Love Charms and Other Catastrophes (20 page)

When Mirthe bent to get something out of her bag, a glass bottle tumbled out and rolled under the table. The cork popped out when it hit the table leg.

The floor began to shake.

 

Chapter 14

NEW HEART, OLD HEART, REAL HEART, FAKE HEART?

Hijiri had never experienced an earthquake, but she knew the signs. What other weather charm could make the world shake so bad she felt trapped in a snow globe, colors and faces swirling as the ground jumped beneath her feet?

Femke cursed and dove for the bottle.

The table fell over, spilling food everywhere. Nico covered Martin's body with his when Mirthe's hamburger flew. Lettuce wet with ketchup stuck to his hair, the back of his windbreaker greasy with hamburger meat. Sebastian and Fallon had both managed to keep the table off them when it tumbled over. The front of Ken's sweater caught a splatter of spaghetti sauce. Hijiri had ended up on the floor, her tuna melt only inches away from her ear.

Mirthe grabbed the cork just as Femke had the bottle. They fumbled between themselves, arguing over who would do the honors of stopping the tremors.

“Hurry up,” Sebastian yelled, “before we get kicked out of here too!”

Femke took the cork and shoved it in the bottle. The tremors ceased. Some of the portraits on the walls had tilted and the other tables, thankfully empty, had shifted positions with some fallen chairs.

“Not so bad,” Mirthe said, looking around with a grin. “It wasn't that potent.”

“Tell that to the café owners.” Femke grabbed her sister by her coat. “What were you thinking, carrying that charm around?”

“But it was exciting,” Mirthe said. “Just think of the charms we could come up with using something this powerful.”

Femke tightened her grip. Her words came dangerously quiet. “Do you mean to tell me that you've been carrying around a bottle of earthquake tremors to entice me into changing my specialty?”

“Clouds
aren't
your specialty,” Mirthe said, close to crying.

“You can't change my mind,” Femke said, “because we've never shared the same brain. Quit bothering me and decide what
your
specialty is. Alone.” She got up, picked up her bag, and left the room without looking back.

Nico broke the silence, rolling away so that Martin could sit up. “Did anything land on you?”

Martin peeled the slimy lettuce off Nico's head. “I think you caught it all.”

“Victory,” Nico said.

The others laughed, if only as an outlet for the shock of what they'd witnessed.

Hijiri felt like the world was still shaking.

*   *   *

When they returned to the Student Housing Complex, Hijiri said good night to Fallon and Sebastian and promptly grabbed Ken's arm. The spaghetti splatter had only gotten worse after drying on his sweater. “Use my sink,” she said, tugging him toward her door.

“My apartment is just upstairs,” he said.

“Every second counts,” Hijiri said, cringing at the desperation in her voice.

She knew her excuse was flimsy, but the meeting had rattled her in more ways than one. Her friends were breaking down. Nico and Martin still had their difficulties. The twins would not compromise either of their ideals. Her failures in the competitions haunted her, no matter how hard she pushed them away. So she saw an opportunity.
My plan is going to succeed
, she told herself.
I'm going to find Love's signature tonight. All I have to do is get his shirt off. Then we'll see if Fallon was right about his heart.

If Ken had guessed her intentions, he didn't say a word about it. “Okay, then. I'd like to wear this sweater again. The spaghetti sauce looks like a bloodstain, doesn't it?”

“Too much,” she agreed, unlocking the door.

When Ken went to the bathroom, Hijiri checked under the kitchen sink for anything stronger than soap. She didn't have as many cleaning supplies as Fallon, but she did find laundry detergent. Good enough. After pouring the detergent into a small cup, Hijiri walked over to the bathroom door and twisted the knob.

She burned with embarrassment, knowing that strolling into the bathroom without knocking was beyond rude, but she had to catch him unawares. “This should help,” she said loudly after pushing the door open. When her eyes flickered to him, she found exactly what she wanted.

