How to Break a Heart Read online

  Also by Kiera Stewart

  Fetching

  Copyright © 2015 by Kiera Stewart

  Cover design by Maria Elias

  Cover illustration © 2015 by Emma Trithart

  All rights reserved. Published by Disney • Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Disney • Hyperion, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023.

  ISBN 978-1-4231-8793-6

  Visit DisneyBooks.com

  Contents

  Title Page

  Also by Kiera Stewart

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Breaking of the Hearts

  1. romper to break

  2. perder to lose

  3. Crash + Burn

  4. doler to ache

  5. Soap + Water

  6. herir to injure

  7. Peanut Butter + Chocolate

  The Vindicator 1

  8. querer to want

  9. vagar to wander

  10. Fire + Sky

  11. cortar to cut

  12. escribir to write

  The Vindicator 2

  13. morir to die

  14. Windows + Doors

  15. ver to see

  16. buscar to look for

  17. Wheel + Axle

  18. atraer to attract

  The Vindicator 3

  19. sonreír to smile

  20. Lost + Found

  21. encender to light, to turn on

  22. Crime + Punishment

  23. llamar to call

  24. Hot + Cold

  25. bailar to dance

  The Vindicator 4

  26. tocar to touch

  27. preguntar to ask

  28. compartir to share

  29. Give + Get

  30. encontrar to find

  31. confiar to entrust

  32. Secrets + Lies

  33. descubrir to discover

  The Vindicator 5

  34. dudar to doubt

  35. Bow + Arrow

  36. equivocarse to make a mistake

  37. Paper + Scissors

  38. rasgar to tear, to rip

  39. caer to fall

  40. Sticks + Stones

  41. Lock + Key

  42. besar to kiss

  43. quedar to stay, to remain

  44. Over + Done

  The Vindicator 6

  45. pensar to think

  46. saber to know

  47. Tú + Yo

  48. empezar to begin

  The Unbreaking

  agradecer to thank

  About the Author

  For Michele

  Princess Leia and the Eskimo forever

  The Breaking of the Hearts

  Good-bye.

  First, the word floats in the air, like a satellite scouting out the most vulnerable areas. Your eyes, your neck, the ticklish spot under your arm. Anywhere open and unguarded, unspoiled—at least as of yet.

  Then, the missiles hone in, and once they do, watch out. They launch into your soft spots, blasting through the skin, the bone, anything that lies in the way of the heart. Once they pierce that all-important organ, it will feel like something has been shattered, crushed, bludgeoned, maybe even ripped out. Excoriated. Now there’s a word. You may feel that word. You may never know exactly what it means, but oh, you will know how it feels.

  And even though your heart is the ultimate victim, every cell in your body and brain will cry out for sympathy. You will feel pain in the roots of your hair, the knuckle of your thumb, your appendix. Various fluids will start to pour from the holes on your face. Tears. Snot. Slobber. You will become a most unattractive version of yourself—red, puffy, swollen, and unkempt. Needy, insecure, clinging.

  This, my friends, is love. It should be wrapped in yellow caution tape. Surrounded by orange cones. Labeled with a skull and crossbones. It should be kept out of the hands of minors. If love were an actual drug, the FDA would not approve.

  Love. Flip it over and here’s what you have: heartbreak. The remainder; the ruins of love.

  yo rompo

  tú rompes

  ella rompe

  nosotros rompemos

  ellos rompen

  Cristina is sitting on the edge of her bed, holding a rock and crying—a picture of tragic perfection. Her tears are plump little drops that travel down her face with dignity, leaving her perfectly applied makeup respectfully in place. The camera pans to the rock, which is cradled in both palms. The etching reads C.A. ♥ L.A., Para Siempre. Forever.

  “So what happened—he’s dead or something?” Sirina asks. She’s talking about Cristina’s husband, Luis.

  “No,” I say, wanting her to be quiet. “Missing.”

  “Missing how?”

  “Kidnapped. Shhh!”

  “Wow,” Sirina says, standing up. “Okay, I’m going.”

