“Your dad and I love you both so much.” She looks back and forth between Zebby and me, her eyes misting. “And I promise you it’s not your fault—”
“That’s right,” Dad says. “It’s about your mom and me.”
No. No. No. I’m going to be sick.
Mom pauses, then opens her mouth in what seems like slow motion. “We’re separating.”
The world tilts as I stare at my food, which now looks revolting.
“We can’t afford to keep this house when your dad moves out, so the three of us will be getting an apartment.” My head snaps up, my heart racing, frantic.
“What?” Zeb asks. “We’re moving?”
Zeb and I have lived in this town house our whole lives!
Mom swallows and nods. “I got us a two-bedroom apartment in Southern Ridge, and Dad will be living outside of town with a roommate. You two will have to share a room, but it’s only temporary until—”
Oh my God! She’s serious! I stand so fast my chair makes a horrible screech on the linoleum. “Why?!”
Mom drops her head, but her shoulders are tense.
“We’ll still get to see each other,” Dad promises. He reaches for my hand and I yank my arm away, making him frown.
“Things change, honey.” Mom’s voice cracks. She sounds so defeated.
“No crap. Really? Things change? Uh, yeah! That’s life! And people adjust.”
“It’s not that simple.” Dad is using his hard, paternal voice now, and it only makes me angrier.
“I can’t believe you guys are just giving up!” I yell. “After, like, nineteen years? Just because we’re going through one rough time?”
Mom closes her eyes and presses her fingertips to her lips. Dad stares off, his face plastered with something like regret or guilt.
When I look down at Zebby, his face is streaked with tears. I cover my mouth against a giant sob. Our family is splitting. Cracking. Breaking. Is nothing in this world sacred?
I have to talk through tears now. “You took vows. You’re supposed to be together forever, for better or worse.”
Visions of our summer road trips to the beach flash through my mind. So much laughter. So much love. How does that change? How did this happen? Then my mind turns to Wylie in that room with another girl. Oh, God, what if . . . ?
“Is one of you cheating?” My voice is filled with ugly accusation. I know I shouldn’t ask. I’m crossing a major line, but I don’t care.
Mom’s wet eyes bug. “Honey! We . . .”
She looks at Dad, desperate, until he finally speaks, his face rigid. “The details are nobody’s business but ours. All you need to know is that we fell out of love, Xanderia. And we couldn’t find our way back.”
How convenient. No map for that.
“We need to start packing,” Mom whispers. “We move out on Saturday.”
“Saturday?” My voice breaks as the room feels off kilter. Four days from now? I heave for air as their words sink in. This is happening, and I can’t stop it. “This is wrong! You guys suck!”
Mom is crying now and Dad puts his elbows on the table, rubbing his face. I run from the dining room, down the stairs to my room in the basement, and slam my bedroom door as hard as I can. Then I curl into a ball on my bed.
First Wylie and now my parents. Love is a sham. Marriage is a mockery. Everything I believe in is tarnishing and crumbling.
I feel a touch on my shoulder and look up to see Zebby. The same overwhelming loss is in his brown eyes and furrowed forehead. I tug him down, and we hold each other tight, crying.
Mourning.
Chapter Four
The next morning in the minivan, Monica is rubbing her long legs with plum lotion and telling us about the party happening at Jack Rinehart’s house this Saturday. Her long brown hair is braided in a fishtail over one shoulder. I feel so empty, I hardly hear her words.
I should have texted them last night. I tell my girls everything. But this . . . it’s so big. And last night I kept thinking any second my parents would say they’d changed their minds. That they were going to work things out. That we didn’t have to move.
When I woke up this morning after tossing and turning and crying all night, nothing had changed. Except that Dad wasn’t on the couch. He was gone.
My chest tightens and I rub it with one hand as I drive.
“You okay?” Kenzie asks from the front passenger seat.
I just keep rubbing. I’m afraid if I open my mouth I’ll start crying and I won’t be able to see the road. Just one more mile till we’re at school. So I nod. I can feel Kenz watching me as Monica and Lin talk about who all’s going to be at Jack’s party.
