A Heart Divided (8 page)

You’ve got mail.

IM me, I’m already on. JredfordTN.

Funny how hindsight has such perfect vision, but we’re always trapped in the myopic “now.” We never know how important or trivial any single moment might be in the larger scheme of our lives. What you’re sure is love turns out to be less than like, what’s-his-name consigned to the dustbin of your personal history.

But sometimes, what feels momentous really is just that.

Those hours with Jack were momentous. We started in a theater and ended miles apart but wholly together, instant-messaging each other late into the night. As his words appeared on the monitor, I heard his voice in my head, telling me his secrets as I told him mine. And I thought: No one has ever known me before. Not really. Not until now.

A few hours later, Jack was waiting for me outside Miss Bright’s room. We chatted. And it was just so…
chatty.
Meanwhile, I wanted him so much that I ached down to my split ends. But he was still with Sara. And I’m not the kind of girl who grovels. Or who violates Girl Power Rule #1: “Thou shalt not steal another girl’s guy, no matter how much you loathe her.”

Miss Bright had more theater games up her fluttering sleeves. We had to pretend a laugh was traveling through our body until it reached our heart, like some insane, chortling aneurysm. All during this, I felt Jack from clear across the room. Everyone had to know what was up with us; how could they not know? But when the bell rang, Sara appeared at the door to drag Jack away. And away he went. Which made him a wuss. And me a fool.

After everyone left, I approached Miss Bright about writing my own play. She said the course requirement was to work on the play, not to write one. Thinking that maybe she doubted my ability, I asked if she’d read some of the scenes I’d written in my playwriting workshop in New York. In a tone as sweet as Birdie’s fruit tea, she said that Redford High School didn’t offer playwriting, but if it was that important to me, she was sure there were some lovely private schools to which I could certainly transfer.

“Fine,” I told her through clenched teeth. “I’ll work on your play.”

“It’s not exactly a punishment, Kate.”

“I’m going to write my own, too. You can’t stop me.”

“I have no reason to try.” She gathered up her things. “But you might want to work on your hostility issues.”

At lunchtime, I was still fuming—it was easier to obsess about Miss Bright than about Jack. I met Nikki at the football field, and we went from group to group looking for signatures. She was in a great mood because her boyfriend was driving down for the weekend.

“What’s he studying?” I asked as we headed for the Hacky-Sackers.

“Psych. He’s pretty sure he wants to be a child psychologist. On the other hand, he thinks we should take a year off and hitchhike around Europe together.”

“Do you want to?”

“Oh, yeah.” She smiled wickedly, then glanced down at her clipboard. “Sometimes I just get so sick of this flag thing. Like, so what? What am I trying to prove? What different does it make, really?”

“It’s made a difference to me.” I admitted that she’d inspired me to write a play.

“About what?”

“The flag controversy.”

“Oh, really?” She cut a glance at me as we headed for the group of kids eating under the goalpost. “You’ve been in Redford, what, a few weeks? And you’re ready to write a play about us? Girl, you don’t know a thing about it.”

“You’re right,” I admitted. “I’m on a learning curve.”

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

“I’ll risk it,” I said dryly. “So who should I talk to?”

She thought a moment. “Mrs. Augustus, at the library. And my father.”

I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Friday night, I called Lillith to give her the blow-by-blow of my lack of relationship with Jack. She said that Sara Fife fell under the Sorority Queen Exception to Girl Power Rule #1, and I should go for it. But between pride and ethics, I couldn’t. And I didn’t.

Saturday morning, I called Mrs. Augustus and asked if I could interview her for a writing project. She said yes, but she and her husband were going down to Tuscaloosa to visit family, so could we set it up when she returned? Then I took Portia to the CoolSprings Galleria. As she tried on clothes that Madison the Cool would deem acceptable, I wondered: What is Jack doing right now? When we stopped to buy earrings, I thought: Is he with Sara right now? I’d catch a glimpse of broad shoulders and golden hair and think: It’s him. Or I’d see red hair tossed saucily down a slender back: It’s her.

