The Heart is Not a Size

by Beth Kephart

  By now the sky was the color of the purple gladiolus that grow high in my mother’s garden. There were the men on the nearby roof in their spectator chairs, and there was Lobo lying low beside the chapel. Leonor and Concha had come out to watch, and Manuel stood beside them, his back against the kitchen wall. It was Mack, in the end, who took the piñata rope in hand and went up to the third plank step and began to make the donkey dance. Corey stepped up and clobbered the poor beast’s hind foot. Neil got a whack at the tail. Then Mariselle gave the thing a dazzling crack; but the only thing that the donkey shed was some of its tissue-paper coat—fizzing pieces, like confetti. Next, Catherine, Jon, and Mrs. K. took their turns, but Mack was hiking the thing up and down so fast that no one had made meaningful contact.

  When it was Drake’s at bat, he turned to me. “Georgia,” he asked, “do you mind?” He leaned down so that I could reach Socorro—take her into my arms and keep her safe. We all stepped back then as Drake assumed a slugger’s stance eyeing the dangling donkey that Mack was swinging all around. The donkey went up and down—smashed up but still holding, shedding but not letting anyone close to its candy—but Drake never lost his focus, didn’t give in, even as we hollered, “Take it down, Drake. Show it your business, Drake. Show it what you’re made of.” We were calling, and the men on the roof were calling, and Leonor and Concha were laughing, and in my arms Socorro was perfectly still, a look of wonder on her face.

  But Drake did nothing until Drake was ready. He let the poor beast dangle and Mack work the rope, and then he turned and fixed his eyes on me. “This one’s for Georgia,” he said; and the next time that donkey entered smack into Drake’s strike zone, he let go with a magnificent whack. It was a beautiful, single, super-clean swing. It sliced the donkey from neck to tail. But still the donkey hung above us and not a piece of candy fell.

  Riley curtsied as Drake now handed her the stick. He bowed and said, “All yours.” The stick was bigger by far than both of Riley’s arms together, but she took it in both hands and lifted it high above her head. We started chanting her name, as if it were the bottom of the ninth, all bases loaded and two outs. Drake was standing close beside me now, and I was leaning toward him, slipping within his shadow.

  On the third plank of the step, Mack kept making that donkey dance, pulling the rope up and down, being careful with it now so that it wouldn’t split in two before Riley got her chance. “Ri-LEY. Ri-LEY. Ri-LEY,” we were chanting, and the rooftop men were chanting, and Lobo was running in wolf circles barking, and the thirteen earrings in Riley’s ear sparkled. She was wearing a pale yellow skirt and a neat white tank and a Band-Aid over the place where the IV line had gone in. The high part of the stick was trembling above her head; and Mack had this smile on his face as he pulled the donkey tricks, a smile that I’m sure I’m never forgetting. Riley bent her knees and flexed her elbows, her wrists. She focused her eyes, pursed her lips. When Mack let the donkey down into her zone, she stepped back and into one long, gorgeous, perfect swing—nothing anyone would ever count as average. The candies spun out high and far, over the roof, past the gates. It was as if she’d set a million stars free to shimmer in whatever ways they wished.

  The moon was a perfect half, and I couldn’t remember if it was waxing or waning, another of Buzzby’s favorite paired words. I could only see how everything was happening at once—the sun still setting and the moon still rising, and Drake leaning toward me close.

  That’s when I felt Socorro stretch skyward with her arms—reach for a figment I couldn’t see, then struggle to reach farther. It was as if I were holding a pair of wings in my arms, a beating something.

  “Esmeralda,” Socorro said. “Esmeralda,” her voice a pure, sweet sound above the courtyard’s happy chaos, her tiny body so alive and urgent, so extremely true and present.

  I turned and saw that Drake was watching me, his complicated goodness right there on the surface, within reach. “Her sister,” he told me, and Socorro said the name again—Esmeralda—then reached for Drake so as to be lifted higher. I felt the weight of her vanish into Drake’s arms; I saw her arms go up, toward the sky. I heard her cry out again, and that’s when I saw what she was seeing: a pure white cloud belted by a band of gold, a horizontal offering.

  Happiness floats, I thought. It is the color of a truce. I closed my eyes and opened them, and it wasn’t just the ghost of Socorro’s sister up there; it was my own anxious heart set free.

  “Hey, Georgia.” I heard Riley now from across the courtyard, where she was still collecting the spoils of her work with Sophie, Mariselle, and the others. “What’d you think?” She flexed her skinny arm and popped a sour ball into her mouth.

  “Most outstanding, Riley,” I said, and she laughed; and that, in that ruthless furnace, was the everlasting thing. Because no one ever laughed like Ri.

  Acknowledgments

  The Heart Is Not a Size began as so much of my work does—not as a novel, but as a series of impressions glimpsed, gained, lost, and finally resurrected.

