Broken Beautiful Hearts

  I break into a huge smile. “Doubtful, but don’t jinx it.”

  “You can’t jinx the inevitable.” She looks away. “Before you ask, nothing came for me and I’m fine.”

  “It’s okay to be worried.”

  Tess leans her head against her window. “What if I don’t get a scholarship anywhere?”

  “Letters only went out two days ago. Lots of people are still waiting,” I remind her. “And this is only the first round of academic scholarships. With your GPA and test scores, you’ll get one.” We both know a soccer scholarship is a long shot for her. Tess is a great player, but she doesn’t stand out on the field the way she does in the classroom.

  She starts to say something, but I add, “And I’m not saying that just because you’re my best friend.”

  “Grades and test scores might not be enough.”

  “You’re also a member of chorus and the yearbook committee, which is impressive considering you’re a total lyrics slayer and the only decent photos you take are selfies.” The corner of her mouth turns up, so I keep talking. “Plus, you have twice as many community service hours as the rest of us.”

  “Appearing well-rounded is more work than an actual job.” Tess hugs her legs and rests her chin on her knee. She’s not snapping out of it.

  Time to shift into best-friend overdrive. “Didn’t you tell me that five percent of students who are offered scholarships turn them down?” I intentionally quote the wrong percentage.

  “Nine percent. The article said most people pass because they get accepted to a school they like better or another college offers them a bigger scholarship.”

  “And then…?”

  She realizes what I’m doing and rolls her eyes. “And then the scholarship committee moves to the next person on the list. You made your point.”

  “My work here is done.” I cut through the gas station that shares a parking lot with 7-Eleven, throw my Honda into reverse, and execute the smoothest parallel parking job of my life.

  “That was impressive for a girl who failed her driver’s test twice.” Tess tries to keep a straight face.

  “I only jumped the curb once.” When I hit the curb, the test administrator’s clipboard slipped out of his hands. He tried to grab it and whacked his forehead on the dashboard. Then he failed me on the spot. I picture his puffy cheeks and pinched red face and I burst out laughing—which makes Tess crack up, too.

  We dissolve into hysterics until she gets the hiccups and I yell, “Side cramp.”

  “Thanks for cheering me up,” Tess says between hiccups. “What would I do without you?”

  I tilt my head toward a woman walking out of 7-Eleven holding a glazed doughnut. “You’d probably starve.”

  On the way to school, we binge on sticky doughnuts and extra-rich hot chocolate. We manage to arrive on time, along with the second wave of students that skate in just before the bell everyday.

  “Does Reed know about UNC?” Tess asks as we walk through the huge double doors. “I mean, did you text him or anything last night?”

  I give her some serious side-eye. “And violate the code? I’m offended.”

  We both smile and say it at the same time: “Best friends before boyfriends.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Perfect Day

  THE FIRST THREE periods of the day go by without a hitch. In chemistry class, the teacher was out sick. She left our assignments on the board for the substitute, but one of the slackers erased them. The sub didn’t have a hard copy, so the period turned into study hall. At Adams that means pop in your earbuds and listen to music or play games on your phone.

  When I arrived at English, my teacher handed out pop quizzes as we walked into the classroom. I’m not great at recalling details about topics that don’t interest me—like The Metamorphosis, the gross novella we’re reading about a man who turns into a cockroach. But on today’s quiz, I actually knew most of the answers.

  Third period is always the easiest part of my day, aside from lunch. My art teacher, Mrs. Degan, encourages us to experiment and set our own artistic parameters. She says we could be one brushstroke away from genius, the way her last name is only one letter away from Degas. I spent the class period working on my current work of genius, an attempt at a cubist self-portrait that makes me look like a LEGO minifigure.

  The letter from UNC feels like a good luck charm in my pocket.

  For once, I’m not cursing the fact that I have first lunch—or breakfast, as most people would call a meal you eat at ten fifty-five in the morning.

