The Museum of Heartbreak by Meg Leder Read Free Book Online

palm.
    â€œLater, killer,” he said.
    As my mom walked them out, I unfolded the paper, its edges torn.
    My breath fled, a startled swoop of birds taking flight.
    Eph had drawn a tiny T. rex holding a heart, and in small capital letters underneath he had written, apostrophe missing and all: DONT BE ABSURD .

Nevermore flyer
    Nevermore libellus
    Saint Bartholomew’s Academy
    New York, New York
    Cat. No. 201X-5
    Gift of Grace Drosman
    â€œSO, ON SATURDAY . . . ,” I STARTED to say.
    I tried to sneak a glance at Eph’s notebook, wondering if he was drawing his dinosaurs. I hadn’t brought them up since family dinner at our house last week, but I was dying to know if he was working on more. That afternoon, however, he was hunched over on his Chipotle chair in a way that prevented any peeking.
    â€œ. . . what time are we leaving for Saint Bart’s Fall Festival? Four?”
    Without taking his eyes off his notebook, Eph made a fart noise, his de facto response anytime anyone mentioned a word that rhymed with fart—a habit honed to perfection since we’d attended Saint Bartholomew’s Academy since kindergarten.
    â€œYou’re disgusting. Audrey?”
    Audrey started slurping her Diet Coke hard, avoiding my eyes.
    â€œWait a minute, we’re going, right?”
    Audrey raised her eyebrows at Eph.
    He shrugged, mouth still full of chips. “I thought you were going to tell her.”
    â€œTell me what?” I asked.
    The three of us had gone to the Saint Bart’s Fall Festival since we met Audrey back in third grade, not because it raised money for our school, though there was that. When we were little, we went because everyone in our class went. We’d get our faces painted like Spider-Man and eat so much cotton candy and caramel apples that our teeth felt tingly and rotten in the first half hour. We won goldfish in water-filled bags and instant grade-school cred by riding the Scrambler. I loved it so much, I actually looked forward to it during summer vacation.
    Sure, it had gotten less cool as we got older, but we had still gone every single year. It was tradition, history.
    I glanced between my two best friends, waiting for someone to crack.
    â€œI’m going to Saint Ignatius’s homecoming dance,” Audrey blurted out.
    â€œWith Gregory?”
    Her face scrunched in confusion. I pointed at my neck—you know, now that I was completely familiar with the world of hickeys.
    â€œOh God, no. It’s with this guy named Ethan. Cherisse is going with his friend Hunter. Wait a minute . . .” She chewed her lip thoughtfully. “You know, maybe I could see if one of their friends needs a date. . . .”
    â€œNo, that’s okay,” I said quickly, the thought of going on a blinddate in front of Cherisse less appealing than eating those bug-egg beads in tapioca pudding.
    â€œAre you mad? Please don’t be mad.”
    Last week’s conversation about French Club and social circles came ricocheting back. “No, not at all,” I said, my voice going artificially cheery.
    â€œI’m sorry, Pen. I meant to tell you earlier this week. I figured we had outgrown the festival and weren’t going to go anyway. I shouldn’t have assumed.”
    She didn’t mean it as an insult, but I immediately felt like a giant baby-faced baby for still wanting to go to the festival.
    I remembered last year, how Eph and I finally talked Audrey into riding the Ferris wheel, how even though she was sandwiched between us, she was terrified the whole excruciatingly slow way up—white-knuckled, slightly green-faced—but when we got to the top, she let out this sweet little exhalation of wonder, surveying all the flashing festival lights below. “Why didn’t you ever tell me it was this lovely?” she asked indignantly.
    I shook my head, making myself return to the present moment, trying to seem