How to Break a Heart (25 page)

yo encuentro
tú encuentras
ella encuentra
nosotros encontramos
ellos encuentran

T
hat night, I’m having dinner with the family. By that, I mean my mom, A-Bag, and Stephen. Stephen’s made chicken Divan. It’s chicken with broccoli sauce, and A-Bag is busy picking all the teeny, tiny green buds out of his. My mom’s irritated.

“You can’t even taste it!” she says to A-Bag.

But I guess by saying that, she accidentally offends Stephen, who looks a little hurt, and says, “Well, it just requires a smart palate.”

“I hurl if I eat broccoli,” A-Bag says.

“That was once,” my mom says, “when you were four.”

“I’m serious,” A-Bag says. “I’ll yack.”

“Why don’t you and your dumb palate just go and rinse the sauce off?” I suggest.

He looks at me. “Good idea!” And he gets up to go into the kitchen. We hear the faucet turn on.

“Mabry,” my mom says, “don’t encourage your brother when he’s like this.”

“It’s fine, Ellen,” Stephen says.

A-Bag comes back, sits down with his naked piece of chicken, holds it above his mouth, and eats it like a fish going for bait.

“You’re disgusting!” I say.

My mom just closes her eyes and shakes her head.

“What? You said not to encourage him! That’s what I’m doing!” I say.

“Aaron, don’t forget about your squash,” my mom says.

“I already forgot about it,” he says, and starts practically choking on his laughter.

I try not to laugh. I mean, I think it’s funny, but there’s no way I want to give him that satisfaction.

My mom turns to Stephen. “I’m sorry.”

Stephen just pats her hand. “One day he’ll appreciate a nice Divan.”

“One day he’ll act like he has manners,” my mom says.

“
I
quite like the chicken Divan,” I add.

My mom smiles at me.

Stephen does, too. “Well, that’s very good to hear!” And then he goes into the history of chicken Divan, and how the word
divan
meant some kind of fancy sofa, and that the restaurant that came up with it was trying to make it sound like something rich people would eat. Which is okay-enough interesting, but then he starts going into the history of
all
poultry dishes, which is more than anyone should have to bear. My eyes start to feel glassy and my ears stop recognizing words.

I have to interrupt. It becomes a matter of survival, as it’s starting to feel very possible to be bored to death. “Can we possibly talk about flowers?” I ask, very politely.

“Can I
possibly
leave this table and never return, ever?” A-Bag asks, very impolitely.

My mom excuses him. She actually says, “You know what, Aaron? Just go. You’d be doing the rest of us a favor.” So I know she’s fed up.

When the attention is back on me, I ask, “What do you think is the prettiest flower in the universe?”

“Oh!” my mom says, looking pleased. “Are you doing a project on spring flowers?”

“Sort of,” I say.

“I like sunflowers,” my mom says.

“Yes, the sunflower is nice because it’s a good mix of form
and
function. They’re pretty,
and
you can eat the seeds.” That’s Stephen, of course.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, the sunflower’s cute, but I mean truly beautiful.”

“Practicality
is
true beauty,” Stephen says.

Which explains why he bought my mom a heating pad for her last birthday.

“Orchids are nice,” my mom says.

“Well, Ellen, sure, orchids are lovely, but you have to be more specific than that,” Stephen says, snickering. “There are twenty thousand species of orchids.”

She looks at him like she’s impressed. “Really? How’d you know that?” She gives him this stupid look of admiration.

“No orchids,” I say. “What else?”

“How about lily of the valley?” my mom suggests.

“Yeah.” I give a sarcastic snort. I mean, I may not know a ton about flowers, but I
do
know Hilda tried to get rid of Cristina by garnishing her drink with a lily of the valley. “If you want to kill someone! They’re poisonous!”

“That’s true,” Stephen says. Then he sits back. “You know, now that you mention it, I’d have to say the most beautiful flower in the world is the king protea. It’s a South African flower—when it opens up, it looks like a king’s crown!” He shakes his head and lets out a low whistle. “It’s
stunning
.”

“Sounds
wonderful
,” my mom says.

“I’ve never heard of it,” I say.

“Well, go look it up in the encyclopedia. Or is that
so 2014
?”

I don’t even know where to start with him. I just look at him, and he winks. “I’m kidding, Mabry. Just go put it in the Googler.”

And even though he’s said it that way, I think I will. I get up and start clearing the plates, enjoying my role as the Favorite Child.

As I go into the kitchen, I hear my mom say, in kind of a buttery way, “How do you know so much?”

And Stephen explains how it’s the name of the South African cricket team, and how the name changed from something else, and then starts yammering on about some near shakeup with the South African flag.
Blah, blah, blah.

I go up to my room and Google it, and sure enough, Stephen’s right. The king protea is a gorgeous flower. I finally have my answer for Nick.

I’ve got to hand it to Stephen. It’s elegant, and colorful, and unique. And it’s definitely not something you could get on a Slim Jim run, so take that, Thaddeus Bell.

Take that.

