The Museum of Heartbreak (13 page)

Backing up, before Audrey could see me, I turned and walked down the hall. It was too chilly to sit outside. Eph didn't have the same lunch period as me. As far as I could tell, Keats wasn't in my lunch period, but even if he were, how weird and stalkery would that be?
Hey, you asked me out but I don't have anyone else to sit with so can I sit with you?
And forget a bathroom stall—every time I saw someone do that in movies, I couldn't stop thinking about how gross it was.

I was so busy freaking out about where to eat, I didn't realize I had stopped in front of a doorway until someone said, “You joining us for
Nevermore
, Penelope?”

Mr. Garfield, my English teacher, was waiting behind me, holding a lunch tray, beard crinkled around his smile. He was my favorite teacher, despite the aforementioned
Bleak House
assignment.

“I didn't know you did this,” I said.

“I'm their advisor, though they can handle it without me. I'm only
here for tiebreaker purposes, which happens more than you might think.” He motioned me in. “Come on . . . it'd be nice to have another neutral party.”

When I entered, Grace grinned hugely.

“Hey, Penelope! So happy to see you! You joining us? Grab a chair.”

The room we were in was tiny, with crowded bulletin boards, a giant poster of a raven, and a mess of papers on a round table.

“Guys, this is Penelope, the most generous donor from the Dead Poets Phone Drive, as well as a fellow attender of parties. You remember Miles?”

Miles's Mohawk was currently tipped green, and he was wearing a Joy Division T-shirt. “Nice one,” he said, nodding appreciatively at my They Might Be Giants shirt.

I blushed. “Thanks. You too.”

“This is Oscar,” Grace said, pointing to the short guy with close-cropped black curly hair, and wire-rimmed, dadlike glasses. “He's our new art director.”

“Hey,” he said.

“And May,” Grace said, as the tall girl across from me stretched her hand out, “is our esteemed copy editor.”

“Hi,” I said, shaking her hand, admiring the several dozen chunky silver rings she had on.

“You know Mr. Garfield, I'm guessing?”

He was at his desk, settling back with a stack of blue composition notebooks.

“Yeah, I'm in his junior English lit class.”

“Oh God,
Bleak House
?” Miles asked.

“You'll thank me during the AP test,”
Mr. Garfield said sternly, lowering his glasses.

Hated it,
Miles mouthed to me.

“So this is how this works. We all have copies of the same stuff to read, so each submission gets at least four people reviewing it,” Grace explained.

“Five today with you,” Oscar added.

“And each submission is numbered—no contributor information—so you can read without knowing who wrote it,” Grace said. “That way the entry can stand on its own merits, whether the creator is your best friend or your archnemesis from third grade.”

“Misty Cooper,” Miles said. “Asked me why I didn't wear dresses.”

“Pete Franklin,” I replied without missing a beat. “Asked me why my nose was ugly.”

“Bastard person,” Miles said disgustedly.

“All right, enough talking, people,” Grace said.

Miles wiggled his eyebrows at me. “I think she means us.”

“Sorry,” I said to Grace, as she handed each of us a stack of submissions. She smiled, shaking her head. “It's not you.”

“I can hear you, Gracie.”

She ignored him. “Remember, check ‘publish-worthy,' ‘not sure,' or ‘nope' on a reader report after you finish an entry. And anything you want to talk or share or ask about, feel free to bring up now, though we'll also leave the last fifteen minutes to go over stuff.”

Thirty minutes later I was in a groove. I loved everything about the process:
reading the overwrought, melodramatic heartbreak poems and the words in a short story that took my breath away, Oscar's appreciative nods over a beautiful black-and-white photo of a tree, May pointing out humorous typos, even Grace and Miles arguing passionately about whether or not to run a collage featuring hundreds of Miley Cyrus faces—small and big, upside down and cut apart, glitter in between.

“It's rad,” Grace said.

“Hate it,” Miles said.

“I don't know,” May said, chewing on the edge of a pencil.

“Who's Miley Cyrus?” Oscar asked without looking up from the photos he was shifting back and forth on the table.

Miles's pen clattered on the table. “What? You're kidding, right?”

Oscar looked up and seemed surprised to see the entire staff looking at him.

“
Hannah Montana
? ‘Party in the USA'? ‘Wrecking Ball'? Billy Ray Cyrus's daughter?” Miles asked.

Oscar scrunched his face. “Is Billy Ray Cyrus that Republican guy from Texas?”

Miles threw his head in his hands, muttering, “How is this even possible?”

Oscar glanced at Miles and shrugged, then winked at the rest of us, something sly and secret and unexpected.

Grace burst out laughing. “You are totally messing with us, aren't you?”

Miles looked up, confused, while May leaned across and high-fived Oscar. He raised an eyebrow archly at Miles.

“Third row at Madison Square Garden last month,” he said.

Miles opened his mouth to say something, shut it, opened it, and shut it again. When he was flummoxed, all his villainous looks disappeared, and his face got super red.

“I say we vote,” Grace said. “All for including it?”

She and Oscar raised their hands.

“Nos?”

May raised hers reluctantly, and Miles, starting to recover, shot his arm straight up.

“What d'you think, Penelope?” May asked, turning to me, her long hair shadowing the desk, and I could tell she genuinely wanted to know.

“Well, it could just be fan art,” I said.

Miles nodded vehemently in agreement, his Mohawk bobbing. “See?” he said to Grace and Oscar, lingering a little longer on Oscar's face.

“But you can also read it as a commentary on celebrity, and how there are so many images of things, we lose who the real person is.”

“Exactly!” Grace said.

“So, I think yes. Sorry, guys.”

“Ugh,” Miles said, burying his head in his hands.

