The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,17

Schoolhouse Rock T-shirt, and super-dark Buddy Holly glasses. The boy had a pointed Mohawk, the tips spiked up, and a rich, haughty expression that reminded me of some minor scheming character from Masterpiece. He was reading an old beat-up copy of E. E. Cummings’s poetry.

The girl caught me checking out their setup and brightened. “Want to talk with a dead poet? All proceeds go to the Saint Bart’s literary magazine, Nevermore. By the way, I’m coveting your shirt,” she said, pointing at my CONEY ISLAND CIRCUS SIDESHOW T-shirt.

I flashed back to last year, when Audrey had ecstatically introduced me to Cherisse, who had just transferred to Saint Bart’s. Cherisse had given me a once-over and winced out a pained smile that immediately put her in the running for any superhero movie that ever needed a frost-queen villain.

The girl in front of me had the exact opposite energy. She was sunny and warm, and maybe it was because I was already feeling so needy, but I immediately wanted her to be my friend.

“I’m Grace. And this is Miles,” she said, pointing to the Mohawk boy.

“Are you a junior?” Miles asked, his voice drawling out the u sound.

I nodded, unsure about him. His eyes were the softest gray, but the tips of his hair were gelled sharp enough to draw blood, and he looked a little bored watching me.

“I’m Penelope,” I said. “But everyone calls me Pen.”

Miles slouched in the chair and tapped his upper lip, sussing me out. I stood a little bit straighter, putting on my Cherisse armor.

And then he sat up. “Oh my God, you’re the one who always hangs out with that tall dreamy boy.” He flopped back, fanned himself once with the book. “He is hot.”

It took me a full ten seconds.

“Wait. You’re talking about Eph? You think Eph is hot?” I asked.

“We both do,” Miles said, gesturing eagerly to Grace and himself. A mortified look crossed her face, and, blushing, Grace smacked him on the arm.

“Ow!”

“So how does the phone work?” I asked, eager to stop thinking about Eph and his alleged hotness. I pulled out my wallet and handed Miles a five. The phone was plugged into a big fat empty space of nothing.

He dug in his pocket and started counting out change.

“Keep it,” I said.

“A generous literary patron! Thank you!”

I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me, but when I eyed the near-empty bowl and heard him muttering to himself, “Worst fund-raising idea ever,” I figured maybe it was genuine after all.

At that second Grace abruptly picked up the phone, saying, “Hello . . . yes, hi! . . . Uh-huh, okay, she’s right here,” and handed it to me. “For you! It’s Walt Whitman.”

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I took the receiver. A recording, perhaps, or maybe Miles throwing his voice so it sounded like it was coming from the receiver. What I didn’t expect was complete silence.

They both waited expectantly.

“Ummm . . . ,” I said.

Miles folded his arms. “Is he talking about Oscar Wilde? I heard they did it, you know.” He elbowed Grace. “Scandal!”

Grace still looked terribly earnest. “Is he yammering on about blades of grass? He had me on the phone for at least twenty minutes one day, going on and on about how beautiful they are.” She made a chatterbox gesture with her fingers.

I wasn’t sure what to do. I kept the phone up to my ear and racked my brain, trying to think of what I had learned in last year’s American poetry class.

“He’s . . . he’s . . .”

Grace waited eagerly, and like a bolt of lightning from Zeus, I had a mini epiphany.

Grace was having fun.

She hadn’t outgrown the Fall Festival either.

And I wasn’t completely sure, but it seemed like Miles might have been enjoying himself a little bit too, unsuccessful fund-raiser and all.

I covered the receiver with my palm. “Walt’s talking about a stranger who passed him on the street.”

Grace turned to Miles. “It’s your Starbucks Guy poem!”

I was surprised to see Miles’s neck redden. That wasn’t very Masterpiece villainy.

“Yeah, Walt, I totally get it. I crush pretty hard too,” I said, feeling completely ridiculous. But Grace’s face was lit up all bright like carnival lights, and Miles seemed pleased that a passing couple was curiously watching my exchange.

“I don’t know what to do, Walt. But I guess it helps to know I’m not alone. . . .” I mimicked Grace’s previous nonstop-talk hand motion.

“I know, right?” she whispered.

Finally,