  On my way to meet Tess on the quad, I call Reed, but his phone goes straight to voice mail. I don’t bother leaving a message. He’s probably still asleep or I would’ve heard from him by now. He can’t go more than a few hours without calling or texting me, and he knows I was waiting for a letter.

  Maybe I’ll ask him if he wants to skip the party tonight. Things have been off between us. Some alone time together is just what we need to get back on track.

  * * *

  The diner is already packed when Tess and I get there. Seniors are allowed to eat lunch off campus, and this place quickly became our go-to spot. It’s a huge step up from the vending machine selections we were stuck with last year, unless we wanted to risk eating the mystery meals in the cafeteria.

  We squeeze past the people waiting for seats at the counter.

  Tess points at a booth in the back corner. “Lucia and Gwen found a table.”

  Our friends are leaning across the table talking, their faces obscured by almost identical curtains of long, brown, spiral curls. They’re the same height and body type, and from this angle they could pass for twins. But the similarities end with their hair.

  Lucia is Afro-Latina, with Puerto Rican roots, and her skin is a rich coppery brown that makes Gwen’s pale, rosy Irish complexion look pasty. Lucia’s curls are natural and Gwen uses a weird-looking curling iron to create hers.

  Lucia is determined and outspoken, and her goals are more important to her than any guy. Gwen is always on the hunt for her next boyfriend and when she finds Mr. Right Now, she’ll spend all her time with him.

  It gets me thinking and I turn to Tess. “You know how some people say it doesn’t matter if you date jerks because every relationship is a learning experience?” I ask.

  “By ‘some people’ I’m assuming you mean Gwen?”

  “Do you think it’s true?”

  “No,” Tess says immediately. “That’s what people say when they know they’re dating assholes, but they don’t want to walk away. Look at my mom. It only took one jerk to ruin her life.”

  Tess means her dad.

  I’m not sure if I agree with her take, but I understand where she’s coming from.

  The moment we get to the table, Gwen pounces. “So…?”

  Tess sits next to Lucia, and I slide in beside Gwen.

  “I didn’t get anything,” Tess says.

  “Yet,” Lucia says, swinging her dark hair over her shoulder.

  Gwen tugs on the sleeves of her oversize hoodie. “I’ve got nothing to report, either.”

  “I got an offer from Stanford,” Lucia says, as if it’s no big deal. “They only gave me a partial ride, but they’re covering most of the tuition and my athletic expenses, so my parents can swing it.” She’s downplaying the acceptance because she doesn’t want to make anyone else feel bad.

  Tess smiles. “I’m really happy for you.”

  “Don’t forget about us when you make new Ivy League friends,” I say.

  Lucia laughs. “No chance. I’ve been trying to forget about you guys for years, and it hasn’t worked.”

  “You deserve it.” I ball up a napkin and throw it at Lucia. “Even if you are a pain.”

  “Just don’t bring it up around Lorenzo,” she says. “He’s acting like a huge baby because he wanted me to go somewhere close to Virginia Tech. Like that’s gonna happen.”

  “You should be nicer to him,” Gwen says.

  Luci
a pops a fry in her mouth. “If it’s so important to him, he can find a college near Stanford.” She points a fry at me. “You’re up, Peyton.”

  I slide Dad’s dog tags back and forth on the chain. “I didn’t get a scholarship.…” I try to play it cool, but a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “But one school offered me admission and a spot on the women’s soccer team.”

  Gwen drums her palms against the tabletop. “Which school? Spill!”

  “University of North Carolina.”

  “No freaking way!” Lucia shouts.

  The guys in a booth across from ours look over at us and smirk.

  Lucia stares them down. “There’s nothing here for you,” she says, motioning between us girls. “So turn around and mind your own business.”

  One guy’s face reddens and the other two laugh, but they still turn around.

