The Museum of Heartbreak by Meg Leder

and Grace’s corner without bumping into anyone and spilling beer on anything expensive. It wasn’t going to be easy. From what I could tell about the parts of the room that weren’t obscured by drunk partygoers, Keats’s parents liked expensive-looking art—there were some modern pieces on the walls, paint spattered and bright, as well as a few striking angular metal sculptures on either side of the fireplace.
    When I got there, proud of being neither spiller nor spillee, Grace pulled me into a hug. She was dressed like a Mexican Day of the Dead woman, her face made up like a skeleton, bright red roses in her hair. “Nice art, eh?” She held up her plastic cup for a toast and we smushed glasses.
    â€œWine?” I asked when I saw the contents of her cup.
    â€œNo, Diet Coke. I had to dig through the fridge to find some.”
    â€œPenelope,” Miles said, giving me a small, careful smile. I smelled his beer breath from where I was standing, three feet away. His hair was gelled into a spiky mullet, and he had a lightning bolt painted on his face.
    â€œHarry Potter?” I asked.
    â€œZiggy Stardust,” he said.
    For a second I thought about pretending I knew who that was. But Grace was drinking Diet Coke, and Miles’s smile had seemed genuine, and my nerves were too frayed to hold back.
    â€œI don’t know who that is. And I hate beer. I mean, really, really hate it. I think it tastes like urine and green olives got together and had a baby. And I saw my archnemesis at the door and it sounded like shetold me I was an arts-and- craps project. And I’m probably dying from an allergic reaction to my lip gloss, even though I now own a lucky subway token from a bearded lady. And I hate, hate, hate parties.”
    They both stood there for a second with unreadable expressions.
    Miles took my beer. “That was a lot to handle. But I like that you have an archnemesis.” He took a big swig and handed it back to me. “The love child of green olives and urine? I could see that.” He licked his lips.
    Grace leaned in confidentially. “I hate this party too.” She sighed and said, more to herself than anyone, “It makes me miss Kieran so much.”
    I raised an eyebrow.
    Miles snorted. “Kieran is Grace’s totally perfect boyfriend who says totally perfect things all the totally perfect times they’re hanging out and who makes anyone else’s boyfriend look like the worst because Kieran is literally a totally perfect superhuman being. They’re all ick.”
    Grace slugged him in the arm, and Miles shrugged, nonplussed.
    â€œWhat? You know it’s true,” he said.
    She pointedly turned her back on him. “We’re only here because Miles found an invite in the cafeteria and was hoping maybe by some coincidence the hot Starbucks guy he’s been crushing on would be here. No luck . . .” She made a sad trombone “wah-wahhh” noise.
    â€œGracie, why do you tell everyone my secrets?” Miles asked.
    â€œWhich doesn’t really matter anyway, because if Miles would just open his eyes and give the new guy Oscar a chance . . .”
    Miles scowled at her and grabbed my beer, then drank half of it in one gulp.
    â€œ. . . hecould have a totally perfect boyfriend too.”
    â€œI told you, Oscar’s too quiet. He has no edge. He plays Dungeons and Dragons,” Miles said, as if that explained everything.
    â€œYou and your standards,” Grace muttered.
    â€œIt’s called not settling!” Miles hollered.
    â€œOkay, you’re cut off, Drunky McFerguson,” Grace said to Miles. She turned to me. “We’re bailing and getting churros at this all-night Cuban diner on Fourteenth and Seventh. Want to join?”
    Hanging out with new people sounded a little terrifying, but that was what Audrey and Eph had been going on about: hanging out with new people. Yes