Hearts Unbroken

by Cynthia Leitich Smith

  My shy, left-brained brother held up a holiday ornament of the Tin Man’s head like it was a trophy. “I’m auditioning for the fall musical,” Hughie announced. “The Wizard of Oz.”

  Hughie and I bounded off the school bus on the sunny first day of our respective freshman and senior years. New and returning students jostled, gossiped, hugged, and moseyed on inside. I overheard cooing over new outfits and snippets about family travel. A voice exclaimed, “I missed you!” Another: “What’s up, bro?” Another: “Oh, my God, she’s such a slut!”

  As we passed the eight-foot-tall Honeybee statue, Hughie warned, “Cam, two o’clock.”

  All 135 pounds of my brother bristled at the sight of my alpha-jock ex-boyfriend, who was artfully slouching against the brick wall like he was posing for a men’s fashion catalog.

  “No worries,” I told my brother. “He’s just waiting for someone.”

  Turned out that someone was me. “Lou, over here!”

  I’d already decided to make a point of saying howdy to him. The way I had it figured, my day-to-day life would require a lot less effort if Cam and I were on friendlier terms.

  Besides, I’d done the rejecting, which arguably made him the injured party. And he was making an effort. Publicly.

  “Are you getting back together with him?” Hughie asked.

  “Lou, please!” Cam called again.

  Please? “Not the plan,” I assured my brother. “Have a great day!”

  I watched Hughie disappear through the formidable front doors and smoothed my wavy hair, which — given the humidity — was already a lost cause.

  Didn’t matter. I may not be movie-star beautiful, but I’m solidly girl-next-door cute. Hourglassy with muscular legs and the gleaming smile of a dentist’s daughter.

  That said, Cam and I still had a history. I didn’t want to think about how many girls he’d hooked up with over the summer. It wasn’t that I wanted him back or wanted him to eat his heart out, but I had my pride. I didn’t want him to take one look at me and wonder what he’d ever been thinking, either.

  We hadn’t run into each other all summer. We hadn’t spoken since he’d read my break up e-mail and told me to “fuck off” last spring in the junior hall.

  I strolled over like it was no big deal.

  “I missed you,” Cam said, pulling me into his arms. “Loulou, no one knows me like you. There’s nobody I can talk to the same way.”

  The hug, no, the vulnerability in his voice, caught me off guard. I opened my mouth to say I wasn’t sure what, and Cam kissed me like we’d never broken up. His tongue claimed mine. His hands slid to grip my behind. We’d had our share of PDAs, but nothing like that.

  I shoved him away. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “What now?” Cam countered. “Fuck, Louise. I can’t do anything right, can I?”

  I left him there with his back against the brick wall.

  At lunch, Shelby ambushed me entering the chaotic cafeteria. “I knew I should’ve driven you and Hughie to school,” she said. “Clearly, you can’t be trusted anywhere near Cam Ryan without a personal bodyguard who’s immune to his bullshit.”

  “I didn’t kiss him,” I clarified, making my way to the food-service line. “He kissed me. There’s a difference. And he had no business kissing me.”

  She gestured to the loud, unruly jocks’ table. “You’re not sitting with them now?”

  Hadn’t I made myself clear?

  “No,” I assured her. “I’m sitting with you.”

  I don’t remember noticing Joey that first day in AP Government. I was preoccupied, contemplating Hughie’s latest text that EHHS was “the best school ever.”

  It was during my second class with Joey — Journalism, the last hour on my schedule — that he tossed his canvas shoulder bag to the far side, slid into the desk next to mine, and introduced himself: “Joseph A. Kairouz. Nice to meet you.”

  “Ambitious use of the power initial,” I replied.

  “I go by Joey,” he added. Clear blue eyes. Sandy brown hair. A cleft in his angular chin.

  He carried himself like he was busy, even though he wasn’t doing a damn thing.

  I didn’t realize right off that he was a new student. It’s a big school. There were a lot of people I didn’t know. “I’ve never met a Kairouz before.”

  “It’s from the Lebanese side of the family,” he said. “My dad’s side. Mom’s white bread by way of Scotland.”

