The Anatomical Shape of a Heart by Jenn Bennett Read Free Book Online Page A

the only real boyfriend I’d ever had—was kind of a jerk, but not in a tough-guy way. In the way that geeks sometimes are when they look down on everyone who doesn’t know the name of every Avenger or what 1337 meant.
    Howard Hooper would probably wet his pants if he even daydreamed about doing something as ballsy as vandalizing a museum in broad daylight.
    Where are you, Jack?
    When I finally got so frustrated I couldn’t handle it anymore, I decided to throw caution to the wind and posted the pic I took at the museum. I added the vaguely troll-rific comment Golden Apple Vandal wishing me a happy birthday .
    Once I’d hit SEND , I had a minor panic attack. There it was in my feed, for all 167 people who followed me to see. Okay, almost none of those people actually knew me, so maybe I was overreacting. Besides, I really only wanted one person to see it, because hey, you just can’t make an epic public declaration like that and then walk away as if nothing happened.
    When we finally got home, a printed note was stuck to the door from some place named Godspeed Courier. “Sorry we missed you, but we need your signature. We’ll try again ___.” The blank wasn’t filled in, and there was no name.
    â€œBike messenger?” Mom said, hefting steaming bags of takeout. “What is this, Heath?”
    â€œHow should I know? I didn’t order anything. Maybe it’s a birthday present for Bex.”
    â€œRight. Because I have so many friends who use courier service.”
    â€œProbably the wrong address,” Mom said, taking the courier note before heading toward the kitchen.
    â€œMaybe it was meant for Julie.”
    â€œWho knows,” Mom called back. “I’ll ask her about it next time I see her.”
    â€œI can run it up to her,” I said.
    â€œI said I’d take care of it, Beatrix,” she snapped in a very un-Katherine way.
    â€œSheesh,” I mumbled. “Bossy much?”
    I remembered Mom’s late-night phone call. She’d told the person not to mail anything. Was this what she was talking about?
    â€œI thought you were starving. Come help me get ice in the glasses,” she said in a nicer tone from the kitchen before I could read anything more into it.
    Besides, I had other things to worry about, like the ding on my phone. One HAPPY BDAY text from Lauren and Kayla in LA (who couldn’t even spare enough time to send separate texts or type the IRTH ). While I was at it, I checked my email. Holy freaking alerts, Batman: The photo I’d uploaded two hours ago had been reposted 503 times, which was about five hundred more times than anything else I’d ever posted. Was I the only person who’d snapped a picture?
    â€œBex,” Mom called again.
    â€œComing!” Ugh. Maybe posting that photo was a mistake.
    My post-museum panicky high faded into a slow buzz after a movie and massive amounts of Pad See-Ew noodles and lemongrassy Panang curry. While Mom was in the kitchen, our doorbell rang. It was almost eight o’clock, which was kind of late for someone to be stopping by. My brain jumped to conclusions and screamed Jack , but when Heath swung the door open, it was a uniformed police officer.
    The oh-shit look on Heath’s face was mirrored on my mom’s when she walked into the room balancing a plate of three candlelit cupcakes.
    â€œEvening. I’m Officer Dixon,” he said. “Sorry to interrupt your night, but if you don’t mind, I have a few questions. May I come in?”
    Mom’s shoulder’s sagged. “Of course. Heath, close the door and sit down. Beatrix, go to your room.”
    â€œYou’re Beatrix Adams?” the cop said.
    â€œUmm, yes?”
    â€œYou’re the person I’d like to speak with.”
    â€œMe?”
    â€œDid you post a photograph online from the account BioArtGirl?”
    My response was caught in some kind of psychedelic slow-motion