Tin Heart

  About the Book

  When Marlowe gets a heart transplant and a second chance at life, all she wants is to thank her donor’s family. Maybe then she can move on. Maybe then she’ll discover who she is if she’s no longer The Dying Girl.

  But with a little brother who dresses like every day is Halloween, a vegan warrior for a mother and an all-out war with the hot butcher’s apprentice next door, Marlowe’s life is already pretty complicated. And her second chance is about to take an unexpected turn. . .

  PRAISE FOR TIN HEART

  ‘Would you still be the same person if you had someone else’s heart? Marlowe Jensen is proof that a borrowed heart can be a big one, and from cover to cover her story is swoon-worthy, moving, deep, and funny. I loved it.’

  Jennifer Niven, NY Times bestselling author of All the Bright Places

  ‘Shivaun Plozza’s debut novel Frankie delighted and devastated readers, and Tin Heart cements Plozza as a writer with a charming voice and a flair for flawed, lovable characters.’

  Australian Books and Publishing

  PRAISE FOR FRANKIE

  ‘Great dialogue and strongly paced. Frankie’s a gutsy character with a lot of heart.’

  Melina Marchetta

  ‘A gritty and darkly witty debut.’

  Kirkus Reviews (US)

  ‘An edgy and drily funny novel . . .’

  Publisher’s Weekly (US)

  ‘Readers will love Frankie for her courage, passion, and honesty as a narrator. Supporting characters are equally as well drawn . . . A powerful debut about a girl learning to love despite the dangers.’

  Booklist, American Library Association

  ‘Frankie is a brilliant young adult novel from a debut author who has a huge future ahead of her.’

  CBCA Book of Year Awards Judges Report

  ‘Teenage girls . . . will immediately connect with this smart-talking, gutsy heroine who pushes away everyone who dares to come too close . . . a heroine for the modern age . . . Plozza finds humour in the unlikeliest of situations.’

  Australian Book Review

  ‘A great debut novel from a fantastic new Australian author.

  It has everything YA fiction needs to be captivating: mystery, tough women, annoyingly cute bad boys, sarcasm and humour.’

  Readings

  ‘Frankie burrowed her way into my heart in the first few pages and wouldn’t let me go.’

  Kids Book Review

  Contents

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  FROM THE AUTHOR

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  FOR LEIGH

  AND TO EVERYONE WHO MAKES

  ORGAN AND TISSUE DONATION POSSIBLE

  Picture the ticker-tape parade when I left hospital. Nurses and doctors and strangers crying and waving hankies. You did it, Marlowe! You survived! Picture me driving off in the back of a flashy convertible doing my best queenly wave at the streets lined with people cheering for the girl who survived.

  And then Marlowe Jensen lived happily ever after.

  Except . . .

  That’s not really how it went. And I’m only seventeen so there’s a lot of ‘after’ to get through.

  I think about what the counsellor said to me, when I was placed on the transplant waiting list. That losing my heart was like a death. And that I would mourn for it. That I would grieve. That I would move on but never forget.

  But she didn’t tell me I wouldn’t be able to rid myself of this feeling. The feeling that even though I’m living the happily ever after there’s still something missing. There’s still the feeling that every beat and thump and thud of my heart is unknown and unknowable because now there’s this whole part of me that’s not me – a little locked room deep within my chest.

  I thought I could know who gave me their heart. I thought I could meet their family and it would be all sunshine and rainbows and happy tears. But that doesn’t happen. You can’t know who they are. Who they were. And if my heart isn’t my own – and I don’t know whose it is – then how can I ever know who I am?

  So I can’t escape that feeling.

  And when people look at me, what do they see?

  It can’t be me. There is no ‘me’ anymore. They’re seeing a girl with a borrowed heart.

  You know that moment when you’re standing in front of Bert’s Quality Butchers holding a speaker blasting ‘Meat is Murder’ and your mum is doing interpretative dance to express the heartbreak of a slaughtered cow and your ten-year-old brother, Pip, is handing out pamphlets for your family’s new veganorganic-wellness store called Blissfully Aware and he’s dressed in a gingham pinafore, red wig, combat boots and tiger facepaint?

  That moment sucks.

  I mean The Smiths are all right. And I’m pro my mum’s no meat, no wheat, no dairy, no sugar, no anything-that-tastes-good diet, even though I sometimes stare longingly at cheese. And if my brother wants to dress like he fell head-first into a costume box, then all power to him.

  But does it have to be such a production? Does it have to be eight a.m. on Queens Parade with a crowd gawking at us? Does Mum have to be ‘giving birth’ to an imaginary dead calf with my brother pirouetting around her and Bert the Butcher holding a meat cleaver, glaring through his shop window?

  Can’t we be weird in secret?

  ‘Can I go now?’ I ask.

  Mum closes her eyes and takes three deep, cleansing breaths. ‘Hold the boom box higher, Marlowe,’ she says.

  ‘No one says boom box, Mum.’

  Mum’s got fake blood on her hands, all the way up to her elbows like she just delivered a cow, which, you know, she sort of did. It’s actually a stuffed unicorn called Princess Sparkles painted black and white with the words love me, don’t eat me texta’d on its side.

