I exhale loudly and slump. It’s not like I wanted to laugh and flirt and hold hands with Thad, but if it could somehow bring me a step closer to Nick—well, then, I’d suck it up and do it.
Oh, Nicolás, my Nicolás, no matter how it looks, everything I do, I do for you.
“Look, Collins, this really shouldn’t be that hard.” He looks away and shakes his head. “For one, Nick’s a tool. There are lots of other tools around to choose from. And for two, you may be a total head case, but you’re not totally disgusting to look at.”
Wow. Thad Bell. Calling me not totally disgusting. I’m almost touched—that’s got to be his version of a compliment.
“Okay, I’ll try,” I say. “But we’re supposed to talk tomorrow. He said he’d find me.”
“Well, don’t be alone when he does,” Thad says.
“I’m hardly ever alone,” I say. “I’m with Sirina, or Amelia, or Jordan.”
“A guy, dummy. You need to start talking to other guys,” Thad says, sounding exasperated. “If Nick feels like he can’t have you back, he’ll want you back even more. It’s like that saying: ‘You don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone.’ It’s totally legit.”
“Oh, jeez. You’re just so much wiser than your years,” I joke.
But Thad doesn’t laugh. He just puts on this weird, tight smile, and looks away.
“Come on,” I say, stepping on his toes under the table. “What do you appreciate now? Chewbacca?”
“Huh?”
“Chewbacca! Or was it Darth Vader?” I tease. “The figurine Nick stole from you.”
He turns back to me for a second, like he’s holding his breath.
“What?” I ask.
He still doesn’t answer.
Just as soon as I think I’ve hurt his feelings in some strange and unknown way, he breathes out a gust of air and says, “No, you know what I appreciate now? Screaming Yellow Zonkers.”
“What are those?”
“They were like popcorn with sugar. Yellow sugar. They were my dad’s favorite. I always thought they were kind of gross. But you know what? You can’t get them anymore. They stopped making them. And now, sometimes I just really want a Screaming Yellow Zonker.”
I just stare at him.
“What!?” he asks with annoyance.
“So, what, I’m supposed to be a Screaming Yellow Zonker? Really?”
“I’m just saying, I’d take a Zonker over a burrito any day. And you know how much I like burritos, so…”
I narrow my eyes at him and he narrows his back at me, and then it turns into a full-fledged stare-off. For a full minute. Then two. And then I forget to keep count. It’s a vicious eye-lock, and it’s starting to feel so strong that it’s even getting to me. Finally, his eyes snap away.
“I won,” I declare.
“Only because you were about to suck my soul out through my eyeballs,” he says back.
I laugh. “Maybe I already did.”
“My soul yields to no one,” he says back, with a little smile that—for just a brief millisecond—gives me a jolt or a pang of something. Like something stirs under my rib cage. And then I remember with relief—the bean dip. It’s just the bean dip.
“So, what does he eat now?” I ask.
“Who?”
“Your father. Now that he can’t have those Zonker things.”
“Oh,” he says. “Right.” He turns his head and squints a little, like he’s trying to focus on something in the distance. I look in the same direction, but only see the usual shops and signs. Then he says, “Nothing, I guess. That’s what dead people eat.”
“Oh!” Dead. Oh no. Oh no. I feel a flurry of panic. You’d think after all the telenovelas I’ve watched, I’d be used to death. But I’m not. “I’m sorry! I really am! I—uh—I didn’t know.”
“I know you didn’t. No worries,” he says, shrugging.
I feel awful. How does someone’s dad just die? Poisoning? Murder?
He seems to sense what I’m thinking. “Car accident,” he says, very plainly.
I study Thad’s face for any sign of what he’s feeling, but the only thing that really stands out is some dried frijoles near his chin.
“Stop admiring me,” he says.
“I’m not! I was just—”
“I’m kidding, doofus.” He gets up. “Anyway, I gotta go.”
“Okay. I’m sorry, though, about your dad.”