I pull into a parking spot and let out a ragged breath.
“Do you think you can drive us Saturday?” Monica asks.
I blink and slowly turn my head to her. Monica’s forehead scrunches.
“Zae?” she whispers.
“I can’t,” I say. “I—I’m moving that day.”
A long, silent pause passes before Lin shouts, “What?!” She unbuckles and flies forward between the seats to look at me. I turn so I can see all their confused faces.
“You’ve been crying,” Kenzie says. “What’s going on?”
My voice is deadpan as I try to protect myself from the ugly words that spill from my mouth: “separation,” “apartment,” “roommate.”
My friends’ faces reflect the direness of the situation.
Lin, who was adopted from China as a toddler, is the only girl in the car whose parents are still together. “Oh, Zae, I’m so sorry. And I’m so glad you’re not moving far away. You freaked me out when you said that.”
Kenzie wipes her eyes. Her mom, a white Texan, fell in love with a black classmate in college, which apparently was a big deal in the town she’d lived in, so they moved to the DC area. Her parents split when Kenz was in elementary school, and her dad moved back to Texas, but she’s still close with him, and her stepfather, too. She calls them both Dad and sees her real father for two weeks every summer.
“It’ll be okay,” she whispers. “Maybe they just need some time apart. Maybe they’ll get back together.”
I catch Lin shooting Kenz a warning look, and I know she’s telling her not to get my hopes up, but it’s too late. I don’t want stepparents someday. I want my family. Just the four of us. It’s all I thought about all night. Deep down, I know this separation will make them miss our family. It has to. I didn’t even want anyone else to know they’re separated, because when they get back together we can get a new, better house and pretend like this never happened.
“Don’t tell anyone, ’kay?” I say.
They’re quiet as they nod, looking around at each other.
Monica reaches over and links her pinkie finger with mine. “No matter what happens, we’re here, and you’re gonna be okay. All right?”
I tighten my pinkie around hers. Monica’s mom never married. Her dad was a marine from Quantico base, and now he sends child support, but otherwise he’s not part of her life. She lives with her mom, little sister from another father, her aunt, two female cousins, and her grandmother—a household of loud, bold Latina women.
My friends surround me with love as we walk up to the school. The dreary, cold day matches how I feel, especially as I sit through math class. By the time I trudge into English, I’m heavy, and my stomach churns every time I think about my parents or Wylie. I slump in my seat, zoning out as Mrs. Warfield drones on and on about the power of words.
Our assignment is to write another poem, this one about how we perceive someone else to be feeling, and it has to include a metaphor or simile. Something empathetic. But mine is just pathetic. I write two lines about Lin’s smile being like sunshine. Lame.
It’s not until near the end of class that Mrs. Warfield sparks my attention.
“I have a special treat. Someone, who shall remain anonymous unless they so choose to reveal themselves, wrote a gorgeous piece of poetry ye
sterday. I wasn’t expecting anything of this magnitude in the short span of time I’d given, so I feel I must share it with the class.”
Discomfort prickles the back of my neck.
It can’t be mine. I mean, yeah, the poem was emotional for me, but writing’s not my thing, so it can’t be any good. And then it dawns on me that maybe it’s Dean’s poem. I shoot a quick glance over my shoulder. His eyes meet mine immediately, and his brows go up with interest.
For the moment I’m not thinking about my family tragedy. I’m thinking how I’d love a glimpse into Dean’s mind and his relationship with that Jenna chick.
She clears her throat. I feel unreasonably nervous, shaking on the inside as she begins in a low, somber tone.
“I woke my little brother and we crept to the den
To see presents where empty space had once been.
A blue bike and a dollhouse with red velvet bows
Stood near our stockings laid out in neat rows.”
Great God above. She is reading my freaking poem. Scalding heat takes over my face and I slink down in my seat. The teacher never looks my way, never gives away my secret as she continues, but I want to scream Shut up! Stop!
“Mom was there in her nightgown, her head on Dad’s shoulder,
Smiling so broadly at something he’d told her.
