’s been silent so far. Like he’s not sure what to say. I know he doesn’t want to be mean to me, not now. I hate that I’m making him worry about me on top of everything.
“Look, honey,” he says. “I’m not going to say enough is enough. I can’t say that for you. Grief is personal.”
Here he goes again with his support-group talk. I already did the therapy thing, and it didn’t help. Then the doctor prescribed medication that made my lack of feelings even more lacking. I wasn’t human, and I hated it. I’m only sort of human now.
“But,” he continues, “it has been a year since Mom died—”
“Not quite a year yet,” I say.
Dad sighs. “No, not yet. Almost. And she was sick for so long. But the point is, Logan, it’s time to make some changes. I want to make some changes.”
“Like what?” I ask, starting to get worried. “We’re not going to move or something, are we?”
“No! No,” he says. “It’s…” He trails off, running his fingers through his thick dark hair. He does have such great hair—so much better than most guys his age. It’s not even receding or anything. I suppose that once upon a time he was even considered handsome.
Cole starts to speak, mouth full of chips. I try to wave at him to shush, but as usual he ignores me. “Please don’t come down too hard on her, Mr. F. She’s trying. I see her trying.”
Okay, now he’s lying for me.
“And,” he adds, “I’m helping her. Don’t do anything rash, Mr. F. Like, don’t take her darkroom away.”
“What the hell, Cole?” I yell. What is he giving my dad ideas for?
Cole cringes. “Yeesh, sorry, Lo. I didn’t mean—that was dumb.”
“Well,” says Dad, “that is something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oh my god, what? You’re not going to take away my darkroom, are you?” I’m starting to panic now. I’ll have nothing to live for.
“No, but I’m, uh, I’m going to need to use this space. Not the darkroom, honey, not that. The basement.”
“You mean our viewing theater, Mr. F.?” Cole asks, back to munching. His hunger is clearly not affected by parental doom.
Dad rubs his temples. “Cole, isn’t it getting close to dinnertime?”
Cole shrugs.
Dad sits down next to me and takes my hand. “I need the basement, honey, because I’m going to start hosting my support group here. The current organizer, Kelsey—you met her at the barbecue last summer, remember?—well, she’s making some big changes in her career and doesn’t have the time and space to host it anymore—”
“Wait. You want to have your meetings here? In this house? In my basement?”
My dad nods.
“As in, the place I go to escape the misery of human existence and contemplate the meaninglessness of the universe?”
Dad sighs a sigh so deep it seems to come from his feet. “Wow,” he says. “For a second there I forgot how over-dramatic teenagers can be.”
I scowl at him in return. I know I’m being difficult.
“Wait,” says Cole, opening his big mouth again. “Isn’t that Kelsey lady the one who made the rad chicken wings?”
Of course that’s how Cole would remember someone.
Dad chuckles and nods. And is it my imagination or is he blushing a little? What is happening?
“Nice,” says Cole.
Dad looks at me and squeezes my hand. “I need this, honey.”
“Whatever,” I manage. “If it helps you, then fine.”
“Good,” says Dad, hopping up. “Because it starts tonight, and everyone will be here in an hour.” He turns to go back upstairs.
“Tonight?” I ask.<
br />
“Yep,” Dad says. “And you two are in charge of refreshments.”
“But Dad!” I protest.
He holds up the letter. “You will help with the group meetings. All of them, no exceptions. In return, I will sign the letter. You will also finish your Media Arts project—on time. Or I will be finding another use for that darkroom.”
“Damn,” Cole whispers. “Stone cold, Mr. F.”
“Understood?” Dad asks.
“Understood,” I say.
Cole gives him a salute, and Dad marches back upstairs.
I give Cole a death stare, but he grins back at me. It’s impossible to stay mad at him. I flop back onto the couch.
“Well, who knows?” Cole says. “This group thing could be a real hoot.”
“Cole, it’s a bunch of sad people talking about how awful life is. How can that be fun? You remember that horrible barbecue at the lake.”
“I don’t know,” he says, snuggling next to me. He still smells good. “We could make some guac, spike the punch, inject some life into this weird death group.”
