Queen of Broken Hearts (2 page)

Mother gave me a quick frown. “Mr. Fischer, this is my daughter, Birdie.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” I pretended to forget to shake his manicured hand. “Excuse me, but I’ve had a long day. It’s campaign season in high school politics.”

“Birdie is so into charity work,” my mother said. “I’m so proud of her. What’s your cause right now? Anti-bullying, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” My face hurt from being pleasant.

“Margo.” Rob swept in from the dance floor to take Mother’s arm and save the day. “Do you hear that?”

A genuine smile touched my mother’s eyes. “They’re playing our song.”

Rob has the debonair look of an old-school movie star, which is funny because he isn’t involved in movies at all. He works at the bank. “Dance with me?”

Mother went a little glassy-eyed as he pulled her toward the dance floor. Mr. Fischer got the pinched look of a man trying to decide whether or not to be offended. I knew I should have smoothed it over, but it really had been a long day.

I snatched a champagne flute from a passing waiter, preparing to ditch Mr. Fischer and this entire ridiculous party.

“Calories, sweetie!” Mother called over her shoulder. It’s like she has spidey senses, but instead of danger, she foresees threats to my hips.

I chugged the champagne. “Lovely meeting you,” I told Mr. Fischer before darting up the stairs. He would definitely be offended now.

My room waited for me in all its gender-neutral uncomfortableness. We had to make sure all the rooms in our house tested well with viewers, for the TV show tours. I flopped down on my blue bed, kicked off the painful heels, and stared at the math equations pasted on the ceiling to impress housewives with my mother’s cleverness and concern for her daughter’s education.

After five minutes of staring at the Pythagorean theorem, I pulled on a pair of tennis shoes and went out the window. Three minutes later, I was in the playground. I slipped beyond the reach of the shallow light from the street. I didn’t need it, anyway. I had this place memorized. I grabbed the side of the swing set and climbed to the platform with the tic-tac-toe tiles. The ladder gave out years ago, and the slide was gone before I started coming here.

One by one, I switched the
x
’s to
o
’s.

Nobody’s perfect, except for me. It’s practically a job requirement. If I’m less than perfect, then my mother made a mistake in raising me, making her less than the perfect single mother, wrecking chaos across her entire image. And image is everything.

I applied an extra layer of blush before I left early for school the next morning. You know what they say about the early queen and the worm.

Skittle was waiting with my coffee when I reached my car. I took a deep breath as I got in my car, then stomped down the tension trying to crawl up my spine as I drove.

The school parking lot was still vacant when I got there. I parked next to the entrance and headed in.

The empty hallway echoed my steps back to me. Skittle clung to my heels, wide eyes darting back and forth to the teacher-less classrooms. I tossed a smile at her over my shoulder. I’ve found it’s best to rule with a veneer of love backed by a healthy dose of fear.

Speaking of fear… I stopped at Annabelle’s locker, where Largesse waited with a bucket of paint. Popsicle stood to the side, arms crossed, looking intimidating. Largesse held out the bucket of paint to me.

I frowned. “Why pink?”

“For the first warning,” he said, his voice breathy.

And there it was. My opportunity to back out, to pull my punch. I could paint her locker pink, the acknowledged symbol of being on thin ice. But that wouldn’t stop her. She’d only challenge me again. Annabelle would never be afraid of me. Unless I did something drastic.

“Her offense is beyond first warning,” I said, grabbing the brush and popping open the lid, “This is how we deal with troublemakers.”

I began my work. It wasn’t exactly a masterpiece, but it would do. I stepped back to make sure it was right.
 

F

R

E

A

K

ran down her locker in bright pink paint. Maybe it would have been more dramatic in red, but I worked with what I had.

I smiled. “Lesson learned?” Translation: Stay in line. You could be next.

They nodded.

I hated them a little for their mindless submission. No one challenges me, not really, but sometimes I think someone should.

The halls were beginning to fill with students by the time I’d cleaned up and reached my locker. Nausea roiled in my stomach. I focused on my election poster to calm it down. My blown up and enhanced face smiled back at me.

