Instructions for a Secondhand Heart Read online

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Tamsyn Murray

  Illustrations by John Nugroho

  Artwork used for cover copyright © 2016 by Usborne Publishing Ltd.

  Cover design by Marcie Lawrence

  Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Poppy

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  Originally published in 2016 by Usborne Publishing, Ltd, in the United Kingdom, as Instructions for a Second-Hand Heart

  First U.S. Edition: December 2017

  Poppy is an imprint of Little, Brown and Company

  The Poppy name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Murray, Tamsyn, author.

  Title: Instructions for a secondhand heart / Tamsyn Murray.

  Description: First U.S. edition. | New York; Boston: Little, Brown and Company, 2017. | “Poppy.” | “Originally published in 2016 by Usborne Publishing, Ltd, in the United Kingdom”—Title page verso. | Summary: Jonny and Neve, both fifteen, bond after her twin brother, in whose shadow she has been living, becomes Jonny’s just-in-time heart donor.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017000176| ISBN 9780316471787 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316471749 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316471756 (library edition ebook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Heart—Transplantation—Fiction. | Donation of organs, tissues, etc.—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Hospital care—Fiction. | Death—Fiction. | Grief—Fiction. | Brothers and sisters—Fiction. | Twins—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.M9662 Ins 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017000176

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-​47178-7 (hardcover), 978-0-316-​47174-9 (ebook)

  E3-20171031-JV-PC

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1: JONNY

  2: NEVE

  3: JONNY

  4: NEVE

  5: JONNY

  6: NEVE

  7: NEVE

  8: JONNY

  9: NEVE

  10: JONNY

  11: NEVE

  12: JONNY

  13: NEVE

  14: JONNY

  15: NEVE

  16: JONNY

  17: NEVE

  18: JONNY

  19: NEVE

  20: JONNY

  21: NEVE

  22: JONNY

  23: NEVE

  24: JONNY

  25: NEVE

  26

  27: JONNY

  28

  29: NEVE

  30: JONNY

  31: NEVE

  32: JONNY

  33: NEVE

  34: JONNY

  35: NEVE

  36: JONNY

  37: NEVE

  38: JONNY

  39: NEVE

  40: JONNY

  41: NEVE

  42: JONNY

  43: NEVE

  44: JONNY

  45: NEVE

  46: JONNY

  47: NEVE

  48: JONNY

  49: NEVE

  50: JONNY

  51: NEVE

  Acknowledgments

  Resources

  Newsletters

  For Liz, who took a tangle-headed kid to her heart and loved her

  1

  MY NAME IS JONNY WEBB AND I AM A ROBOT.

  Last summer, my heart stopped for three and a half minutes.

  When they got it going again, the muscle was damaged and didn’t work properly. So now I have this machine plugged into me, keeping me alive. It’s called a Berlin Heart and you can actually see my blood being pumped along its tubes into these two little round things and then back into my body, which is gross but fascinating. Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I pretend I’m Iron Man and the Berlin Heart is my arc reactor. I know, tragic, right? I’m almost sixteen, the oldest patient in the hospital to have one—all the others are little kids, or even babies. On a good day, I might sketch them as hard-core X-Men characters. On bad days, they remind me that I’m dying.

  Being under a death sentence sucks. If you were a smart-ass, you might point out that everyone is dying, but trust me, I’ll be doing it sooner than most. I’ve spent more than half my life in the hospital, and every day I get closer to shooting the breeze with Death.

  What I really need is a new heart. But it’s not like you can just pick one up online. No, you have to wait for someone who matches you to die. Then you have to hope they’re on the Organ Donor Register. If they’re not, it’s up to their family to decide whether to donate any organs that are still up to the job. Not everyone says yes, so there’s a massive waiting list. And that’s why I think I’ll be dead soon, although I don’t ever say that around my family. Deep down, we all know it’s pretty much a given—I’ve got this really rare blood type, which reduces the chances of finding a match even more. But we pretend that’s not how it is.

  My best friend at the hospital is called Emily—aka my only friend these days, because there’s only so long you can expect your healthy friends to stick around before you slip gradually out of their minds. Em’s got acute myeloid leukemia and they’re not sure she’s going to make it, either. The hospital psychologists we have to see each week told us to make a list of things to do when we get well—the opposite of a bucket list—because they reckon it helps to stay positive. Em and I did ours together. It has stupid stuff on it like Meet Sam Claflin (that’s hers, not mine—she’s got posters of him everywhere) and Meet comic legend Chris Claremont at London Super Comic Con, ’cause if you’re going to dream, you might as well dream big. But there’s some not-so-crazy stuff on there, too, things most teenagers take for granted, like going to the cinema or moshing at a gig. I’d like to do the whole cinema experience with Em—loading up on snacks, getting annoyed at the people who talk, appreciating the action on a big screen. Not like on a date, obviously; I’ve never fancied Em. She’s just someone I can talk to when I feel down, someone who gets what living under a death sentence is like—no one understands you like another hospital kid. It’d be nice to share some good times with Em, too.

