The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,2

but also because the boy had this inscrutable look on his face that I could only imagine meant he was trying to figure out the nearest escape route without having to interact with me again.

I winced. “Oh God, I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “I was only making conversation. . . .”

He was only making conversation. He was only trying to be polite.

My neck flushed hot, and a large part of me wanted to get up and scream, I am terrible at talking to boys! I am terrible at life! and then run away as far as I could, to some solitary research station at the North or South Pole (whichever one has penguins), where I would never have to interact with another human being for the rest of my life.

(Another part of me—one so very small—wanted desperately to rewind to a minute ago, before I opened my mouth, before I knew he was only being polite, when my heart was all hopeful and electric.)

“Sometimes I talk too much . . . ,” I started to explain right as Cherisse—one of my top ten least favorite people in the world (and that list included dictators and people who ran dog fights)—gasped: “Oh my God, Keats!”

The beautiful boy—Keats, evidently—flushed and raised his eyebrows. “Hey, Cherisse. I was wondering when I’d see you.”

He pushed his jacket sleeves up and leaned over to give Cherisse a cheek kiss, and I saw one red-and-white-striped sock peeking out from under his cords. The other was a navy blue one with giraffes on it.

Cherisse blushed and flicked her hair over her shoulder, playfully toying with the charm on her gold necklace, leaning close to Audrey, effectively using her back to block me from the conversation.

“Aud, this is the guy I was telling you about! His dad and my dad have known each other for forever.”

“Wow, that’s forever,” Audrey murmured politely, meeting my eyes and smiling apologetically.

I shrugged, looking back down at my notebook.

“I’ve known Keats since before we could even talk,” Cherisse continued, smiling coyly at him, and I felt disappointment settle over me like a weary sigh. Even if I hadn’t blown it with my epic monologue on Watchmen, if Cherisse and her shiny hair and smooth conversational skills were in the picture, I didn’t stand a chance.

Cherisse pointed at Audrey. “Keats, this is my bestie, Audrey. You will love her.”

I wanted to say, Audrey’s my best friend, but I wasn’t seven years old, so I bit down on my lip instead, watching the introductions.

“Nice to meet you,” Keats said, reaching across the aisle to shake Audrey’s hand, which seemed really gentleman-like and polite, and she shook his hand back and said, “Charmed,” and not for the first time I wished I had half the conversational grace Audrey did.

Cherisse pointed at Eph. “And the tall, handsome hottie over there is our friend Eph.”

Tall, handsome hottie? Who talks like that?

Eph glanced up from his drawing. “Hey, man,” he said, jerking his chin up at Keats, then leaned back over his picture.

Cherisse smiled, evidently done with introductions, and I felt that familiar mix of embarrassment and general badness I got every time it was clear she was merely putting up with me because my presence was a side effect of being friends with Audrey. Why did I care what Cherisse thought? I didn’t, right?

I was turning red on the outside and cringing on the inside, because it is terrible to be purposefully overlooked when there is a cute boy in the vicinity, and that, coupled with the previous epic flirt fail—scratch that, epic life fail—was making fleeing to the solitary research station at the penguin-friendly pole seem better and better.

But then Audrey placed her hand on his arm and gestured toward me. “Keats, you have to meet my friend Penelope.”

If I could have nominated Audrey for high school sainthood right that second, I would have.

Cherisse batted a dismissive glance over her shoulder, so quick I was sure I was the only one who saw it.

I smiled weakly at Keats. “Yeah, we met already,” I said.

Audrey raised her eyebrow appraisingly at me, like, Well, what’s this? and Keats’s eyes rested on mine, and my heart fluttered, like it was waking up from an enchanted sleep.

He started to say something to me—so maybe all wasn’t lost after all?—but Cherisse interrupted him. “What classes do you have? You’re in AP, right?”

His eyes lingered on mine a second longer as he gave a rueful shrug and turned to Cherisse. “Carroll for chemistry.”

I started to