A Heart Divided Read Online Free Page A

day,” she vowed, hugging me so hard that the rivets on her black denim jacket—actually,
my
black denim jacket, which she’d borrowed and never returned—made impressions in my arm. “I’ll get T-shirts made that say FREE KATE: THE SOUTH SUCKS. I’ll wear black until you come home.”
    To my surprise, Marcus had showed. I’d screwed up my courage the week before and asked him to coffee after Lab. Somewhere between pouring the cream and stirring the sugar, I told him my terrible news. “I’ll be back next year, though,” I assured him. “And then NYU, I hope.”
    He sipped his black brew. “Ever think about USC?”
    He meant the University of Southern California, a school I had zero interest in attending. New York University was for playwrights; USC was for television writers. It was that simple.
    “Why would I go there?”
    “Industry contacts. You’re cute. You write hip, funny,facile, glib, all that. You could be running your own sitcom before you’re thirty.”
    This was like telling a girl who aspired to be Rembrandt that she was a talented little cartoonist. And he knew it. I folded my arms. “In other words, you think my work lacks depth.”
    “You write fast food, Kate. Your characters have the weight of cotton candy. Fun going down. But ten minutes later, you’re hungry for something real.”
    A flush crept up my neck. “Why the hell did you put me in Showcase, then?”
    “Because you have talent. Possibly a lot of talent. And for some reason, I suspect you’re deep. Not that anyone would know it from your writing.”
    “A play can be funny and still be deep,” I said defensively. “I’ve tried to write serious. It comes out like bad Eugene O’Neill.”
    “That just means you’re imitating him instead of being you.”
    “Because
I’m funny.”
    “But not superficial. Take that as a compliment.”
    “Gee, thanks. I feel
so
much better.”
    He dug a few dollars out of his pocket. “Like I said in class, Kate, you can’t write—”
    “What you don’t know,” I finished for him. “Yoda has spoken.”
    He almost smiled. “Exactly. So let me ask you.” He leaned toward me, eyes probing mine. “What hurts somuch that the pain cuts to the bone? What makes you feel so passionate you can’t even breathe?”
    I sat there, feeling inadequate, exposed by questions I couldn’t answer. Finally I blurted out the only thing I could think of. “I’m only sixteen.”
    “Yeah. I guess you are, at that.” He dropped the money on the table and started to edge out of the booth. He was disappointed in me. I knew that, but I didn’t know how to fix it. Before he left, he wished me luck. And then he added, “Remember, Kate: Wherever you go, there you are.”

    My dad, who’d come down a few weeks earlier to find us a house and start his job, met us at the way-too-clean Nashville airport. He wore a broad grin, excruciatingly new jeans, and cowboy boots. Yes. Cowboy boots. He hugged us all and kissed my mom. I don’t think I’d ever seen his face shine quite that way before.
    New York City summers, however oppressive, are the Ice Age compared to August in middle Tennessee. We stepped out of the main terminal into air so thick you could chew the heat and wash it down with the humidity. By the time Dad led us to a new Saturn—no shocker there—I was drenched.
    Back in New Jersey, my father had made fun of country music. But now, as we headed down Interstate 65 to our new home, the radio was set to a yeehaw station. He sangalong. Meaning he’d already learned the words. Okay, so my dad was having fun with his new environment. That’s just the kind of guy he was. Immediately, Portia proceeded to prove the power of genetics by joining in on the repetitive, hooky chorus.
    Seven heartbreak ditties later, we’d passed the Nashville city limits, skirted the community of Brentwood, and taken the exit for Redford. We’d almost rented a house in Brentwood, a town that looked pretty much like