“Do me a favor?” I ask.
“Anything.”
“Don’t ever say guac again.”
Cole laughs. “Didn’t you have a name for this group? I seem to remember some famous Logan Flanagan sarcasm on the topic.”
“I called it the Broken Hearts Club.”
“Yeah, that’s it. Doesn’t seem as clever now though. Seems kind of mean.”
“Yeah,” I say, too drained to banter anymore.
Cole stands up and hauls me off the couch by the arms. He’s got his I-have-the-best-idea-ever face on.
“Oh no, what?” I ask.
“I have the best idea ever.”
Something tells me I don’t want to know what it is.
Chapter Four
Cole’s idea is not that bad, considering the doozers he’s had in the past. Like the time when we were ten and he tried to convince me we could parachute from his second-floor balcony. With bedsheets. He jumped. I didn’t. He spent the summer in a full leg cast. And then there was the time he had the brilliant idea to spin donuts in a snowy parking lot—Cole = 0, lamppost = 1.
Cole’s great idea this time was to help out cheerfully with the Broken Hearts Club while observing its members for artistic inspiration. He could get footage to use for his project. And I might get some photos for my project, whatever that might be. Not to mention yummy snacks.
While he’s outlining his grand plan, he is halving and scooping the avocados for the guacamole. Of course, he is referring to it as “guac” the entire time.
“But Cole,” I say, “this is a group for sad people. Do you really think they want to be filmed while they are talking about such personal things?”
“We’ll let them know it’s for school, and we won’t record anything from their private conversations. I’ll just interview some of them.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I like the idea of taking their photos if they’re fine with it. But recording them seems invasive. I know I wouldn’t want that.”
“Whoa,” says Cole. He is looking out the kitchen window. “Like, Keanu-level whoa.”
Someone has just pulled up in a sleek silver SUV. Dad is in the driveway. A tall, pretty brunette gets out of the SUV and gives Dad a bright, warm smile. It’s Kelsey from the barbecue. Dad gives her a big smile right back, and they hug. My heart lurches a little. There’s this weird flush of happiness and pain before it dissolves into nothing again.
“Looks like your dad has a thing for hot-wings Kelsey,” Cole says. He shoots a glance at me, his face tight.
“Well,” I say, “he’s been lonely for a long time.”
Mom passed away last year, yes. But her death had been a long time coming. When someone has Huntington’s disease, their symptoms can start when they are young, like my age. Mom learned a few years after I was born that she had the disease. She was adopted, so she didn’t know her genetic history. Would she have chosen to have children had she known? And Dad, well, he had to live with the knowledge of her impending death for years. He had to watch the love of his life drift away.
“Lolo?” Cole says. He reaches out to me and pulls me into a hug. I don’t resist. “Do you need to get away?” he asks. “Because I will straight up put you in my car and take you somewhere. The drive-in? The mall? The moon?”
I shake my head, unable to talk. I’m not sure what will happen if I open my mouth. But I can sense a tidal wave of feelings waiting to wipe me out. I can’t let that happen. I can’t fall apart. Not now. Not yet.
The kitchen door opens, and Dad clears his throat.
Cole steps away. I look at Dad and his friend Kelsey. They’re standing close together, the way people do when they like each other. Kelsey gives me a warm smile and offers her hand. I try to look at her face, at her eyes, but it’s like I can’t take her in all at once. I focus on her outstretched hand. I’m relieved to see that her nails are filed short, and they’re clean. I’m glad Dad doesn’t have a crush on someone with horrible fake nails. I know it’s kind of insane that I’m focusing on this. I take her hand to shake it. I manage a wobbly smile.
She’s wearing some kind of floral scent. Lavender maybe. Her shoes are tasteful pumps, and her clothes are unfussy and neat. She wears a cross-body bag, and I like that she’s the hands-free type. I can only glance at her hair. It’s long and dark and shiny. So much like my mom’s hair that I have to fight the urge to reach out and touch it.
“Hi, Logan,” she says. “I’m Kelsey. It’s great to officially meet you. David talks about you all the time.”
