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figure out if they were more or less than the sum of their parts. Chet was right. A lot of them
were less.
Top of the list, of course, was Shelly Stalls. To look at her, you'd think she had everything,
but there's not much solid underneath her Mount
Everest hair. And even though she's like a black hole at sucking people in, it doesn't take
them long to figure out that being friends with her requires
fanning the flames of a wildfire ego.
But of all my classmates, the one person I couldn't seem to place was Bryce. Until recently
I'd have said with absolute certainty that he was
greater—far greater—than the sum of his parts. What he did to my heart was sheer,
inexplicable magic.
But inexplicable was the operative word here. And as I looked across the room at him during
math, I couldn't help feeling crushed all over again
about how he'd thrown out my eggs. What kind of person would do that?
Then he looked my way and smiled, and my heart lurched. But I was mad at myself for it.
How could I still feel this way after what he'd done?
I avoided him the rest of the day, but by the end of school there was a tornado inside me,
tearing me up from one end to the other. I jumped on my
bike and rode home faster than I ever had before. The right pedal clanked against the chain
guard, and the whole bike rattled and squeaked,
threatening to collapse into a pile of rusty parts.
The tornado, however, was still going strong when I skidded to a halt in our driveway. So I
transferred pedal power into painting power. I pried
open the gallon of Navajo White my dad had bought me and started slopping paint around.
Chet appeared about ten minutes later. “My,” he laughed, “you've got an enviable amount of
energy today, don't you?”
“No,” I said, brushing back some hair with the back of my hand, “I'm just mad.”
He produced his own brush and an empty coffee can. “Uhoh. Who at?”
“Myself!”
“Oh, that's a tough one. Did you do poorly on a test?”
“No! I …” I turned to him and said, “How did you fall in love with your wife?”
He poured some Navajo White into his can and smiled. “Ah,” he said. “Boy problems.”
“I do not have boy problems!”
He hesitated but didn't argue. Instead, he said, “I fell in love with her by mistake.”
“By mistake? What do you mean?”
“I didn't intend to. At the time I was engaged to somebody else, and in no position to fall in
love. Fortunately for me I saw how blind I'd been before
it was too late.”
“Blind?”
“Yes. My fiancée was very beautiful. She had the most magnificent brown eyes, and skin like
an angel. And for a time all I could see was her
beauty. But then … well, let's just say I discovered she wasn't a fraction of the person Renée
was.” He dipped his brush in the coffee can and
stroked a picket with paint. “It's easy to look back and see it, and it's easy to give the advice,
but the sad fact is, most people don't look beneath the
surface until it's too late.”
inute, but I could see Chet thinking. And from the furrow in his brow, I
knew it had nothing to do with my problems. “I'm … I'm
sorry I brought up your wife,” I said.
“Oh, don't be, that's all right.” He shook his head and tried on a smile. “Besides, I wasn't
