The Museum of Heartbreak (15 page)

“If he laughs at you, he's an asshole,” Eph said.

“But . . . ,” I said, exhaustion with my own anxiety making my voice crack.
I buried my head in my palms, rubbing my eyes with my hands so hard I saw stars.

The bench shifted as Eph sat next to me.

“Pen?”

“Yeah?” I mumbled.

“Will you look at me?”

“No.”

“Will you at least look at the boots?”

I spread my fingers and opened one eye, then the other.

The boots were, in a word, magnificent: beat-up but still bright, the fit so perfect it was like the previous owner had been me in an earlier life. I stood, walked up the aisle and back, testing the feel of them on me.

The boots reminded me of a picture book my parents had read to me when I was little—a book about a mouse with red cowboy boots and a purple purse. I adored that book. The mouse was spontaneous and outspoken and sometimes interrupted people, but even back then I knew that she had something I didn't have: That mouse had spunk.

“Pretty damn sweet,” Eph said.

I imagined walking into the coffee shop the next day, the boots peeking out from under a pair of jeans, one of my vintage tees (minus an armpit hole) and some sparkly earrings on top, Eph's subway token over my heart and Ellen's bracelet on my wrist.

It was a start.

“So you're not going to wuss out, right? You'll go?” Eph asked.

I looked at him, Orion's belt, the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, leftover bits of sun.

“I've never been kissed before,” I finally, finally blurted out.

I had never said that aloud to anyone. Ever.

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, and I immediately wanted to pull the words back in, but I had let them go and they were already out of my reach, miles away.

Mortified, I turned the other way, frantic for the closest exit, but I still had the boots on. Maybe the lady at the register would let me leave with them if I threw all the money in my wallet at her on my way out the door.

Better yet, she could have the whole wallet.

“Pen, turn around.”

I looked slowly behind me, and Eph was standing there, and even though I was an inch taller with the boots on, he was still so tall, I had forgotten how tall he was, and my cheeks reddened, hot with embarrassment.

“I'll kiss you,” he said offhandedly, as if he'd offered me some of his Sno-Caps at the movie, as if he'd told me he could watch Ford when we were out of town.

“Wait. What?” My heart started going
thud-thunk
,
thud-thunk
.

“Yeah, why not?”

“Here? Now? Shut up,” I said nervously, waiting for him to yell “Punked!” or to belch so loud people two aisles over would hear or to take a call from the Elf Queen—something, anything other than what he was proposing.

Instead he reached down, tilted my chin gently up toward his, rested his hand on the small of my back. He was so tall, it was like
craning your neck at a skyscraper with clouds moving behind it, and everything felt weird and dizzy.

“Is this all right?” he asked.

My breath caught and I nodded.

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Yeah,” he echoed.

And then, before I could process what was happening, Eph was leaning down, his lips meeting mine.

I didn't turn away.

He kissed me, and I thought of tearing mint leaves, of licking salt water off my lips, of the mornings you wake up heart alive, no alarm.

I stood on my tiptoes, my body stretching to meet the length of his.

His lips were gentle against mine.

Eph's lips.

Eph's.

I pulled back, my legs shaky, and practically crumbled onto the bench.

“Whoa,” Eph said, and his voice was pure wonder, dinosaur bones bigger than the both of us, muscular tails knocking over cities, roars that made your ears ring, fossil hearts. “That was . . .”

“Weird,” I answered without thinking.

He took a step back, and his face fell.

“Eph, I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . .”

But I did mean it, because it
was
weird, because this was Eph, the boy I'd known since I was six, the boy whose nose I'd broken, who broke girls'
hearts as regularly as it rained, who made fart noises during all of the digitally remastered rerelease of
Casablanca
, who said things like “Exsqueeze me.”

A kid with a red-lollipop-smeared face and lips ran down our aisle, and the fluorescent lights were twitching above us, and an old man yelled at the lollipop kid from two aisles over, and the kid was laughing maniacally like he was secretly a demon.

“I'm so sorry.”

His face was flushed, like the day I'd punched him, but he laughed. “Sorry? It was just a kiss, Pen. Not a big fucking deal.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, confused.

“Okay,” he echoed a bit more quietly.

A wavery voice started speaking on the store intercom, static punctuating each space: “Store's closing in five minutes.
Five minutes.
”

Eph shifted. “You getting those? I'll save you a spot in line.” He didn't even wait for me to answer before jogging away, so desperate was he to get to a Penelope-free zone.

I slid off the boots and shoved my feet back in my Converse, knotting the laces once, then twice, desperately trying to brainstorm topics to ramble about to Eph on the subway ride home—anything to avoid the dinosaur in the room.

THAT NIGHT I DREAMED I
had a pet dinosaur.

The dinosaur was little and he was cute. His teeth were sharp, yes, but he was a baby, so he only gave my arm or bare leg light nips when he was hungry. Sort of a
Hey there, remember me? I need some eats, stat!
His eyes were big and his scaly skin was a shimmery green and brown. I had never seen that color in nature, and it sort of took my breath away.

But because it was a dream and dreams are weird, the dinosaur got bigger—fast. His tail started knocking things over: Mom's rosebud tea set. Dad's transistor-radio table. My dollhouse.

He trembled then, that dinosaur, his eyes wide and watery, scared and hungry and too big for the walls around him, claws clicking, panicked, among shattered pieces on the floor.

And then one day he swallowed my baby brother whole.

