The Museum of Heartbreak by Meg Leder Page B

tottered in front of me,swaying so far to the right I thought she might keep going. Eph grabbed under her arm, straightening her out.
    She belched. “Ooops!”
    â€œNice one,” Eph said.
    Mia handed me napkins, and I started to blot the beer across my chest.
    Cherisse grabbed Audrey’s shoulder. “I can’t find Keats!” she said, giving a pouty frown. “He was just next to me.”
    â€œWhere is he?” I blurted without thinking, and clapped my hand over my mouth.
    Audrey glanced over at me, confused.
    â€œUm, I think he’s right over there?” Mia said, pointing over Cherisse’s shoulder.
    I couldn’t help it: I spun around as fast as Cherisse, only to see what seemed like the back of Keats’s head as he pushed through the people in the living room toward the steps.
    Simply seeing him made me feel all pinprickly and warm, my heart clumsy and oversize.
    Cherisse swayed tipsily. “Where? I donna see him.”
    â€œI could have sworn he was right over there . . .” Mia craned her neck.
    â€œPen, can you help me with Cherisse?” Audrey asked pointedly, inclining her head toward the kitchen.
    I was losing my chance with Keats. My eyes darted to Eph’s, and in that moment I knew he could see the secret parts inside me, the token over my heart, the fleeting lives of the stars in my sky.
    â€œMia and I’ll help,” Eph said immediately. He wrapped an armaround the other side of Cherisse’s waist and started walking toward the kitchen. Cherisse belched again, eliciting another admiring “nice one” from Eph.
    â€œI’ll get her some water,” Mia said, rushing ahead.
    Audrey opened her mouth like she wanted to say something more, but at that second Cherisse nearly plowed into the wall. Audrey grabbed her more firmly, moving toward the kitchen, as Eph met my eyes, patted his hand to his heart.
    Good luck, he mouthed.
    I put my hand to my heart like he did, feeling the Bearded Lady’s token glowing warm.
    Time to find Keats.

On the Road , book
    On the Road , liber
    Copyright 1957
    New York, New York
    Cat. No. 201X-9
    Gift of Keats Francis
    I SMELLED CHERISSE’S SPILLED BEER on my shirt, and my lips still felt weirdly throbby, and all the drunk, sweaty people were making me feel claustrophobic. But the token was beating against my heart, powering me forward.
    Unfortunately, the second-floor hallway was as crowded and socially challenging as downstairs. There was a line of people waiting distractedly in front of a door—the bathroom, I guessed. A guy with nerdy art glasses stared right through me with bloodshot eyes, and feeling bold, I scowled right back. He blanched, and I felt momentarily pleased and then guilty.
    I didn’t see Keats. This was terrible.
    I turned to the first door in the hall and opened it like I knew where I was going, slid into the dim room, and shut the door behind me with a satisfying click.
    I leaned against the door, taking in my surroundings.
    The bedroom had hardwood floors, and there was cool silver light from the big full moon spilling across an unmade bed. I saw a book poster for On the Road , and a bunch of sports trophies on a shelf. I was guessing it was Keats’s room. But the most intriguing thing in it? The far wall: a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf packed with books and only books, books with wrinkled and cracked spines, books filled with thousands and thousands of words. I walked over and picked a random one from the shelf— Franny and Zooey by J. D. Salinger.
    Someone cleared his throat. “What book found you?”
    Busted.
    â€œOh, I’m sorry! I shouldn’t be here—I’m sorry, I just . . .” I tried to shove the book back on the shelf, but my hands had suddenly lost all normal functioning skills, and I fumbled it onto the floor, hastily picked it up, tried to shove it back in, failed, and then spun around and faced the voice,