The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(40)

Like everything else on the block, the house was jammed right up next to its neighbors and at first glance didn’t have much curb appeal, with nothing to show but a two-car garage and a fancy copper street number. Lilac vines dripped like frosting over the garage, where a semiprivate entrance hinted at the wealth within. To get there, you had to enter an arched redwood gate and go up a steep flight of steps. You also had to pass under two Big Brother security cameras. Did his dad have Secret Service around here, too? Or was that only for DC politicians? I really had no clue, but the cameras weirded me out.

I texted Jack: Do I need clearance to enter this place or what?

A few seconds later, rubber soles slapped against stone, the gate swung open, and there he stood, filling up the redwood arch: pompadour, black boots, black snap-front shirt with silver koi fish over the front pockets, and, heaven help me, that 4-H belt buckle.

His slow gaze swept from my boots (the blisters were a small price to pay) all the way up my tasteful (yet boob-flattering) shirt to my face. “Happy Fourth,” he finally said. “Or is that ‘Merry Fourth’? What’s the standard Independence Day greeting?”

“I think you’re supposed to salute the flag while imitating the mournful call of a bald eagle.”

“Is that like using a turkey whistle at Thanksgiving?”

“Exactly the same.”

He stepped closer. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”

“You’re not going to faint on me again, are you?”

“Am I ever going to live that down?”

I shook my head.

“I figured as much,” he said with a smile. “You’re in color.”

“I am?”

“Red,” he said, pointing to my head.

Breaking my long-running cycle of grayscale fashion, I’d tied a red bandanna around my head à la Rosie the Riveter (“We Can Do It!”) and went with one loose fishtail braid that I’d wound up and pinned underneath. “Holidays bring out my daring side.”

“Good to know,” he said with a teasing smile. “Come on. We’re back here.”

17

As I walked under the arch, I glanced up at the camera and felt his fingers slide around mine. “Hi,” he said in a softer voice. God, he smelled nice, all woodsy and clean.

Someone yelled out from behind the house. “Keep your pants on,” he called back. Up-tempo guitar-and-drum music grew louder as we walked side by side down a stone path between his house and a crazy high wooden privacy fence. Tree branches from the neighbor’s yard curved over the fence to create a shaded green canopy, and the farther back we went, the darker and more heavily wooded it became.

There were zero trees on our my block. In fact, about two yards of dirt and broken cement patio sat between the back of my house from the one behind it.

But not the Vincents’.

Within the castled defense of their soaring privacy wall, a series of terraced decks rose from the wooded property, separating Jack’s house from those of the surrounding neighbors. We stood on the most expansive deck, which started at the back door and fanned out to other, smaller decks—one behind a waist-high stone wall and another that sat behind a small guesthouse in the corner. Modern stairs zigzagged to a fourth, loftlike deck above us, where a bridge led to a door on the second story.

“Is M. C. Escher your architect?” I asked.

“My dad built all this when he won the first election.”

“Are there cameras back here, too?”

“Only over the back door,” he said. “But the house is off-limits tonight. Surprise—my dad doesn’t want unsupervised party guests trampling his polished wood floors. Though I don’t spend a ton of time in the house anymore. I moved into the guest house last year.” He gestured toward the small building in the corner of the yard. “My parents used to have people stay over a lot, but not anymore.”

Before the conversation got too sad, I said, “The guesthouse is private, which is cool. And now I see how you’re sneaking out for your midnight expeditions. Except for the cameras.”

“Willie taught me some tricks with those.”

“Panhandler Will?”

Jack grinned. “He’s sharper than you’d think.”

We strolled beneath the stairs. A dozen or so people were lounging around the main deck. A couple of towheaded boys out of an Abercrombie & Fitch ad appeared to be divvying up the contents of a flask into several plastic cups on a long table crammed with food and soda. A guy with a Mohawk was hanging up a white sheet on the wall of the guest house, and another was setting up a digital projector.

There were only three other girls. One of them was piggybacking on Jack’s friend Andy. He rushed toward us and tilted back to drop her onto her feet. She landed with a breathless laugh.

“Hi, again,” Andy said, grinning as the girl he’d been carrying ducked into the crook of his arm. A very familiar girl with asymmetrically cut hair streaked purple and pink.

Sierra.

“Oh, wait. I know you. It’s her?” she said to Jack. And because of the fairylike pitch of her voice, I couldn’t tell if her words were condescending. But what I could tell was that Jack was uncomfortable, because he was squeezing my hand harder and drawing me ever so slightly away from Sierra.

With his arm slung around Sierra’s shoulder, Andy said, “You two have met?”