  So here I am, killing time and waiting for exactly the right person to die in exactly the right way. Sometimes I wish the surgeons could remove my real heart and leave me with this artificial one forever. Then I wouldn’t feel so guilty about wishing for a tragedy to happen to someone I’ve never met. I’d be genuinely heartless then, instead of only feeling like I am.

  The truth is, I’m not Iron Man. I’m just a boy with no future.

  2

  “RACE YOU TO THE ROCKS!”

  Leo stands poised on the shingle beach, his body angled toward a stack of boulders cowering at th
e base of the limestone cliffs, daring me to run. I scowl and decide to ignore him. Leo might be my twin but we’re totally different, inside and out. He’s bright and boisterous, like a half-grown Labrador, all big brown eyes and golden hair and enthusiasm—fifteen going on five. Whereas I’m more like a feral cat—wild and inclined to scratch if anyone gets too near. And of course, Leo’s popular; everyone loves him, especially the moronic girls at school. Not that I want to be liked, especially, and certainly not by them. But people do a double take when they find out we’re twins, as though they can’t believe we’re even related. It’s like he nicked all the good stuff while we were in the womb—all the charm and confidence and luck—and I got what was left.

  He flashes a teasing grin my way. “What’s the matter, little sister? Scared I’ll beat you again?”

  Little sister. He says that a lot, like those three minutes make him Gandalf or something. Mum lifts her sunglasses, pushing her coppery hair off her face, and glances back and forth between us. She’s smiling, but there’s anxiety behind her eyes, as though she senses the rage bubbling under my skin. Sometimes I wonder if she reads my mind. I hope for her sake she doesn’t. It’s a dark place these days.

  Her forehead crinkles into a frown and I feel bad. This holiday is her attempt at a reboot, a way of forcing us to get along. It’s meant to be a reminder of the sun-drenched beach adventures of our childhood, when the two of us spent the days playing pirates and exploring rock pools, and the nights squashed side by side in our tiny camper bunks—inseparable. Then we got older and the cracks began to appear. Leo became the family golden boy—ace soccer star, A-plus student, and everybody’s friend. No matter how hard I tried, I was never as good. Once I’d fallen into his shadow, I couldn’t find my way out; eventually I stopped trying and decided to embrace being the difficult one.

  My eyes settle on the sea, sparkling in the midafternoonheat haze, and the man walking his dog along the frothing surf. I should make the effort and pretend I’m not actually a seething mass of resentment.

  My stomach churns as I consider the options. Play nicely or pick a fight? Mum’s tension is obvious now, and I feel sick, as though everyone’s happiness hinges on what I do next. Fight or flight, they call it in science, the body’s reaction to stress, and Leo definitely stresses me out. I don’t really hate him, but I can’t say I like him, either.

  “Don’t be a jerk all your life, Leo,” I say, turning away.

  “Neve!” Mum exclaims, sounding disappointed as she fires a dismayed look Dad’s way. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Leo’s smile falter. And in that split second, when his shoulders droop in defeat, that’s when I run, speeding past him in a spray of pebbles. He lets out a yell of surprise, and then I hear him crunching after me.

  He’s close. I can hear his breath ragged in my ear, a gurgle of laughter underneath it. But for all his boasting, we’re a pretty even match; he’s big, but I’m speedy, and the precious few seconds’ head start I have is enough to keep me in the lead. The breeze sends my hair streaming out behind me and tickles my face, at the same time my muscles stretch and sing. I realize with a jolt that I’m actually enjoying myself. I don’t do sports. In fact, I don’t really do anything, so I’m amazed my body knows how to react. But it feels good. Heaving in a deep breath, I urge my legs to move faster and focus on my goal. I have to win. I have to.

  The rocks are close now—I can see they’re wet and half covered in seaweed. Something brushes the back of my faded Smiths T-shirt—Leo’s fingers. And that’s about right, too—everyone thinks he’s Mr. Perfect, but he’s not above a bit of cheating to get what he wants. Not this time, though. Another burst of determination shoots through me and I power forward. With a grunt of effort, I reach out and slap a waist-high boulder with my hand.

  “Winner!”

  He crashes into the back of me, sending me sprawling over the rock and knocking what little breath I have left from my lungs. Briny seawater slops over my feet and the hard jagged rock edge jabs under my rib cage. I let out a surprised Oof of pain.

  His weight lifts, allowing me to push myself up and glare at him.

  “Sorry,” he pants, stepping back with an unrepentant grin. “Couldn’t stop.”

  “Yeah, you could,” I say, shaking the water off my Converse. “Loser.”

  He tips his head, acknowledging the truth. “Okay, you won. But I bet you can’t beat me to the top!”

  God, he really is a five-year-old. He means the top of this cluster of rocks, which is bigger than it seemed from the other side of the beach, jutting over our heads in a mini-mountain beneath the clifftop. They’re jumbled together every which way, the razor-sharp edges dressed with slick seaweed and algae. I hesitate.

