Chapter Five
Not another poetry day. I lay my head on the desk. Last night Mom made me start packing my room and taking down my posters. Now it doesn’t feel like home. I don’t want to be there, and I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be anywhere. I hate everything. So when we have to take out paper to write today’s poem—ode to an object—I choose an ugly, square, dry, boring cardboard box. It will make no sense to Mrs. Warfield why I have destroyed boxkind with words. And I don’t care. As soon as I finish, I put my head back down on my desk.
“It’s time for our daily dose of mystery reading!” Mrs. Warfield says in an overly cheerful, warbling voice.
I keep my head down, confident that my piece of crap poem from yesterday will not be the chosen one today. But still I listen, wondering whose soul will be displayed.
“Sadness,” she begins in an ominously low voice that sends a chill across my skin.
“Bowed spine. Downcast face.
I see you, a dark thundercloud amidst cumulous puffs,
their smiles fake, your frown real.
Sadness.
Even a sip of Capri Sun cannot cast the shadows away.”
I lift my face, and look at Mrs. Warfield as if I’d heard her wrong. But she only continues, oblivious to the cyclone that is suddenly circling inside me.
“What steals your color, lovely bloom?
What seeps the water from your petals?
The softness from your lips?
Sadness.”
My heart is thundering, like the cloud mentioned in the poem. I sit up, clapping along with my classmates. It hits way too close to home to be a coincidence. Or am I being an egomaniac, and it’s not about me at all? There could be tons of people drinking Capri Suns at Peakton that I haven’t noticed. But what if? I pretend to fiddle with my backpack on the floor while I stealthily glance around the room. The bell is about to ring, and everyone else is starting to shuffle, too. I’ve known most of the kids in this class since middle school, and some even from elementary school.
Who in the world wrote it? I look at the back row. Emberly Bray, track star, hard asleep on his desk. Joel Ruddick with his sweatshirt hood up and arms crossed, also sleeping, but with his head leaned back against the wall. He’s new to Peakton. I heard he might be a drug dealer. He transferred here from Hillside, and he never says much. Did he know Wylie? Stupid Wylie.
Next to him is John, Lin’s boyfriend. Definitely not him. I keep glancing around. Raul is on the cheer squad, but he’s not into girls, plus he can’t keep a secret to save his life. Could it be Mike, my lab partner from last year? He’s nice, but he’s a scab picker, definitely not a poet. Angelo Garcia? We kissed in eighth grade. He’s a loudmouth, so I can’t imagine him not taking credit for the poem, but maybe? Super shy and quiet Flynn Rogers, who I think is in a band? Elliott Fields, the dirty-blond redneck break-dancer? No, seriously, he wears camo and talks nonstop about fishing, but he can break-dance like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s hard to picture him writing that, but maybe?
I continue browsing. Brent Dodge, the baby-faced varsity baseball player, who’s currently flirting with Jana from the step team? Not likely. Then there’s skater boy Taro Hattori, who’s currently doodling a Japanese anime sketch. He’s definitely creative. And cute in his skinny pants, with black hair that hangs across half his face. I eye him, but he doesn’t look up. Quiet and mysterious. Hm. A definite possibility.
As I’m gazing, Dean catches my eye. It’s as if he’s been waiting for me to get to him. Our eyes hook and snag, and I feel a shy, miniature smile slip onto my face. His grin is bigger. Dimplier. I abruptly look away, heart thrumming.
When the bell rings, I rush out. I don’t know what to do with this feeling. It’s . . . nice, I admit, but I don’t want it.
I’m paranoid as I drink my Capri Sun at lunch. My eyes dart all around the cafeteria, trying to spot people from English class watching me or other people drinking Capri Suns. I keep looking over at Dean and his group of athletes, but I swear he doesn’t look at me once. Also, there’s not another Capri Sun in sight.
“You okay?” Monica asks.
“Yeah.” I decide to tell them. “You know how I drink one of these every day?” I hold up the pouch and the girls nod. I tell them about the poem. Monica is grinning like the Cheshire cat, and Kenzie leans across the table, a serious twinkle in her brown eyes.
