The Constant Heart by Craig Nova Read Free Book Online Page A

promise personified? Mrs. Kilmer buzzed me through and I sat with the picture of the Horsehead Nebula that Sara had always liked.
    I bought some Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups at the Russian’s, a six-pack that he probably got at Costco, and for some reason he gave me a break on the price. At the supermarket I got some medium-absorbent Tampax, some toothpaste, mouthwash, and a toothbrush. My father had given me fifty dollars in cash, which I put in the bag with the other stuff and hoped no one would steal it. Then I went to the Staples down the street and got a notebook, a pen, and some glue. I don’t know why I got the glue. It sat in the bag with the other stuff, its little bottle with the flat nipple-like thing at the end, and I took the bus out to the Dukakis Center for Troubled Girls. No barbed wire or anything like that, but a fence around it that looked like one around a new tennis court. Some trees had just been planted and were held up by guy-wires that had little pieces
of hose around the places where the wire touched the trees, so as not to hurt them. The bus stopped and I got off its steps, which were black and worn. The bus pulled away, leaving a cloud of exhaust, which had a smell of the future about it: something burning and ominous in a way I couldn’t sum up but which left me uneasy.
    It was a new building, made of cinder blocks and with doors painted cheerful colors, which made you feel like you had ants or grit in your sandwich. The walk to the front door didn’t go in a straight line, but in a long, lazy S, as though to show that the path of life wasn’t always straight, as though any young woman who came to this place didn’t know that. The grass was thick and beautifully mowed, and the surprising thing was that to the touch it seemed real. No AstroTurf. But grass.
    A woman who could easily have been Mrs. Kilmer’s cousin sat at the reception desk. The room itself was painted a pastel green, sort of like the best possible version of money, and as I came in the door, the voices of young women, from the gym behind the reception desk, came into the room. I guessed they were playing volleyball.
    â€œI’d like to see someone,” I said to the woman at the reception desk, who went right on typing at her computer, a new one with a flat screen, when she said, “Are you a family member or immediate relative or has your visit been approved by the court or a probation officer?”
    â€œI’d like to see Sara McGill,” I said. The paper of my bag made a sad wrinkling.
    â€œAre you a family member or immediate relative . . . ”
    â€œNo,” I said.

    Her eyes, dark as ink in a bottle, turned in my direction.
    â€œThen what are you?”
    â€œJust a boy. A friend.”
    â€œHmpf,” she said. “Forget it. You don’t get to see her unless you are an immediate family member or your visit is approved by a probation . . . ”
    The bag made a crinkling noise as I put it on the counter in front of the computer. Then I took out the notebook and wrote in it, “I love you,” and pushed it back in the bag.
    â€œCan you give this to her?” I said.
    â€œDoes it contain contraband, metal, knives, weapons, inflammable material, controlled substances, or other items on this list . . . ?”
    She gave me a clean, crisp list.
    â€œNo,” I said.
    â€œOK,” she said. “I’ll give it to her. No personal messages though.”
    She reached into the bag, took out the notebook, ripped out the page, and gave it back to me.
    The bus didn’t come for an hour, and as I sat on the bench I put the paper on the seat next to me. The idea, when you made one of those origami things that Sara made, was to start with a fold that made a sort of triangle, although you had to fold the bottom of it to get it even. I creased the edge with my thumbnail and folded it again, each step coming without even thinking about it until I was