Chapter 9
The next morning, I try to dress like I could be meeting my mystery admirer.
I have eight more paper hearts to go, so there’s no chance of that, but it’s still fun to think about. Even when there are things in your life that feel out of control, outfits are one thing you can. Planning what you’re wearing is kind of like planning for an event. You have to think about colors that clash and what will make the right statement.
Trying to look effortlessly pretty ironically can sometimes take the most effort, though. Soon I’ve tried on practically everything I own in front of my standing mirror before settling on a sweater with black pants that are stretchy enough to ice-skate in.
I send a picture of my outfit to Carmen with multiple SOS emojis, but she doesn’t answer. At first I see three dots like she’s going to respond, and then nothing. I hope she’s not still mad at me.
I sit on my bed, waiting for a response that never comes. I tell myself to be patient. That she’s just busy doing something and she’ll text me any second. But I don’t want Ashley to leave without me on her way to work. She started working when she wanted to be able to pay for guitar lessons. Two years later she still has the same job, and she’s pretty good at the guitar too. Sometimes I think she’s listening to music and it’s just her practicing in her room.
When Carmen doesn’t respond, I decide I’m going to have to make this outfit call on my own. At least not yoga pants and UGGs, I think, remembering Andy’s remark before I head downstairs.
Ashley’s sitting at the kitchen table, eating cereal. She nods at me when she sees me to say good morning as she continues crunching loudly. It would be a fine exchange if it wasn’t for the fact that she’s not in her usual barista outfit—all black with a hat that says cool beans. Instead, she’s in Under Armour, and her puff ski jacket is draped around her chair. But I guess it doesn’t matter so long as she drives me first.
“I need a ride to the ice-skating rink,” I say, thinking my best approach is to just ask.
She takes a sip of the milk. “Can’t. Me and Steve are playing hooky and going snowboarding.”
“Okay, so you’re not working. Even more reason you can drive me.”
I don’t even bother asking her when she started snowboarding. We always ski together, but maybe this was another thing she thinks is stupid.
Ashley shakes her head. “Steve is going to be here any second,” she says.
“Ashley, I need a ride! Can Steve take me?”
She shakes her head, mouth full of cereal. Her phone starts buzzing, so she shoves a last bite into her mouth before carrying it to the sink. “Not today, Ella.”
I stare, dumbfounded, thinking about what to do next. Both of my parents work on Saturdays. Should I kill her with kindness? Bribe her? Now is the time I wish I had some cool piece of jewelry to offer her, but we have such different styles she wouldn’t bite even if I did.
She must see how anxious I feel, because she scowls at me like it isn’t her fault I’m feeling this way. “Can’t you just ask Carmen?” she asks.
“She must be busy. She hasn’t texted me back all morning,” I say, mentally debating whether now would be a good time to start pouting. I’m not above it, especially when my plans are at stake.
“No offense,” she says looking at me. “But this is an example of why you should just get over this not-driving thing.”
I glare at her. “Offense taken.”
“Sorry, girlie,” she says, but she’s not sorry. She’s just making it clear she’s not going to do it.
I’m about to beg. My brain starts thinking of all the ways I can say please, please, please, please! without sounding as desperate as I feel. I could tell her about the paper hearts, but would she even care? It doesn’t seem like it.
I storm over to the key ring on the wall and take the keys to the car. They’re the same ones I used to drive the car with, except Ashley has replaced my floral key chain with a retro-looking one of a mix tape. When it opens up, it fits her AirPods inside. Well, hopefully she’s not trying to listen to music today, because I’m driving.
Honestly, I don’t even care if she does. I can’t believe her right now. Why is she being so difficult?
I make my way out to the driveway, where the car is parked, and open the driver’s side. As soon as I sit, my butt is cold on the leather. I have the urge to get out of the car—and being freezing isn’t the only reason.
The main one is that I haven’t driven since the accident.
The car is completely stationary, just sitting here in my driveway, and my heart still starts racing a mile a minute. You’re going to be fine, I tell myself as I’m buckling my seat belt. It’s just like riding a bike. But I can’t bring myself to lift the keys to the ignition. The ridges of the metal are now pressed into my skin from squeezing it so hard.
Once I realize this, I loosen my grip. Get it together, I tell myself before forcing my hands to start the car. There’s a part of me that hopes the muscle memory will help me remember the accident, but it only reminds me of the last time I attempted to get behind the wheel—I couldn’t leave the driveway without having a panic attack. This time will be different, I urge myself.
I think about turning the music on, but what if there’s a song playing that makes me jumpier? Then, because I’m already panicking, I start wondering what I was listening to when I crashed. Why are you thinking about that now? I plead with myself.