That’s when they still laughed and kissed and held hands,
Long before they happened to stop being friends.”
Mrs. Warfield enunciates each word with ripe emotion, and my heart squeezes like a fist inside my chest. Yesterday when I wrote the poem, I was sad, but I still had hope. Today I’m a different person, and the words hold even more power over me. Each line nearly strangles me as it slides from her lips. The way her face contorts with feeling. Each stanza coaxes my tear ducts, urging them to spill. I fight it with every ounce of energy and self-preservation I have. I refuse to melt down in front of my peers.
“Colors on the tree blinked bright and shimmered,
As nutmeg and clove in the oven did simmer.
Then Dad sang out in his tenor soft and low,
‘Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.’”
She puts a hand over her heart and closes her eyes dramatically. The class is quiet for a moment, and then everyone applauds. As an afterthought, I clap, too, so as not to give myself away. I hear classmates murmuring and whispering about whose it could be. From the corner of my eye I feel the stare of Dean, causing me to remember how I’d told him my poem was about Christmas and my family. Damn it.
I struggle for breath. He has to know it’s mine. I feel exposed and raw and edgy as hell.
When the bell rings, I spring from my seat. I see Mrs. Warfield trying to catch my eye, but I refuse to look at her. I know she had good intentions, but I wish she’d have asked me first.
Behind me I hear Dean’s deep rumble of a voice as I hit the hallway. “Hey, Zae. Wait up!”
Nope. I hitch my book bag higher on my shoulder and ghost into the crowd.
I manage to avoid Dean for the next two hours, which is good because I cannot fake the funk. If he confronts me, I will cry. I can’t force a smile for any amount of money. All day people ask me what’s wrong. I reply with “family stuff” or “not feeling good,” but I go from being numb to feeling cynical and angry.
At lunch, Kenzie and Monica try to make light conversation, but I can’t concentrate. I find myself glaring at happy couples, thinking about how it’s only a matter of time before their feelings change and they end up hurt. Why does anyone even bother?
I half-heartedly sip the Capri Sun Mom packed with my elementary school–worthy lunch. Every day I drink the kiddie drinks and eat string cheese with crackers, or PB and Js with potato chips. She says it’s cheaper than the school meal plan, so I eat without complaint. But today I have zero appetite.
Monica eats the school’s mac and cheese with Lit’l Smokies, the teeny weenies, which I usually make jokes about, but can’t bring myself to today. Kenzie is sipping a can of something inside a Koozie, but it doesn’t look like a regular soda can. When she turns to talk to someone, I pull down the top to look.
What the hell? A weight-loss drink? Monica and I both look at each other with dread. Kenzie is naturally tiny, but she has this weird, warped image of herself. She doesn’t see what we see. She sees fat where there is only skin and lean muscle.
Kenz turns around and snatches the can from me, saying, “Hey!” Her light-brown cheeks turn a mottled red.
“Kenz—” I start, but she cuts me off with a groan.
“Oh, my gosh, please don’t start with me. My mom made me eat a huge breakfast, so I knew I wouldn’t be hungry at lunch. Okay?”
She doesn’t wait for a response, though. She packs her bag and gets up, leaving us.
“We’ll keep an eye on her,” Monica says, and I nod. It’s been over a year since we had to show Kenz some tough love. We even got her mom and older sister involved, which Kenzie probably still holds against us. Her mom is a workaholic Energizer Bunny who is as naturally thin as Kenzie, but where Kenz is super sweet, her mom can be super severe. Her sister is awesome, though, and was a huge help.
“Did you hear that Lin and John had a fight?”
“Oh, no.” Lin isn’t in this lunch period with the rest of us. “That sucks.”
“Yeah, she was hoping they could hang out more now that cheer is out, but he keeps going to his friend’s house to play basketball after baseball practice instead of coming to see her.”
All I can do is roll my eyes. Relationship drama. They’ve been together two months. It’s doomed.
I take one last sip of my pouched drink and toss my lunch in the trash, then wave bye to Monica.