Ken was standing over the sink with his sweater bunched like a wet cat in his hands. All the bulky layers he wore hid a lean body underneath. His waist was narrow, pants hung low over his hips. Hijiri's heart stirred and her legs felt like jelly. She dragged her eyes up. His waist and chest lacked definition. He was arrow-thin and almost as fragile.

Ken looked up from the sink and gasped, his hands scrambling to cover his chest. Not chest. The stripe of pink she saw fleetingly over his heart.

A scar.

Love's signature.

Hijiri leapt forward, determined to catch his hands. “I saw it,” she said. “Tell me what it is.”

Ken's back brushed the shower curtain. He slowly lowered his hands.

Hijiri leaned forward, her breath ghosting over his skin. “Can I?” she asked.

He nodded.

She ran her thumb along the pink line of scar tissue. A neat, precise cut. Her thumb lingered and his scar began to glow.

“Sorry,” he said softly. “It does that sometimes.”

The glow wasn't dramatic. It was soft and rosy, spreading from his scar across his chest. Kind of like … “A blush?”

Ken ruffled his hair. “Yeah.”

Hijiri felt her own cheeks heat. But when she looked at him, he wasn't blushing, despite his obvious bashfulness. “Is that why you look so calm all the time? Because you're actually blushing here.”

“My heart blushes,” he said, “whenever I'm around you.”

Hijiri forgot words.

“If it helps you,” he said after a minute, “I think Love decided to redirect my blushes to keep me looking incredibly confident at all times.”

Her heart pounded. She had always thought exactly that. Kentaro Oshiro had been the picture of certainty around her. Always sure he loved her. Always saying the right things. He was a rock, steady against the tides of her emotions.

“I don't know what I'm doing,” he whispered, smiling sadly. “I don't know if you're falling in love with me or just the puzzle of me. I don't know if you'll ever believe that I could be real. I'm just trying.”

“The scar isn't working in your favor,” Hijiri said, pressing her trembling hand flat over his scar. “I knew you had to have one. Love left behind a mark. Charm-makers usually call it a signature.”

“Then what do you think?”

“Love made everything else first. Your eyelashes, lips, nails, ankles, toes,” she said, testing her theory, “and what's inside you. Blood, veins, bones. But Love saved your heart for last. It's the most important part.”

Ken's mouth lifted at the corner. “What would I be without a heart?”

“Not as convincing,” she said, smiling too. “So that heart. Where did it come from?”

“From someone else who couldn't use it anymore,” Ken said quietly.

Hijiri frowned. “Is that really true? Are you recycled?”

A laugh seemed to force its way up Ken's throat. “When you put it that way…”

Hijiri leaned closer.

“… it sounds like having a secondhand heart is a bad thing.”

“I didn't say that,” Hijiri insisted. She loved old things. Her supplies were rarely new. She needed ingredients with history. An old heart could be more powerful than a new one. “Am I looking at a recycled boy, or is your heart made of something else entirely?”

Ken shrugged. “You could go with my theory about having a recycled heart.”

“I find it hard to believe because you didn't have a coughing fit when you told me.”

He laughed. “Well, then. Keep guessing.”

Hijiri hadn't realized she still had her hand pressed against his heart until she
felt
his laughter under her palm. She let go, flexing her fingers, still warm from the heat of his blushing scar.
He said I could keep guessing
, she thought,
so I wonder if hearing his heart will give me any clues
.

The idea sounded so good that she didn't think anything of pressing her ear against his chest. Until she was there. His skin was almost feverish and his heart rapidly drummed against her ear. Hijiri reached out to steady herself, fingers sliding against his bare forearm.
Bare. Forearm. Bare. Chest. Hold on.

“You're not…” she said, looking up at him. “Your heart doesn't sound weird. You feel … normal.”
Too
normal. Normal enough to make her second-guess how easily she had laid her hands and face all over his naked chest.

“Normal, huh?” he said softly. He gently gripped her elbows to steady her. His hands were warm too, everything about him was, and she didn't understand how he would ever feel cold enough to wear sweaters every day.

If he had been a real boy, Hijiri would have been mortified by her actions.
But he's not real
, she thought.
He's not real and yet I can't quite breathe.

