The Museum of Heartbreak by Meg Leder Page A

dogs too many), and then Audrey and I vomited sympathetically, and my parents had to take all three crying kids home. And then there was the year when I won at Whac-A-Mole, earning us a certificate for dessert at Serendipity. My mom took me and Eph and Audrey, and I pretty much thought I had died and gone to best-friend hot-fudge heaven.
    Right then, amid happy kids and carnival songs, I missed Eph and Audrey both so much that I felt like a haunted house, all hollow echoes where they used to be.
    I patted the weight of my e-reader in my bag, trying to reassure myself, and turned around to cross the street to leave, when my eyes fell on a small folding table in between a face-painting booth and an informational display about the ski team. Taped to the edge of the table was a neatly lettered sign:
    DEAD POETS PHONE
    $1 per call
    SEIZE THE DAY!
    CARPE DIEM!
    TALK WITH GREATNESS!
    (all proceeds go to Nevermore )
    I stepped closer. In the middle of the table sat an old beige rotary phone and a glass bowl with two lonely dollars in it.
    I thought I recognized the two people behind the table from school. I was pretty sure they were seniors. The girl was short and curvy with a definite rockabilly vibe: hair dyed fire-engine red, a Schoolhouse Rock T-shirt, and super-dark Buddy Holly glasses. The boy had a pointed Mohawk, the tips spiked up, and a rich, haughty expression that reminded me of some minor scheming character from Masterpiece . He was reading an old beat-up copy of E. E. Cummings’s poetry.
    The girl caught me checking out their setup and brightened. “Want to talk with a dead poet? All proceeds go to the Saint Bart’s literary magazine, Nevermore . By the way, I’m coveting your shirt,” she said, pointing at my CONEY ISLAND CIRCUS SIDESHOW T-shirt.
    I flashed back to last year, when Audrey had ecstatically introduced me to Cherisse, who had just transferred to Saint Bart’s. Cherisse had given me a once-over and winced out a pained smile that immediately put her in the running for any superhero movie that ever needed a frost-queen villain.
    The girl in front of me had the exact opposite energy. She was sunny and warm, and maybe it was because I was already feeling so needy, but I immediately wanted her to be my friend.
    â€œI’m Grace. And this is Miles,” she said, pointing to the Mohawk boy.
    â€œAre you a junior?” Miles asked, his voice drawling out the u sound.
    I nodded, unsure about him. His eyes were the softest gray, butthe tips of his hair were gelled sharp enough to draw blood, and he looked a little bored watching me.
    â€œI’m Penelope,” I said. “But everyone calls me Pen.”
    Miles slouched in the chair and tapped his upper lip, sussing me out. I stood a little bit straighter, putting on my Cherisse armor.
    And then he sat up. “Oh my God, you’re the one who always hangs out with that tall dreamy boy.” He flopped back, fanned himself once with the book. “He is hot.”
    It took me a full ten seconds.
    â€œWait. You’re talking about Eph? You think Eph is hot?” I asked.
    â€œWe both do,” Miles said, gesturing eagerly to Grace and himself. A mortified look crossed her face, and, blushing, Grace smacked him on the arm.
    â€œOw!”
    â€œSo how does the phone work?” I asked, eager to stop thinking about Eph and his alleged hotness. I pulled out my wallet and handed Miles a five. The phone was plugged into a big fat empty space of nothing.
    He dug in his pocket and started counting out change.
    â€œKeep it,” I said.
    â€œA generous literary patron! Thank you!”
    I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me, but when I eyed the near-empty bowl and heard him muttering to himself, “Worst fund-raising idea ever,” I figured maybe it was genuine after all.
    At that second Grace abruptly picked up the phone, saying, “Hello . . . yes, hi! . . . Uh-huh, okay,