“Name every single guy in your English class,” Kenz says.
I tell them every one. “But after the poem was read, Dean was the only one who looked at me.”
Both girls stare over at his group, and I hiss at them, “Don’t look at him!”
They snatch their gazes back, giggling.
“Dean is a sexy beast, damn.” Monica’s face is vibrant. I can’t help but steal another look at Dean and nod.
“I love a good mystery,” Kenzie says. “Let’s figure out which ones from your class are in this lunch.” We stare around the crowded, loud room, and I count. Nine of the twelve straight guys in my English class are in here. And none of them are making suspicious eyes at us. This is going to be hard.
“Maybe it’s a girl.” Monica waggles her eyebrows, and I shrug.
“Wouldn’t that be a twist!” Kenzie laughs.
I bite off a hunk of my cheese stick. Whoever wrote the poem, I’m grateful because it’s the only thing that’s been able to numb the sting of this horrible week. Guy or girl, I want to hug them.
Across from me, Kenzie stiffens and looks pointedly down at her tray of half-nibbled taco salad. Monica and I turn to see Sierra, Meeka, and Raul from the squad coming at us. My stomach clenches. Sierra and Meeka are as high end as students get at Peakton. Sierra’s dad owns the huge car lot on Route 1, and Meeka’s parents work at the Pentagon. They both live in the same neighborhood as Kenzie.
I suddenly remember Raul is in my English class, so I shove the Capri Sun into my lap under the table. I don’t want him to think the poem might be about me.
Sierra sits right down next to me and says, “Hey, Zae. What’s up?”
“Hey,” I say. She glances over at Monica with a nod, but completely ignores Kenzie, as always. They have bad blood that dates back to seventh grade.
Meeka stands there smiling down at us, her long, muscular legs on display in a skirt. Raul looks down at his filed nails, as if bored.
“So . . .” Sierra’s eyes are smiling as she faces me, sitting super close. I stare at her sculpted eyebrows and eyelash extensions. She could totally be a Hillside girl.
“What’s up?” I ask.
For a moment I feel a sense of shame because there is something satisfying and exciting about having the full attention of the two most popular girls in school. Funny thing about popularity, though. There’s the kind that stems from being well liked, and the kind that happens because you’re feared. These girls could ruin your whole reputation with just one offhand comment.
“You and that Hillside guy broke up? Wylie Janac?”
My stomach drops at the sound of his name. “Yeah.”
She gives me a sad look, a press of her red lips. “Is it true he cheated on you right after you guys had sex?”
“What?” Here we go. “No. We didn’t have sex.” I’m not going to mention what we did do. They’ll tell the whole school.
“Oh.” She looks disappointed.
“Really, Zae?” Meeka says. “Y’all were together a long time.” She gives me a look like she knows I’m lying.
“They didn’t,” Monica says. Kenzie crosses her arms, her mouth pursed.
“But you were up in the girl’s face, right?” Meeka says. “About ready to fight her?”
I clench my jaw. They’re wanting details they can tell everyone. If I don’t play along, they’ll make up whatever story they want. But I hate this. I hate having my personal business on display. Yet here I am giving them info.
“I got in her face so she’d tell me what happened, but—”
“He fucked
her?” Raul asks, and I cringe, my heart deflating.
“I guess.” I shove my trash into the paper bag. “He’s not my problem anymore, so whatever, you know? I’m done with that.”
My end-of-discussion stance leaves the three of them looking annoyed. I’m sure they’re not used to being dismissed.
“All right, then.” Sierra stands, and without a goodbye, they walk away from us, whispering, and then Meeka throws her head back in laughter. The three of us watch them in silence.
Meeka and Kenzie are next-door neighbors. They were best friends all through elementary school and middle school. Sierra moved to their neighborhood in seventh grade, and she slowly stole Meeka, making sure Kenz was left out little by little, and then completely. But it wasn’t enough to have Meeka all to herself. She had to make sure they displayed their new friendship all over social media, having parties where everyone was invited but Kenz.
