The Sweetest Thing You Can Sing by C.K. Kelly Martin

into his pockets. “I don’t think I have my ATM card.”
    “We take cash,” I tell him, sounding vaguely bored. He’s too goodlooking for me to want to smile at, but of course I can’t be rude.
    “Yeah, I know.” He smiles at me. His almost shoulder-length hair is half a shade too dark to qualify as dirty blond, and he has grey eyes and a couple of freckles on his nose but not anywhere else. The grin makes him look like a nice guy, but do you think I believe that?
    “Do you want me to cancel the transaction while you go look in your car?” I suggest.
    “No, that’s okay.” He pulls out a wad of bills from his back pocket. “I have cash too.”
    Congratulations , I say silently. You’re quite the superhero .
    The guy presses a couple of bills into my hands and waits for me to punch in the numbers on the register. Hang on, what’s this? I separate the bills he’s given me and stare at the glittering pink heart sticker in my hand. I flip it over automatically, like when you’re checking both sides of a twenty-dollar bill to make sure it’s genuine. There’s a wobbly “A” printed on the back of the sticker in orange crayon.
    Does he think he’s being cute or was it an honest mistake? “Here,” I tell him as I hand the sticker over, “have your heart back.” I say it with a hint of accusation (because guys suck and good-looking guys suck the worst) but like I’m really kidding around underneath it all.
    He makes a kind of ah-ha noise, like the thing must’ve gotten mixed in with his bills by accident, and slips it into his wallet. “Have a good night,” I say and present him with his Total Drug Mart bag.
    “You too.” He pats his wallet in his front pocket. “Thanks for noticing that.”
    How could I not notice? It was glittering and pink.
    I nod and turn to the next person in line, my stomach gurgling at the sight of a box of Oreos in front of me on the counter. I don’t need them, I tell myself, and I don’t need to be hot either. I don’t need to be any one thing in particular to be happy. It sounds so true that I wish I could one hundred per cent believe it.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    ~
    MY SECOND SEMESTER CLASSES are science, intro to business, civics, and history. Mr. Cushman, my science teacher, is recently separated (or so the rumour goes) and is mostly in a dire mood, but aside from that I don’t have much to complain about. It’s okay being back at school where everyone asks each other how their holidays were and what they did on New Year’s, like they’re really glad to see each other.
    Not long after I’m back Morgan calls while Genevieve’s driving me and Nicole home from school. I could let the call go to message, but if I don’t answer a corner of my mind will wonder if it’s some kind of emergency I shouldn’t ignore. “Hey, Morgan,” I say from the back seat.
    Morgan says hello in his giddy voice and quickly explains that Muzzy Ryan, this New Zealand band I used to like (but that he obviously doesn’t realize I’ve stopped listening to), are coming into the Much studio in two days. “They had a shake-up in their schedule,” he continues, “and it’s a last-minute thing but I know how much you like them. If you can skip your last class and make it down here I’ll be able to introduce you and give you a couple of minutes with them.”
    Because I don’t want to rain on his parade I don’t mention that Muzzy Ryan’s last album sounded like paint drying but without the drama. “That would be cool but I have to work, Morgan.”
    “Maybe you can get someone to switch with you,” he goes on. “Jimmy might be able to pick you up at school. I can check with him.”
    Truthfully, I do have to work and don’t want to waste a sick call on something I don’t have enthusiasm for. I thank Morgan and say that I really don’t want the whole ditching class thing to blow up in my face. Morgan says he understands but sounds disappointed and after that’s over with we run out of