But it’s too late. I’m already thinking about that and how one wrong move in a car can send your vehicle spiraling. Horrible questions and thoughts begin to spiral in my mind. How many people crash in perfectly fine weather? How many people text and drive or goof around with their friends in the backseat? How many grandmas can hardly see but still have their licenses? The bad possibilities keep popping into my head faster than I can stop them—so quick that before I know it, my breathing is faster too. I try breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth, like you’re supposed to do when trying to stay calm, except I’m anything but calm right now. As I look down at the steering wheel, I can feel my mind blacking out, like it sometimes does when I’m really nervous. Then suddenly I go from breathing fast to feeling like I can’t breathe at all. With the last amount of energy in my body, I reach for the door handle.
I’m still breathing heavily, but the second I’m outside the color returns to my eyes. I’m relieved but frustrated at the same time. Driving is my only option to get to the next paper heart unless I ride my bike all the way there….Or is it?
I reach for my coat pocket and pull out my phone to message Andy my address, worried that he’s going to take his time to respond since I blew him off last night, but he responds instantly.
I reply.
My cheeks get hot and I type back faster.
I heave a sigh of relief in the driveway. Problem solved.
Not even a minute later, his Jeep Wrangler is pulling up. I reluctantly walk over to the car. When I approach the passenger seat, the window is rolled down. Andy’s sitting there with a huge grin. “Hey there, neighbor.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Neighbor?”
“Yeah. Me and my mom just moved down the street. The yellow house.”
“What happened to the Florrises?” I ask.
“Who’s that?”
“The old couple who lived there before you.”
He shrugs. “No idea.”
“I thought you were a detective.”
“No,” he laughs. “Just your driver, apparently. Get in.”
We get to the ice-skating rink by 9:05, but those five minutes annoy me more than I’d like to admit.
I’m not irritated for long, though. I step out of the car and I’m reminded once again that this place is as close to magic as you can get. The mountain house itself is more like a Victorian fortress beside a frozen lake. Next to the mountain house is a large pavilion with an ice rink. If a winter wonderland exists, this would be it.
The morning is the best time to go. In the afternoon the ice will have zigzag marks ingrained all over it from the skaters’ turns. But now the ice is crystal clear from the Zamboni.
There also isn’t much of a crowd. One dad is there with his little girl, who can’t be older than three. They’re standing in front of us in the rentals line. She’s twirling in an adorable tutu that looks like it could be part of a Frozen costume. The mom is sitting off on the side, getting her professional-grade camera ready to capture this big moment.
But as excited as this little girl might be, I know there’s no way her heart is racing faster than mine.
As we wait in line, I pull out the paper heart, holding it in my gloved hands.
The next heart is at the peak of winter wonderland.
“Are you going to tell me what the clue is?” Andy asks, trying to peer over my shoulder. I put the heart back in my coat pocket.
“You don’t believe me that it’s here?” I retort. But as confidently as I say that, I look around and start doubting myself. The far side of the rink is where my last Instagram photo was taken—the one I can’t remember taking because it was during those eleven weeks. But I can tell where I was skating from the trees in the background.
“I’m not doubting you, just wondering why you’re sure it’s ice-skating. I did not sign up for cardio.”
“The last time I checked, you did volunteer. But you don’t need to do this with me—you just have to wait for me to finish so I can have a ride home.”
“Oh no, I can’t leave Watson hanging,” he says, stepping up to the counter as the father and daughter leave.
I’m about to argue that he can drop the Sherlock Holmes act when the girl behind the counter asks for our skate sizes. I eye her suspiciously as I say six and a half. Maybe my mystery admirer told the ticket girl about the paper hearts, like they did to the man at the flower shop? But the girl hands me my skates without batting an eye. I sigh. So much for that.
We gather our skates and then find a small wooden bench so we can put them on. I string my laces together quickly, ready to hit the rink, but Andy takes his time, lacing his up like he’s learning to tie his shoes. When he’s finally done, he pulls the laces undone and starts over.
“Really? What’s taking so long, diva?” I ask him.
“I’m not being a diva. I’m just trying to figure out if I need new skates. I think they messed up my size. These are so tight.”
“They’re supposed to feel tight. Have you never skated before?”
“Yeah, just not with rentals,” he says with a nervousness in his voice that makes me wonder if I buy it. “What, you don’t believe me?” he asks, reading my face and smirking. “I bet I can go around this rink seventeen times before you.”
“You’re such a guy,” I say.
His smirk disappears. “What does that mean?”
