Page 15 of Icing Hearts

My head bobs with fervor as I argue back. “It’s not antiquated. That movie was groundbreaking. Have you even seen it?”

“How else would I know it’s antiquated?” he sasses.

“One of the actors, Darlene Cates, died the same way her character did. She even got healthier before passing, and her character had vowed to do the same. Quite the poetic tragedy, I think.”

“Which one did she play?”

“The mom.”

He nods, but his head is on the study table. The library is warm today, like someone caught a chill and turned the heat too high. It’s a bit stuffy and, between Tory’s behavior at the game and the party, the walls seem to be closing in on me. I can’t stand it.

“About last night—” I begin.

Tory’s sharp tone cuts me off abruptly. “Say another word aboutanythingthat happened after school dismissal yesterday and I’ll walk out of here. I won’t hand in the work I’ve done for this stupid project, and we’ll both fail.”

He’s resting his head on his arms, eyes now focusing anywhere but on mine. Tory’s posture is in such sharp contrast to his statement. For someone who has it all—money, dalliances, family, a future—he always seems to be bothered bysomething. How sad.

Tory flips open his laptop, clearly ready to move on. I do the same with my written notes, the flutter of the pages rustling my tendrils.

We spend nearly an hour finishing our assignment, but it gets done. Considering his grades, Tory did a lot more than I thought he would. While I realize that having a partner who completes their share of the work is the bare minimum, it feels like more coming from Victory Winner Amato. He never has to work for anything.

I pack up my things and he half packs up his. Tory lingers, moving slowly, lazily, seemingly reluctant to leave. So I flip my phone over, lean my crossed arms on the table and tell him, “I’m glad Mr. M paired us. It wasn’t so bad, after all, was it?”

“Far worse.” Something in his tone is gravely earnest.

With that, I get up to leave, but he pinches the corner of my pink JanSport bookbag. His lips are sealed, but those chocolate eyes harbor many untold secrets.

I sit back down with a huff. He doesn’t speak. But he looks at me—really studies me. Tory’s lips purse, like something is on the tip of his tongue, but the jaws of life couldn’t wrench the words free, even if his heart wants nothing more than to be unburdened.

So I offer up my own divulgence in hopes it will open the floodgates. “You’re different outside school. You speak differently. I never dreamed you were so eloquent. Sometimes, you’ll say something and it’s…practically Elizabethan.”

“Yeah, Charity, I don’t just speak jock, after all. Shall I call you Lady Montague?”

“Why not Miss Capulet? Juliet’s the star after all,” I argue. “Hey, that would be such a cute couples costume.”

“Couples costumes are dumb.” His retort is quick, and the secrets in his eyes vanish—the usual playfulness taking center stage. “Plus, she dies at the end.”

“True—the dying part. You couldn’t be more wrong about couples costumes.” I quirk my head. “So why haven’t I noticed before?”

Tory gazes off toward the stairs, suddenly miles away. “We’ve never been alone,” he lies.

And just to make sure he knows that I know it’s a lie, I say, “We were. Once.”

Tory pauses so long that I think he’s dropped the conversation. I’m suddenly aware of the stale smell of old books and the hum of a heater.

And then he breaks the silence with a whispered, “Yes. That one time.” Tory’s voice is distant and small—reminiscent. He scribbles something on the lacquered wood study table with his pencil. I resist the urge to swat his hand and scold him for the delinquency.

“You’d forgotten?” I ask. As soon as he pulls away and leans back in his chair, I swipe my eraser across his doodle. It was a tiny ribbon, tied into a bow, identical to the one in my hair.

“Not forgotten. Blocked from my memory.” He inhales deeply. “Or rather, buried deep down. Down beneath the soil, loam, and bedrock. In a sealed coffin, no less. Lamented over with a flowery eulogy.” Tory pauses, staring at some spot on the table, the moments playing over his face like a movie screen. “It was beautiful. But brief. Devastatingly brief. A moment born and dead on the same day.”

“You rigged that game of Spin the Bottle,” I whisper, each word full of meaning and reminiscence from my own point-of-view. What I wouldn’t give to relive that moment—ourmoment from inside his mind.

And suddenly, I’m back in Judy Theil’s basement a month before her family moved to Texas. Dank and musty. The walls weren’t sheet rocked. We all gathered on a carpet remnant leftover from a renovation. It still smelled like chemicals. We sat around a coffee table that she’d spilled nail polish on and then tried to remove, but it had just stripped the finish in a big blobby circle. I thought…I thought it meant something .

My mother died three weeks later.

“Based on what evidence?” he scoffs, “If you’re going to make such an accusation you need proof, Charity.” He finally looks into my eyes, and it sucks the air from me with such violence, I’m surprised I’m still vertical.

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