Something About Love: A YA contemporary romance in verse

by Elana Johnson

  “Wanted to see what kind of ‘stuff’ you’re doing

  That you can’t answer your phone.”

  He scans me from head to feet,

  Finding me in my pajama pants and an old T-shirt.

  “Yeah, I can tell you’re just so stressed.”

  I look over his shoulder as if Joey or

  Someone from school will be outside,

  Camera ready,

  Paparazzi style.

  “Don’t you have homework or something?”

  I block the doorway with my body, because

  I don’t want him to come in.

  “Yeah, but I thought we could do our next photo shoot first.”

  “You thought wrong.”

  I fold my arms and

  Meet his gaze.

  “I’m busy. Cooking dinner.”

  I give him a glare that says, So there.

  He grins,

  That smile that makes the ember inside me

  Flare into an inferno.

  “No problem,” he says.

  “I can do my calculus while you chop.”

  “DERIVATIVES SUCK.”

  I don’t answer,

  Only move the knife I’m wielding

  Through the green peppers a little too forcefully.

  I find this boy utterly maddening.

  I’ve made it clear I don’t want to be with him,

  That we will never be together,

  That I don’t have time for his silly photo shoots.

  How does he undo my carefully tied bindings?

  Why do I let him worm his way inside my weak spots,

  The way weeds find the cracks in a sidewalk?

  I toss the peppers into the pan with the onions before

  Turning to face him.

  “I wouldn’t know about derivatives,” I say.

  “I stopped taking math at geometry.”

  “Lucky.” He glances up briefly, but

  Not long enough to meet my eye.

  He returns to his homework,

  Which only adds to my rising frustration.

  I watch him for a few seconds,

  Past the time I need to stir my vegetables.

  The intense concentration he’s paying to his math problem

  Furrows his eyebrows,

  Crinkles the corner of his mouth.

  I swipe the wooden spoon through my sautéing vegetables, and

  Turn to get my camera.

  Click, click, click.

  I take a dozen pictures before Trevor even realizes I’m doing it.

  He looks up,

  Startled, and

  I capture those faces too.

  I see it all,

  The range of emotions as they flit across his face.

  Surprise, recognition, happiness, smugness, cockiness.

  He leans away from his calculus book,

  His homework forgotten

  As he folds his arms across his chest.

  The smile he’s wearing now doesn’t ignite anything inside, but

  My eighty-five millimeter lens still tells me a lot about him.

  He came over here to get something, and

  He got it.

  Click, click, click.

  I’m definitely putting this

  Self-Assured Trevor Youngblood

  In the portfolio.

  “TREVOR, HELLO,”

  Dad says when he enters the kitchen.

  He doesn’t sound surprised or upset,

  Both of which I would’ve been happier to hear in his voice

  Than the pleasantness that’s there instead.

  “You staying for dinner?”

  “No—” I say at the same time

  Trevor says, “Sure.”

  Dad volleys his gaze from Trevor to me.

  I roll my eyes and snatch another plate out of the cupboard.

  “Fine, he can stay for dinner.”

  Dad doesn’t know that Trevor and I used to hold hands,

  Whisper together in the halls, and

  Kiss down at the dock.

  I don’t normally keep secrets from him, but

  The thing with Trevor and I had begun suddenly, and

  Everything about dating and boyfriends had been new and foreign to me.

  I sorted through things with Jacey,

  Keeping everything that concerned Trevor—or the Youngbloods—

  Unsaid.

  “You should help Livvy with her math,”

  Dad says just after I’ve served up the sausages.

  “She’s starting homeschool tomorrow, and

  Her gramma doesn’t know multiplication from multiple intelligences.”

  A squeak comes out of my mouth, and

  I knock over my water glass as I

  Reach for a hot dog bun.

  I wave away Trevor’s offer of help and

  Mop up the spill,

  All the while keeping my eyes down.

  Trevor clears his throat.

  Rose sits silently,

  Unaware of the awkward silence that’s descended.

  “I mean—” Dad starts,

  Very aware that he’s said something wrong.

  “I don’t take math,” I tell him,

  Finally looking up and into his eyes.

  They are wide,

  Filled with apology.

  “I don’t need a tutor.”

  My camera sits on the counter behind me, and

  I want to hide behind it while I capture the

  Naked relief in my father’s eyes.

  He might actually fit into the portfolio.

  My annoyance surges.

  I can’t believe I’ve let the

  Photography in Excellence competition

  Penetrate my thoughts so completely.

