Reckless Hearts

Hoping to make peace, Elena asked, “How’s life in the fast lane? Has Cameron taken you out on the yacht yet?”

“No,” he said glumly. “And even if he had … he’s sort of aggressively proud of how rich he is, you know?”

Maybe this was why Jake was in such a mood today. Maybe he was having a hard time getting used to the idea of this new guy strolling into his life and in some way trying to replace his dad. Elena frowned sympathetically, but she wasn’t sure Jake saw. She’d lost him to the hidden thoughts in his head.

She surveyed the room with its potted palm trees and tiki lamps and rasta flags. There was Seth Rothman. And Sally French. Hank Lewis. Cassie Crews. When Hannah Jones entered, Elena watched her fuss over where to sit. This happened every time Hannah showed up at one of Jake’s gigs. Trying to look nonchalant with a finger tapping at her lip, Hannah paced from one part of the room to another, vying for a prime position near the stage, where she could sink her head into the cradle of her arms and gaze longingly at Jake while he played.

“Look,” Elena said, trying again to coax him out of his mood. “Hannah’s here to ogle you again.”

This got him to at least look at her, but it didn’t lighten his mood. “I’ve got a girlfriend,” he snapped. “Sarah. Remember?”

“Still, it’s nice to be wanted, isn’t it?”

“Not by Hannah. Remember Lilah Bell?”

“Yeah.” Everyone remembered Lilah Bell and the crazy obsessive way she’d stalked Jules Turnbull. It was the most exciting thing to have ever happened at Chris Columbus High. A warning story people told themselves when they felt themselves slipping toward making bad, bad decisions. “But—”

Jake cut her off before she could finish her sentence. “You want that to happen to me?”

He was just impossible today. “Jake,” she said. “Why so defensive? This is me you’re talking to.”

She locked eyes with him and danced her head around, trying to coax a grin out of him. When it finally came, halfheartedly, she could tell Jake was just appeasing her. She sighed and rolled her head back to look at the imitation bamboo ceiling.

“When you want to talk,” she said, “I’ll be here.”

“Will you? I hope so. You might be too busy.” Before she could ask what that was supposed to mean, he tapped the table once with his fingertips and walked to the stage to tune up his guitar.

As he wandered away, she realized that this must be a reference to her online chats with Harlow. Was that it? Was Jake jealous? But why? It wasn’t like some guy she’d met online could ever come between them.

9

Beneath his carefully cultivated casual stage persona, a destructive energy surged in Jake’s blood. He felt out of control in a way that he usually never did. He wanted to take the water bottle next to him and whip it across the room. He wanted to pick up his stool and shake it above his head, roaring at the audience, scaring them with his rage. He wanted to smash his guitar over Elena’s head. Or his own head, because really, he wasn’t mad at her, he was mad at himself. Nathaniel was right. He was a coward. And with this Harlow guy in the picture now, he’d lost his chance yet again. Jake was the kind of guy who swallowed his emotions, endured and suffered and lost and lost again.

As he sang the first song in his set, a ballad called “I’m Here” that he’d written years ago, Jake ignored the crowd and stared moodily at his fingers. They wouldn’t notice. He often looked inward as he played his music, disappearing into the feelings he conjured out of his instrument.

He played “Nothing Doing.”

He played “Wake Me When You’re Home.”

All these old songs he knew so well he wouldn’t have to think. Thinking was too much for him right now. It was like white light, blinding and obliterating him.

Every time he felt the urge to look up, he felt Elena’s presence at the side of the stage and knew he’d gravitate to her, staring, his feeling of hurt and rejection bleeding out of him. He imagined her projecting this Harlow character into the romantic scenarios his songs described. It was too much for him. He could just imagine what an idiot he’d look like if he played the new song he’d written for her.

He launched into “Misunderstood,” which pretty much summed up his feelings right now.

When this one came to an end, he knew he couldn’t ignore the crowd much longer and he finally looked up and, leaning into the mic, said, “Thanks for coming out tonight, folks.”