I start walking toward the rink. “That you’re confident for no reason.”
“Oh, I have a reason,” he says, taking a step too and noticeably wobbling.
I stifle a laugh.
“I’ll get the hang of it,” he says, taking another step toward me.
“We’re just walking now,” I laugh. “Wait until we’re on the ice.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he says, pulling a beanie out of his jacket pocket and putting it on. If I didn’t know he had never skated before, he could’ve fooled me. Something about him looks like a pro hockey player. Probably because of how tall he looks now. He’s already over six feet, and his skates make him look even taller. But I definitely don’t tell him this—his ego is big enough as it is.
“Just try to keep up. I’m on a mission here, remember?” I say.
Then I take a deep breath of the refreshingly cold air. I’m so excited I’m practically skipping on my way to the rink.
I scan the rink for any clues. The girl back at the counter didn’t seem to know anything. Did anyone else? Would they recognize me? So far, I only see a custodian in the corner mopping up something that looks like spilled hot chocolate by the outdoor fire.
Maybe I should’ve paid more attention to the first girl at the entrance. She was too busy on her phone to even care that she worked at an ice-skating rink on a beautiful mountain. All I really remember is that she had light brown hair in a long braid that rested on her shoulder and slightly covered her name badge. Only the letters ie were visible, which could basically mean any name: Marie, Allie, Cassie, Julie…
“Your brain looks like it’s working a mile a minute,” Andy says, making me wonder what gave me away. It makes it more annoying that he’s right. “Do you have any other theories?” he asks.
“My only theory is that you’re not going to be as good at ice-skating as you think you’ll be.” I smile, opening the latch to the rink and gliding right on.
I start going fast right away, which is ironic because I can’t even drive a car by myself these days, but I just love the feeling your heart gets when it feels like it can’t beat any faster—and your lungs feel fiery like your hands do by a warm winter fire. It’s an adrenaline high, really, that I can’t explain, and the only other thing that can probably make my skin hot like this is kissing someone. I quickly glance at Andy before I begin to skate faster.
I zip along the ice now, picking up speed on a straightaway. I love that the rink is practically empty, with only a couple of people to avoid, including the girl in her Frozen tutu, who has stopped twirling and is clutching her dad as if her life depended on it.
As I turn the corner, it takes everything in me to not stop skating from laughing so hard. Andy’s still at the entrance, holding on to the side of the rink like the little girl who is still clutching her dad’s hand. I bite my tongue so the search can begin.
I make my way to the far side of the rink, where my last Instagram picture was taken. Once I get there, I slow down, examining the edge of the rink. The outer walls are white, just like the ice below my skates, so a watercolored heart should be easy to spot, but as I move along the side, I find nothing.
Suddenly, there’s a pit in my stomach. I was so sure the next heart would be here. What if my admirer expected me to get here last night and the cleaning crew already found my paper heart?
I shake my head. I have to trust whoever this mystery person is—so far, they’ve been leading me in the right direction. Sherlock Holmes doesn’t look for clues, he just looks. Andy’s voice echoes in my head much to my annoyance. Maybe if I stop looking hard, the paper heart will come more easily? I remember the photo from my Instagram. It looked like I was genuinely having fun from my smile. It was a candid photo, from what I could tell, where I’m gliding along with my hands raised in the air. If only I could go back to that moment, when the biggest things I had to worry about were college and planning the school’s Valentine’s Day Dance.
I take a deep breath and start skating again, this time faster. I glide in circles until the world dissolves. In my peripheral vision, I notice that Andy’s finding his groove too.
I don’t know exactly what I’m expecting to happen. Maybe for another paper heart to come flying at me like I’m an Olympic ice skater who has just performed?
Maybe for the girl from the entrance to come dashing to the rink with a box of chocolates and the next clue?
What I don’t expect is absolutely nothing.
Did I read the clue wrong? No, I think. This place is the epitome of winter wonderland. I’m thinking about all the possibilities as I glide to a halt next to Andy, who I’ve ignored this whole time. But when he turns, my jaw drops.
His face is as red as a valentine, covered in blood.
After we find a mountain-size box of tissues, Andy tells me his sob story over hot chocolate by the outdoor fire. Thank goodness it was just a bloody nose, which often looks way worse than it actually is. Normally, I would have more sympathy, but I’m here to find my next paper heart and this is slowing me down. I want to chug the hot chocolate in front of me to move things along, but I can only take little baby sips without burning my tongue.
