“They’ve been off and on since eighth grade,” Meeka says. “But even when they’re off, they’re still on. You know what I’m sayin’?”
Yeah. He’s hers. A tremble courses through me. This cannot be happening.
“I didn’t know,” I ramble. “There’s nothing going on with us. It was just one stupid, little, meaningless kiss! Can’t you tell her it was nothing?”
“Girl, we ain’t friends!”
Oh, crap. Oh, crap. I am dead. I’ve never been in a fight.
“Just watch out for her,” Meeka warns. “I gotta go.”
My eyes dart around the hall. Camille, when she actually comes to school, is always surrounded by an entourage of scary-ass girls. She always seems larger than life with her voluptuous body, long nails, and platinum hair usually pulled up in a tight ponytail with extensions that hang halfway down her back. I cannot believe I forgot about her and Quinton. Stupid, stupid alcohol!
I speed walk to history and rush through the door, happy to see old Mr. Hawk. Camille won’t mess with me in front of a teacher. I really wish I could tell Monica and Lin, but I feel cut off from them. Disconnected. Like I’m not allowed. I can’t run to them for support when we haven’t even made up.
“Today is guidance day,” Mr. Hawk reminds us. I’d forgotten all about guidance day. It’s when we talk to our counselors about our schedule for next year. We shuffle to our feet and I end up walking next to Angelo with his wide smile. I glance around the halls nervously, even though class is going on and hopefully Camille is in a room.
“I heard you took a siesta on Quinton’s deck,” Angelo whispers, nudging me with his elbow.
I give him a light shove, which makes him laugh.
“Quiet!” Mr. Hawk whispers over his shoulder.
I’m not in the mood to fake the funk when I sit down in front of Mrs. Crowley.
“How are things at home?”
“Awful. I don’t want to talk about it.”
Her penciled eyebrows rise. “I’m sorry to hear that. My door is open if you change your mind.”
I tap the arms of my chair, my knee bouncing.
“And what are your plans postgraduation, Zae? Have you taken any time to think about it over break?”
“I don’t know,” I answer. “College, I guess.”
She gives me a small smile. “And where do you plan to apply?”
I shake my head. I feel . . . inadequate whenever this subject comes up. Lin and her parents have already started college tours. All my friends know where they’re applying.
“Where do you think I can get in?” I ask.
She presses her lips together and looks down at my paperwork. “Well, your grades are good. All As and Bs, but the problem is your course load. You’ve chosen all regular classes. I believe I urged you last year to sign up for an honors or advanced placement course. That’s what colleges are really looking for.”
I rub my sweating palms down my jeans.
“I only care about the foreign languages. I want to take Spanish four and French four next year.”
“And you’re doing very well in both. To be in the fourth level of two languages is impressive. Can you apply that same effort to English and history?”
I shake my head. I have no interest in taking those AP courses, reading all those boring old books, and writing millions of papers. My friends always have tons of homework.
“Mrs. Crowley, what kinds of jobs can I do with a language background besides teaching? What if . . .” I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud. “What if I don’t want to go to college?”
She examines me in silence for a long time, making me squirm. “I’m really not sure what language-related careers are out there that don’t require a degree, but I can look into it if you’d like?”
“Yes. Please.”
Mrs. Crowley nods and makes a note on my file.
My parents will be disappointed. They want me to be the first in the family to go to college. I wanted that, too—to make them proud—so the thought of abandoning it leaves me disheartened and anxious. But it’s their dream for me, not mine. My dream is to travel and make use of my foreign languages, but there’s not exactly a job for that, at least, not one I know of. I know I’m going to be stuck being a secretary or something, translating for immigrants who haven’t learned English yet, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Any job is respectable, in my opinion, but it doesn’t make me excited. I guess not everyone can have a job they love.
Lunch is terrible, despite the number of people who approach me, laughing and giving me fist bumps. Apparently I was very entertaining in the kitchen at Quinton’s. Kenzie and I can’t stop staring around the room, waiting for Camille to show. Monica chooses to sit at a table across the cafeteria with a few other cheerleaders and dancers, and Kenzie looks sadder than I’ve ever seen her.