Forty or fifty faces gazed back at him. His fans. It was ironic—he should have been happy to see so many expectant, appreciative people here to see him, but somehow they and their devotion didn’t count. All that counted was Elena, and she’d gone and found some random stranger on the internet to swoon over. Jake tried to block her out of his vision, but he couldn’t. She’d dressed in her best spunky clothes—her pink Docs, those skintight black tights that made it so hard for Jake not to stare at her luscious legs, those layers of tank tops in differing colors and degrees of looseness that seemed always to be on the verge of falling off her body. It wasn’t fair. He knew she’d gone to this effort for him. And she was so unfathomably beautiful, sitting there, watching him play.

The next song on his playlist was “Driftwood.” He doodled on his fret board, procrastinating, knowing that revealing his love now, in an achy, moony emo song, would be just about the worst move he could make. She’d laugh at him. She’d think he was joking. Worse, she’d think he was endorsing her new quasi-relationship.

Jake was glad not to see Nathaniel’s smirking face in the crowd. He didn’t want to admit it, but Nate had been right. The good guy always lost. You had to be an asshole to win at love.

He brought his hand crashing against the strings, a loud power chord like he almost never played. Maybe if he took Nathaniel’s advice, she’d see that he was worthy of her attention. She’d see he was capable of surprising her too; that he wasn’t the asexual platonic BFF she saw him as.

“I’m going to mix it up a little now,” he said. “This one goes out to Elena.”

He threw her a defensive glance and she beamed back at him, that pure joyful smile she sometimes allowed herself brightening her face, framed adorably in her wave of black ringlets. Every time Jake saw her smile like this he was stung by its beauty, its tenderness. Nobody, not even his dad, believed in him the way Elena did. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Protecting his friendship with Elena meant he was perpetually frustrated by the distance between what they had together and what he wanted.

“Wednesday’s Girl.” That’s what he would play. It was one of the first songs his dad had ever taught him. A mean little Bob Dylan–inspired thing his father had written about the woman who’d broken his heart before he met Jake’s mom.

He strummed quickly at his guitar, generating a vigorous rumble of sound, and then he sang:

On Monday, when the world was new

She marveled at a bird that flew

Through her doorway, into her room

And spread its wings

To show her all its precious things

Oh, I warned her it was too good to be true.

I said, he’s not pretty, he’s just new

Glancing up, he could see from the crimson color of her face that she was hurt by this. It gave him a little thrill to think that she might experience a touch of the rejection he was feeling. He strummed on. He strummed harder. He broke a string, he strummed so hard.

On Tuesday, he was in her bed

Cooing softly, spinning thread

He bit her ear until she bled

And still she wanted to believe

In him and all his precious things.

Hearing an abrupt thump from the corner of the room where Elena was sitting, Jake looked up. She’d stood up. She was slamming shut the flap on her messenger bag. She was stalking out of the café.

“Hey … Elena, wait,” he called after her.

But with a flip of the bird behind her back, she was already gone.

Jake felt like an idiot. The urge to chase after her and apologize was so strong that he almost fell off his stool. But he kept on strumming. He was trapped on the stage, and anyway, he had a responsibility to his fans.

10

Later that evening, Elena and Nina walked slowly around the block, looking at the Christmas decorations, the sleds on roofs and cactuses and palms wrapped in blinking lights and plastic snowmen lodged on perpetually green lawns. They paced themselves so Nina wouldn’t get overheated. Elena felt like she had ants under her skin. She couldn’t keep still.

“You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” Nina asked her.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Of course it is. You’re a Rios, girl. We’re hot-blooded.”

“Well, okay, fine,” Elena said. She launched into a long, overheated harangue about everything that had happened tonight. The smoothie, the horrible, tense conversation in which Jake sat there and petulantly criticized her for talking to Harlow, and then that song, that unbelievably angry and just plain mean song.