  “Of course, if you’re too scared…”

  He leaves the words hanging in the heat, knowing as well as I do that he doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Inextricably tangled up in my resentment and irritation is a tiny spark of competitiveness I can’t quite extinguish, the need to prove something. Sometimes it’s a battle in my head, like beating him to the last Pop-Tart. Today, it’s this, and I can see from his face that he thinks he’s already won.

  “Let’s make it interesting,” I say, my mind searching for a way to get the upper hand. “If I win, I get your guitar.”

  I don’t actually want it, I just want to threaten something he loves. He fancies himself as a musician, reckons he’ll make it one day, and no one is allowed to touch his precious Fender. I honestly think he loves it more than his girlfriend, Sophie. The threat has the desired effect, anyway—his eyes narrow. “Get lost, Neve. Like you’d know what to do with it.”

  A gust of wind whips my hair across my face and I taste sand as I lick my lips. “Now who’s scared?”

  We stare at each other and something flashes between us; pride, understanding? It’s gone before I can work out what it is. But I know Leo won’t back down.

  “All right. And if I win, you have to get down on your knees and admit that I am awesome.”

  The realization that I literally have nothing he wants rubs salt in an already open wound. Twin spots of humiliation burn my cheeks. “It’s never going to happen, but okay.”

  He fires a mocking smile my way. “Ready to lose?”

  My legs tense once more, and this time there’s an added tingle. I nod.

  “On your mark, get set, go!”

  He’s off, white Vans scrambling over the slippery surface as he scales the boulders immediately in front of us. My gaze travels sideways and I spot an easier, flatter route. I jog a few meters to the right and start to climb.

  At first I think I’ve made a mistake. Leo is much higher than me, and I feel like I’m going sideways instead of up. Then he stops, surveying the rocks above him. Lip curling, I concentrate on my own path. Behind us, there’s a faint shout. I glance back to see Mum and Dad heading our way. Mum has her arm in the air, waving, and I can imagine her worried expression. All the more reason to hurry, I decide; she’s bound to make us come down when she gets nearer. Leo looks my way, grinning, and I guess he’s thinking the same thing. We both climb faster.

  We’re almost level when I notice him pause again. My strategy is paying off; the top boulder is in sight and the rocks ahead of me look like an easy climb. Leo stands still, his feet precariously balanced on one side of an evil-looking ridge, and I can see why he’s stopped. There’s a gaping hole between where he stands and the next rock. If he wants to beat me, he’ll have to jump.

  His eyes flicker downward, as though he’s considering backtracking. A surge of triumph rushes through me; if he does that, there’s no way he can win.

  “Sucks to be you, Leo,” I call across to him, scaling the stone with the kind of spidery skill that would put Peter Parker to shame. “How much do you think your guitar will fetch on eBay?”

  He scowls and scans the rocks with more urgency. Laughing, I maneuver past the last obstacle in my way and clamber onto the top of the rocks. Below, I hear a gr
unt. I look down just as Leo clears the gap and grips onto the rock above. But there’s something wrong. I see panic on his face. His fingers scrabble in the half-dried seaweed and his feet scratch against the stone, struggling to hold his weight. He hangs there, almost floating. Without a thought, I throw myself down flat and thrust out a hand to grab him. My fingers grip his, and in a whoosh of relief, I’ve got him. But a second later he slips through my grasp and I’m holding thin air. He starts to drop. My terrified gaze locks onto his as he falls, almost in slow motion. Then there’s the sickening crunch of bone on rock and his eyelids snap shut.

  He lies unmoving. I watch red blossom against the gray-black boulder where his head rests. And somewhere, somebody starts to scream.

  3

  “CAN I GET YOU ANYTHING, LOVE?”

  Mum is hovering at my side, the way she does most days, her face tired and careworn. She looks older than her fifty-five years, something she can thank me for—I’ve worried her for most of my life. I know they’d almost given up on a baby by the time I came along, so it seems too cruel that the one they got was faulty. Dad looks old, too, although they both try to keep in shape. Dad used to run marathons. He doesn’t anymore; my illness eats up so much of his time.

  I shake my head. “No thanks.”

  She reaches out to take a grape from the bag on my table. “These are good. Want one?”

  This time I turn away. “No.”

  Sometimes my mother drives me insane. Dad is here less, so he doesn’t get on my nerves as much. To be fair, most of the time they’re pretty good at picking up when I want to be alone and they wander off to the cafeteria, but Mum obviously has her irritation detector switched off today. One of the worst things about spending 24-7 in the hospital is that it’s a bit like being on Big Brother, but without the Z-list status and shopping tasks—there’s always someone who wants to “take a quick look” at you, poking and prodding like you’re a laboratory experiment. And everyone on your ward knows everything about you, even the little kids; there’s no such thing as privacy. We have this traffic light system over our beds to let people know if we feel like being sociable—a green card means “party on,” amber means “tread carefully,” and red means “do not disturb,” which my mother usually ignores. Em’s is red a lot because the chemo makes her vom, but she sometimes makes an exception for me. That’s when I dig out my funniest jokes, because it turns out laughter really is the best medicine. I know hearing Em laugh always makes me feel better.