Page 44 of Icing Hearts

My eyes narrow with suspicion. “What made you do that?”

She glances behind her, careful to make sure no one will interrupt us and overhear what she’s about to say. Marcia rests her hand on my forearm, and I lean forward to listen closely.

“That boy is trouble, Clara.”

“He’s not—”

“I know you think you know him, but you don’t know his family. It’s no secret that your father dislikes him. But it’s for a good reason.”

“What’s the reason?”

“Now I can’t tell you that, honey, and don’t go trying to sniff it out for yourself. I’m serious. I can’t have it getting back that I even mentioned this to you. I know that boy is as handsome as they come, but don’t be blinded to it like all the other girls. He’ll just break your heart. It’s in his nature.”

“How could you possibly know that? Have you ever even spoken to him?”

“Don’t need to.”

Just then, my father raps on the door. I’m certain Marcia is about to jump out of her skin. She isn’t a very good spy, or double agent, or whatever she was just trying to be.

“Ready to go, Clara?” he asks. Asks. As if I have the choice. The warmth in his smile is fake. He looks constipated. I’m sure it’s Marcia’s blind loyalty that keeps her from seeing. The refusal of Marcia, and everyone else on the police force, to see through his façade makes me question everything. Including the validity of whatever vitriol she just spewed about Tory.

Marcia smiles at me and says, “I packed up a container of soup for you and Dad and put it in your backpack.

“Thanks, Marsh,” the chief says, sliding his jacket on. He puts a heavy paw on my shoulder and leads me out the front door. I used to wince when he touched me, but I learned my lesson pretty quickly.

On the car ride home, I steal a glance at the chief. Deep bags line his eyes, and I think he’s aged ten years in half as much time. I think he would have been a good father if my mom hadn’t died. Or at least a halfway decent one.

I don’t ask him about his day. I answer any questions he asks respectfully and with just the right amount of detail. Not enough, and I’m rude. Too much, and I’m annoying. It’s a delicate balance, but I manage.

Accidentally slamming the car door shut was never something I thought about before. I do now. I’m careful to close the passenger side gently, but with enough force to actually seal it. Inside, I quickly sort the mail and ask, “Would you like me to heat you some soup on the stove?”

Nervously wringing hands get hidden behind my back. The chief doesn’t like fidgeting.

Specifics are helpful. Heating something in the microwave when he wanted it from the stove or oven is bad. The opposite mistake is even worse. I make the soup. Deliver it in a large mug with a handle, in case he wants to eat it on the couch. The television blares and he mutters a “thank you.”

Then, I disappear. I clean the dishes and tidy up quietly. Nothing loud like the vacuum. Nothing that would cause an inconvenience like mopping. Those get done when he’s at work. I skip the stair that creaks and get ready for bed.

The chief sleeps in the primary bedroom with an attached bathroom, so he doesn’t use the one in the hall. Even so, I keep my products in my room to prevent him from thinking I’m a spendthrift.

If you look around my house, you’d think I died when my mom died. Aside from my bedroom, and the washer and dryer on laundry days, there’s virtually no evidence that a teenage girl lives here.

No photos of me grace the walls after age thirteen. Most of them are of the three of us, or me and mom, or the chief and my mom. None of him and I from any age. Based on the way photos of me stop, you’d think I’d died right alongside her.

But he never comes in my room. So it’s my sanctuary. I’ve turned it into one. It’s pink. Always has been. I put up fairy lights that one of my neighbors was throwing out and tacked some fake ivy along the walls. A soft girl’s oasis.

Tory’s hoodie still smells like cinnamon, and I put it on, dreading the next wash day.

Chapter 27

Victory

Looks like I’ve sufficiently mucked things up with Clara. We’ve been seated at a table grouping in an empty classroom for three minutes, and she hasn’t looked at me once. Three minutes might not sound like a long time, but when you’re waiting for something, it’s an eternity.

Henry Mavis wasn’t at school today. I talked to him yesterday, and he isn’t going to press charges or anything. He was understandably upset until I explained to him, in full detail, what he was doing to Clara. By the end of the conversation, he realized it could have been much worse for him. Nothing was broken, and his parents grounded him after I convinced him to tell them why they shouldn’t be irate with me. If there’s anything I won’t do, it’s take the fall for a scumbag. I really don’t think he’ll be bothering Clara again, especially now that I had his parents call the school and transfer him out of Clara’s French class.

Today is a mandatory team study hall day. The rest of the team is crammed into one of the health and wellness classrooms by the gym, but Clara and I get a room to ourselves so we can focus.

“Can we talk?” I ask her, feeling bold after the weekend. Clara leaving with Vince threw me for a loop. Perhaps I was wrong to think things would be any different in the morning. Our circumstances haven’t changed, after all.

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