  In this case, it began with a trip I was privileged to take with the adults and youth of St. John’s Presbyterian Church. Like the characters in this story, we traveled from the Main Line near Philadelphia to the squatters’ village called Anapra. We drove the streets, slept beneath a cross, went out on the bleached, white roads, and always were graced by the exceptional beauty and generosity of the local families who embraced our efforts to build a community bathroom. My Salvadoran husband, Bill, came along as interpreter and architect. My son, Jeremy, loaded sand and hammered frames and yielded his impeccable perspective. Victor Wilson, Dave Exley, Karen Black, Brian Bouvier, Libby Dalyrmple, Tom Higgins, Janette Scott, Kathy Shaw, John Shaw, and Karen Sheep paved the way with intelligence, fortitude, blinding good humor, and ponderable but never ponderous stories. Joe Apathy, Katie Babiy, Kelly Birmingham, Kyle Birmingham, Meredith Bouvier, Michael Browne, Sammy Browne, Josh Chudy, Sarah Ciarrochi, Christine Cummins, Charlie Dalrymple, Elizabeth Dalrymple, Taylor Eschbach, Dustin Gilmour, Maureen Higgins, Billy Hudson, Matt Kaminskas, Alex Klebe, Mark Moeller, Danny Scott, Kaitlyn Shaw, and Nina Shaw made the trip profoundly unforgettable and left me feeling so infinitely lucky to have spent the days with them. They have gone on to exceptional things, these exquisite young people; the world has opened to them.

  I took a camera to Juárez and published two photo-essays in the Pennsylvania Gazette and Haverford; thank you to editors John Prendergast and Chris Mills, respectively. I had an idea for a novel—a vaguely articulated one—and Laura Geringer was kind enough to place her faith in the inchoative. Jill Santopolo brought her insight, humor, intelligence, and commitment to the final drafts; she brought her cherished friendship. Carla Weise stayed the cover design course, as she always brilliantly does. Ruta Rimas, always the glue on the Harper team, stepped in as my editor as the book began to make its way into the world; she has enthusiasm and she has passion—just what this writer needs. Renée Cafiero made this a better book; she always does. Laura Kaplan sent out word. My thanks to Amy Rennert, who picks up the phone when I call and tells me the truth; we need truth tellers as our friends and agents.

  To the people of Juárez, who have in the years since I journeyed there been faced with horrific, rising violence and terrifying challenges, I express my great thanks for their hospitality and my deepest hope for healing.

  I am grateful, finally, to Kenneth Kane, a rising, bighearted writer with whom I shared treasured conversations about words, books, and the great poet Jack Gilbert.

  About the Author

  Beth Kephart was nominated for the National Book Award for her memoir A SLANT OF SUN. Her first novel for teens, UNDERCOVER, received four starred reviews and was named a Best Book by Kirkus Reviews, School Library Journal, and Amazon.com, in addition to receiving many other honors and awards. Her second book for teens, HOUSE OF DANCE, received two starred reviews and was named a Best Book of the Year by Kirkus Reviews as well. In 2005 Beth was awarded the Speakeas
y Poetry Prize. She has also written INTO THE TANGLE OF FRIENDSHIP, STILL LOVE IN STRANGE PLACES, GHOSTS IN THE GARDEN, FLOW, ZENOBIA, and NOTHING BUT GHOSTS. She lives in Pennsylvania with her family. You can visit her online at www.beth-kephart.blogspot.com.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

  ALSO BY BETH KEPHART

  Undercover

  House of Dance

  Nothing but Ghosts

  Credits

  Jacket art: street, © 2009 Photodisc Photography/Veer; hands, © 2009 Imagewerks/Getty Images

  Jacket design by Carla Weise

  Copyright

  The poem discussed in Part One at Chapter 8, “Laundry,” is an original poem by Beth Kephart. The article quoted in Part One at Chapter 9, “The World Hands Project: Anapra, Mexico” by J. Matthew Thomas, is from Forward, a journal of the National Associates Committee of the American Institute of Architects, Fall 2008. http://info.aia.org/nwsltr_nacq.cfm?pagename=nacq_a_060112_ special_topic_thomas. The lines in Part Two at Chapter 1 and Chapter 9 are from “Tear It Down” by Jack Gilbert, which appeared in The Great Fires: Poems, 1982–1992 by Jack Gilbert, published by Alfred A. Knopf, 1994. The lines in Part Two at Chapter Ten are from “A Brief for the Defense” by Jack Gilbert, which appeared in Refusing Heaven: Poems by Jack Gilbert, published by Alfred A. Knopf, 2005.

  THE HEART IS NOT A SIZE. Copyright © 2010 by Beth Kephart. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Kephart, Beth.

  The heart is not a size / Beth Kephart.—1st ed.

  p. cm.—(Harperteen)

  Summary: Fifteen-year-old Georgia learns a great deal about herself and her troubled best friend, Riley, when they become part of a group of suburban Pennsylvania teenagers who go to Anapra, a squatters’ village in the border town of Juárez, Mexico, to undertake a community construction project.

  ISBN 978-0-06-147048-6 (trade bdg.)

  [1. Self-perception—Fiction. 2. Best friends—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction. 4. Voluntarism—Fiction. 5. Poverty—Fiction. 6. Conduct of life—Fiction. 7. Ciudad Juárez (Mexico)—Fiction. 8. Mexico—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.K438He 2010 2008055721

  [Fic]—dc22 CIP

  AC

  EPub Edition © January 2010 ISBN: 978-0-06-199195-0

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

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