  Everyone I see, I’m mentally viewing through an aperture,

  Calculating which lens would create the perfect depth of field, and

  If I should saturate the color or wash it out during the editing.

  “I’m going on a field trip tomorrow,” Rose announces,

  Breaking the tension and

  Giving me the opportunity to make it through dinner without saying much more.

  “LIVVY?”

  Rose’s voice comes through a widening crack in the door, and

  I hurriedly drop the journal I’d been reading:

  An old diary from two years ago when Trevor and I started dating.

  “Yeah, come in.”

  She enters, clutching a book to her chest.

  “Can I read to you?”

  I smile as I pat the empty space next to me on the bed.

  Rose is a good reader, but

  She doesn’t like to do anything by herself.

  She cuddles into my side, and

  I stroke her hair while she reads me the story of

  Louis the swan, and

  How he’s fallen in love with a girl swan, but

  Doesn’t have a voice to tell her how he feels.

  It seems I cannot even read with my nine-year-old sister

  Without the subject of love consuming me.

  “BE MY VALENTINE,”

  Read the card I’d kept in my journal,

  Pressed between the pages

  As if it is something precious.

  My first card from

  My first boyfriend,

  From Trevor Youngblood.

  He’d scrawled my name at the top, and

  Said how glad he was that I’d gone out with him the weekend before, and

  That he really liked me.

  Like, not

  Love.

  Trevor never told me he loved me.

  I never said the words to him.

  But when we’re together,

  There’s a slow burn that won’t disappear,

  A seething just beneath my skin

  That longs to touch him,

  Kiss him.

  That’s what I wrote in my diary years ago, and

 
As I kiss the top of Rose’s head and

  Tuck her into bed,

  I know that’s how I still feel.

  “BUT IS IT LOVE?”

  I mutter to myself as I return to my bedroom.

  So Trevor makes me feel something.

  Big deal.

  That tingling in my fingertips,

  That rush in my stomach—

  Doesn’t mean I love him.

  There’s something about love I just don’t understand.

  Is physical attraction enough?

  Or compatible personalities?

  Or shared goals?

  I thought my parents had all of that, and

  They still split up.

  I lean over and pick up my diary again,

  Leafing through the pages until I find where I’d left off.

  I read about the excitement of going out with Trevor,

  Watching movies,

  Holding hands,

  Sharing ice cream,

  Swimming in the lake,

  Laughing as he drives me home,

  The thrill of our first kiss.

  After that,

  The entries change,

  Morph into how our relationship moved

  From friendly,

  Flirtatious,

  Fun,

  To serious future discussions, and

  What he wanted to do after he graduated, and

  Where I wanted to go to college.

  He’s so easy to talk to,

  Reads one line, and

  That’s still true.

  I’d told him about my dreams of opening my own photography studio,

  Of going to college on the coast so I could go to the beach every day and

  Take photos of surfers,

  Athletes,

  Couples,

  Tourists.

  I’d shown him my raw pictures,

  Before I’d edited them.

  He was the only person who ever got to see them,

  See me,

  In an imperfect form.

  The pages fly by, and

  Soon I get to the one that records who—

  And what—

  I saw at the dock.

  My mom’s car was there,

  Parked way down by the entrance

  To the walking path that leads to the center of town,

  As if she thought people might overlook it on their way in, or

  Assume she was just another jogger getting in her exercise.

  Trevor parked closer to the dock,

  Opened my door,

  Took my hand in his, and

  Led me to the trail that circles the lake

  Before he saw his father’s truck.

  “Hey, that looks like my dad’s car,”

  He’d said,

  His voice filled with surprise and curiosity.

  He changed direction,

  Drawing closer to the black truck.

  I glanced over my shoulder to where my mom’s

  Green Honda was parked.

  Both cars were empty,

  Like the hollow spot in my chest,

  The one where my heart should’ve been.

  We walked halfway around the lake,

  To the huge trees that provided the best shade, and

  The best hiding spot.

  Trevor told me he wanted to be

  A dentist when he grew up,

  Like his father.

  He asked me to the prom;

  I said yes.

  He kissed me,

  Slowly,

  The way he had the first time we’d come to the dock.

  When it was time to go home,

  He went to the bathroom while I waited on the dock.

  He didn’t see his father emerge from the walking path

  That runs from the lake to the city center.

  He didn’t see his father

  Kiss my mother.

  Didn’t see them get in their separate cars,

  Drive away one after the other.

  When he came out of the bathroom,

  I couldn’t speak.

  I didn’t tell him,

  Didn’t tell anyone.

  How can I tell Trevor?

  How can I tell my dad?