“It was the little Frozen girl’s fault,” Andy explains across the table. “She skated right in front of me and I tried to get out of the way so I didn’t pummel her and then I ran straight into her dad, who was trying to rescue her. But then once I was bleeding, she started laughing at me like she knew what she was doing. That girl is an Elsa, not an Ana.”
I just shake my head. I’m half listening, thinking about where to check next at the same time. Maybe I should search the cubbies in the corner.
“What?” he asks defensively.
“Nothing,” I say, turning my attention back to him. “It’s hard to take anything you say seriously with tissues coming out of your nose.”
“I’m a hero,” he says. “This is a battle wound. Harry Potter. All the Marvel superheroes have had them. It’s too bad I won’t get a scar. Chicks dig scars.”
Not on myself, I think.
“A bloody nose is hardly a battle wound,” I say instead. “And are you done bleeding yet? I’m trying to be nice here, but I still have a paper heart to find.”
“Thanks for your concern, Ella, but I’m not the only one holding us up here. You’re not even close to finishing your hot chocolate.”
I look down at the large mug in front of me. It’s still hot, but I pick it up and take another sip of the foamy top layer just to speed things up.
“My conversation is that bad, huh?” Andy asks flatly, but his eyes say he’s joking. “Or is it the blood?”
“Both,” I deadpan. Some people might find my sarcasm mean, but Andy grins in a way that makes me forget what I’m doing for a second. I take another sip of the hot chocolate and burn my tongue again.
As if he’s trying to redeem himself from his poor ice-skating performance, Andy blows on his chocolate and takes a sip while pinching his nose with his other hand.
“Pretty impressive,” I say.
“Is that a semi-compliment from you? I’ll take it.”
I laugh, and for a second it makes me forget all about the paper heart. Okay, not quite—the thought is still nagging me.
“Let’s play a game to distract you,” Andy says, like he can read my mind.
“What kind of game?”
“A people-watching game,” he says, smiling.
“Sounds creepy,” I reply, in part because it does sound creepy but mostly because I want to get this show on the road. The point of him coming was not to hold me back.
“First of all, it isn’t nearly as creepy as these paper hearts,” he says. “Ever wonder if you have a serial killer on your hands leading you to your death?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, someone like that would really want to break into Arlington High School to deliver a paper heart.”
“Wait a second. I thought you said you didn’t know who was sending these?”
“I don’t, only that I got the first one in school.”
Andy’s eyes widen. “How can I be your detective if you don’t give me all the clues, Ella?”
I put down my hot chocolate. It clinks on the table. “Can you just tell me this theory already?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he says sarcastically. “Okay, so the theory is you can tell how much someone loves somebody by the Hot Chocolate Test.”
I squint my eyes. “Go on.”
He drops his tissues and smiles widely like he’s fully excited about what he’s about to disclose. “It’s all about how they drink their hot chocolate. Take that couple, for example,” he says, pointing his finger on the table diagonally to the two people sitting on a stone bench by the fireplace. To me, they look like your average couple. The girl looks effortlessly cool in patterned leggings and a puffer vest, only I’d give her the benefit of the doubt and bet that she didn’t try on everything in her closet this morning like I did. She’s sitting next to the guy and talking.
“I don’t get it,” I admit, wondering where on earth this is going. “What am I looking for?”
“You don’t see it? She’s paying more attention to her marshmallow than her fellow.”
I glance back at the couple. It’s a stretch—she looks like she’s just drinking her hot chocolate to me.
“Now look at him,” Andy says, watching my eyes. “See how when he takes a sip, he doesn’t take his eyes off her?”
Even though I think this is ridiculous, I want this game to be over, so I do as Andy tells me to. Only when I do, I realize he doesn’t take his eyes off her and Andy’s observation is right. Still, the Hot Chocolate Test sounds like a stretch.
“So what does that tell you about their relationship?”
He eyes me intently. “You really want to know?”
“Isn’t that the point of the game?” I ask, confused—why is anything with the words hot chocolate getting taken this seriously?
“I’m not sure your romantic heart can handle the truth.”
I groan. “Please just mansplain your theory to me so we can get this over with.”
There’s a long pause, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s debating whether or not to tell me or because he really doesn’t have a theory and he’s just thinking about what to say now. That’s the vibe I’ve been getting from him lately—that he’s making everything up as he goes along. The guy who will just chase paper hearts with some girl he barely knows for the entertainment of it. He’s the complete opposite of me, who overthinks everything, including why this long pause is taking so long. I’m about to open my mouth when he finally does.
