Page 9 of The Way the Heart Breaks: Jade’s Story

I move down the hall and smile at how cool the floorboards feel under my bare feet, a sharp contrast to the still sticky late summer's humid night air. I move in a familiar way that lets me avoid the spots that might give me away. I pass their door, glancing to see that it’s closed before taking the stairs slowly, skipping the third one from the bottom. It still lets out the faintest groan, but not enough to matter. I freeze anyway, breath caught halfway in.

At the bottom, the air is lighter and cooler than upstairs, and I wonder why Mom and Dad don’t move their bedroom down here, to the spare room that no one uses. The boys could finally have their own rooms if they did.

I step through the kitchen, fingers brushing the edge of the counter, grounding and guiding myself to the back door. It sticks a little when I pull it open. It always does. I lift slightly as I ease it forward, careful, slow, until it gives without a sound.

The porch boards creak softly, but it’s outside, and no one will hear it. The air wraps around me, thick and warm. The kind of summer night that never really cools down. The sound hits next, crickets, something buzzing deeper in the trees, all of it blending together until it almost feels like a song of its own.

I don’t look back at the house wishing I’d grabbed a flashlight; I don’t need one on a night like tonight. The moon is bright enough that I can see all the way to the tree house we used to practically live in after Dad built it, and now, we hardly ever do.

My fingers trail over the bark, rough and familiar, until they catch on the spot. The hollow Dad said the woodpeckers made until our old cat, Dickens, scared them away. It doesn’t look like much, just a dark dip in the trunk, easy to miss unless you know it’s there.

I place the cassette inside and push it back, just enough to hide it from plain sight.

I slide my hand out and brush it off on my shorts as I turn and head back inside.

3

BEFORE / FIRST DAY, SEVENTH GRADE

Jade

Mom stands in the doorway while I’m putting my shoes on, like she always does, one shoulder against the frame, coffee in her hand, watching.

“Turn around,” she says.

I do it without arguing, slowly, arms out just enough for her to see the whole presentation.

She steps forward, tugs the hem of my shirt straighter, smooths it flat against my stomach like it matters if it sits right. It does, to her, and yeah, to me too.

“There,” she says. “Perfect as always.”

I smile and nod as I grab my bag.

My jeans are new. Dark, stiff in the way new denim is, cuffs rolled once because she hates when they drag, and so do I. My shirt is light blue, tiny white flowers with yellow centers around the collar, the kind she pointed out in the store, as she knows about the game I play with the ones under the tree house, the ones that grow in the forget-me-nots.

My Keds are clean. Apparently, too clean. Mom scrubbed them last night at the sink while Jason and Jasper made fun of me for being her “first day project.”

I told them to shut up, and I didn’t tell her to stop. I love all the ways she makes everything perfect and special.

“Bus is coming, Cub,” Jason yells.

I roll my eyes, annoyed that we’re back to that old nickname.

Mom’s lips tip up, and I roll my eyes, annoyed that we’re back to that stupid nickname.

“Don’t forget your sweater, sweet girl. It brings out your eyes,” she says, tucking my hair behind my ears. “A face and eyes like that should never be hidden.”

I kiss her cheek as I grab it and move toward them.

“Have a good day,” she calls to us.

“We will!” We all call back in unison.

I glance back before getting on the bus and see her at the door, hand to her heart, looking… sad.

The bus smells like vinyl and last year’s stank. I can’t wait till… someone gets their license.

Jasper looks back at me. “You’re supposed to move further back each year. Come on.”