  A guy with a knitted tie shuffles up to stare at us. I hide behind my long hair, trying to be inconspicuous, but that’s one thing my family’s never been good at. I mean, I do my best – no one rocks timid tan, washed-out white and boring beige like me. No one has worked harder to become a human-chameleon hybrid. But it’s difficult to blend into the background when you’re flanked by a blood-clad vegan warrior and a kid who thinks every day is Halloween.

  Pip thrusts a pamphlet into the guy’s hands. ‘That’s Blissfully Aware,’ he says and points at our shop. ‘Grand opening today.’ The guy looks at the pamphlet, then at Pip, then at our shop, smack bang next to Bert’s Quality Butchers. He shakes his head like he can’t even begin to explain just how Blissfully un-Aware we are.

  He walks off and my cheeks are total-fire-ban red.

  I check over my shoulder. Bert the Butcher is still scowling at us with a white-knuckle grip on his meat cleaver. Even though we only just moved into the shop a couple of days ago, I think he might already have plans to put us on the specials board.

  The speaker weighs heavy in my arms.

  ‘Mum? When is this going to be ove
r?’ My shoulders grow tight. ‘Can’t we just go? It’s my first day back at school in ages. Why can’t –’

  Bert the Butcher barrels out of the shop, the ye olde bell that jingles politely when someone enters thrashes and clangs. ‘What are you lot playing at?’ he shouts. His voice sounds like it’s been squeezed through the meat mincer. ‘You’re driving away my customers.’

  I stumble back and hug the speaker to my chest. It’s not much of a shield, but I guess I could throw it.

  Mum doesn’t miss a beat. She’s an expert at confrontation. She thrives on it. Which was perfect when she was a high-powered lawyer and is even better now she’s a vegan warrior.

  ‘At least we’re not murdering innocents.’ She waggles a fake-blood-red finger under his nose. ‘Ten million cows are slaughtered for human consumption annually. That’s mass murder.’

  Bert laughs unkindly. ‘One of those animal rights nuts, are you?’ He’s got streaks of red all over his blue-and-white apron – the real kind of blood-red.

  ‘You’re damn right I am.’

  They start shouting over the top of each other, Mum citing stats and Bert using every single hippie cliché. Pip, ever industrious, hands out pamphlets to the assembled rubberneckers.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asks a woman.

  ‘That’s my mum, owner of Blissfully Aware.’ Pip shoves a pamphlet in the woman’s hand. ‘Half-price soy-based products for our grand opening today.’

  The woman narrows her eyes at him. ‘And you’re supposed to be . . .?’

  ‘Jungle Anne of Green Gables. Like if Anne of Green Gables got lost in a jungle and she had to fight her way out Survivor style.’

  The woman laughs, but it’s a nervous trill. She looks at me. Questioning. Like I can make sense of it for her. And even though I don’t offer any answers she keeps looking at me.

  They’re all looking at me.

  My new heart is thumping. The doctors said it was a good one, but I don’t know: should it race like this? I’m not unfit – I have a strict post-op exercise program and it usually doesn’t take long for my heart rate to settle after a run. But I’m not even moving so why do I feel like doubling over and passing out? Why does it feel like my heart is packing it in, after all?

  I turn away from the gawking crowd only to find I’m being watched from inside the butcher shop too.

  He’s got that bones-bursting-through-the-skin kind of look, like the man inside is just dying to rip through the outer shell of boy. He’s a head taller than me, broad shoulders, square jaw, tousled dark-blond hair. He’s behind the counter, wearing a blue-and-white apron, holding a that’s-not-a-knife-this-is-a-knife. And he looks like he just stood in dog shit. Like I’m the dog shit.

  My heart is beating fast and hard – it’s making me feel breathless. Maybe it’s a dud, maybe it’s a ticking time-bomb and it’s seconds away from exploding and I’ll die here on the pavement and the paramedics won’t be able to tell what’s my blood and what’s the blood of a fake unicorn/cow. What even happens when you die with a transplanted heart – do you get buried with it or do they give it back to the donor’s family?

  I turn back to my mum. She’s really yelling now and Bert’s face is turning purple and Pip is dancing, singing the shop’s theme song he wrote last night.

  I feel like I could drop the speaker on the concrete and scream. But I don’t want people looking at me. Not because I’m shy and hate being the centre of attention. I am – I really am – but it’s not because of that.

  It's because of that feeling.

  The best thing about showing up at school with my brother (pinafore, tiger face-paint, massive diorama of the Roman colosseum) and my mum (fake blood up to her elbows) is that most people aren’t looking at me.

  Most.

  ‘Breathe, Marlowe,’ says Mum. ‘In through the nose, out through the mouth.’

  I smile weakly at her. ‘I know how to breathe, Mum.’

  ‘I know.’ She nods. ‘It’s just . . . don’t forget your positive affirmations if you feel overwhelmed. And remember your calming exercises.’

  I tell her I’m fine.

  People staring at me is fine.

  Returning to school after almost a year off is fine.

  My heart – someone’s heart – pulsing a thousand beats per second in my chest is fine.