And then, as if thinking about something awful could actually make it happen, it really
was
them, walking toward me.

Screw him. I went directly to Sara, opening my purse as I did. “Hi.” I took out one of Nikki’s petitions and offered it to her. “Would you like to sign the petition to vote on the school emblem?”

“I don’t think so,” Sara drawled. She gave me a friendly smile and snuggled against Jack.

“What about you, Jack?” I challenged.

“Please,” Sara scoffed on his behalf.

“I can answer for myself, Sara,” Jack said. There was a tic in his jaw.

She kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry, baby. It’s just that I’ve got a big ol’ list of stuff we need to get done for the Crimson Maidens car wash tomorrow.”

“Gee, sorry I interrupted with my silly civil rights thingie,” I said.

She sighed. “Can we just go, Jackson?”

“I need to talk to Kate for a minute.”

“Fine.” A one-syllable icicle. She told Jack she’d meet him at the food court and left.

“Kate—”

“There’s nothing to talk about. You’ve got exactly the girl you deserve.”

“Can’t we just—”

“Better go. She’s got
a list,”
I sneered. “You might want to add
backbone
to yours.” I backed away from him and into TCBY just as Portia turned away from the counter with two cones. She handed me one. I took it and checked as nonchalantly as I could to see if Jack was still outside. He was gone.

Sunday. I couldn’t think of a reason to get out of bed. My room was a mess, clothes everywhere. It was pathetic.
I
was pathetic, mourning a relationship that never was. The hell with Jack Redford, I told myself. What kind of guy stays with a girl he doesn’t love? What kind of guy can’t tell
his own mother what he wants to do with his life? And what kind of a weenie was I turning into, lying around my room, mooning over him instead of spending time with someone I actually respected, like Nikki? Or working on my play? Or—

Pound-pound-pound
on my door, followed by Portia bursting into my room and catapulting herself onto the bed. “The cutest boy is downstairs waiting for you,” she announced breathlessly.

Possibly I was dreaming. Caution was key. “What color hair?”

“Goldish, kinda. Blue eyes. He told me to give you this.” She handed me a piece of folded notebook paper. I unfolded a really bad drawing of something long and thin and bumpy. The caption:
JACK’S BACKBONE.

“Porsche, I
love
you!” I hugged her so hard she squeaked, then begged her to go downstairs and distract him while I dressed. I was a whirlwind. Five minutes later, teeth brushed, face washed, jeaned and T-shirted, I ran downstairs. There he was, chatting easily on the couch with my starstruck little sister. He stood when I walked in. Portia looked from me to him and back to me again.

“Want to go for a ride?” he asked.

“Can I come?” Portia piped up.

“Another time,” I promised, never taking my eyes from his.

We drove back to our spot on the Harpeth River and sat on some boulders on the riverbank. He’d told Sara the
truth, that he wanted to be an actor and didn’t want to live a certain way just because it was expected of him. She said he was being ridiculous and he’d break his mother’s heart.

One other thing. She claimed it was all my fault.

When he finished, we just sat there, watching the muddy river flow. He took my hand. He kissed me. I laid my cheek on his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart. And nothing else mattered. Nothing else mattered at all.

being what it is, no formal announcement was necessary. As I headed from the parking lot to the high school on Monday morning, I was dissected under a social microscope, components examined and categorized, compared and contrasted.

Sara’s hair is better. Kate’s breasts are larger.

Sara’s butt is perfect. Kate’s legs are longer.

Most of all: Sara is one of us. Kate isn’t.

Jack and Sara were Redford royalty, and an invading Yankee infidel had toppled the queen from her throne. That it had been Jack’s choice was irrelevant. In the eyes of Sara
and her minions, I was solely to blame. They demanded vengeance.