The Museum of Heartbreak by Meg Leder Page B

she’s right here,” and handed it to me. “For you! It’s Walt Whitman.”
    I wasn’t sure what to expect when I took the receiver. Arecording, perhaps, or maybe Miles throwing his voice so it sounded like it was coming from the receiver. What I didn’t expect was complete silence.
    They both waited expectantly.
    â€œUmmm . . . ,” I said.
    Miles folded his arms. “Is he talking about Oscar Wilde? I heard they did it, you know.” He elbowed Grace. “Scandal!”
    Grace still looked terribly earnest. “Is he yammering on about blades of grass? He had me on the phone for at least twenty minutes one day, going on and on about how beautiful they are.” She made a chatterbox gesture with her fingers.
    I wasn’t sure what to do. I kept the phone up to my ear and racked my brain, trying to think of what I had learned in last year’s American poetry class.
    â€œHe’s . . . he’s . . .”
    Grace waited eagerly, and like a bolt of lightning from Zeus, I had a mini epiphany.
    Grace was having fun.
    She hadn’t outgrown the Fall Festival either.
    And I wasn’t completely sure, but it seemed like Miles might have been enjoying himself a little bit too, unsuccessful fund-raiser and all.
    I covered the receiver with my palm. “Walt’s talking about a stranger who passed him on the street.”
    Grace turned to Miles. “It’s your Starbucks Guy poem!”
    I was surprised to see Miles’s neck redden. That wasn’t very Masterpiece villainy.
    â€œYeah, Walt, I totally get it. I crush pretty hard too,” I said, feelingcompletely ridiculous. But Grace’s face was lit up all bright like carnival lights, and Miles seemed pleased that a passing couple was curiously watching my exchange.
    â€œI don’t know what to do, Walt. But I guess it helps to know I’m not alone. . . .” I mimicked Grace’s previous nonstop-talk hand motion.
    â€œI know, right?” she whispered.
    Finally, after a few more seconds of pretend conversation, I said good-bye and handed the phone back to Grace.
    Miles immediately grabbed it, listened for a second, and held it out to the couple. “For you. Emily Dickinson doesn’t just call anyone, you know?” he said. “This is an honest-to-god once-in-a-lifetime moment. Only one dollar!”
    Grace slid a neon-green flyer across the table to me. “You should check out our journal, Nevermore . . . .”
    Miles nudged her. “Gracie, Gracie, tell this guy Emily is worth one hundred million dollars, let alone one.”
    She waved good-bye to me, and I smiled, folding the flyer carefully and placing it in a safe spot in my bag. Maybe I would check out the literary magazine. Maybe I could write something, or maybe they needed readers.
    I could do things without Eph and Audrey.
    I thought of Audrey on the Ferris wheel, her face glowing, her surprise that something so terrifying could be so lovely.

Party invitation
    Convivii invitatio
    Saint Bartholomew’s Academy
    New York, New York
    Cat. No. 201X-6
    THE NEXT MONDAY AFTERNOON, THE miracle happened.
    I opened my locker, and there, on the top of my Spanish book, was a small, folded white square.
    I read it, and read it again.
    Sunlight burst through the ceiling and illuminated the hall, in certified angels-singing-above-a-manger miracle style.
    It was an invite to Keats’s First of October party that Saturday.
    The invite was on smooth white card stock, and the instructions—address, time, BRING ONE GUEST ONLY , COSTUMES MANDATORY —were perfectly minimal, crisp capital letters stamped into the paper. Only the top left corner was dinged up, like it had gotten snagged in my locker slot, and there was a smear of blue ink on the back. But it had found its way to me.
    Keats had invited me to his party.
    I’d won the Willy Wonka Golden Ticket.
    Keats invited me