There was something wrong with my poster. I checked it again. My smile was still beaming, my hair immaculate. But the text at the bottom was wrong. Where it should have said, “BIRDIE ANDERS - YOUR QUEEN OF HEART,” someone had taken a Sharpie and changed the ending to “BROKEN HEARTS.”

I tugged on the taped edges and folded the poster into my locker. Skittle frowned. I hoped she didn’t see the Sharpie. I didn’t know how long it had been there, but the school day was just beginning, so maybe no one had even noticed.

“I need a new poster,” I said, snapping my fingers at Skittle. “The old one is too boring. I need something with pizzazz.”

“Pizzazz?” Skittle’s eyes went wide. “But what about the band and the invitations and the decorations?”

“Skittle.” I put my hands on my hips. “How can I nominate you to be queen after me if you can’t even keep up with this much?”

Skittle’s chin wobbled. “I can do it.”

“Of course you can, Skittle. I never doubted you. You need to stop doubting yourself. Now I want that new poster by tomorrow.”

A little bit of Sharpie on one poster might not seem like a big deal, but I knew better from personal experience. I overthrew the last Queen of Heart with a bit of Sharpie. Well, it was more than that, but that was how I started the dethroning.

I bit down on my nail then stopped myself. Who would sabotage my campaign? Lightbulb? How did she know about my tactics?

Annabelle could be helping her. A justified sort of relief slid through me. Annabelle was with me last year when I began the greatest coup Hollywood Hills High School had ever seen. We’d broken into the school after hours just to draw a sharpie mustache on Athena Clark’s laminated face.

“How will this help?” Annabelle had asked, tapping her size-five boots.

“I’m showing it can be done. And once people see one line on one poster, they’ll start making their own adjustments. And before you know it, the queen’s dignity is as gone as a retainer left on a lunch tray.”

By second period, the poster had gained horns and a blackened tooth. By lunch, there wasn’t a single unmarked poster in the school.

I’d have to face the possibility that Annabelle could be teamed up with Lightbulb to take me down. That could be trouble. She knew my tactics. I turned into the humanities hallway, hugging the wall to go unnoticed.

Remember the part where I was walking down the hall not quite minding my own business? We’re to there now.

 
Someone yanked on my right arm, dragging me through an open doorway. A hand clapped over my mouth before I could scream. The supply closet door clicked shut behind me. I stomped my heel down hard on my captor’s foot. He let out a curse and hopped back from me.

I knew that voice. “Pak?” My heart rammed into my ribcage. I turned around and there he was, every rumpled, trouble-inducing inch of him. His blond hair was shaggier than last year, his eyes a little bluer. He had definitely gotten taller. Last year, I could almost meet his eyes straight-on, but now I had to crane my head back.

Pak’s name isn’t really Pak; it’s Painkiller. His parents were the pop star “it” couple when he was born. There was much argument over how to pronounce his name and rumors of drug abuse. Two divorces and five “it” couples later and nobody cares about Pak anymore, no matter how his name is pronounced.

“Birdie. You look boring. What happened to that red shirt with the tear right—”

I punched him. Lightly. Sort of.

“Ow.” He shook his arm. “Geez, did you spend the entire time I was in France weight lifting?”

“Why’d you come back?” I’m not even sure how he got in the school in a jeans and T-shirt ensemble that looked like it had been mauled by bears. It wasn’t exactly our navy school uniform. Maybe someone mistook him for a janitor.

Pak shrugged and leaned against the cleaning product–laden shelves. “You know how it is with me and glass houses. Or institutions. They threw me out, and I thought, hey, what’s Birdie up to? It’s just like I thought: you got boring again.” He waved a hand at my uniform. “So I figured I’d save you. Again.”

“You got me
arrested
. We robbed a bank.”

“And it was exciting, wasn’t it?”

“
No
.”

I had to look away from his grin. I’d forgotten how infectious it was, and if I smiled right then, he’d take it as forgiveness. Which I was not ready to give. “Go away, Pak. Make someone else’s life difficult.”

“But no one else is as fun as you, Birdie.” He ran a hand down my arm, sending lightning through my nerves.

