Cures for Heartbreak by Margo Rabb

Author:Margo Rabb
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2016-03-19T04:00:00+00:00

HOW TO FIND LOVE

She is a friend of my mind. . . . The pieces I am, she gather them and give them back to me in all the right order.

—Toni Morrison

Beloved

How do you fall in love?

This was what I awoke wondering the morning I turned sixteen. It was early September, during one of New York’s record heat waves; even my bedroom windows seemed to sweat. When I opened my eyes all I could think was that it wouldn’t be so bad to wake up sweating if you awoke beside somebody else.

But there wasn’t anyone else. In our quiet, empty house, my single bed was filled only with pancake-flat, fur-mangled stuffed animals. Lately my father had been trying to get me to throw them out; he’d finally given up the night before, when I stood before my bears, rabbits, gorillas, and kangaroos and, with all the passion of Scarlett O’Hara, vowed in a fierce, husky voice, “Never.”

But now all I could think was that I was a sixteen-year-old girl still sleeping with gorillas. Not like Sixteen Candles, or any of those kinds of movies; there were no boyfriends or hopes of boyfriends waiting outside my door. I felt my skin grow hot as I thought of my recent crushes: Jay Kasper, Richard Bridgewald, and the healthy person formerly known as the cancer guy. Sometimes I wanted to edit my life, run it all on a film monitor and instruct, “Cut this, cut that,” and it would all piece together so much more smoothly.

Sweet sixteen.

Birthdays had been a big deal when I was little: parties with tons of kids pinning the tail on the donkey, batting piñatas, gorging on Betty Crocker SuperMoist cake with fudge frosting. My mother always bought the gifts—a three-tiered set of Ultima II makeup last year, silver-plated hair clips the year before.

This year I knew what my father had gotten me, because he’d left it in a bag in the hall closet—Teen Lady shampoo, body wash, and scented powder from the supermarket. He must’ve asked the store clerk what to get for a girl, and been told this. I’d begun to wish there was some guidebook I could give him, How to Raise a Daughter or something; he still seemed near cardiac arrest when I asked for money for tampons, had yet to show a glimmer of comprehension of the magic word shopping, and thought reupholstering the couch made for a fun Saturday night. In fact, the couch was now his whole existence; he’d decided to retire on my mother’s life insurance money, and put the shop up for sale. He now spent each day on the couch reading the complete New York Times. He was like a clipping service without the paying clients.

Every afternoon when I came home from school he’d narrate his day: “This morning I had myself a bagel with the no-fat cream cheese, lunch a Wendy’s grilled chicken. In Topeka they had a scandal with the honey mustard sauce, people got sick—I read

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