The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,37

us, taking in the movement and the people around us, pointing out a man walking by with a cat standing on his head.

“Ford would murder me if I tried that,” I said.

“You’d at least lose an eye,” Eph said. “Nice necklace by the way.”

I held up the token. “This may surprise you, but when you gave this to me, I thought you were full of crap.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“But I’m happy to say it has brought me endless luck,” I said gleefully.

“I might need that back,” he said.

We walked east on Thirteenth Street, and when we got to Hong Kong 8, I was surprised how crowded it was on a Friday night.

Eph inclined his head back toward the guys’ section. “Heading that way. Meet you back here in a bit? We’re going to have to leave here by seven thirty if we want to get to Forbidden Planet in time for the talk.”

“Sure,” I said, already hopefully scanning the rack nearest me for something to wear.

I grabbed a bright red polyester shift covered with garish orange flowers and headed to the dressing room, laughing when I saw the strategic placement of the two biggest flowers right over my boobs. Instinctively I grabbed my phone to take a picture and text Audrey, but then I remembered we weren’t talking, and like in some Japanese horror film, the badness started creeping in like a dark stain.

Twenty minutes and at least six outfits later, I was beyond irritated, each click and slide of a hanger along the rack the mark of something that was wrong with me.

I was lost without Audrey’s opinion.

I had tried on an old High School Musical T-shirt and jean-skirt combo, but worried the irony would backfire and Keats would think I was a sixteen-year-old Disney fan. I tried to squeeze into a black cocktail dress that looked Breakfast at Tiffany’s–ish, but after studying my mess of thick hair and how the dress hit at the point that made my calves extra stumpy, I determined I was not very Audrey Hepburnish, plus that reminded me of Audrey, which made me sad. I rejected a wispy poet-girl Anthropologie dress (too pregnant milkmaid) and a preppy fitted navy blazer with olive khakis (too young Republican).

My hands felt dirty and my clothes felt dusty and my body felt dehydrated.

What if Keats and I didn’t have anything to talk about?

What if the sweater I was holding was infested with bedbugs?

What if Keats spent more than a half hour with me and determined I was a weirdo?

Why were they selling T-shirts with visible sweat stains?

What if Audrey and I never talked again?

Did I even want to know what that was wadded up under the dressing-room stool?

What if I sweated the whole time and grossed Keats out with my clammy palms?

Did anyone even wash these clothes before they put them up for sale?

Was Ellen okay? Was she crying in her studio right now?

SCABIES.

The oppressively loud techno music in Hong Kong 8 was making me more jittery, and I left the women’s clothing section in search of Eph.

I found him in the T-shirt corner, talking with none other than Mia. God, she was everywhere. Her strawberry-blond hair was arranged in a braided crown, and with her sequined silver cardigan she seemed even more like elven royalty than she had the previous two times I’d seen her, which was saying something.

“Oh, hi, Penelope,” she said brightly as I approached Eph.

I tried to smile, but by that point I was so worked up that I was pretty sure if I tried one more outfit that didn’t work, I’d burn the whole place down.

Eph raised an eyebrow at me.

“We should go. We’re going to be late for your comic-book thing.” My voice, I knew, was too loud, but I couldn’t help it. It came blurting out of me that way: uncalm, uncool, probably the way I’d sound with Keats tomorrow. The guy next to Mia gave me a snotty hipster eye roll and headed to a different rack of clothes.

Eph turned to her. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”

She smiled, and I tugged on his sleeve. He followed me out of the store.

When I got outside, I stood on the sidewalk, jiggling my leg, then stopped when I realized it was exactly what my dad did.

“So that place kind of sucked. Eighty dollars for a vintage Led Zeppelin shirt when I can get the same thing for a buck at Goodwill? No thanks, amigo,” Eph said.

I didn’t say anything.

“Did you find something