Pak and I are like hydrogen and fire. Not too bad of a problem when we’re by ourselves, but together we explode. See, Pak has all these crazy ideas, but he’d never act on them because he gets so carried away thinking about them. I tend to act first then think later. Well, okay, never. Between the two of us…

It was fun for a while, then it started getting dangerous, and then, well, then we robbed a bank. If I could have formed a coherent thought, I would have run as fast as I could, but I’d been in love with him since I was thirteen, and he knew it.

“Birdie.” He leaned forward. I took a step back to avoid breathing his air and losing my head completely.

“We’re done,” I said. “We’ve been done since March, and nothing is going to change that.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do.” I reached back and found the doorknob. All that was left was to convince my reluctant hand to turn it.

“Don’t leave me, Birdie.” His fingers grazed my hair. My breath caught—the hitch was too loud. His eyes lit up. “We’ll get it right this time.”

I could taste his warmth on my lips, inches away, his pounding pulse ratcheting up my own. I turned the doorknob. Air conditioning blasted my knees.

“Good-bye, Pak.”

My mother taught me to lie when I was six. She calls it “acting,” now.

She started me out small, with a candy bar. Never steal what they’ll give you for free, she liked to say. So I went into the convenience store with a nickel and a lie. I put the Hershey’s bar I wanted and my nickel on the counter.

“It’s a dollar,” the acne-ridden teenager behind the counter said. His uniform hat was on crooked, and there was an oil stain on his pocket. The whole store smelled like vomit and desperation. It was a tough target, which is why my mother chose it for me.
Never practice on easy ones, baby. You need to be prepared for anything.

“I have money,” I said, pushing the nickel towards him.

“It’s a
dollar
,” he repeated. “That’s a nickel.”

“But—” I thought about dead bunnies until my eyes welled up. “It’s money. For the candy bar.”

“Look, kid—”

I burst into tears. My mother stormed over. “What’s going on here?”

The teenager waved his arms. “I just told her it’s a dollar.”

“You made my little girl cry!”

The manager walked over. “Ma’am, what seems to be the problem?”

“The service here is terrible. Is your cashier on drugs? You let people on drugs work here?”

“No, ma’am. Calm down.”

“I just wa—wanted the candy bar.” I sobbed. “I had money.”

“Just give her the candy bar, Raymond.”

I made sure to grab the nickel before I left.

I took the seat next to Annabelle in Spanish class. She looked at me as if I’d grown five arms, but I’d timed it right before the lecture started, so she couldn’t move. I slipped her my hollow note-passing pen. She raised an eyebrow but took it.

When she sent it back, my message,
Pak is back in town. Meet to talk?
was answered with a single word.
No.

But it’s Pak,
I wrote back.

I know it was you.

I bit my lip.
You challenged my authority. I had to.

You’re messed up, you know that?

Yes, I knew that. I choked down my pride and wrote back one simple word.
Please
.

She didn’t write back. She watched the teacher at the front of the room as if I didn’t exist. Finally, before the bell rang, she nodded.

In history, Skittle slipped a note onto my desk.
Picked up your dress! Should I proofread your speech?
My pencil stilled. Speech? Oh, no. That couldn’t be tonight.
What’s my schedule?
I wrote back.

After class you’re going to the broadcasting department to record your speech for the announcements tomorrow, then you’ve got appearances at debate club and cross country before your fitting for your party dress, then homework and bed by ten so that you’ll get to school by six to preview the announcements. Remember?

No, I hadn’t remembered. I stopped myself from biting my pencil eraser. I could wing the speech, reschedule the dress fitting, and pay Payne to do my homework. With a former best friend to be dealt with and a conspiracy to uncover, I didn’t have time for things I could delegate.

I’ll record the speech, then you can make my appearances for me. You already know what to say.

Skittle fiddled with the paper like she was about to write something back, then just nodded instead.

The purple dress Skittle picked up for me was a little too tight, but I thought it would work for my half-minute campaign platform speech.

I slipped into a chair in front of the camera. “Can we do this fast? I have somewhere to be.”

“Just a minute, Birdie.” The adviser, Mrs. Larue, held up a finger. “The students were thinking of changing the format this year.”