By the time I met Kenzie in ninth grade, she was lonely and brokenhearted. I can see why Sierra would feel threatened and jealous. Kenz is her opposite: petite, bubbly, cute, naturally kind. Sierra has a more severe, womanly beauty, tall and big-boned. Controlling and conquering. Meeka and Sierra don’t acknowledge Kenzie unless they’re lifting her in a cheer stunt. I used to fear they’d drop her, but thankfully they keep it professional when it comes to the squad. Still, I prefer it when Lin and I are her bases, with Monica as the back spot, just to be on the safe side.
“Basic bitches,” Kenzie whispers, and then she crosses her arms and looks kind of guilty for saying it.
“You okay?” Monica asks me.
I nod, though I’m shaken.
“Why does Raul hang out with them?” Monica asks. “He’s like a different person when he’s in their claws.”
“He plays with my hair when they’re not around.” Kenzie sighs, running her fingers down the strands to her shoulders, dark-brown to light-brown ombre at the tips, sleek from great products and hours of straightening.
I ball up my paper bag and toss it like a basketball toward the trash can. When it makes it, the table of athletes cheers, making me and the girls laugh. I stand and give a curtsy just as the bell rings.
I decide right then that I’m going to focus on the positive. On the people who lift each other up. Not the ones who try to tear us down.
Chapter Six
Mrs. Warfield is smiling way too big when the rest of us roll into English on Thursday. I’m so tired and grumpy, I can hardly stand it. Mom and Zeb got in a fight last night because she got a call at work that he’d been involved in a spitball war at lunch and accidentally hit a girl in the eye. And then they fought harder when, instead of packing up his bookshelf, Zeb threw every item across the room. They both ended up in tears, which meant that I did, too.
Fun times.
“I think we should begin class with another mystery poem, this one being a sort of continuation of yesterday’s.” She actually giggles, and I sit straight up in my seat, my heart sprinting. I want to look around, to see whose face looks like the guilty culprit, but I’m too nervous.
Mrs. Warfield raises an eyebrow and scans the room to be sure we’re all paying attention before she begins.
“Ode to the straw that fits in the pouch that rests in your hand.
The straw that meets your lips, pink as blossoms.
The proud, cylindrical piece of plastic that stands up to greet you with its chest out, ready to be used by you, to quench you.
Oh, to be that straw, partially submerged in 66 percent fruit juice,
And partially submerged in your mouth. Enjoy, little straw, enjoy.”
Flames engulf me. Mrs. Warfield fans herself and winks as the class erupts into riotous cheering and laughter. My eyes are bulging out. I openly stare around the class, just as others do, trying to figure out who wrote it. Everyone but the sleeping Joel and Emberly in the back row is smiling and talking.
Then Dean says in a loud voice above the din, “All right, fess up! Who’s the smooth Shakespearean up in here?”
“Me!” Angelo Garcia stands, putting his forearm across his abdomen, and bowing regally. “Ladies, you can reach me at seven-oh-three—”
“I’m sorry, Romeo, but I cannot allow you to take credit,” Mrs. Warfield tells Angelo with a wink.
“Aw, man!” He sits, and everyone is laughing.
Now I’m totally confused. Dean smiles at me when we make eye contact, but I can’t figure out if he said that to play it off and take suspicion off himself or what.
“Oh my God, this is so cute, I can’t handle it,” Raul says.
“It was you, huh, Raul?” Dean asks him with a smile.
“You know it, babe.” Raul gives him a sexy look and everyone laughs.
“Okay, class, settle down,” Mrs. Warfield says. “And for the record, that’s as risqué as I will allow the poetry to be in my class. Keep it clean.” She winks again, the dirty birdie, and then tells us to open our books.
Needless to say I’m completely distracted the rest of class, which leads into glorious distraction for the rest of the day.
“Dad’s here!” Zeb opens his door while the van is still moving into the spot, and I holler at him, but it’s no use. He jumps out and runs. We haven’t seen Dad in days, but it feels like so much longer.
Uninvited hope rises in my chest as I get out and go inside. I find Dad in the kitchen, putting some of the large travel mugs and his coffee cups into a box. I drop my book bag, my heart dropping with it.
“Hey!” He gives a half smile as Zeb runs into his arms. “How’s my main man?”
