Once we finish our hot chocolate, we wander around the local vendors for gifts. I’m tempted to drop more hints about the paper hearts, but I try to listen to Pete and stay in the moment.
“What about this?” Pete asks, holding up a picture frame made of pieces of glass in different shades of pink. “I can tell her to save it for the photo we take together at Senior Day.”
“That’s perfect,” I say. “She’ll love it.”
“You think so?”
“Definitely. You’ll win Son of the Year,” I say, forcing a smile before Pete heads to the cashier. Student government doesn’t have a Senior Day with parents, but there’s always a small party for the graduating class at the end of the year that the planning committee throws. We would make photo albums with all the memorable moments. It took hours of cutting and pasting on top of finding the best pictures, but it was always worth it in the end to see how happy the graduating seniors were. It suddenly dawns on me that nobody will be making one for me.
You had to quit, I remind myself.
On the first day of school this year, there was an informational meeting for everyone who wanted to join student government, as always. When I arrived, only two sophomore girls had gotten to the classroom before me. They were chatting as two best friends might when they think nobody else is around, and they didn’t stop because they didn’t see me at the doorway.
One of them jokingly asked if the other thought I’d be as much of a dictator this year or if a bump to the head knocked some niceness into me.
Everything about what she said was hypocritical—she wasn’t exactly being nice talking about me behind my back. It was also a little too soon to be making fun of my accident, if you asked me. The old me would’ve probably called her out right then and there. The new me was struggling, though. When people used to stare at me in the hall, I knew it was for one of two reasons. Either they thought I was pretty, or they wanted to see who was lucky enough to date Pete Yearling. On that first day of school, all I could do was wonder what people were thinking. My accident was old news, and it wasn’t like people could see the scars underneath my perfect first-day outfit, although I was still constantly tugging at my sleeves.
As if I wasn’t self-conscious enough, I couldn’t help but think about the get-well cards—the ones that made me realize what people actually thought of me.
As these girls laughed at me in the student government room, I remembered the fake letters they had sent me hoping to see me back at school soon. The thought made me nauseous.
So, I backed away from the classroom door without looking back.
When I got home my mom raised her eyebrows and asked why I was back so early. I told her that I wasn’t doing student government this year but left out what I had overheard. I think when she was examining my face, though, she detected a sadness. That’s why over the next couple of weeks she would ask if I had changed my mind. I hadn’t, and the fact that she kept bringing it up was only making it worse. I suddenly realized what it must feel like to be Ashley—before she picked up the guitar, my mom was always insisting that she join a club after school. Maybe that’s why by the hundredth time my mom asked if I was considering rejoining student government, Ashley stood up for me, telling her no and to leave me alone. In that moment, I had an appreciation for her in a way I hadn’t in a long time. It was a moment that reminded me that despite our differences, we have each other’s backs.
But thinking about Senior Day now, a part of me wonders if my mom was right. Should I have just tried to stick with it instead of feeling sorry for myself? Maybe that’s really what my admirer is trying to tell me. Is that why they’re sending me on all these adventures? So I can actually do things again and live my life?
Well, if that’s the case, they’re right.
I watch Pete receive the paper bag with the frame wrapped inside.
“Ready?” Pete asks once he turns around.
“Ready,” I answer…and I mean it in more than one way.
* * *
As Pete drives me home, I wonder again if he’s going to kiss me.
We had such a great night. I reach into my gift bag and find the paperweight I purchased for my dad. It’s in the shape of an actual human heart—so realistic you can see all the veins and other parts of the heart—the aorta, the pulmonary valve, and more that I know, thanks to my dad being a science professor. This is the type of Valentine’s Day present he’ll appreciate.
My fingers trail over the paper weight in the same path the blood takes. People think the heart is on the left side of the body because that’s where you can feel the left ventricle pumping blood to the lungs. But it’s really in the middle. I’m sure there’s some scientific reason for that but my theory is because our hearts are at the center of everything we do.
“I’m so happy you found that,” Pete says. I look over and his eyes are on me. I wonder how long he has been watching. “My mom’s going to love her gift too.”
“She will. She’s lucky to have such a thoughtful son.”
Pete smiles. “It’s the least I could do. She brought me into this world.”
It’s like everything that comes out of his mouth is so impossibly nice. Every second that goes by, the surer I am that my mystery admirer is Pete. It has to be someone caring to go through so much trouble.
After we picked out our gifts, we found the fried dough station, and he told me stories about his teammates and family members. He even told me an embarrassing story about himself when he was younger to even out the score since my dad had already told him one of mine. It was beyond endearing—just like all of the paper hearts have been. It just has to be him, I think as we reach my driveway.
“I’ll walk you to your door,” he says once we’re parked.
The snow is still falling, enough of it sticking to the driveway so that our shoes make footprints as we walk.
When we make it to the steps, I just put one bootie on the wood, forgetting all about the ice underneath the fallen snow. I lose my balance just a little, but Pete’s there to steady me.
“Sorry—I should’ve reminded you it’s icy,” he says, holding my arms. I can’t believe he’s apologizing to me when I’m the one being a klutz. Before I can say anything, we’re at my doorstep. “I hope this was the first date you imagined,” he says. I nod. Then he bends down and kisses me.
My lips remember his. They feel so warm now compared to the cold air, and I press harder. It’s only for a few seconds, though. Soon he pulls away. He’s probably too much of a gentleman to kiss me deeply with my dad right inside, but I would’ve liked to see if a real kiss with Pete would give me butterflies. When he pulls back, he smiles widely before walking down the steps.