And then he takes off. Watching him leave, I feel like I’ve opened up a puzzle, but can’t find the corner pieces. Or that I’ve put on my favorite coat, but one of the buttons is gone.
Thad is staring at his mom’s big toe. They’re both staring at it. She’s pulled the sheet up so her slightly puffy foot sticks out at the bottom of the bed. It reminds him uncomfortably of one of those dollar-store Halloween props—usually a disembodied hand.
“Hang on,” she says. “I did it earlier when the therapist was here.”
Thad stares at it harder. Maybe he can will it to move. He’s read about people who can bend spoons with their minds, so maybe if he tries hard enough it’ll work.
“It’s so frustrating,” she says, and she lets out a big sigh.
“Want to try pressing into my hands?” he offers.
“Sure,” she says, sounding tired.
He puts his palms on the soles of her feet and presses gently into them. Sometimes he can feel her press back, just a little. Sometimes he’s not even sure if she’s actually moving her feet, or if it’s just the intention he feels—hers or his own. Today, he doesn’t feel any pressure back.
“Thanks,” she says, signaling she’s had enough. “Sit down and talk to me. How was your day?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
He knows it’s vague, but he really doesn’t know what to make of this day at all. Each day that he’s not caught, both the relief and the anxiety build. It’s like a game of dodgeball—the longer you stay in it, the higher your chances of getting blasted in the nuts.
She looks at him expectantly. “Well, what did you do?”
He goes back to his conversation with Mabry. I told someone that Dad died, he thinks. But the words stick in him, and he knows that’s where they’ll stay. He doesn’t like to talk too much about it. It’s not that he’s in denial; it’s just sometimes kind of nice to try to keep his dad alive in some way, if only in someone’s imagination.
But today, he surprised himself by telling Mabry the truth. What was that about?
“Well, you had to have done something,” his mom says, teasing a little. “Come on, make me feel like I’m part of the world.”
He smirks. “Well, big excitement.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I took my algebra quiz.”
She lifts her eyebrows. “And?”
“I got a B,” he tells her. Actually, it was a C, but close enough. Besides, next time, it’ll be higher. He doesn’t want to keep worrying her about his grades.
She holds up her hand, but it’s slow and stays low. Then she puts it back down. “I was going to say high-five, but…” She laughs uncomfortably. “That’s great. I’m proud of you.”
He smiles and cracks his knuckles.
“Did you go to the mall again today?”
“Yep.”
“You must like it there.”
He does like the mall—not just the face-stuffing business that happens at the Macho Nacho. It’s just nice to be surrounded by stuff that doesn’t matter. It feels safe. Clothes, jewelry, shoes, massage chairs. Little kiosks of things like socks, or smoothies, or sunglasses. There is never anything life-or-death about socks, or smoothies, or sunglasses. Or eyebrow threading, whatever that is.
And then there’s Mabry, of course.
Wait, he thinks. He wants to take that thought back. Yes, there’s Mabry, but it’s not really her that he likes. It’s just the things she says sometimes, her weirdness—it’s ridiculous. He’s amused, that’s all.
“Yeah, it’s
okay,” he tells his mom.
It. Not she.
He feels his mother’s stare, and it brings him back to the room.
“You’re smiling,” she tells him, a smile starting on her own face. “So maybe today was better than you’re saying.”
“Oh.” He laughs, surprised. “Nah, it was okay. Nothing special. How was your day?”
She moans. “Oh, you know. The doctor. The therapist. Nora. What would we do without Aunt Nora?”
Seriously. What would they do without Aunt Nora? Without her, he’d be stuck here at home almost all the time. Just the thought of it makes his ribs feel like they’re squeezing toward each other, compressing his lungs and making his heart work ten times harder. How would he even function without Aunt Nora?
Thad realizes his mom has spoken to him, but he’s been too lost in his secret panic to hear what she’s said. “What, Mom?” he asks.
“I said, ‘Probably eat a lot of peanut butter and jelly.’ I was answering my own question,” she says, still smiling. “Play that game you like—what is it? Tankie?—and hang out at the mall.”
