Page 8 of The Heart That Breaks
As much as I hadn’t wanted to admit it, she’s right that we don’t run in the same circles. If high school is a microcosm of society, Ann-Elizabeth and I definitely come from different neighborhoods. And the girls I normally hang out with are from my own.
But I’ve noticed her.
For a while now.
And the truth is I’ve wanted to talk to her, but it wasn’t until today that I worked up the courage.
If you asked anybody on the football team whether I have trouble talking to the opposite sex or not, they would almost for sure tell you no. And for the most part, I guess that’s true.
It’s not like that with Ann-Elizabeth though. There’s something different about her.
She’s serious about life. Like maybe she’s lived stuff beyond our age. I’ve wondered what it could be. Why she acts more mature than other girls in our class. I don’t know the answer, but I know her mom works at a convenience store outside of town and that they probably don’t have a lot of money. Not that it seems like Ann-Elizabeth cares about that kind of thing. Still, I’m aware that most of the kids I know take for granted stuff like having a car and college being paid for. Somehow, I doubt that she does.
I stop by my locker and grab a book for my next class. My phone beeps. I glance at the screen.
Making your favorite casserole for dinner. What time will you be home?
I tap a quick answer.
6:30? Thanks, Mom. U rock.
I head down the hall, thinking about the one time I saw Ann-Elizabeth’s mom at the convenience store where she works. Matt Robinson and I had ridden our bikes out to the lake near there to go fishing. We stopped to get some supplies, and it was Matt who pointed her out. I remember being surprised because even though I could see the resemblance, she had this look about her that made it clear life hadn’t been the easiest. Which made me wonder about Ann-Elizabeth and what things were like for her at home.
When we brought our stuff up to the register to pay, Ms. Casteel gave us a look and said, “You boys look like you’re about my daughter’s age. Do you know Ann-Elizabeth Casteel?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “We’re in the same classes.”
“With you,” Matt said. “You two being among the intellectuals.”
I ignored him and said, “She makes most of the rest of us look dumb.”
Ms. Casteel smiled then, and she looked a lot younger. “I’d like to say she gets it from me, but I’m convinced it’s a recessive gene as they say.”
Not sure how to respond to that, I said, “I’m sure you’re proud of her.”
“Did you know she can sing too?” she asked, ringing up our items.
“Really?” I asked, surprised by this.
She nodded. “In church now and then. I’ve been trying to get her to spread her wings a bit, but she’s shy about letting anyone hear her.”
“Yeah. I get that.”
“What’s your name, young man?”
“Nathan. Hanson.”
She gave me a long look, and then said, “Your daddy wouldn’t be Aaron Hanson, would he?”
“He is.”
“Well, I’ll be,” she said, clapping her hands together. “He’s written my favorite songs.”
“Mine too,” I said.
Surprise flitted across her face. “Well, that’s awfully nice, considering your age. Most teenagers think their parents are dumber than dirt.”
I shrugged. “He’s pretty much taught me everything I know.”
