The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(4)

Too weird for jocks, and not weird enough for hipsters, I was neither freak nor geek, and that left me stranded in no-man’s-land. I was fine being a misfit—really, I was, even when someone scribbled “Morticia Adams” on my locker with a Sharpie this winter. I mean, first of all, even though we sort of share a last name, Morticia’s is spelled with two Ds, and I doubt whoever defaced my locked had the brain capacity to know the difference, but whatever. And second, I actually look more like the Addams daughter, Wednesday—the apathetic girl with the headless dolls—than Morticia, mostly because of my hair. I always braid it, and I know a thousand and one quirky styles, from Princess Leia buns to Swiss Miss to Greek Goddess, or tonight’s masterpiece: Modern Medieval Princess.

But the funny thing is, I actually like The Addams Family, so whoever christened me with that nickname wasn’t really crushing my feelings. I definitely didn’t lose sleep over it. And it’s not like I’m completely socially inept, either. I have a couple of friends (and by “a couple” I mean exactly two, Lauren and Kayla, both of whom were spending the summer together in a warmer part of the state). And I’ve had a couple of boyfriends (and by “a couple” I mean I dated Howard Hooper for two months, and Dylan Norton for two hours during an anti-prom party in Lauren’s basement).

So, okay. My calendar wasn’t exactly full, and I could never wear black dresses at school without people snickering behind my back, asking me where Gomez was. But I figured I could ditch all that in college, where I could reinvent myself as a sophisticated art student, bursting with wit and untapped joie de vivre. My limitless conversation starters about skin and bones would seduce the heart of some roguish professor (who almost always had a British accent and was also a former Olympic-trained swimmer—but only for the body), and we would run away together to some warm and fabulous Mediterranean island, where I would become the most celebrated medical illustrator in the world.

In this daydream, I was always older and more clever, and it was always sunny. But here I was, on a cool, foggy night, sitting on an Owl bus feeling … I don’t know. Feeling like maybe I didn’t need to wait through senior year to make it to some fantasy island on the other side of high school.

Maybe I could seduce a dangerously good-looking boy on a bus right now.

His gaze lifted and met mine. We stared at each other.

And stared.

And stared …

A strange heat sparked inside my chest and spread over my skin. It must’ve been contagious, because two pink spots stained his cheeks, and I’d never seen a boy like him blush. I didn’t know what was happening between us, but I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if the Owl had burst into flames, veered off the road, and exploded in a fiery inferno.

Bus stops came and went, and we didn’t stop staring. The older, wittier me was one second away from leaping across the aisle and throwing myself at him, but the real me was too sensible. He finally broke the silence and said in a soft, desperate voice, “What’s your name?”

The woman with the umbrella made a low noise. She gave me a disapproving frown that put my mother’s to shame. Had she been watching us the whole time?

“Shit.” Jack pulled the yellow stop cord drooping across the window and bent over his backpack. Irving and Ninth. A popular stop. Mine was still several blocks away, which meant one thing: My night bus fantasy was ending. What should I do? Ignore the umbrella lady’s warning and give him my name?

What if I never saw him again?

The bus jerked to a sudden stop. Jack’s backpack tipped sideways. Something rolled out from a gap in the zipper and banged into the toes of my boots.

A fancy can of spray paint with a metallic gold top.

I picked it up and paused. The way he tightened up and ground his jaw to the side, there might as well have been a neon sign over his head that flashed NERVOUS! NERVOUS! NERVOUS!

I held the spray paint out. He stuffed the can in his backpack and slung it over one shoulder. “Good luck with your cadaver drawing.”

My reply got lost under the news ticker of recent headlines scrolling inside my head. All I could do was quietly watch his long body slink into shadows as the door shut and the bus pulled away from the curb.

I knew who he was.

3

Since school let out in May, gold graffiti had been popping up around San Francisco. Single words painted in enormous gold letters appeared on bridges and building fronts. Not semi-illegible, angry gang tags, but beautifully executed pieces done by someone with talent and skill.

Could that someone be Jack? Was he an infamous street artist wanted for vandalizing?

The remaining leg of the ride blurred by as I recalled everything I’d heard about the gold graffiti on local blogs. I wished I’d paid better attention. I definitely needed to do some research, like, right now.

When the bus got to my stop on Judah Street, I raced off, eager to do just that.

I live in the Inner Sunset district, which is the biggest joke in the world, because it’s one of the foggiest parts of the city. Summer’s the worst, when the nights are chilly and we sometimes go for weeks without seeing the sun. But apart from the fog, I like living here. We’re only a few blocks from Golden Gate Park. There’s a pretty cool stretch of shops on Irving. And we’re just down the hill from the Muni stop. We live on the bottom two floors of a skinny, three-story pale-yellow Edwardian row house and share a small patch of yard in the back with our neighbor Julie, a premed student who rents the unit above us. She’s the one who got me the appointment at the anatomy lab.