David. Not “your dad,” but “David.”
“Cool,” I say. My throat feels tight.
Dad is an awkward kind of guy at the best of times, so he’s pretty much himself. He stands there with his hands in his pockets.
Cole breaks the silence. “Hi, Kelsey. I’m Cole.” He reaches out to shake her hand too. “We met at the barbecue. Righteous wings.”
“Oh, Logan’s boyfriend, right?” she asks.
I open my mouth to correct her, but Cole answers before I do. “Yep,” he says, catching me, and Dad, by surprise. I stare at Cole—hard.
“So are the snacks ready, guys?” Dad asks. “The rest of the group will be arriving soon.”
I nod like a zombie.
We help Dad and Kelsey arrange the furniture downstairs in a circle and set out the snacks.
“I hate to say this, guys,” Cole announces, “but this kinda looks like the headquarters of a cult meeting.” As usual, he manages to say exactly what I’m thinking.
Kelsey laughs out loud, this huge laugh that fills the room. The effect it has on my dad is too intimate for me to witness. He glows when he looks at her.
I find my voice after a second. “I agree. This is creepy.”
“Okay,” says Kelsey, “what do you guys suggest?”
“Well,” I say, “one of the things I’ve never liked about going to groups is that they seem so…group-y.”
Kelsey nods. “Okay. I get that. I don’t like that either.”
“Like, it should be more than a meeting. Something more fun,” I say.
“So death plus fun,” Cole says, eliciting another belly laugh from Kelsey.
“I don’t know,” Dad says, staying true to his stick-in-the-mud act.
“I’m with Logan on this one,” Kelsey says, walking over to stand next to me. “What should we do, Logan?”
“Um, I think we should decorate,” I say. “Like for a party.”
There is a moment of stillness, and then everyone gets moving. We turn the furniture back to a more casual formation, dim the lights a little, put on some background music. Dad and Cole have a brief argument over ’90s versus ’70s music—Dad wins. We go with ’70s. And we all vow that the next meeting will have better snacks. Pizza maybe. Death plus pizza.
The doorbell rings as people arrive. I’ve met most of them before.
Give me
a snapshot, Logan. My mom’s voice again, this time vibrating in my chest as I stand against the back wall and watch our rec room fill up with people. All these breathing people inhabiting my space, interacting and talking. They do what living people do. They talk, laugh, cry, eat and then repeat.
When Mom was alive but bedridden, I would come home from school and she would ask me for a snapshot of my day. I wish I could have a snapshot of your future, she’d say. Some days, when moods were high, I’d design a fantastic future for myself. I’d be a famous photographer, living it up in Paris, surrounded by artists and all the mysteries of the world. Sometimes Cole would be in these futures as my film-making sidekick. Mom loved to hear about us. She would ask if I would go to prom with Cole and what my dress might look like. I knew she wanted to go even farther into the future too. Who would I become? Would I have kids—her grandkids—of my own? So I indulged her. But even as I told her these stories, I knew I was lying to us both.
My future isn’t flashbulb bright. It’s gray and blurry, as if the fates chose the wrong shutter speed when they took the snapshot of my life.
Okay, Mom, here’s a snapshot of the meeting. There’s Dad and Kelsey, infatuated with one another. Kelsey’s husband died of lymphoma and they had no children. Kelsey’s some kind of big deal marketing exec. Totally out of Dad’s league. There’s me and my apparent boyfriend, who is charming the pants off everyone. There’s an older man named Humphrey who is dressed in brown polyester from head to toe and who calls me “lovey” when I bring him a drink or a snack. There are the three lawyers, Jim, Jim and John. They all lost their wives to breast cancer. They all need to learn how to use an iron. There’s a sweet, sad lady named Grace who is around Dad’s age. She lost her son in an accident. She still wears a T-shirt with his face on it most days. These are the core members of the Broken Hearts Club—the regulars, the diehards, the never-quits, the always-sads. The best, and worst, thing about this meeting is that each person manages to catch my eye at some point. It’s like looking into a mirror.
The Unbroken Hearts Club Page 2