Hijiri stared at the scar, the boy, and the scar again. The back of her neck burned. Real or not, she needed to get some air. Now. “I'll ask Sebastian if he'll let me borrow a shirt for you,” she said. “It's too cold for you to run upstairs in that sweater.”

“Thank you,” he said.

Hijiri nodded before heading for the door.

*   *   *

October grew colder by the day. Students started wearing scarves around their necks. Leaves drummed the sidewalks. Sometimes the sound of leaves and wind made her dream of love charms, but not in a useful way. Potions grew legs and ran up and down staircases. Paper hearts glued themselves to doors, spreading cinnamon dust on doorknobs. Hijiri started eating stews rich with pumpkin and squash. Her nose always went numb when the temperature dropped.

Her homework had kept her from the school library over the past few weeks; she had piles of essays and reading to do and concentrated better in the privacy of her apartment. However, her algebra homework gave her some trouble.

Staying after school to go over some practice problems with Mr. De Pelsmaeker, Hijiri had simplification on the brain. She had never been good at simplifying, whether it came to math rules or her own charms.

Her feet took her to the library. Fallon had already left to go to her internship, but Ken was there, stacking the shelves with a cart full of books. Ms. Ward tried to hide the romance novel she was reading at the circulation desk, but it was obvious that she was reading rather than keeping watch over the study groups.

Hijiri paused. Something was different about the library. She looked around. Same musty book-smell. Same plastic sleeves. The inspirational posters were gone. In their place, large vertical photos with abstract, school-supply-themed patterns added warmth to the room. One photo was a magnified close-up of a yellowing page, the words artfully blurred. Another was a pile of freshly sharpened pencils.

Ms. Ward put down her paperback and said hello. “What do you think of the replacement posters?”

“I love them.” The library felt a little more modern.

Ms. Ward beamed. “Ken suggested the change. We ordered them from a hearth charms shop in Lejeune. Our humble budget allowed it. They're supposed to smell like what was photographed if you stand close enough. I'm guilty of lingering too long near the pencils one.”

Now Hijiri was curious to stand near each photo and have a sniff. “The library feels more welcoming already.”

“I completely agree. Students are spending more time here. With a few more improvements, it could really be something. I want this library to look as beautiful to Grimbaud High's students as it always has to me.”

“I think we can handle that,” Ken said, rolling the cart up to the desk. “What brings you here, Hijiri?”

She couldn't say for sure. Her eyes drifted to his chest. Since seeing his scar, she couldn't stop wondering if it was blushing when they spent time together. If
he
was blushing. So distracting. “Just got some help with my algebra. I didn't feel like going back to the complex yet.”

“I was talking with Yasmine and Helena about our high school days,” Ms. Ward said, resting her chin in her hands. “The carpets were nicer then.”

Hijiri hadn't been sure what happened to the old residents of the Spinster and Bachelor Villas beyond Ms. Ward and Bram. A few of them left town, while others relocated in the neighborhoods making up the outskirts of town. No more labels. As far as she knew, they were back to taking their own romantic fates in their own hands. “But you still talk about Love?”

“Sometimes,” Ms. Ward said, laughing. “Actually, we were sharing our latest missed connections over dessert last weekend.”

“Missed connections?” Ken frowned. “What is that?”

Ms. Ward had a dreamy, sad look in her eyes. “It's when you feel the spark of attraction with a stranger—someone you've just met or spotted in the crowd. You want to get to know him. It feels like the beginning of something. Like a thousand possibilities crammed into seconds. But for whatever reason, you never connect. Maybe you're too shy to talk to this person, or the timing is all wrong. And if you shared a moment, you didn't exchange contact information.”

“So you never see them again?” Ken asked softly.

“That's usually how it goes.” Ms. Ward toyed with a dog-eared page in her paperback. “And you keep wondering, what if? What if I had stayed to talk to him? What if I hadn't forgotten my pen to write down his number? I've had so many missed connections myself. They still haunt me. I wish I could have pursued those relationships. Had the chance to see what would happen.”