  I was more intrigued by the slightly arrogant way he held his lips. “I’m Louise M. Wolfe.” I liked the sound of it — mature, accomplished. It would serve as my byline. “Lou.”

  I could’ve said something then about being a Creek girl. It would’ve flowed from the conversation. Would’ve saved me a lot of heartache and drama, but I was too busy flirting.

  Joey’s full lips twitched. “M?”

  “Melba,” I replied. “Like the toast.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  It’s a family name, like Louise. My great-grandma Melba grew up at Seneca Indian School. She went on to become a nurse during World War II.

  “Your loss,” I said. “It’s crunchy, delicious toast.”

  The bell rang, and our perky, thirty-something teacher launched into her welcome speech.

  “We’re the engine of communication here at East Hannesburg High,” Ms. Wilson began. “Face-to-face and digital.” She mentioned writing, shooting, editing, and deadlines. She waxed poetic about problem solving, ethics, and managing stress. She emphasized that each of us would be required to contribute at least one editorial — aka opinion piece — by the end of the semester.

  “We specialize in story — story is what defines us, what brings people together. This class will introduce you to hundreds of people and their stories, and give you the opportunity to share those stories. It will grow your humanity and prepare you to be the heroes of your own lives.”

  Shades of Dead Poets Society, The Great Debaters, Mr. Holland’s Opus, and To Sir, with Love. I wasn’t the only one who’d seen too many of those inspiring-teacher movies.

  Still, I liked Ms. Wilson. Her hot-pink cat’s-eye glasses and her short gold curls and how she talked so fast, with her voice and hands both.

  The Hive’s staff would be made up of four writers (Joey, me, Emily, Alexis) and a copy editor (Nick), who also drew editorial cartoons and designed infographics.

  I recognized Nick. It wasn’t just that he’s one of two students who uses a wheelchair. He’s the campus DJ, too. And we had French class together.

  Our intrepid leaders were a managing editor, Daniel, and an editor in chief, Karishma.

  Daniel’s a top wrestler, best known for tooling around in his dad’s classic red Porsche convertible. (The family owns a car dealership.)

  Karishma had run for Stu-Co president and lost, but I’d voted for her. We were in many of the same AP classes. Unlike a lot of girls, Karishma spoke her mind without apologizing first.

  “Over the course of the semester, you’ll become a team,” Ms. Wilson continued. “Hopefully even a family —”

  “What about video reporting, shooting, editing?” Joey had raised his hand but spoke without being called on. “That’s what I did at my old school. That and still photos. I’m good at both.” And apparently had no qualms about saying so. “I can write, too,” he added. “Sort of.”

  “Big deal.” Daniel held up his phone. “Everybody’s a photographer. Videographer. Whatever.”

  “Check last year’s results at state,” Joey shot back.

  Our school is so sports saturated, it took me a moment to realize he was talking about high-school journalism contests.

  Ms. Wilson pushed up to sit on the front of her desk. “You’d need to coordinate with the other reporters and cover your own stories, too.”

  “I can handle it,” Joey said. After a beat or two, he seemed to realize that he’d jumped in before the teacher was done talking. “Uh, that’s all I wanted to say.
” He paused. “Go ahead.”

  Ms. Wilson tilted her head, waiting him out.

  “Not that you need me to tell you to go ahead,” Joey clarified. “I’m just really interested to hear what you have to say.” He cleared his throat. “Thanks, ma’am.”

  “You’re quite welcome,” she replied.

  My mama was an English teacher for twenty years back in Texas. I could read Teacher Brain. Ms. Wilson liked Joey. She thought he’d be a handful but in a good way.

  Karishma passed around a sign-up sheet. “If two people want the same beat, Daniel and I will conduct interviews tomorrow.”

  By the time it got to me, every beat I was interested in — News, Arts/Entertainment, and Features — had been claimed. That left Sports, which I knew would be largely devoted to Cam. I chose Features instead.

  I’d have to interview against Joey to get it.

  After the final bell, lockers clanged over the billowing chatter. Hughie had texted to say he wouldn’t be riding the late bus. He was going to a new friend’s house after the info meeting for the musical. Hughie had already made a friend.