“Good.” Zeb looks up at him, eyes full of love.
Dad turns to me, not letting go of Zeb. “Xanderia.”
“Hey,” I say quietly. I glance around at how many more boxes are piled up in the room. Pictures have been taken down and boxed up, the bigger ones leaning in a pile against the wall. Photographs of the four of us together. Will we even be allowed to display those anymore? My chin trembles, and there’s a sudden burning at the back of my eyes. I swallow and turn away from them.
Mom comes down the stairs and hefts a heavy box onto the kitchen counter. “Here’s your movies and CDs from the bedroom and the last of your dress shoes.”
“Thanks,” he says.
As Mom wipes her hands down her thighs, they look at each other, and the sorrow that looms between them sends a shock wave through the room that makes me choke. I know I’m being dramatic, making things worse, but I can’t help it. I slide down the wall and bury my face in my hands. The sobs that come rack my body. I can’t control the grief that takes over.
This house feels like a tomb. A place where something joyful has died and left behind a gaping chasm of distress and regret. Through my sobs I hear Zeb begin to cry, and Dad consoling him. Then I feel Mom’s arms go around me. She whispers over and over into my hair, “I’m sorry . . .”
And I believe her, but it doesn’t take away the pain. It doesn’t make things better. It doesn’t give us back our family.
“Why don’t you stay home from school tomorrow?” Mom says to both of us. “Sleep in and get some rest. It’s almost spring break anyway.”
“Yeah,” Zeb quickly agrees.
I look up to see Dad give Mom a disapproving glance for letting us miss school, but he blows out a breath and lets it go.
“I can’t miss school,” I say stubbornly.
“Okay, then.” Mom sounds disappointed that I’ve denied her consolation prize. “Just leave your phone for Zeb if he stays.”
“Fine.” I push to my feet and get away from them.
A ding wakes me in the middle of the night. It took me forever to get to sleep. I immediately smell the must of boxes and dust, and my heart fills with the wretched feelings that kept me awake to begin with.
I look at my phone and nearly scream. It’s two in the morning.
Wylie: I’m sorry about your parents.
Wy heard the news. I’m not surprised with how fast the gossip mill
works between our schools.
Oh my God, my heart. I could so easily go to him for comfort. He was always good at making me feel better, making me laugh, cuddling me; and he was there for me the past year while my parents fought. Then I remember what’s-her-face, and how he told her we broke up so he could get with her, and those comforting vibes are chased away.
I text him back: Thx.
His response is immediate. I miss u.
I miss him, too, but I’ll never tell him that.
I made a mistake, he says. I will never ever do that again, Zae. I swear.
It’s too late. My chest shudders in memory of today’s crying spree.
Wy: I want to see u. Plz. I’m coming over.
Me: You don’t have a car or license.
Wy: I’ll take my mom’s car.
Me: No!! Don’t. I just want to sleep. I’m turning off my phone.
I do exactly as I say, switching the sound off, and I fling an arm over my eyes. Now I’m wide awake and pissed off. Leave it to Wylie to use my parents as a way to try to get what he wants. He probably doesn’t even care. I swear, if he comes knocking at my window in twenty minutes, I will go out there and punch him.
And now I can’t get back to sleep. I hate everyone.
Chapter Seven
I know I told Mom I was going to school, just to spite her offer, but when my alarm goes off, not even the possibility of a Capri Sun poem can pull me out of bed. Once when I was little, my parents took us to the Renaissance Fair in Maryland. I remember trying to pick up a knight’s chain-mail vest, and struggling. I couldn’t imagine someone walking around with that heavy thing on his body, much less battling.
That’s how this feels.
I text the girls to let them know I’m not coming, and I roll back over. An hour later I hear Zeb moving around on the floor above me, probably trying to find something to eat since Mom’s at work, and I’m so heavy. A ton of chain mail is on my chest, and I’m on the constant verge of weeping. My plan is to lie here for hours, worthless, ignoring my basic needs, but I suddenly remember. I have a Spanish presentation today! With all the moving crap going on, I completely forgot.
Kiss Collector Page 4