In the dream I was surprised, because I hadn't known I had a
baby brother, but Mom was crying and Dad was yelling, so I figured maybe I did. That dinosaur licked his chops. He looked sort of embarrassed, but he also smelled like rain, like possibility.

I woke up at 3:34 a.m. with the sheets twisted around me and a deep sadness in my heart about my now-eaten baby brother. But then I remembered it was a dream, that I was an only child, and the grief of losing my imaginary sibling left me as easily as it had come, floating away in the dark.

What I couldn't shake, though, was the waking memory of Eph's kiss.

My fingers flew to my lips. I pushed at them with my index finger.

These lips these lips.

I thought about that dinosaur's heart, and how it simply
wanted
. The type of want that made you ravenous, made your eyes wild, made you want to tear into things, rip them apart with gnashed teeth, how you'd do anything to fill that hunger—anything to make your heart stop needing, stop wanting.

I tried to fall asleep again but ended up staring at the clock next to my bed, until I gave up, picking up
On the Road
, the dream heavy around me.

The next thing I knew, Ford was meowing plaintively in my face, his breath fishy. I peeled open a sleep-crusted eye.

11:38.

CRAP.
I shot up. I had slept through my alarm, probably because of the dinosaur dream and the fact that I was reading a not-so-great book for most of the night and because of the kiss.

My first kiss.

I replayed every part of last night at the thrift store—Eph being so tall, and the kid with the lollipop-stained lips running by, and how I tasted mint, and how it was both horrible and marvelous.

The whole subway ride home had been profoundly weird. I was squeezed in next to Eph, but he was leaning forward on his knees, emanating serious no-talk vibes. But the possibility of silence alongside the kiss—the kiss!—was too enormous, so I started manically asking him as many questions about
Watchmen
as I could without actually confessing I hadn't had time to read it thanks to Keats and Kerouac and school.

I didn't—couldn't—stop.

By the time we reached my street, he had resorted to monosyllabic grunts, and I was riding high on a tidal wave of verbal terror—pretty sure right then that even if a giant piano fell from the sky on top of me or the earth cracked open and swallowed me whole, I still wouldn't be able to stop my astute cultural analysis of a
Watchmen
character compared to the different actors who'd played Batman over time. (“More Christian Bale, less Michael Keaton.” What was I even
talking
about?)

Maybe the kiss wasn't weird for him. Maybe it was like he said: not a big deal. Maybe it was only a big deal for me because it was my epic first kiss—the stuff of songs and movies—and for him it was a favor for his pathetic, unkissed friend.

And now my first kiss was over, which was a relief. Better weird and awkward with Eph than weird and awkward with Keats, right?

Only I wasn't quite sure how to answer that.

I needed Audrey.

I didn't have her anymore.

Her absence felt like matter—something heavy and dark sitting right behind my sternum.

I picked up my phone to text her and then remembered how ugly I'd been to her in the hallway when I'd asked her to pick me, how we'd ignored each other every time we passed in the hallway the subsequent four days. I dropped the phone back on the bed and flopped down next to it.

Ford jumped up and onto my chest, happily kneading my rib cage and breathing fishy breath on me. I needed to get in a better head space for my date with Keats, and sleeping another hour with my stinky cat would have been perfect, but the new red boots were calling.

“Sorry, buddy,” I said, reluctantly pushing him off. He nipped my arm.

•  •  •

I still got to Soho twenty minutes early. But maybe that wasn't so surprising, since I always leave for places early, perpetually worried I'll end up on one of those trains that gets stuck in a tunnel and I'll have to crawl my way aboveground with only my wits and the Mole People to guide me.

I decided to kill time at the McNally Jackson bookstore. Walking in and seeing the bright colors of book covers and the light wood floors, my heart slowed into a comfortable rhythm. Home. Books were home.

I started toward the mystery section, hoping to find a copy of
The Talented Mr. Ripley
, and rounded the corner so quickly, I plowed into Eph's dad, George, in front of the travel section.

“Oh, Mr. O'Connor!” I said, blushing. “I'm sorry!”

He ran his hand distractedly through his thick black hair. “Penelope, good to see you,” he said, looking over my shoulder. “Is Eph here?”

George had this frown on his face, like he had eaten something he couldn't decide was rotten or not yet, but was veering toward probably spoiled. Had Eph told his dad about the kiss?

“No,” I said quickly. “Only me, getting ready to go on a date. With a boy. Keats.” I wasn't sure why I felt the need to add all that.

“Of course,” he said, exhaling, just as a pert, freckled young woman came up behind him. Her tidy ponytail swayed as she handed him a steaming cup.

“Darjeeling with a little milk, just like you like it.”

“Um, thanks, Annabeth,” he said, blowing absentmindedly on the tea.

“So I bet Mrs. O'Connor is glad you didn't have to work today after all,” I said, trying to sound helpful.

George sipped his tea and winced. “Actually, I—I mean
we
—are working . . . taking a little break from exhibit planning.”

“Oh,” I said, wondering why he was taking a break all the way downtown when the museum was all the way uptown.

Annabeth put her hand lightly on George's elbow.

“Oh, yes, I'm sorry—Penelope, this is Annabeth Miller. She's been helping out at the museum while she finishes up her dissertation. Annabeth, Penelope is a family friend, and one of my son's favorite people in the world.”

“Hey,” I said, extending my hand. “I bet you know my dad, Dr. Marx?”

She flinched, her smile fading; then, just as quickly, she
recovered, shaking my hand enthusiastically. “Totally!” she said. “He's brilliant.”

“Um, yeah, thanks, I guess?”