“The way they’re drinking their hot chocolate tells me a lot of things, as does their body language. Right now, he’s the nice guy who dotes on her every word, but eventually he’ll grow tired of being taken for granted and break up with her. She’ll be heartbroken and beg for him back. Maybe he’ll take her back or maybe he’ll realize there are more important things than a pretty face and find someone that wants to look at him while she drinks hot chocolate too. There are just some people who love the idea of love but not love itself.”
I blink at him uncontrollably. “Geez. All that because she was trying to get a marshmallow?”
“Yeah, when there’s a guy that’s sweeter right in front of you.”
I roll my eyes. “What has made you so incredibly jaded? Did some girl break up with you or something?”
His eyes blaze like I hit a nerve, and I have the instinct to apologize immediately until he shakes his head at me. “No, but I’m just not the type of person who follows some paper hearts aimlessly over town.”
He grins, but I don’t grin back. It’s a low blow and he knows it.
“Oh come on,” he starts, but I’m already getting up. I don’t care about what he has to say to me next or that I haven’t finished my hot chocolate or that he got a bloody nose, because suddenly it feels like he deserved it. I stomp toward the exit.
“Wait, Ella,” Andy says, following me. “I didn’t mean it like that. I like that you have hope someone is really out there doing a romantic scavenger hunt for you. It’s endearing. You really are a glass-half-full kind of girl.”
I shoot my head around. “You don’t know anything about me.”
My words are harsher than I mean them to be. His grin fades fast, and I think about apologizing. After all, he doesn’t know about my accident or why this is so important to me.
I have the thought now to tell Andy about everything. If I don’t, I’m lying by omission, right?
But as I open my mouth, I can’t bring myself to say anything. Maybe it’s because I’m secretly enjoying this banter we have going on. It’s silly. It’s fun. Opening up about something serious would be a buzzkill—or at least, it feels like it could be.
Besides, everyone I know tells me it’s so great that I’m moving on. Isn’t talking about it taking a step back?
Something tells me these are just excuses. But if I tell him I was in an accident, he’ll ask about the accident itself. It’s only natural. But then I can’t even answer the question—because I don’t remember what happened. I don’t remember this huge thing that feels like the catalyst for my life. I get this feeling in my stomach—maybe it’s anger.
Or maybe it’s the same stupid feeling I have when I don’t know the answer to a question in class. Either way, every time someone tries to talk about it, I feel like I’m in class and don’t want to be called on. So I shrink down and avoid eye contact at all costs.
I look away now, and as I realize what I’m doing, the answer slides into my brain like it’s on ice skates.
The next heart is at the peak of winter wonderland.
I was right about Mohonk Mountain being a winter wonderland, but I’ve been so focused on going back to the location of my Instagram photo that I completely misinterpreted the other part. Peak isn’t just referring to the mountain—it’s literally saying the highest part of the mountain.
I yank my skates off before grabbing my boots from the cubby. “Where are you going now?” Andy asks.
“I was totally wrong before. We need to go to the highest peak. I need a map.”
“There was one at the entrance,” Andy says, taking his skates off now too.
After I put my boots back on, I rush over to the front desk with Andy trailing behind me. Then I grab a map and begin scanning the different trails.
“There,” I say with my pointer finger on a black dot with a tower off the high ledge. “That’s where we need to go.”
“So, are you going to tell me why you blew up back there?” Andy asks.
We’ve been walking in silence up the mountain. My boots aren’t made for hiking, especially since these trails still have snow on them. I slip a little when Andy calls me out—I forgot that I overreacted. But of course Andy wants to remind me.
“It was nothing,” I say. “I was just irritated you were typecasting me again.”
“Typecasting you?” he spits out, a little breathless from the steep incline.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Well, what did you mean by I don’t know anything about you? I’m trying to get to know you here.”
I know my cheeks turn super red in the cold, but they must be even redder now. My eyes shift from him to the view. You can see everything from up here—the mountain house where travelers stay, the ice rink. When I look back at Andy, I still don’t know what to say.
But then, behind him—I see something up ahead. A wooden tower that you can only reach by crossing a short footbridge. From this angle, it appears as if it’s floating in the sky. I forget all about my poor choice of footwear and sprint toward it.
“Be careful,” Andy yells from behind me.
“What are you, my mother?” I retort back as I keep running toward the bridge. But when I reach it, I slow to a walk and feel Andy catch up behind me.
As soon as I enter the wooden tower, I cover my open mouth with my hand. There, dangling from the pointed top of the ceiling, is a long ribbon. At the end is my next paper heart.
I turn around to Andy. “I guess it’s not a bad thing being a glass-half-full kind of girl,” I say smugly.
But when I pull the heart off the ribbon and read the message, my smile disappears.