  “No!” I say, and pull her back down to the couch. “Stay. Please.”

  She crosses her arms. “Fine. But only if you’re going to pay attention to me and not your stupid telenovela.”

  “It’s almost over,” I tell her. On the screen, Mariela, the Queen of Heartbreak, is packing up her suitcases, her maletas. She shows no emotion, but Armando, the rich, powerful guy who owns most of Suelo, their town, is turning into a train wreck. He’s practically on his knees, professing his love and pleading for her not to go. “¡Te quiero! ¡No te vayas!” And then the credits for La Vida Rica start to roll.

  “That’s Mariela?” Sirina asks.

  I nod.

  “I think I like her best,” she says.

  “Why?” I ask, feeling a little betrayed. “Cristina’s so much better. She’s so strong, so loyal, so passionate—”

  “So sad.” She looks at me. “Blech. She’s always so pathetic.”

  “Pathetic?” I say, offended.

  “Well, you know. It seems like she’s always crying over something. Mariela’s just—I don’t know—more powerful.”

  “Yeah, well, Mariela doesn’t really love anyone, that’s why!”

  “She definitely seems to be doing okay.”

  “You don’t get it.” I sigh and slump back on the couch. “You just don’t believe in love.”

  My dog, Hunter, is lying on the couch next to Sirina. He stretches, straightening his four legs. “Who doesn’t believe in love, Hunter? I love you, don’t I? Yes I doooo,” Sirina says in her gooshy voice. And then she leans over and starts kissing his big chocolaty-Lab head. “You’re a sweet boy, aren’t you?”

  She looks over at me and I smirk back at her. “Not the same,” I say.

  I can’t really blame Sirina. She’s never had a boyfriend. She’s never been in love. I almost feel sorry for her—she really doesn’t know what she’s missing. I mean, what’s life without passion? Without romance? Without love?

  Love—that’s something Sirina and I don’t have in common, at least not yet. I think she just hasn’t met the right guy. I mean, we’re thirteen, so there’s a little time, but still. I can’t wait till we have boys in common. Me and Nick, her and some awesome guy with a name like Romario, going out to a fabulous dinner—one with special forks and fancy napkins. Maybe even salsa dancing or something. I will be wearing a short but flouncy skirt and daringly high heels, and my honey-colored hair will shine under the light of the moon. And I’ll throw my head back and laugh, and show off my full lips (ruby red) and straight teeth (white, very white), and Nick will gaze at me admiringly and—

  My phone hums from between the couch cushions. />
  “Let me guess. Nick,” Sirina says, sounding less than supportive.

  I look at my phone. Nicolás, the screen reads. My Spanish translation of him. I smile.

  “Hiiii,” I say, song-like, into the phone.

  “Mabry?”

  My nerves jolt awake like I’ve been jabbed with a sharp needle. It’s a woman’s voice! Oh. My. God. Nick must have a secret girlfriend. An older woman!

  “Who is this?” I say to this other woman. I hear my heartbeat in my ear. My skin feels tingly. My armpits itch. I bet her name is Rocío and she has dark, flowing hair that actually does shimmer in the moonlight. And possibly cleavage. HOW CAN I POSSIBLY COMPARE!?

  “This is Mrs. Wainwright.”

  Oh. Okay. No need to panic, then. But wait. Why is Nick’s mom calling me? Is he in trouble? Is he in the hospital? What if he’s in one of those full-body casts like Enrique had after he got in the airplane crash in episode four? What if he’s completely wrapped in bandages, mummy-like, and my very first kiss ever has to be through his breath-ing hole?

  This is the man I love! My heart races. “I’ll be right there!” I say.

  “Where? Here?” She sounds confused. “Uh, well, no, Mabry, you don’t need to come over—Nick’s not even home.”

  Of course he isn’t! “Not to the house,” I say. “The hospital!”

  Sirina shoots me a look of concern.

  “What? Who’s in the hospital?” Mrs. Wainwright asks.

  “Uh, well, I mean, I just thought,” I stumble. “Um. Where’s Nick?”

  “Nick’s at karate.”