  Seriously, unbelievably, completely fine. (Breathe, Marlowe. Just breathe.)

  Pip screws up his nose, whiskers morphing out of shape. ‘Everybody’s staring,’ he announces. ‘I think it’s cos they’re jealous of my diorama. It’s to scale.’

  Mum tells him his diorama is so awesome it’s going to cause a riot, and Pip beams. I could roll my eyes but the truth is his diorama is spectacular. So instead, I sneak glances at the crowd of students in front of me and reassess my definition of ‘fine’.

  Most of the student body is milling about before the first bell – there’s no uniform so it’s a colour explosion, like a T-rex ate a truckload of confetti and vomited all over the school. In my grey t-shirt and tan shorts I’m the one dull spot in the middle of it all.

  I search the faces around me, but there’s no one I know. A dodgy heart will drag you out of school so often they have to keep you down a grade. And another grade. Until everyone you began school with has graduated and you’re the only seventeen-soon-to-be-eighteen-year-old starting Year Eleven.

  Welcome back, Annie McNoFriends.

  Northside Community P–12 is a mixed bag of buildings, from giant Rubiks cube art studios to kidney-shaped learning centres; the school’s motto ‘nurturing creative minds since 1972’ is painted in not-quite Comic Sans above the front entrance. I hitch my backpack over my shoulder and mumble goodbye as I head towards the main office for my ‘welcome meeting’ with the principal.

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’ Mum calls.

  Yes.

  ‘No. I’m fine.’

  ‘Well, don’t forget: hospital appointment after school.’

  I nod over my shoulder and get a blood-stained wave. She ruffles Pip’s hair and tells him to ‘go get ’em tiger’.

  I keep my head low and the crowd parts for me, Moses style. Pip hurries after me, telling me to wait up.

  I can’t breathe.

  I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

  Can I run back to Mum and ask her how to do it?

  I turn and stand behind the ‘Feeling Tree’. I just need a moment. Maybe five moments. Maybe more.

  The Feeling Tree is a tree-shaped sculpture carved out of wood with pens strung from the branches, ready for any desperately troubled teen to express their deepest troubles. In reality the pens have been used by boys to draw penises. Lots of penises.

  The ironic thing is that right now I could totally use the Feeling Tree.

  Because I have Feelings.

  And I’m struggling to breathe.

  Pip pauses beside me, his tiger-face squinting up at me.

  ‘Have you forgotten where the office is?’ He tries itching his nose with his shoulder. The face-paint smudges. ‘Do you want me to show you the way?’

  ‘I’m fine, Pip. Just get lost.’

  ‘Why are you so mean?’

  Pip is the sweetest kid alive and as far as kid brothers go he’s actually the best, but right now I’m trying to be invisible and standing next to Jungle Anne of Green Gables is not helping me. So I ignore him until he wanders off, over to a gang of junior boys. Pip gets this sloppy grin on his face and I can hear him telling them, in excruciating detail, all about his diorama – how accurate it is, how to scale it is. ‘Look at that mini toga I made,’ he says.

  My five or more moments are up, but I stay rooted to the spot looking at the east lawn, at all the friendship groups huddled in conversation, school bags dumped around them like walls. Impenetrable walls.

  My heart squeezes against my ribs like it’s too big for my chest. I have two more years of this. Two years of hiding behind the Feeling Tree because I don’t know anyone and g
roups were fixed in prep unless you have the kind of personality that can break through the Great Wall of Friendship. And I don’t.

  I mean, I was celebrity of the month when I was The Dying Girl. Nothing attracts friends like impending death. You should have seen the flowers, the cards, the fundraising stalls and the non-denominational prayer circles when I had to leave school for good.

  But then someone else’s bad luck meant I could trade in my dodgy heart for a new one and here I am again. And it turns out ‘celebrity of the month’, literally means you get a month. When it’s over, you’re a nobody again. And if I’m not The Dying Girl, who am I?

  I don’t think anyone – including me – imagined what would happen if I didn’t die.

  Just picture it: you’re in one of those disaster films. You’re in a 7-Eleven minding your own business when suddenly the lights flicker, the earth shakes and everything falls off the shelves as an alien spacecraft appears overhead shooting lasers. People are screaming and you think, well, this is it. It’s the end of the world. So you and the ten random people who happen to be in the store hug and say how much you love each other and how crappy it was that you never got to eat a croissant in Paris or swim with sharks, and you promise if you get through this alive you’ll do all of those things and then you start making out with the nearest guy because you figure you’d rather have a good time before you die. But then the lights come back on and the UFO flies away because Will Smith saved the day.

  What do you do then? Do you sell up everything and go swimming with sharks in Cape Town? Do you still want to hook up with the cashier? Are you going to be forever friends with this random group or are you just going to pay for your slurpee and leave?

  Breathe, Marlowe. Just breathe.

  And walk.

  I head for the main office but, after only two steps, three honey-blonde girls trap me in a circle of smiling and waving.

  ‘Marley!’ they squeal.

  Close enough.

  Besides, they can call me anything they like because actual human teenage girls are talking to me! Maybe this won’t be as bad as I think.