  “My little brother is a freshman,” I muttered to myself in the hall. “This is his first day of high school, and he’s already cooler than me.”

  Over my shoulder, Joey chimed in. “It’s my first day here, and I’m cooler, too.”

  “That’s up for debate,” I said, glancing at him. Not as tall as Cam, but still hovering around six feet. Broad shoulders. Wide chest. “And where did you come from?”

  “Overland Park.” It’s a mega middle-class KC suburb on the Kansas side of the Kansas-Missouri state line. A lot like Cedar Park or East Hannesburg.

  Strolling alongside me, Joey answered the obvious question. “My parents split up. Mom got a job at Hallmark’s production center in Lawrence, and I moved with her to East Hannesburg. Dad works for Southwest Airlines, but we’re only an hour from KCI Airport.”

  Heading up the stairs, I chose the safer topic. “Your dad’s a pilot? Was he air force?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  “Mine was army. A dentist.” We passed the long row of orange lockers lining the senior hall on one side, the windows looking out at the interior courtyard on the other.

  I noticed a couple of Dance girls noticing that Joey and I had noticed each other.

  “Any brothers or sisters?” I wanted to know.

  “Older sister.” Joey adjusted the strap of his canvas bag. “You ask a lot of questions. You’ll make a good reporter.” He paused for dramatic effect. “But Features will be mine.”

  “Aren’t you the optimist?” I replied.

  He laughed and gestured at a locker. “This is my stop.”

  It was my cue to say good-bye and keep walking. I lingered instead.

  Joey reached inside his locker for a biography of Ansel Adams from the school library.

  He’d stuck a party pic on the inside of the metal door. While Joey was distracted, I studied the image of him in a navy suit, standing behind a slender white girl in a short, lacy violet dress. The magnetic frame had been decorated with puffy neon-purple ink.

  A gift, I realized, from his date. His girlfriend?

  “You’re in my AP Government class,” I said, spotting the textbook.

  “That’s right,” Joey said. “I sit two rows to your right, one seat up.”

  “How specific,” I replied. “You know, coming from someone so much cooler.”

  That scored me a grin. Once he’d packed up, we moved on, side by side, to the intersection of the lobby and the walkway bridge linking one wing of the school to the other. The administrative and nurse’s offices, library, and the majority of the classrooms to the east, the multipurpose room, gyms, locker rooms, auditorium, indoor pool, and whatnot to the west.

  Joey paused alongside the immense sports-trophy case. “Uh, Lou, do you want to —?”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, tempted to get to know him better but erring on the side of caution. Yes, I was already infatuated with Joey. He’d made an intriguing first impression.

  But Peter Ney, the last intriguing boy I’d met, had automatically equated all Native people with alcoholics. And Tommy Dale Brown, the next-to-last intriguing boy I’d met, dated only white girls. (The prevailing theory was that Hollywood had warped his mind.)

  Besides, I’d chosen the Hive as my new place to belong. On staff, Joey was the competition, and it’s not like I needed a boyfriend.

  I was polishing off my raisin-cinnamon oatmeal when Mama looked up from her laptop at the kitchen table. “Get this,” she said. “Yesterday, the Theater teacher sent out a notice mentioning a more inclusive approach, and today there’s a parent group objecting to the — and I quote —‘color-blind casting’ of the school musical. I’ve received an e-mail addressed to ‘Dear Caring Parent,’ asking me to write or call the assistant vice principal to complain.”

  My brother’s upcoming audition was the talk of the house. “Color what?” I asked.

  “Better to approach it as color-conscious casting,” Mama explained. “A color-blind approach can lead to whitewashing — white actors in blackface, yellowface, redface . . .”

  “Like Rooney Mara as Tiger Lily?” I asked.

  “This is different,” Mama went on. “Color conscious means casting actors of color or, in Hughie’s case, Native actors, in roles where the race, ethnicity, skin hue of the character doesn’t matter to the story. It opens up opportunities, pushes back against the white default.”

  “Like a Black actress playing Hermione from Harry Potter,” my brother called, bounding downstairs with his backpack. “Why not?”