“Can you believe that, Nina? Suddenly he’s got all kinds of money and he moves across town and what happens? He turns into somebody I don’t even know.”

Nina just smiled at her like it was all a joke, but if so, Elena wanted to ask, What’s the punch line? She didn’t get what was so funny about it.

“I want my Jaybird back,” she said. “The one who makes me laugh. The one who encourages me to dream big. Not the one who dogs me for talking to guys online and treats me like I’m an idiot.”

Nina tipped her head, still smiling that smile, still acting like it was all just so, so funny.

“What?” Elena asked.

Nina kept on smiling.

“What’s so funny? Why do you keep looking at me that way?”

They’d come out for this walk in part because Nina felt like she was up for it for once, and in part because Elena hadn’t been able to sit still at home, where her father had demanded total quiet while he did the books for his Laundromat empire. It was ten thirty at night and most of the bungalows in the neighborhood were closed up, the lights completely off, or at most, a pale flicker of TV peeking out of an arched window.

“You really don’t know,” Nina said.

“Would I be asking if I did?”

Nina sighed and rested herself against a white fire hydrant.

“He’s in love with you, mami.”

“Come on. Be serious,” Elena said. Hearing this at any other time, she would have laughed, but tonight she was in too much of a mood for laughter.

Nina shrugged. “Don’t believe me. I couldn’t care less.”

“He’s like my brother,” Elena said. She scrunched up her nose and gagged at the thought.

“Your brother who wants to get all gooney goo-goo with you.” Gooney goo-goo was their sisterly code for hot, sweaty sex. “What did you expect,” Nina went on. “You think guys just decide they want to be friends with you? That’s not how guys think.” She’d worked up a sweat despite the cool night air and she wiped her brow with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. “They all want the same thing. Especially the ones who pretend not to.”

“God,” said Elena. Then she thought about the vision of the world her sister had just described. It was so cynical. It made her angry. “No,” she said. “You know what? Maybe the dirtbags you pal around with think that way. Maybe Matty and his narco friends—”

“Matty’s not no narco.”

Elena couldn’t tolerate the idea of her sister dragging Jake down into the mud where she lived. Not tonight. Tonight had been bad enough already. She said it again. “Matty and his narco friends. Maybe they think like that, but Jake doesn’t. Jake’s got class.”

“Whatever you say, Elena.” Nina kept on smiling that secret smile, like she knew better and nothing Elena would say was going to change it.

“Will you stop it?”

“Stop what?” There it went again.

“Stop smiling!”

“I’m not smiling.”

But Nina was. She wouldn’t stop. And as long as she was smiling in that way, Elena knew, she was implying she thought Elena was naïve.

“Just …,” Elena said. “You know what? Screw you.”

She stalked off, knowing her sister wouldn’t be able to keep up.

She heard her sister call after her, “Elena, wait for me. I might need your help getting back,” but she didn’t care. Or she did care, but she couldn’t stand being in Nina’s presence any longer.

Elena picked up her pace.

The houses in their neighborhood all looked the same, Spanish-style stucco bungalows. The only way to differentiate them was by the varying colors they’d been painted. Elena knew that they were almost half-way around the block because they were coming up on the crazy glossy purple house directly catty-corner from their backyard. It would be a long walk for Nina.

Now the guilt set in. She couldn’t leave her sister behind. Propping herself on a fire hydrant, Elena stopped and waited.

She longed to call Jake. To ask him if Nina’s suspicions were true. But what would she say? Anyway, it was absurd. Jake wasn’t in love with her. He’d seen her belch. He’d heard her fart. He’d laughed with her as she worked out why she felt so bored and unfulfilled by Ricky Thomas and Brandon Stram, the two boys she’d dated briefly during freshman and sophomore year. They’d talked about what a relief it was not to have to try and impress each other—not to have to deal with the other person trying and failing to impress you—how they could actually be themselves with each other.

No way would he betray her by falling in love with her.

11

ELECTRA AND THE EMO BOY

A bright, warm

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