Page 24 of Icing Hearts

“Charity?”

My turn is slow, and while I move, I question the judgment of the decision not to keep walking out the door—not to pretend I don’t hear him. When our eyes meet, years of unspoken promises and impossibilities pass between us.

But all he says is, “I can’t do this much longer.”

That night, when I go to sleep, I’m restless. There are people I could talk to—people I could ask for advice. But I won’t. We really aren’t close enough, though, and I don’t want to confide in Jack, or Jasmine, or Thomas, or Clover, or any of the lunch table girls. I want my mom. Or maybe even a dad who cares enough to listen.

The final thought that crosses my mind as I drift off is that the story of Clara and Tory, will surely be…

…a tragedy.

Chapter 15

Victory

After six days, Clara hasn’t mentioned my drunken shenanigans, so I think I’m in the clear. It’s Halloween. Kids dressed up. Clara wore cat ears, drew a black triangle on her nose and whiskers on her cheeks. I want to be her mouse.

It’s Friday night and our first official tutoring session was supposed to begin right after dismissal. Tomorrow morning, we have an away game so there’s no practice today, and Clara demanded we meet in the school library.

Three minutes later, I couldn’t even hear her talk over the growling of her empty stomach. She didn’t eat lunch today. I always notice. Sometimes, I’m able to get in line ahead of her and slip the lunch lady a few dollars to put on Clara’s account. But my science test ran long, so I was too late. Maybe if her useless, idiot father decided to spend his money wisely, instead of gambling it away, she’d have money for basic necessities. Both of our lives would be so much easier if he just…disappeared.

I digress.

It took another seven minutes to drag her out to my car. I only accomplished this by taking all her belongings and sprinting to the parking lot. I threw her crap in the backseat and blocked the door until she relented and buckled up in the front. Then, it was another three minutes getting her to admit where she’d like to eat. This was only accomplished by threatening to take her to McDonald’s which is, apparently, a fate worse than death for the health nut.

So here we are, outside a little smoothie shop on the town green during the first week of November in Minnesota. How very Clara.

“What do you think?” she asks as I sit on a neon lime bench, digging into my acai bowl.

“I’d rather be eating ice cream,” I grumble.

“Not me, I don’t eat dairy.” She taps her straw on my knee several times to push the other end out of the paper. It’s one of those biodegradable straws so it bends and cracks, creating a little slit in the side but she doesn’t seem to notice or mind. Clara groans with satisfaction as she pokes the straw into the top of her cup lid. “Ugh, I just love that sound,” she says before taking a big swig. Air whistles through the crack. “Don’t you love that sound? When the straw slides into the lid.”

It’s beautiful, really. The way she doesn’t let little things steal her joy. Sometimes I worry it’s all a façade and something is gravely wrong. Well, her dad sucks, but I think she’s just happy she still has one parent.

“Never thought about it. Only pussies use straws.” I pop the lid off my green juice and toss it in the garbage, kicking back a hearty gulp. I light up a cigarette and take a long drag—the one benefit of being outside.

Clara’s eyes go wide, and she gives me a look of utter horror. Her lips tighten into a thin line, the impact of which is intended to be scolding. It works.

“Sorry. Only…poltroons use straws,” I say. “Better?”

She considers, then nods. “If anyone’s lily-livered, it’s you. Sitting there with a cigarette and a green juice? You’re an oxymoron if I’ve ever seen one. Or maybe just a moron.”

I take another sip and a few more drags before putting out my cigarette on a brick beneath my feet. To my chagrin, this healthy drink actually tastes decent. But I won’t give Clara the gratification of my admitting such.

“Since when are you dairy free?” I’m surprised I didn’t notice. Perhaps I’ve been so focused on making sure she eats at all, after that first night working on our project, that I haven’t noticed what she ate. “Are you one of those ‘Oh, I’m DF/GF’ girls?” I mock, because I just want an excuse to cling to any shred of disdain for the goddess before me.

Though, in reality, every layer I uncover makes me love her more. Screw Clara Larsen and her wiles.

“Are you one of those spineless recreants who has to insult the dietary choices or requirements of others to feel like a big man?” Her head bobs with sass.

“Well, I’m certainly cowardly.” I glance up and see one of my former flings walking down the sidewalk with a couple guys from the football team. We aren’t terribly good friends, but if they see me, they’ll stop, and I’ll be caught. Word gets around in a small town, and I’ve already been too reckless. The chief is bound to be breathing down my neck soon.

“Be right back,” I mutter and speed off toward the bathroom.

When I return, we finish our drinks and head out. Clara makes me pick up my cigarette butt and throw it out. I would have done it, anyway. I might be a smoker but I’m not a wastrel.

As we drive down the road back toward school Clara snags my phone and chooses a song. “People Watching” by Conan Gray plays over the speakers. She pumps up the volume and sings over the music, using her hand as a microphone. At a red light she holds the invisible microphone in front of my mouth, and I grab her wrist. I guess I’ll blame instinct, or maybe temporary insanity for what I do next.

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