“Vincent’s promposal was super cute,” I say.
This makes her light up. “Yeah.” She pokes at the chicken patty on her tray. I usually get on her case about eating, but I can’t say anything today since I don’t have an appetite either. “Maybe you can go with one of his friends. I’m sure Brent would love to take you.”
I start shaking my head before she even finishes the sentence. I’ve been thinking about it since this morning. Prom is about romance and couples dancing and gazing and all that gag-worthy stuff.
“I don’t want to go.”
“Please, Zae?” She reaches across and grabs my hand. “What if you’re on the prom court?”
“What? No.” We both glance toward the busy table by the windows where student council reps are taking silent ballot nominations for junior-class prom prince and princess, and senior-class prom king and queen. There’s no way I’ll be nominated. I’ve pretty much ruined my reputation lately.
As I’m gazing around, alert, I see Joel and Kwami outside in the open-air courtyard. Joel looks over at that exact moment, and our eyes snag through the windows, making my heart grow hummingbird wings. We stare for two fat seconds before he turns back to Kwami and doesn’t look my way again. My heart fluttering weakens. I should go thank him or apologize or something, but I’m so embarrassed.
“Come on.” Kenzie stands with her tray. “Let’s vote before the bell rings.”
I have no interest, but I follow her anyway. I write Kenzie’s and Vincent’s names on ballots and put them in the boxes at the table.
Panic sets in when we part ways by our lockers and I head toward the foreign-language wing for Spanish class. I probably look psychotic the way I keep glancing behind me. And then, as I round the corner, everything in me seizes.
There, at the end of the hall, is Camille. With her sleek hair and nails that can shred a face. She and all her girls lift their chins when they catch sight of me across the expanse of students.
“Shit!” I breathe. I duck into the nearest set of doors, which happen to be to the guidance department, and come face-to-face with Joel. His eyes widen, and I’m so damn happy to see him.
I blurt, “Camille wants to kill me!”
He scrutinizes my face and says, “Ah. Quinton. Stay here.”
I hiss, “What are you doing?” as he slips out the door. I sneak a peek through the glass pane of the door and watch him stop in front of Camille and her friends. He appears at ease. Unintimidated. The door is open a crack, and I strain to listen. As the bell time nears, the halls get quieter, leaving behind the rush of late feet on tile. I can hear their voices down the hall.
“Camille,” he says politely.
“You tryna hide that girl?”
Joel sounds steady in comparison to Camille’s sassy tone. She knows I’m in here. I’m glad all the counselors are in their rooms with their doors shut. The office area is quiet and calming, but my heart still thuds with the possibility of violence.
“I’m afraid I can’t let you touch her,” Joel says. “I was there that night. She was drunk, and her girls dared her to kiss someone. It was nothing. She’s not a
fter Q.”
“I don’t give a damn about some lil’ peck in the kitchen. I care about her going in his room with him.”
What?! My breathing halts. Is that what people are saying? Ugh, I freaking hate high school sometimes!
“She never went anywhere with him. After the kitchen incident I helped take her home.”
I hear her smack her lips. “My friend saw him go up in his room with a cheerleading girl.”
“You need to ask your friend to fact-check, because it wasn’t Zae Monroe.”
A long pause follows before she says, “All right. Imma check. But if they say it was her, you can’t save your girl, you hear me?”
“I hear you, Cam. And I know the truth, so I ain’t worried.”
I flatten myself against the wall until the girls walk away. Two seconds later my heart jumps as Joel opens the door and slips in like smoke.
He eyes me. “You’re good.”
“Thank you.” It comes out a pathetic blast of air. God, I’m a wimp.
“Don’t worry about it.”
I can’t let it go. It’s too good to be true. “You know her?”
“Kinda. Her best friend used to go with Kwami.”
The bell rings and I let out a gust of breath, looking at the clock.
“I can write you a pass,” he says. How awesome that the guidance aides can do that.
Joel might have a bad rep, and I have no idea what he did in the past, but he’s now the nicest damn person I know.
