Page 13 of The Way the Heart Breaks: Jade’s Story

Becca pulls out the small mirror first and holds it up. “Wait… this is cute.”

I shrug, suddenly weirdly aware of it. “Yeah, I don’t know. Mom saw it and was like, ‘You need this,’ so…”

“And this?” she asks, pulling out the little corkboard.

“Oh,” I say, softer. “We found that together.”

Tessa smiles, already taking it from her. “It’s perfect. We’re using it.”

“There’s more,” Becca says, digging again, like she struck gold.

A roll of patterned paper. A strip of blue ribbon. A couple of decorative push pins are still in the packaging.

“You came prepared,” she says.

“Mom insisted.” I shrug.

“Okay, well,” Tessa says, clapping her hands once. “Then we’re making it perfect.”

“And there’s more.” I pull out two more of the exact items from under my Trapper Keeper.

“Of course, Aunt Janet thought of us!” Tessa grins.

The paper goes up first, Tessa smoothing it out like she’s done this a hundred times, pressing out every bubble. Becca sticks the corkboard to the inside, adjusting it three times before she’s satisfied. The mirror goes up last.

I lean in, catching my reflection for a second before my eyes drift to the corkboard. The ribbon. The little things my mom insisted on, like she knew this mattered more than any of us did.

I smile. Of course she did; she always does. “Perfect.”

“Totally,” Tessa says, bumping my shoulder.

Then we walk down the hall and around the corner and do theirs.

The first bell rings. “We'd better go.”

“We can walk you,” Tessa offers.

“I think I can handle it,” I giggle.

“She’s in middle school, just like us,” Becca does a little shimmy.

We all grin.

Headed to homeroom, I throw my now much lighter bag back in my locker with a smile. The mirror. The corkboard. All the little things Mom said we needed. Including the tiny zipper pouch labeled 'pencils' but containing emergency pads… I still don’t have my period.

4

BEFORE / GAME TIME

Jade

It’s only the second day of class, and the boys have their first game tonight, so Mom’s locked in, making everything perfect, which is what she does. Cabinets open and shut, the fridge door swings, and snacks hit the counter one after another like she’s stocking up for something bigger than a football game.

“Are you wearing clean socks?” she calls.

“In the dryer!” Jason yells back, already halfway out of the kitchen.

“That doesn’t count as wearing.” She sighs.