  “What did Reed say when you told him about UNC?” Gwen asks. “He must be happy that it’s not too far away.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to tell him yet. He worked late,” I say casually. Tess is the only one who knows about the underground fights. “He’s probably still sleeping.”

  Gwen and Lucia exchange looks.

  “It’s eleven thirty,” Gwen points out. “Must be nice to sleep all day.”

  “Like you’ve never slept later than that,” Tess snaps. “He literally got home in the middle of the night.”

  Tess is always the first person to defend her brother. With a deadbeat for a father who took off before Reed and Tess started elementary school, Reed was the one who worked at the gym, at fourteen, to help out with the bills. He was the one who showed up at our soccer games to watch Tess play.

  Gwen backpedals. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Tess stands up and grabs her bag.

  “Where are you going?” I ask.

  “I need some space.”

  “Don’t leave, Tess,” Gwen pleads. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know your brother worked so late.”

  “Now you do,” Tess says as she walks away.

  Gwen puts her head down on the table. “Why did I say anything?”

  “She’ll get over it,” Lucia says. “Just leave her alone until practice.”

  I feel bad for Gwen, but she should know better. Nobody gets away with criticizing Reed in front of Tess. Not even me.

  CHAPTER 3

  Striker

  AFTER SCHOOL, I’M the first person on the field for soccer practice. The letter makes me want to get out here and earn it. I stand in the center of the field, passing the ball from knee to knee. This is the place where I feel most at home—the most like me.

  It doesn’t hurt that soccer reminds me of Dad. He taught me how to play and I loved the game from the first kick. Mom says I would’ve slept with my kid-size soccer ball if she had let me. Dad had dreamed of going pro, too. It turned out he was a better Marine than a soccer player.

  Losing him made me realize that we can’t control everything that happens in life. The universe has its own plans and we don’t get a vote.

  But soccer has always been the one thing I could control—not whether my team wins or loses a game. That’s out of my hands. But the way I play and the effort I put in—that part is my choice.

  “I heard somebody on my team was accepted to the University of North Carolina.” Coach Kim strolls toward me with a bag of balls slung over her shoulder. “You’ve worked so hard for this, Peyton. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks. I wasn’t sure if it was going to happen.”

  She pulls the drawstring on the bag and dumps out the balls. “I was sure enough for both of us.”

  “It’s not a done deal. I still have to maintain my grades, and I’ll need a recommendation letter from my coach at the end of the season.”

  “That might be a problem,” she said, teasing me.

  “And I have to train harder than ever so I’ll be ready to start ‘in my current position’ for UNC in the fall, or something like that. The letter looks like a contract.”

  “That’s standard language. Coaches have a limited number of open spots on their teams. They have to make sure they’re offering those spots to athletes who will be ready to fill them nine months from now.” She tosses me a ball, and I head it back to her. “So go warm up.”

  Lucia is the next person out of the locker room. “You always beat me out here.”

  “What can I say? You’re slow.”

  She blows out a puff of air. “Whatever. You wouldn’t win as many games without me.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  Lucia and I have been playing together on school and select teams since fourth grade. She’s the best goalkeeper in our high school division.

  I lob the ball at the bottom right corner of the goal. Lucia isn’t ready and she almost misses it. But she dives for the ball and makes the save.

  “I almost got that one by you.”

  “Because I wasn’t ready,” she says, calling me on it.

  The rest of our teammates trickle out of the locker room, and Coach Kim takes a few minutes to get updates from everyone. Then she splits us into two teams for a scrimmage. When she blows the whistle, everything except the game fades away.

  I dribble the ball down the field and look for an opportunity to pass. I’m a center forward—a striker, like Alex Morgan. It’s my job to score goals and create opportunities for my teammates to score. It’s an offensive position that requires more than just soccer skills.

  I hear Dad’s voice in the back of my mind. A striker has to have guts and take risks. You have to know when to pass or when to take the shot. There will be shots that look impossible, but they aren’t. Sometimes the difference between winning and losing is taking that shot when you get the chance.