  “Oh, right,” I say. I laugh a little, relieved—although the hospital scene was starting to seem kind of amazing. The room would smell of fresh lilacs, and I would gently cradle his bandaged head so he could drink his dinner through a straw. My love would help him heal.

  Sirina widens her eyes at me and mouths, What? I shake my head and come back to reality.

  Bad idea. Because then Mrs. Wainwright says, “But he did want me to call you.” She pauses. “Look, Mabry, Nick’s now a purple belt. He really needs to focus on that. We both think it might be time for you to take a break from each other.”

  “A break?” My mind starts going in all directions. “For how long?”

  She sighs. “Mabry, he thinks you two should break up.”

  “Break. Up?” I croak. My heart seizes up with protest. I look at Sirina, who is statue-still and staring at me. “But—but. But, we’re in love!”

  “Oh, honey.” Her voice delivers nothing but pity. “Bless your dear heart.”

  “He loves me!” I cry out. “He told me!”

  “Well, okay,” she says. “But he also loves karate.”

  “But what about the Cotillion?”

  She seems a little surprised. “That—that’s almost two months away. He’s already asked you to the Junior Cotillion?”

  “Well—” I start, and I suddenly feel like an idiot. But, I mean, once someone has professed love to you, shouldn’t that go without saying? Of course he would ask me! He would! He would!

  For a few awful seconds, nobody says a word and it feels like time has stopped, caught between my will to rewind it and its natural tendency to plow rudely forward, mowing down everything in its way.

  I hear a crashing sound, which could be the actual sound of my heart breaking. But then Nick’s mom says, “Oh, no! The cat just broke my coffee mug. I have to go. You’ll be all right, I promise—you’ll see. Good-bye, Mabry!”

  My heart seems to stop beating, like it’s been stabbed. Filleted. Maybe even julienned into long, thin shreds. And you know what happens when your heart stops beating. You die. You just up and die.

  I’m aware that it’s been about an hour, so I must still be alive, but I might as well be dead because my body feels like it’s in a state of rigor mortis. Stiff and rigid and unmovable. Sirina tries to hug me, but I can’t hug back. Hunter is also taking pity on me, nuzzling me with his snout, but I can’t even reach out to pet him.

  “I can’t believe he had his mother call to break up with you!” Sirina says, for about the tenth time. “What kind of guy does that!?” She’s fuming.

  Apparently, a wonderful, beautiful guy with an enticing mysterious side. And promising bone structure. And indigo-blue eyes. Who might actually grow to be about six-foot-three if his pediatrician’s predictions are right. But it’s hard to even talk, so I guess I’ll have to explain that to her later.

  “Come on.” She tries to pry me off the couch, but it’s like I’ve been flash frozen in place. I don’t budge. I can’t budge.

  “Let’s go get ice cream or something!”

  “Don’t. Want. Ice cream,” I manage to say. I also want to tell her how annoyed I am that she’s trying to trivialize my pain with ICE CREAM! But I’m in too much agony.

  She sighs and releases my arm. It creaks back into place.

  “He’s a jerk,” she says, putting her hands on her hips. “A hot one, okay, but still a jerk.”

  “Not. A. Jerk.”

  “Seriously, Mabry! Come on!”

  I stare ahead, staying stiff.

  “Let’s just do what we usually do. Ice cream. Come on, Mabry, don’t you want a Blizzard?”

  “My heart. Is a blizzard,” I manage. And it is. It’s like a Snickers bar being mashed up and ground up and blended into something frozen, by some heartless Dairy Queen clerk. A cold winter storm of pain and anguish. I’ll never look at ice cream the same again.

  “Well, it used to work.” Sirina sighs. “I don’t know why you care about some guy who just had his mom dump you. You should be outraged!”

  “He’s just confused, I think.” I hug my knees in.

  “Oh, I get it. This is about that phone call last week.”

  It was on Thursday, five days ago, just as we were getting off the phone. I’d taken a deep breath, squeezed my eyes shut, and said the words. I love you. And then he said them right back to me. Well, basically.