  I HATE MY MOTHER

  My next journal entry reads.

  It’s dated a few weeks after the previous one, and

  I remember not being able to record my thoughts and feelings

  After seeing her and Darren Youngblood at the dock.

  I’d felt dammed with frustration,

  Plugged full of words,

  Horrified.

  Every time Mom left,

  I wondered if she was meeting Darren.

  I stopped believing what she said;

  I was suspicious of every “meeting” she had,

  Every “errand” she needed to run without me and Rose,

  Every “night she went to the gym” after six o’clock.

  I hate Darren Youngblood

  Says the next line.

  That comprises the entire entry, and

  I don’t write in this journal again.

  “GRAMMA-LINDA!”

  Rose yells before throwing herself into our grandmother’s arms.

  Gramma-Linda smiles,

  Pressing Rose close to her.

  I smile too,

  Watching them.

  Rose, at nine years old,

  Only a few inches shorter than

  Gramma-Linda.

  “Take my books, hon,”

  She tells Rose,

  Handing her a bulging shoulder bag.

  Rose stumbles under the weight, and

  I marvel at how Gramma-Linda managed to bring so many books,

  Especially on such short notice.

  “Olivia,” she says, and

  While she’s my mom’s mother,

  Her voice is kind,

  Soft, and

  Doesn’t make me want to stab out my own eyes.

  “How are you?”

  She clutches me to her in a tight hug, and

  I get that noseful of baby powder and sugar

  I’ve been anticipating.

  “I’m good,” I say as

  I squeeze her back.

  “Looks like you just got your hair done.”

  She pulls away and pats her perfectly sculpted curls.

  “Just yesterday.”

  She examines me in much the same way my mother does, and

  That annoys me.

  I turn away just as Rose comes out of the kitchen with her backpack.

  “Leaving already?”

  Gramma-Linda asks,

  Her voice set on syrup-sweet.

  I know as soon as Rose leaves for the bus,

  Gramma-Linda will pry,

  Asking things like, “How are you really doing?”

  “ENGLISH FIRST,”

  Gramma-Linda says after

  Rose heads to the bus stop,

  After Dad goes to work.

  Gramma-Linda piles the books on the kitchen table,

  Where we’re sitting.

  “Fine,” I mutter,

  Pulling out the only book that looks like a novel.

  “Huckleberry Finn?”

  I meet my grandma’s eyes.

  “I read this last year.”

  I don’t tell her that I only read the first seven chapters, then

  Faked my way through the quizzes,

  Reports, and

  Tests,

  Because it was boring.

  She plucks it from my fingers.

  “Okay, then.

  I’ll bring A Tale of Two Cities tomorrow.

  Have you read that?”

  “No,” I say,

  Waiting for her next subject of torture.

  “A one-page essay on Mark Twain, then.”

  She tucks the novel back into her shoulder bag,

  Glancing at me from over the top of her glasses.

  “You have a
computer, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I say, “You want me to do the essay right now?”

  “Right now,”

  She echoes before getting to her feet and

  Shuffling to the couch in the living room.

  “Wake me up when you finish.

  I’ll proofread it for you.

  Then we’ll do geography.”

  “TORTURE?”

  Jacey repeats as I pull into Taco Bell.

  “So much torture,” I tell her.

  “Which is why I need Mexican food.”

  “Better than here, I bet,” she says, and

  I think of Trevor,

  Of seeing him in the hall,

  Of continuing our playful banter.

  Then I remember Joey, and

  His crude comments;

  The notes, and

  Their hateful messages;

  The lockers, and

  How the janitor couldn’t quite match the old paint color—

  A constant reminder that

  Something happened.

  “Still not sure,” I say before placing my order,

  Though I have no desire to return to the hallways of Copper Hills High,

  Definitely don’t want to risk seeing Harris again.

  Jacey takes the tater tots I pass her, but

  I almost drop my soda when she says,

  “You’re still going to Preference with me, right?”

  “I—who would I go with?”

  The look on Jacey’s face says it all.

  “I AM NOT ASKING TREVOR.”

  “HE SUGGESTED YOU ASK HIM,”

  She says defensively,

  Leaning into the passenger window like I might hit her.

  The thought has crossed my mind.

  “He said he’d love to go with you.”

  “I can’t!” I practically yell.

  “He’s my freaking step-brother.

  Why does nobody get that but me?”

  My food sits untouched in the bag, and

  The accelerator pays the price of my wrath.

  I screech to a halt in my driveway,

  Snatch my food, and

  Stomp into my house.

  Jacey follows,

  A sheepish look on her face.