The Anatomical Shape of a Heart Read Free Page A

stared at each other.
    And stared.
    And stared …
    A strange heat sparked inside my chest and spread over my skin. It must’ve been contagious, because two pink spots stained his cheeks, and I’d never seen a boy like him blush. I didn’t know what was happening between us, but I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if the Owl had burst into flames, veered off the road, and exploded in a fiery inferno.
    Bus stops came and went, and we didn’t stop staring. The older, wittier me was one second away from leaping across the aisle and throwing myself at him, but the real me was too sensible. He finally broke the silence and said in a soft, desperate voice, “What’s your name?”
    The woman with the umbrella made a low noise. She gave me a disapproving frown that put my mother’s to shame. Had she been watching us the whole time?
    â€œShit.” Jack pulled the yellow stop cord drooping across the window and bent over his backpack. Irving and Ninth. A popular stop. Mine was still several blocks away, which meant one thing: My night bus fantasy was ending. What should I do? Ignore the umbrella lady’s warning and give him my name?
    What if I never saw him again?
    The bus jerked to a sudden stop. Jack’s backpack tipped sideways. Something rolled out from a gap in the zipper and banged into the toes of my boots.
    A fancy can of spray paint with a metallic gold top.
    I picked it up and paused. The way he tightened up and ground his jaw to the side, there might as well have been a neon sign over his head that flashed NERVOUS! NERVOUS! NERVOUS!
    I held the spray paint out. He stuffed the can in his backpack and slung it over one shoulder. “Good luck with your cadaver drawing.”
    My reply got lost under the news ticker of recent headlines scrolling inside my head. All I could do was quietly watch his long body slink into shadows as the door shut and the bus pulled away from the curb.
    I knew who he was.

3
    Since school let out in May, gold graffiti had been popping up around San Francisco. Single words painted in enormous gold letters appeared on bridges and building fronts. Not semi-illegible, angry gang tags, but beautifully executed pieces done by someone with talent and skill.
    Could that someone be Jack? Was he an infamous street artist wanted for vandalizing?
    The remaining leg of the ride blurred by as I recalled everything I’d heard about the gold graffiti on local blogs. I wished I’d paid better attention. I definitely needed to do some research, like, right now.
    When the bus got to my stop on Judah Street, I raced off, eager to do just that.
    I live in the Inner Sunset district, which is the biggest joke in the world, because it’s one of the foggiest parts of the city. Summer’s the worst, when the nights are chilly and we sometimes go for weeks without seeing the sun. But apart from the fog, I like living here. We’re only a few blocks from Golden Gate Park. There’s a pretty cool stretch of shops on Irving. And we’re just down the hill from the Muni stop. We live on the bottom two floors of a skinny, three-story pale-yellow Edwardian row house and share a small patch of yard in the back with our neighbor Julie, a premed student who rents the unit above us. She’s the one who got me the appointment at the anatomy lab.
    I jogged up a dozen stairs to our front door. As I fumbled for the house key, a taxi pulled up to the curb. My brother jumped out and quickly paid the driver before spotting me.
    â€œMom’s on her way home!” Heath called as he raced up the stairs, imitating an ambulance siren. He was dressed in a tight jacket, tight jeans, and an even tighter black shirt with silver studs that spelled out 21ST CENTURY METAL BOY . He also reeked of beer, which is why I didn’t believe him.
    â€œWhere have you been?” I asked.
    â€œMe? Where have you been?”
    â€œPicking up criminals on the night