Page 5 of The Heart That Breaks
He’s really tall like someone who could have been a rider, his legs unnaturally long in proportion to his short torso. The top of his head is completely bald, but the remaining hair above his ears looks as thick and determined to hang around as that of any eighteen-year old in our school.
It seems like an unfair thing for a man to endure, part of his hair disappearing altogether. I’ve wondered why he doesn’t concede to the total loss and shave the rest off instead of looking like he remains hopeful that the hair that used to be there will one day reappear.
It might sound like I’m making fun of Mr. Calhoun, but I’m actually not. I kind of feel sorry for him. Student derision of our principal could be an actual sport here.
He continues on down the hall now with his crop swatting, as I turn in to my English Lit classroom. I take my seat at the far back corner, dropping my backpack on the floor beside my desk and unzipping it to pull out my book.
By now, I’ve pretty much perfected my tactics on how to get by in high school. I start to reread last night’s assignment,Horseman in the Skyby Ambrose Bearce. My teacher, Mrs. Sawyer, has already told us what a genius Bearce is because of his use of imagery and promised us a quiz on why it’s so important. The trick to making A’s is really just paying attention to the hints your teachers drop about what’s going to be on a test.
“That’s got to be the most boring story I’ve ever read.”
I look up to see Nathan Hanson take the desk beside me. Nathan. Hanson. I feel sure sweat has just broken out on my forehead. I hadn’t heard him walk in the room, so I guess I must have been more into the story than I realized. “Ah, it’s a little wordy,” I say, jerking my gaze from his blue-eyed stare.
“You’re being nice,” he says.
At our high school, Nathan Hanson is one of those guys in the A group of life. Just kind of born with it all. Very dark brown hair. Very light blue eyes. Six-three at age eighteen. Starting quarterback on the varsity football team. Oh, and his dad is a famous songwriter who has had songs recorded by Barefoot Outlook, which makes him practically royalty to me.
I wonder what odds allow such a win in the genetic lottery pool. One in a trillion? A gazillion? Definitely, if that’s even a number.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t understand it?” I say, hearing the disbelieving note in my voice.
“I understood it,” he throws back. “I just nearly fell asleep while I was reading it.”
I shrug. “It was pretty cool, that whole horse and rider against the sky thing.”
“Yeah, until you realize they’re actually falling to their deaths. And that a son had just killed his father who was on the other side in the war. That’s messed up.”
“I guess we’ve never had to face anything like that,” I say, looking back at my book.
“I would never shoot my own father, whether we were on opposite sides or not. Would you?”
“I don’t have a father, ” I say, still not looking at him.
“Oh,” he says, immediately silenced.
I do look at him then because for some reason, I want to witness his discomfort. That seems like a small price for him to pay considering the different hands we had already been dealt in life.
“Did he die?” Nathan asks, unknowingly digging himself a deeper hole.
“I never knew my father,” I say. “I wouldn’t recognize him if I passed him on the street.”
“Oh,” he says again.
Other students start filing in now, the seats around us beginning to fill up. “Why are you sitting here anyway?” I ask.
“Is there some law against it?”
“Nooo. I just thought maybe you were confused about the fact that this isn’t the cheerleader corner.”
If I had planned for him to be offended, it doesn’t work. He laughs, as if I’ve just said something extraordinarily funny.
“You’re sassy, you know it?”
I’ve been called a lot of things, but that’s not one of them. I like his laugh though, and I have a sudden desire to make him do it again. “If you’re over here because you’re bored with the cheerleaders, I can assure you you’ll get bored here way faster.”
“Well, you’re certainly entitled to your own opinion,” he says.
Mrs. Sawyer raps on her wood desk with the ruler she uses as a pointer for the blackboard. “Class. Quiet, everyone. Let’s open your books to page one hundred. I trust you all readHorseman in the Skylast night. I’m so excited to get your thoughts on Bearce’s use of imagery. Let’s get started.”