“Overruled, Miles and May,” Mr. Garfield called from his desk, as Grace added the image to the yes pile and Oscar looked quietly triumphant. “And it's about time to wrap up . . . ten minutes till first bell.”

I started gathering the extra copies for the recycling bin.

“So how was the rest of the party on Saturday? Did you find your friends?” Grace asked.

“Actually, I got to talk to the guy throwing the party for a while.”
I tried to keep my voice nonchalant. “He's pretty nice.”

Miles shoved a stack of submissions in Grace's arms. “Pretty nice? Please. I can tell by the way you're all sparkly. You like him.”

I blushed and my smile got all big.

“How did you know?”

“Psychic.”

Grace laughed. “I think it's more the fact that he recognizes a fellow romantic when he sees one. You guys are like a club.”

Miles rolled his eyes at Grace, but when she turned back to what she was reading, he winked at me. Little bluebirds of happiness danced around me, making me dizzy.

“Speaking of, Miles, any sighting of Starbucks Guy?” May asked.

Miles let out a weary sigh. “No. But I forgot to tell you he was wearing those awesome double-laced black leather Converse last week. He has the
best
taste in footwear.”

“Converse are supposed to be really bad for your arches,” Oscar called out nonchalantly.

For the second time that afternoon, Miles opened his mouth and shut it, speechless.

May wiggled her eyebrows at us, pointing in Oscar's general direction and giving him a thumbs-up before following him out the door.

“Holy Batman, he's knocked all the infinite words right out of you,” Grace said.

“No, he hasn't!” Miles burst out, then blushed. “God, that was loud, sorry.”

“You were saying about Starbucks Guy . . . ,” I prompted.

He gave me a grateful look. “I'm not asking Starbucks Guy out yet because I have to wait for the perfect moment.”

“No such thing as the perfect moment in real life,” Grace said. “If I had waited for the perfect moment with Kieran, he would never have asked me out!”

Miles narrowed his eyes at her. “Ick.”

“I'm with Miles on this one,” I said.

“I forgive you for the Miley vote,” he immediately offered.

“Don't encourage him,” Grace said sternly.

“I think . . . ,” I started, thinking of Eph's parents, of Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet, of Jack and Rose, of Keats. “I believe in meant to be . . . that when you find the right person, it's a little bit like opening the door to Narnia—it's all lampposts and snow and Turkish delight. It's meant to be.”

Miles grinned and clapped his hands.

Grace smacked her forehead. “Pen, Edmund has to be a slave to the White Witch. Mr. Tumnus gets turned to stone. The lion
dies
.”

“Okay, bad metaphor,” I said, right as Miles said, “Willing suspension of disbelief, Gracie. Remember from sophomore English class?”

“That doesn't even make sense,” she pointed out.

Miles glared at her and grabbed his stuff. “Good-bye, Pen. I will miss you and you alone in this room.”

“You know I love you, Miles,” Grace called out at his retreating form.

“Um,” I started sheepishly, chewing on my lip, suddenly nervous even though everyone had been so nice. “Can I join you guys again?”

Grace grinned. “Of course! Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday—and
on Fridays Mr. Garfield gets us pizza.”

“Thanks!”

“See you around, Penelope,” Mr. Garfield called from behind a stack of papers as Grace waved.

As I walked to World History, I couldn't stop smiling.

I tried, literally, but the corners of my mouth kept pulling up and my Docs felt like they had coils on the bottom, like the potential for springs in my step was now infinite.

THAT FRIDAY—THE NIGHT BEFORE
my
date with Keats!!!
—I knock-knock-knocked on the O'Connors's brownstone door.

“Penelope, hello!” As I walked in, Ellen grabbed me in a warm hug, holding a glass of red wine to the side. “Eph'll be down in a minute. Come on in and have a seat.”

“Thanks, Mrs. O'Connor.”

“The bracelet is lovely on you!” she said, examining my wrist, the orange and red beads bright against my paleness.

“I really love it,” I said, as George jogged down the stairs.

“Ah, if it isn't the lovely Penelope!” George said. “How are you this fine Friday evening? You here to hang out with Eph?”

“Um, yeah, yes,” I said, totally ineloquently. “We're going to see Frank Miller at the comic-book store. He's giving a talk at eight.”

“Enjoy yourselves,” George said, bending down and giving his wife a kiss on the cheek, cupping his hand lightly behind her neck.

Agh, so romantic it made my heart hurt. I studied my Converse, trying not to seem like a creeper.

“Don't wait up for me tonight,” George said as he zipped up his jacket. “It's going to be a late one. Tomorrow, too.”

Ellen sighed, not so gently. “Again? And on a Friday
and
Saturday? They've got you working too much.”

George grimaced, picking up his keys with a violent jangle. “I don't know what you want me to say, El. It is what it is.”

“I'd like to see my husband more, that's all.” Ellen flushed red, crossing her arms in front of her, her fingers white-knuckled on the wine glass.

Uh-oh.

What was happening?

No, no, no.

Were they fighting?

I felt a sudden desperate panic to stop the scene unfolding in front of me—to burst into a tap dance, to scream fire, to hide behind the couch . . . anything not to witness this.

“Well, it's not that easy. And it's even harder when my wife is being—” George said, his voice getting louder. I recognized the defensive jut of Eph's chin when someone was mad at him, and I knew nothing I wanted to hear was going to be at the end of that sentence.

I stood up.

George and Ellen both startled, like they'd forgotten I was there.

“I'm . . . I'm going to go find Eph,” I said.

“Of course, of course,” George said, shaking his head.

Ellen brushed her hair off her face, and for a split second there
was an expression there I didn't remember seeing on her or any parent before, something very raw and vulnerable.