Good night, my strawberry-scented cantaloupe,
Sirina texts me that night.

Good night, my sand-filled melon head,
I text her back.

And then I put my phone down and try my very best to sleep, despite all my excitement. Despite the fact that The Love of My Life is nearly mine again. But it’s about as easy as crossing the Atacama Desert. No offense to Aurelio.

yo confío
tú confías
ella confía
nosotros confiamos
ellos confían

“K
ing protea,” I announce when I join Thad at our food-court table.

“Queen Victoria,” he says back. “Um, what are we talking about, Collins?”

“My favorite flower. You’re right. I’m over roses.”

“Glad to hear it. Such a cliché. Hey, want to thumb-wrestle for a burrito? Loser buys.”

“Fine. Lefties?”

“No,” he says. “Right.” He removes his glove. It’s the first time I’ve seen his hand
fully
naked like this since, well, fourth grade. It’s pale, and still Frankenstein-y from his skating accident, with crisscrossing pink lines.

“Are you sure? Because it’s still kind of ugly,” I joke.

He just does his little half smile and cups his fingers around mine. “Ready, set,” he calls out, as our thumbs dance right, then left. “Go.” Our thumbs wiggle around in a standoff. He presses mine down, but the lotion I recently applied helps my thumb squirm free. But then he traps it once again and starts counting, “One, two, three.” And then he declares victory over our thumb match.

And I stomp on his foot under the table and declare victory over our toe match. Which leads to his foot landing on mine, and mine on his, and me using both feet, and—

“Mabry?”

I draw in an involuntary breath at the sound of the voice. I look up. It’s Nick.

“Hi-
ii
,” I say, my breath catching in my throat.

“Hi,” he says.

I glance over at Thad, but he’s looking in the other direction. I feel like I’ve been caught cheating, but I don’t know on what, or even on who.

“Do you remember—?” I start to introduce them, but Thad is getting up, putting his gloves back on. “Hey, where are you going?” I ask him.

He murmurs something about salsa.

“Thad!” I say.

“Thad?”
Nick says. “Thad Bell?”

Thad drops his head a little and turns around slowly. He crosses his arms in front of his chest.

Nick is staring at him. Intensely. It’s all sorts of weird.

“You guys remember each other, don’t you?” I pretend I don’t know what Thad thinks of Nick.

Nick nods. “Yeah, of course. We were friends.”

“Yep,” Thad says. “We
were
.” There’s an emphasis on the past tense.

“I thought you moved away,” Nick says.

“I did,” Thad says.

Nick takes a breath and shakes his head. “This is weird,” he says. “I feel like I’ve seen you recently, but I don’t know—”

“I doubt it,” Thad says.

“Nick, sweetie,” we hear. It’s his mom. She’s calling him from out in front of the Levi’s store. “I’ve got four pairs waiting for you in the fitting room!”

I shrink in my seat.

“Oh, is that Mabry?
Hiiii,
Mabry,” she calls out, embarrassing me. She waves wildly, like we’re old friends. I wonder how she can act so nice when she’s the one who actually dumped me, but I am reminded of Hilda, who can steal your boyfriend and trash-talk you in the
mercado
, but then smile and wave
hola
to you the next day. And also steal your baby.

I smile and wave tamely back.

His mom hurries over, “Mabry, how are you, sugar? And who’s this?”

“It’s Thad Bell, Mom,” Nick says. “Remember him?”

“Well, my goodness!
Thad!
You’re becoming so handsome, dear. How are you? I haven’t seen your mom in forever. How’s she doing?”

“She’s, uh, you know, okay, I guess.”

“Probably busy as ever. Is she here with you?” Mrs. Wainwright looks around hopefully.

Thad stares at the tile floor. “No.”

“Well, tell her to come see me when she can! I’m working at the Hairport now. Let her know, okay, dear?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Nicky, honey, come on. Four pairs to try on.”

“When did you say you moved back?” Nick asks Thad.

Thad stays quiet, so I answer. “About six months ago.”

“Nicky, come on, you can text him later,” his mom says, turning around.

They go off, and I look at Thad. He looks like a different version of himself. His eyes are wide, but shadowed. His jaw looks tense. He looks like he needs to be given soup and a warm blanket, like an earthquake survivor.

“Will you please sit back down?” I ask him.

He does.

“So.
That
was awkward,” I say.

He doesn’t say anything.

“Okay, you’re acting way too weird. I don’t know why you hate him so much but clearly, this isn’t about a Star Wars figurine.”

I expect at least a smirk, but he just starts bobbing up and down.

“Are you ever going to tell me what really happened between you two?”

Nothing.

I take a deep breath and exhale through my mouth. I don’t like how things feel right now. I just want to go back to thumb wars, or foot wars, or one of our normal battles.

“Rematch?” I ask, placing my hand on my table.

He doesn’t even look at me.

“Okay, fine, I lost fair and square. I guess you want your loser burrito now.”

“I don’t want a burrito.”

“A ’chong?” I joke.

He just shakes his head.