My next class is Spanish III, my favorite. The second I walk in, Mrs. Hernandez smiles at me, cocks her head, and says, “¿Qué está mal?” What is wrong? Of course she can tell. She’s the best teacher ever.
“Mis padres,” I answer. She gives me a sad nod, and pats my shoulder, not prying further.
When I take my seat, for the first time that day I feel a sense of comfort. Everything outside this room has completely gone to crap, but in here I can get lost in the beauty of the language, knowing there is something I’m good at. Something I can’t screw up beyond repair. Something that won’t hurt me.
Everyone is quiet in the van on the way home, careful, like we’re walking on eggshells. Lin tries to keep the conversation light, attempting to make us laugh. She tells a story about how she got embarrassed at a Chinese restaurant when the hostess spoke to her in Chinese and she had to admit she didn’t understand.
“I feel kind of guilty, you know?” she says.
“We could learn, if you want,” I tell her absently. Seems like a reasonable solution to me. I catch Lin’s look of surprise in the rearview mirror, as if I’m speaking Mandarin right now.
“You know it has different symbols for the alphabet, right? That would be so hard. I can barely keep my grade up in Latin!”
I shrug, and the car goes quiet again.
It’s so tense that I’m relieved when I drop them all at their homes and get to drive five minutes by myself.
When I turn into my neighborhood, a crowd of kids stands in a circle at Zebby’s bus stop. Foreboding settles in my stomach, and I swerve toward the curb, throwing the van into park and jumping out. Sure enough, I hear Zeb’s raised voice. As I run closer, he pushes a boy in the chest and the kid shoves him back. Nope. Not happening. I run. The mob of middle schoolers shouts and shuffles closer for better views.
I push my way through them, yelling, “Hey!” and put a hand on each kid’s chest. “I don’t think so, guys.” I look at Zebediah. He’s panting. Red-faced. Enraged.
The other kid is smirking.
Let me guess. “Are you Rob?”
His smirk disappears, replaced by surprise, and he runs a hand through his long, shaggy hair. I swear, the kid bounces his eyebrows, proud that I know his name. “That’s me.”
“Was he talking crap to you again?” I ask Zeb, who says nothing, just continues to glare at the other kid. I take that as a yes.
Rob puts his palms up. “You snitched to your sister, man? I was only messing around.”
Yeah, well, he messed with the wrong kid.
I smile at Rob, Mr. Wannabe Bad Boy, and turn to face him fully with my back to Zeb. The kid tries to mirror my confident smile, but I can see his chest rising and falling quickly with either nervousness or excitement. His gaze tumbles downward to my long legs in tight jeans and back up in awe.
“Tell me, Rob.” I touch the curve at the bottom of his neck with my pointer finger, and let it trail down his T-shirt. His breath hitches and all the kids watch with open amazement. “What exactly would you like to do to me?”
He makes a funny sound in the back of his throat, and I hear kids snickering with shock. I move closer to the boy, talking as sweetly as I can muster. He’s nearly as tall as me.
“Not gonna tell me? Well, let me be clear with you, Rob. You will never touch this.” I motion up and down my body with my hands. “And if I hear that you’ve said another word about me to my brother, or messed with him in any way, I will find you and kick your tiny balls so hard they’ll be in your throat. Choking you.”
Mortified is how I’d describe his expression now.
“Got it?” I ask with a small smile.
“Y-yeah,” he croaks.
“Come on, Zeb.” The crowd parts and we walk to the minivan. The bus-stop jerks gawk at us until we drive around the corner to our street, and Zebby lets out a giant whoop.
“That was the most awesome thing ever! Did you see his face! That was priceless!”
He laughs and slaps his thighs. I laugh for the first time today, so glad to see his glee. To be sure, it felt good to release some of the wickedness inside me on that poor kid.
“Damn, Zae. You are the coolest sister ever.”
“Thanks. But don’t say damn.”
“I’ve heard you say damn.”
I sigh. Hypocrisy is not cool. “Okay, fine.”
He smiles at me and I smile back, glad to have a comrade.
Kiss Collector Page 3