  “It can also be an artistic choice to send a message,” Mama added. “Like in Hamilton.”

  Hughie grabbed a banana from the bunch hanging beneath the cabinets. “Mrs. Q, the faculty director, is new to the job this year. She’s shaking things up.”

  Apparently. So this parent group was lining up against the student actors of color.

  Against Hughie.

  I rinsed and loaded my cereal bowl into the dishwasher. “Exactly who sent the e-mail?”

  “Pastor’s wife at Immanuel Baptist,” Mama replied.

  Immanuel Baptist was Peter’s church, which made the pastor’s wife his mother.

  Editor in chief Karishma clasped her hands, all business. “Joey. Louise. No matter which of you gets the Features beat, you’ll have to work together this semester, so we decided to interview you both at the same time. The Hive isn’t about winners and losers. We’re a team.”

  She and Daniel shared the power position behind the teacher’s desk while Ms. Wilson once again perched on top of it, off to one side this time.

  The managing editor tapped his tablet. “With News, Arts/Entertainment, and Sports, the reporters can get a baseline of assignments from the school calendar and go from there.

  “Features isn’t like that. You’ll have to pitch in to cover their overflow, but you’ve also got to come up with your own story ideas.”

  Daniel rolled his eyes. “I can’t fucking believe nobody wants Sports.”

  “Language,” Ms. Wilson said, as if out of habit.

  “We’re looking for a self-starter.” Karishma stood, strode over to the whiteboard, uncapped a blue marker, wrote our names side by side, and underlined them.

  “We’re interested in your vision.” She poised the marker. “Joey, you go first.”

  Before he even started talking, she wrote IMAGES under his name and starred it.

  Two student desks had been scooted closer, one for each of us.

  Joey straightened in his chair. “I’ve clicked through the past couple of years of the Hive. One major problem stands out: it’s boring.”

  He leaned forward. “Except for one issue last fall. There was a front-page story about some parents trying to get the librarian fired and an editorial saying that was bull — uh, BS. But there was no follow-up coverage. Nothing. Crickets. What happened?”

&
nbsp; Karishma and Ms. Wilson traded a loaded look.

  “The librarian kept her job,” the editor in chief said. Using her fingers to make air quotes, she added, “Some ‘objectionable’ books were locked in the cage behind the circulation desk. You need a signed permission slip to check them out.”

  “And some ‘objectionable’ books . . . disappeared,” Ms. Wilson added.

  “Banned?” I exclaimed. “Which books? Like sexy books or books with f-bombs?”

  “According to the article, it sounded like all that and evolution, too,” Joey clarified.

  The teacher arched a brow. “Officially, the books were checked out and never returned. Officially, rather than replace them, the library budget is going to higher-priority titles.”

  “There was nothing about all that in the Hive,” Joey countered.

  “The, uh, would-be book banners got to most of the seniors on staff and bullied them into killing the story,” Karishma said, enthusiastically scrawling ARCHIVES under his name. (Joey was scoring bonus points for having done his homework.)

  Karishma added, “They love making noise, but if anyone disagrees, they don’t want to hear about it. Or anyone else to hear about it, either. They don’t think it’s the student newspaper’s place to quote their opposition.”

  Joey cocked his head. “Nobody’s fucking getting to me.”

  “Language,” Ms. Wilson echoed, sounding impressed. Because he was a badass, too.

  “Me neither,” I chimed in, annoyed by my obligatory tone.

  What were we talking about? Exactly who got to last year’s seniors? How?

  “Wait a minute!” I exclaimed. “These parents who tried to get the librarian fired, are they the same parents who’re complaining about the color-conscious casting of the musical?”

  “Now, there’s a newsworthy question!” Karishma replied. “The answer is yes. Emily’s already working on it. Arts/Entertainment is her beat. But good journalistic instincts!”

  She added a star to my list and a smiley face, too.

  Which may not sound like a huge deal, but it was infinitely gratifying.

  Karishma was the only returning staff member. She had recruited everyone except Joey, who’d signed up on his own, and she was looking at him like he was a prize-winning lottery ticket.