  “Peyton! On your left,” Imani, another forward on my team, shouts.

  Gwen is coming up next to me on the outside. Lucia is playing goalkeeper for the other team, and she’ll stop any ball within her reach before it hits the net. The bottom corner of the net is my only chance. Gwen is right on top of me, her feet slipping into the spaces between mine as she attempts to steal the ball.

  “Peyton, over here!” Imani raises her hand to let me know she’s still open. She doesn’t see Tess behind her.

  Today still feels like my perfect day, and on your perfect day you have to take the shot. I kick the neon-green Umbro ball, and it rockets toward the bottom left-hand corner of the net.

  Lucia realizes where the ball is going and dives for it. The green ball skims the fingertips on her glove and sails into the net. The other girls on my scrimmage team shout and clap. Scoring on Lucia doesn’t happen often.

  You have to know when to pass or when to take the shot.

  After practice I check my phone. Reed still hasn’t called or texted me. He never goes all day without sending me at least one text. I grab my bag and call him as I head out to my car. His phone rings six times.

  Where the hell is he?

  I’m about to hang up when he answers. “Hey. I was just about to call you.”

  “At five o’clock? Why not just wait until tomorrow? You’re obviously busy since I haven’t heard from you all day.”

  “My phone died. Why are you so mad?”

  “Colleges sent out letters two days ago.” Tess and I have only mentioned it twenty times in the last week.

  “Yeah?” Reed asks as if he’s hearing the information for the first time.

  “Yeah? That’s all you have to say?”

  In the background, voices mix with the familiar sound of weights hitting the gym’s rubber floor mats. Someone asks Reed a question that I can’t make out.

  “Reed?”

  “Hold on, Peyton.” Reed says something to the person in the background. I only catch bits and pieces of his end of the conversation. “He’s early.… Did he bring everything? I’m coming.… Give me five.”

  I’ll count to ten and then I’m hanging up.

  I’m on six when Reed get
s back on the line. “Sorry. I’m training a new guy. He doesn’t have the drills down. So the letters went out? Are you worried you won’t get one?”

  “I already did. Something my boyfriend should know.” The excitement of telling him is completely gone.

  “I told you my phone died.” An edge creeps into his voice.

  “We should talk later.”

  “Don’t hang up. I’m being an asshole.” Reed’s tone changes completely, and now he sounds sweet. “I’m sorry. You said you got a letter. From where?”

  “University of North Carolina. The coach wants me to play on the women’s soccer team.” Part of me still can’t believe it.

  “I knew you’d get in.” He sounds excited. “You can fill me in tonight and we’ll celebrate at the party. Meet me at my place at nine. The guy I’m training is waiting. I’ve gotta go.”

  “Reed—”

  “I’ll see you at nine. Love you.” He hangs up without waiting for me to say it back.

  * * *

  I’m still annoyed when I get to Reed’s a few hours later, and I’m definitely not in the mood for a party. As I walk up to the building, my phone pings with a text from Tess. She already left for the party with Lucia.

  sperm donor called. go easy on Reed.

  Any chance of Reed having an epiphany about the state of our relationship is gone now. The Sperm Donor is how Tess refers to their father. He gets drunk and calls once or twice a year to lay into one of them—usually Reed.

  The fighter, Reed “The Machine” Michaels, owes at least part of his success in the cage and the underground fights to his father. Reed has eighteen years’ worth of rage churning inside him, and his father’s calls fuel that fire. It’s hard for me to imagine how he feels. All the memories I have of my dad are good, and the few memories Reed has of his father are terrible.

  I take my time climbing the stairs to the apartment. Should I bring up the call if Reed doesn’t? When I reach the third floor, I hear voices coming from inside an apartment.

  “I gave you all the extra money I had, like I do every month,” Reed says.

  “I know,” his mom says. “And I wish you didn’t have to.”