Page 19 of Icing Hearts

“Mr. Macintyre. What are you doing here?” the words tumble from my lips and I frantically add, “We didn’t cheat!” Because why else would Mr. M be in here unless he somehow thinks we cheated on our project—and that’s when I see Tory’s parents wedged into the corner behind him. What in the great lakes is going on?

My eyes dart from person to person, starting and ending with Tory and his insouciant grin.

“Clara, have a seat.” Coach motions for me to sit in one of the empty chairs across from Tory. It appears to have been plucked from an obscure supply closet for the occasion, based on its mismatched wood and cracking pleather seat.

Tory smothers a laugh with the back of his hand, and I glare at him, eyes wide with mortification.

“I’ll start,” Mr. M speaks up. “You two did an excellent job on your project. Victor has never been so knowledgeable in class, and it was clear that partnering the two of you was a great idea on my part.” He pauses to smile, and it feels like Mr. M is congratulating himself for cracking some sort of code.

“What is this about?” I ask no one in particular.

Tory huffs and crosses his arms. “Would you just let him finish, Charity?”

I snarl at him, and Tory’s mother lets out a low chuckle. “Sorry,” I blurt.

“Don’t stop on my account,” she tells me, hands raised by her shoulders . “He needs it.”

“Geez, Ma,” Tory groans, and it takes every ounce of self-control not to burst out laughing at the realness of the moment.

Immediately, I warm to his mom. I give her a broad grin as Coach clears his throat.

“Enough histrionics, kids. Clara, Tory needs a tutor. We’d all like it to be you. Now, I’m sure you’re busy with your own stuff so as an incentive, the Amato’s have graciously offered to pay you forty dollars a session. We’d like you to tutor Tory after school for an hour, twice a week. Take the next couple days to think about—”

“I’ll do it,” I cut him off. My eager response gets a laugh from three out of the four adults and a groan from Tory. But it’s really a no brainer. At least, it should be. I mean, seeing Tory more, plus I get paid to do it? Win-win, right?

On paper, it is. But as I walk out of the office and the locker room, tossing Tory’s jersey into his supply locker, I can’t seem to shake an impending sense of doom.

Maybe not doom, exactly. More like one of those yellow warning signs on the road. The ones that tell you to proceed with caution.

That’s Tory, for me. A walking, yellow caution sign

Chapter 13

Clara

The rest of the week moves by in an excited blur. I start tutoring Tory next week. It’s Saturday. Halloween isn’t until next Friday, but tonight is Tory’s annual costume party. His family doesn’t actually celebrate Halloween because they’re Catholic or something, so there’s never the usual spooky stuff and it’s always off by a week or so. But Tory never misses an opportunity to party.

This year I dress up as Barbie. Luckily, I already have a lot to work with. My mom’s old closet usually produces a few treasures, and she had a sleek, black one-piece bathing suit stashed away. I stole some pink felt from one of the art classrooms and cut it into the word BARBIE to stick across the front. Paired with pink tights I already own, old knee socks I cut into leg warmers, and sneakers, it made for the perfect Jazzercise Barbie costume. I got ready at Jasmine’s house with the other girls from the lunch table, and she drove us to Tory’s house. I throw on a pink zip-up hoodie that I’ll wrap around my waist at the party.

When we pull up, at least a dozen other kids from school are sprinting into Tory’s house. It’s freezing, and none of us want to make our grand entrances wearing parkas, apparently. As soon as we enter, we split up. I find a drink and the dance floor. Tory catches my eye, and we toast from across the room. I tap my imaginary wristwatch, reminding him that we have a dance date, and he should just get it over with.

After a few songs, I go over to Tory and Tiffany and get a good look at their costumes.

Anger flames in my veins as I realize what that prick has done.

They’re dressed as Romeo and Juliet. The Claire Danes and Leo DiCaprio version. Clearly, the idea came from our conversation at the library last Saturday. I didn’t even know they were that serious, though, I guess I should have, given the hickies.

My face falls, and I can’t help it. Tory has had plenty of girlfriends throughout our one-sided love affair. Usually, it doesn’t bother me. But this time, considering his recent actions…well, I don’t really know, but it just feels wrong. It feels like sometimes, I’m able to see his private story on social media and sometimes he has me blocked, for lack of a better analogy.

Tory gives me a knowing look when he catches me glaring. This is deliberate. He’s offended me with intentionality, and I can’t figure out why. It certainly doesn’t resemble our typical tit for tat.

“Something to say, Charity?” he asks with a mischievous smirk.

I cross my arms and scowl. A scowling Barbie must be quite a sight because he actually giggles. It must be the alcohol. His eyes are bloodshot and glassy—his typically graceful movements are a bit sluggish and exaggerated. And then, he does the unthinkable.

Victory Amato steps away from his girlfriend, the beauty queen, and wraps one arm around my bare shoulders, pulling me in for a hug. I’ve seen him hug plenty of other girls. But he’s only ever hugged me of his own volition on one other occasion. At my mother’s funeral. And that was a pity hug, so I’m not sure that it counts. I’ve hugged him plenty of times, but he never reciprocates, only tolerates.

Usually, he gives other girls a side hug and a kiss on the cheek, and I’m left feeling jealous, wishing I could push my cheek against theirs to get the kiss to transfer. It doesn’t work that way, but a girl can dream.

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