  “No, Sirina,” I say. “It’s about being in love!”

  “Mabry, he said, ‘Me too.’”

  “AND”—I look right at her—“AND the next day he held my hand when we walked between the P.E. hall and the arts alcove.” Plus, he’s the first guy who didn’t follow my words with “Thank you,” or “You’re hot, too,” or “I know.” Or silence. Or “I’m moving to Canada.” That happened once.

  Sirina exhales loudly, clearly unconvinced. I guess it’s hard to be very persuasive when you’re in a fetal position. Besides, I know she’s thinking she knows the drill. Mabry gets a boyfriend. Gets dumped. Cries. And does it all over again. Rinse and repeat. On the outside, I know it looks the same as it always does. But it’s just not. He told me he loved me. Maybe not exactly in the traditional words, but at least he agreed. He was The First! He was El Amor de Mi Vida—the love of my life!

  “What do you want me to do, Mabry? You’re barely moving. Want me to stay or go?”

  “Stay,” I bleat.

  “Okay,” she says. Even though Sirina thinks this whole true love thing is stupid, at least she doesn’t think I’m stupid. Just a little insane sometimes, or so she tells me. She sits back down on the couch with me. “Then will you at least do me one favor?”

  “What?”

  “Blink.”

  So I do. I not only blink, but take in a chestful of air, finally, bracing myself for what’s to come now. The crying. And not the dignified, beautiful, clean cry that Cristina just pulled off. I try for that graceful cry, I really do—and I’ve had plenty of practice—but my messy, slimy tears always seems to wind up on sleeves, and sometimes, in especially bad times like this, couch pillows.

  Sirina passes me a box of Kleenex.

  Oh, Cristina. How do you love with such grace? You must not truly understand the pain, not as I do. The torment! The agony! No, Cristina, no entiendes nada!

  Sirina stays until her mom calls and tells her she has to come home for dinner.

  I go upsta
irs to my room and lie down. I must have fallen asleep, because Hunter nudges me awake and I sit up, coughing.

  My nose feels stuffy. My throat feels swollen. I hear my brother’s footsteps in the hall. “Aaron?” I call out to him. I use his real name instead of “A-Bag,” which is what I prefer to call him. Of course, he started calling me “M-Hole” first, so I think he deserves that.

  He pauses at my doorway. He’s fifteen but acts twelve sometimes. “What’s up, loser? Let me guess—malaria?”

  See why I call him A-Bag?

  “I don’t feel good,” I say.

  “Well, Mom said to come down for dinner,” he says. “She and Stephanie are waiting.” He means Stephen, my mom’s boyfriend, the science teacher. His name is pronounced like “Steffen” so my brother likes to call him “Stephanie” behind his back, and sometimes in front of it.

  “Tell her I’m not hungry.”

  He nudges me and smirks. “He brought that pie he makes. That berry one? Yeah, he took it into one of his teachers’ meetings, and it ‘went viral.’”

  Oh, yeah, that’s a Stephen-ism. Something “going viral” means that people liked something, or that generally things went well. A-Bag and I, on separate occasions, have both tried to explain to him what it actually means, but we gave up a while ago. Now the way Stephen misuses the phrase seems almost normal, and I’m half-afraid that I’ll go into school and use it wrong myself. (Q: How was your weekend, Mabry? A: It was pretty viral. Thanks for asking.)

  I try to smile, but it’s no use.

  “Whatever, you’re no fun,” Aaron says, and leaves.

  A minute later, there’s a “Shave and a Haircut” string of knocks on my bedroom door. Stephen. Of course.

  “Come in,” I say in my most unwelcoming tone.

  The door opens. “Hey there, kiddo!” he says. He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back and forth on his feet. “What’s the four-one-one?”

  I take a stiff breath and say flatly, “That’s the number for information.” I can’t help it. Sometimes I like to watch him squirm.

  He makes a gaspy laugh and says, “No, I mean—that’s a—uh, a little joke.” His laugh comes to a wheezy end. “I mean, what’s going on up here? I hear you’re not feeling well?”