And then guilt punches him in the gut. His sweet mom. She would do anything she could for him, willingly, and yet there are days, many of them, when he’s tempted to chuck his phone off the escalator and order a second burrito. Maybe watch a basketball game at the RadioShack, bounce on some mattresses at Sears. Be where things don’t matter for an extra hour or three. “Maybe if we get a ramp, I could take you sometime,” he offers.
“To the mall?” she asks, like he’s suggested they go snowboarding on Mount Everest.
“Well, yeah, the mall. You know, that big place down the street that sells socks, and cinnamon rolls, and earrings, and…and cheese fundue,” he says, smirking. She used to love the cheese “fundue” at Schatzi’s.
“Maybe someday,” she says.
At the mall you can do almost everything on wheels. Buy things, eat things, hit every level, every kiosk. Even the bathrooms are fine on wheels. Maybe things could start to feel almost normal again.
Like she said, maybe someday.
She looks back at her foot. “Okay, I’m ready to try again.”
Thad stands up and moves to the end of the bed. He narrows his eyes and cups his hands in the space around her feet, staring down through the center. “I’m beaming some extra energy,” he jokes, sort of.
“Great. I can use all the energy I can get,” she says.
So they both stare at her left toe. And stare some more. And then it starts to wiggle, just a little bit.
Yep, he thinks, smiling at his mother, it’s amazing the things you appreciate once they’re gone.
yo atraigo
tú atraes
ella atrae
nosotros atraemos
ellos atraen
The next morning at school, I pass by Colby Ahrens. He gives me a little wave and a smile. I start to smile back normally, but then I remember I’m supposed to be finding someone to make Nick jealous. So I give him a look that I hope says Come hither. And stay hither. He gives me a look back that pretty much says he thinks I’m crazy, and then, in an obvious panic, he speeds down the dead-end cultural studies hall and finds a tattered-edged poster of a German castle, left over from International Awareness Week, to stare at.
In English, I try to throw Adam Dorner a glance or two. He used to like me, for about a week back in seventh grade. Adam’s usually good for at least an ego-boosting smile or something, but today he’s not looking anywhere near me. I guess I do that more than once or twice, because Mr. Bonna notices and yells out, “EYES FRONT, MISS COLLINS!” That’s how he says it. Mortifying.
In the hallway between second and third periods, I make eye contact with Matt Hajib. Then I guess I make the mistake of trying to wink at him, like Mariela would, forgetting completely that I don’t know how to wink. Whatever happens on my face ends up having the opposite effect, as later in the morning, during P.E., he trades me off the basket-ball team for Grace Wong—and Matt used to write me love poems! (Okay, it was only once, and it was in sixth grade, but still, it was a love poem…although I didn’t really know it at the time. He wrote I had cut his eye when I was most certain I did NOT. Later, I found out he meant caught his eye. He also said my skin lit up like a Chinese lantern, and that was weird.)
I duck into the bathroom just before lunch, and when I come out, I nearly walk right into Michael Dorchett, throwing myself off balance.
“Whoa, there,” Michael says, laughing a little. He steadies me, his hands on my shoulders.
“Sorry about that.”
“No worries,” he says. Our eyes meet. “Be careful.” He seems slightly amused.
“I will,” I say. And since he’s still looking at me and holding my shoulders, I go for it.
I give him a smoldering smile. I’m pretty sure it’s smoldering. Or sizzling, maybe? Anyway, something that could burn.
“Mabry?” He lets go of my shoulders. “Are you okay?”
Not exactly the response I was going for. “I’m fine,” I tell him, trying to maintain my composure. I notice the corner of his collar is folded under. I reach over and start to smooth it out.
He steps back, his hand going to his collarbone. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
“It was just—your collar—”
“I’ll get it,” he says, and rushes down the hall.
Sirina walks over. “What were you doing?”
“Flirting?”
“Mabry, that wasn’t flirting. Harassing, maybe,” she says, “but not flirting. What’s happened to you?”
