The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,23

each cheek.

She squinted at me. “Are you an arts-and-crafts project?” The drunk slur in her voice made it sound like she had called me an arts-and-craps project. Though it was Cherisse we were talking about—maybe she actually had.

“Hey, Cherisse,” I said, edging around her. “No, I’m the night sky.”

“Oh my God, Penny, that’s so cute!”

Okay, she called me Penny, but had she actually complimented me? Maybe she wasn’t so bad.

“I could totally see my little cousin in kindergarten rocking that!” No, she was indeed still the worst.

“Is Audrey around?” I asked, stretching on my tiptoes and scanning the immediate crush of partiers in the front room, searching for Audrey but also for Keats. I saw scantily clad nurses swaying their arms overhead rhythmically to some electronic music, two big guys dressed in drag sitting wide-legged on the couches, sweaty beers in hand, eyes glazed over appreciatively, crowds of people bouncing to some loud music. It was pretty much my idea of hell.

Cherisse stumbled off and Eph pumped keg beer into a plastic cup.

“Can you get me one?” I asked him above the noise.

“You don’t like beer.”

I shrugged, holding my hand out until he gave me a cup.

I didn’t like beer. Or any alcohol, for that matter. But even more than that, I hated the idea of being the only person in the room not holding one.

I scanned the crowd again, and then I saw, like a lighthouse on the shore, Grace and Miles of Dead Poets Phone fame huddled in the corner of the room. She seemed kind of miserable, and he looked totally bored. Across a group of guys dressed as zombies, Grace met my eyes and raised her hand.

“Penelope, over here!”

Maybe that token was lucky after all.

“I’ll be back,” I said to Eph, and took the first step in Operation Social Circle: trying to make my way to Miles and Grace’s corner without bumping into anyone and spilling beer on anything expensive. It wasn’t going to be easy. From what I could tell about the parts of the room that weren’t obscured by drunk partygoers, Keats’s parents liked expensive-looking art—there were some modern pieces on the walls, paint spattered and bright, as well as a few striking angular metal sculptures on either side of the fireplace.

When I got there, proud of being neither spiller nor spillee, Grace pulled me into a hug. She was dressed like a Mexican Day of the Dead woman, her face made up like a skeleton, bright red roses in her hair. “Nice art, eh?” She held up her plastic cup for a toast and we smushed glasses.

“Wine?” I asked when I saw the contents of her cup.

“No, Diet Coke. I had to dig through the fridge to find some.”

“Penelope,” Miles said, giving me a small, careful smile. I smelled his beer breath from where I was standing, three feet away. His hair was gelled into a spiky mullet, and he had a lightning bolt painted on his face.

“Harry Potter?” I asked.

“Ziggy Stardust,” he said.

For a second I thought about pretending I knew who that was. But Grace was drinking Diet Coke, and Miles’s smile had seemed genuine, and my nerves were too frayed to hold back.

“I don’t know who that is. And I hate beer. I mean, really, really hate it. I think it tastes like urine and green olives got together and had a baby. And I saw my archnemesis at the door and it sounded like she told me I was an arts-and-craps project. And I’m probably dying from an allergic reaction to my lip gloss, even though I now own a lucky subway token from a bearded lady. And I hate, hate, hate parties.”

They both stood there for a second with unreadable expressions.

Miles took my beer. “That was a lot to handle. But I like that you have an archnemesis.” He took a big swig and handed it back to me. “The love child of green olives and urine? I could see that.” He licked his lips.

Grace leaned in confidentially. “I hate this party too.” She sighed and said, more to herself than anyone, “It makes me miss Kieran so much.”

I raised an eyebrow.

Miles snorted. “Kieran is Grace’s totally perfect boyfriend who says totally perfect things all the totally perfect times they’re hanging out and who makes anyone else’s boyfriend look like the worst because Kieran is literally a totally perfect superhuman being. They’re all ick.”

Grace slugged him in the arm, and Miles shrugged, nonplussed.

“What? You know it’s true,” he