Hearts Unbroken: List 1

Half past nine a.m. in the residual haze of my junior prom, I ducked into a powder room off the kitchen at the swanky lake house where the after-party took place.

The lake house decor was high-dollar rustic. The quarterback, Blake Klein, is one of Cam’s closest pals, and it’s Blake’s family’s second house. Not a trailer or hunting cabin—we’re talking steam room, a Sub-Zero refrigerator, and a motorboat in the detached garage. (It’s not so much on the lake as near the lake.)

Besides, having ventured into the family room, I was mindful of how whatever was left lying around might affect (for better) the boys’ reps and (for worse) the girls’.

While I was talking to Shelby, the other post-prom stragglers had already vacated the premises, including the unidentified human-shaped lump under a chenille throw on the sofa.

The night before, I’d crashed on the faux-distressed leather chaise longue in front of the bay window.

Not his finest moment, but it didn’t matter. I was smitten.

Cam’s parents, the Ryans, were cohosts of the annual post-prom brunch (by which I mean annual for East Hannesburg High School students whose families belong to the country club, along with their preferred teammates and their respective dates).

It was heady, intoxicating, being in love.

A slender guy in his early twenties stood poised at the carving station.

My WASPy boyfriend drew himself up, emphasizing the height and girth difference between us.

“Look, Louise, I’m sorry if you have a problem with...whatever. But I’m a good guy. And, like I’ve told you, I’m part Cherokee on my mom’s side. Don’t get all—”
“Sanctimonious?”

Fact: he’s not a citizen of any of the Cherokee nations. He can’t name a single Cherokee ancestor who was. I profoundly doubt he’s even a distant descendant.

I appreciated Jake’s solidarity.

I still loved Cam, but I didn’t like him very much. I’d defer only for the moment, for the sake of the occasion and the hefty parental presence.

That evening, I could tell from Cam’s barrage of texts and voice mails that he had written off what had happened as just another spat.

I’d been looking forward to joining the East Hannesburg squad.
(That might sound presumptuous, but EHHS Cheer is nowhere as competitive as Cedar Park Cheer.)

After school, Shelby posted a printout of his profile pic on the dartboard at the local pub where she waitresses. “Embrace the catharsis.”

He had an athletic build, but there was obviously more to this boy than football and fantasizing about future frat parties. I was feeling starry already.
“Sorry, Tommy,” Gracie said, squelching the sparks between us. “She’s driving back to Kansas tomorrow.”

As we climbed into Gracie’s pickup truck, I felt a little buzzed from the sugary drink and banter.

After I introduced her to Peter, she announced, “Some woman just tipped me twelve percent and a button.” She showed it to us. “A button?”
I didn’t mention that was probably the customer’s snide way of commenting on Shelby’s low neckline.

We exited the department store into the bustling outdoor mall, and he paused at a kiosk of Kansas-themed gifts. As in Kansas Jayhawks, Kansas State Wildcats, sunflowers, and The Wizard of Oz movie merchandise, the latter manifesting in snow globes, magnets, key chains, wineglasses, music boxes, and utterly darling ruby-slipper earrings.

New and returning students jostled, gossiped, hugged, and moseyed on inside.

All 135 pounds of my brother bristled at the sight of my alpha-jock ex-boyfriend, who was artfully slouching against the brick wall like he was posing for a men’s fashion catalog.

I watched Hughie disappear through the formidable front doors and smoothed my wavy hair, which—given the humidity—was already a lost cause.

“What about video reporting, shooting, editing?” Joey had raised his hand but spoke without being called on. “That’s what I did at my old school. That and still photos. I’m good at both.” And apparently had no qualms about saying so.

After the final bell, lockers clanged over the billowing chatter.

(The prevailing theory was that Hollywood had warped his mind.)

Using her fingers to make air quotes, she added, “Some ‘objectionable’ books were locked in the cage behind the circulation desk. You need a signed permission slip to check them out.”
“And some ‘objectionable’ books...disappeared,” Ms. Wilson added.
“Banned?” I exclaimed.

Daniel’s a quintessential jock—always in his letterman jacket and class ring.

“That’s a fairly ambitious feature for your first week,” Karishma mused.

They were working on a joint editorial about the importance of free discourse in student media.

The target was Sage Schmidt, who’s tall and robust and sported faded overalls with a square-cut white T and hiking boots.

Sage’s wry smile surprised me. “I can Bunyan with the best of them. All I need is a blue ox, and, hey, who doesn’t want a blue ox?”

When Daddy shrugged, I finally caught on that he was just messing with me.
Mama realized it at the same time. “You’re incorrigible,” she said.

Hughie, bouncy with thespian energy, gestured toward the foyer. “Do you want me to let him in or should we leave him out on the front step all day?”

The silence in the Jeep was palpable until we’d almost reached our destination.

Gleaming antique cars occupied the main thoroughfare, and a western trio of middle-aged white dudes strummed guitars in the gazebo.

Newly licensed driver. California highways. My parents would’ve been skittish, too.

Not that Hughie would be signing with a major recording label any time soon, but he could caress the notes, evoke the feels.

We lived near the top of the hill to the south side of the curve of our fourteen-house cul-de-sac.