“Oh,” I sigh as we start walking toward the cafetorium. “I don’t know. I guess now that I’m supposed to be flirting with the whole wide world and making Nick jealous, I’ve completely forgot-ten how.”
“Yeah, and speaking of Nick, where is he? He owes us some news.”
“I haven’t seen him yet,” I say.
“So no news? Really?”
“Other than that I’ve completely lost my touch? Nope.”
“Well, what’s he been doing? Too busy kung fu fighting? Come on,” she says as we walk into the cafetorium. “Let’s go find him.”
I grab her hand and pull her to our table. “I can’t. That’s pretty much the opposite of Thad’s rules.”
“Yeah, normally I’d be all over that. But when the YoJo’s on the line?”
“Don’t forget, I’m supposed to be a heartbreaker,” I say, unpacking my lunch. “To quote Thad, ‘You don’t appreciate what you have until it’s gone.’”
“Yeah, I get that, but we have to have the story,” she says. “I don’t even care that I’m your editor. I’ll interview him.”
“Wait!” I say, before I can think. “You don’t even like Nick!”
“So?” she says. “What does that have to do with it?”
Technically, it shouldn’t have anything to do with it. A journalist is supposed to be neutral. But it has a lot to do with it, as far as I’m concerned. Will Sirina even ask the right questions? Or will she just make him sound like a dork?
“What’s wrong?” she asks. “It’s like you’re having some sort of telepathic communication with your spinach salad.”
“I’ll do it,” I say. “I’ll interview him.”
She studies me. “What about Thad? What about his rules?”
I shrug. “You’re my best friend. He’s…” I stop. None of the words going into my filter sound right. He’s just a guy. He doesn’t matter. He’s not. So I finally say the one thing that feels true. “He’ll be fine.” After all, he’s been through a lot worse.
But I hardly catch more than a glimpse of Nick, and the whole day goes by without him finding me. The truth is that if I were a lost treasure, he’d be a penniless fool.
I drown my sorrows at home with La Vida Rica. Mariela has already slipped the key to her mother’s jail cell out of the back pocket of the police chief, during an embrace. Now she is sneaking down the jail corridor dressed as a pris
on guard. Upstairs the chief has realized his keys are missing. My phone buzzes, but I let it go to voice mail. Thad or Sirina or my mom can wait.
But when Mariela finds the cell—empty!—and the credits begin to roll, I pick up my phone to see who’s called. And I see something that almost stops my beating heart.
It was Nicolás.
I stare at the little missed-call icon that appears at the top of my screen and think, Great. Just great. Now what?
Do I call him back?
Of course, dummy, I hear Sirina’s voice in my head. We have an award to win!
Fine, but don’t come crying to me when you’re scraping your coronary artery from the tread of his Air Jordans. That’s Thad’s voice.
“Grrrr,” I say to the empty room. This is all too much.
I’m on the verge of calling Nick back (Sirina wins) when his name lights my phone up again. Technically, I answer it successfully. But socially, it’s an epic fail, because the words out of my mouth are, “It’s you!”
“Oh,” Nick says. “Hey.”
“Hi.” My voice comes out like a satisfied sigh.
“Can you talk?”
“Sure,” I say. I can’t help but add, “I thought you were going to find me in school today.” So we could look deep into each other’s eyes. Maybe graze fingertips.
“Well, I was looking for you,” he says.
“You were?” Yearning for me, maybe? Pining for me, perhaps? Say it, say it!
“Yeah, but I just wanted to catch you alone, and you never were.”
Darn you, Thad Bell! All this work to try to get him jealous only ended up keeping him away!
“Sorry about that,” I say.
“No worries,” he says. He makes this little laugh-like noise that he does. Over the phone, it sounds a little like a dog panting, but it gets me right in the left ventricle. I miss him. “Nick?”
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Have you—” Have you missed me?
But Thad’s voice from inside my head keeps the words trapped in my new brain-to-mouth filter, which is growing thicker all the time. Dude. Pathetic.
“Have I what?” Nick asks.
“I don’t know—never mind.”
How to Break a Heart Page 10