“Thank you.” Worst day ever.
I watch Joel scratching words on the green notepad with his left hand bent over it. He tears off the sheet and hands it to me, but I’m not ready to leave him yet.
“Hey.” I fidget with the pass in my fingers. “About Saturday . . .”
“Nothin’ to say.” His eyes are bright blue under the fluorescent lights. He seems taller than usual. Maybe because I’ve raised him to hero status.
I spit it out. “Thank you for helping me, and I’m sorry.”
He cocks his head, regarding me thoughtfully, and I can’t help but look at those lips that kissed my neck so softly. The memory makes me jittery and nervous.
“Your mom’s cool,” he says.
Weird. Such a clash of my worlds. I survey him, and he stands there and lets me.
“Joel, were you high when you . . .” I touch my neck.
His lips tighten. “I haven’t been high in seven months, not since my brother was thrown in prison for dealing. And you think I’d drive your mom’s car while I was high? Come on now.”
“Oh. No, I’m sorry.” I just can’t figure out why he said and did what he did at the party when he doesn’t seem interested any other time. And, wait, his brother was a dealer? So that’s where the rumors come from.
“Did you meet with Mrs. Crowley today?” he asks.
His complete change of subject makes me blink. “Uh, yeah.”
“Okay.” And that’s all he says.
I glance down at my pass. “I guess I should go.”
We stare a few seconds longer before I turn, feeling way warmer than the moment warrants. Before I walk out, I go on my tiptoes to peek out the glass pane of the door. Joel comes up behind me to look, too. I’m suddenly very, very aware of him against my back, his breath warm on my neck as he peers out beside me. My whole body stiffens and my breath hitches as I turn my head to catch his eye, so close. He freezes, too. Then, I swear, he moves forward an inch more, and I feel the front of him brush against my backside. It takes every bit of willpower not to press against him.
And just like that, I’m on fire. Practically panting from a boy’s breath on my skin and the whisper of a touch through our clothes. Oh, my damn, I really want him to touch me and kiss me and—
He abruptly pulls back from me and juts his chin at the door, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“All clear. See you ’round.”
I can’t even talk. All I can do is force a stiff nod as I pull the door open. I rush down the hall to Spanish, using the pass to fan my heated face. Joel is a hard guy to read, but I find myself wanting to read him more and more each time we meet.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I show up at Zeb’s bus stop after school with a giant Slurpee in hand. Bribery. It’s impossible not to notice that he’s now as tall as me, but skinny like a string bean. I hope he’s up for the challenge I’m about to propose.
“I need your help today,” I say, pulling into a parking spot at our apartment building. “I need you to keep me from breaking my neck as I try to learn a roundoff back handspring.”
“A what-a-what?” He takes a long pull on his red straw as he climbs out of the van and follows me to a grassy area between our building and the next.
“Gymnastics,” I explain. “I need it for tryouts.”
He sits crisscross on the grass while I warm up and do backbends to stretch. When he finishes his drink, I pull him to his feet and show him exactly what he’ll have to do.
“Bend your knees. Keep your palm flat to my lower back. Just follow my movement. If I go too low, keep the pressure there. You gotta be strong and firm.”
“Are you gonna kick me in the face?”
“Hopefully not.”
He laughs, and I can’t help myself. I grab him and pull him into a tight squeeze. His arms flail and he swivels to get away from me, so I shove him away with a smile.
“Let’s do this.”
We start with standing back handsprings. I’m a little rusty, and I forgot how much I hate doing this. I don’t know how the other girls dive backward so gracefully without a worry in the world. It’s unnatural to me. I do several, nervous each time, and Zeb starts to get the hang of it.
“Okay,” I tell him. “It’s going to get tricky now. I have to go straight from a running roundoff into the back handspring. So you have to follow me as I go and get your hand in there.” I do several roundoffs so he can get a feel for how far I’ll move.
He wets his lips and nods. “Got it.”
The first two times I chicken out, jumping straight up in the air to see how much height I can get. On try number three, I twist to the side, coming down on my wrist. Zeb dives forward to try and help. We both end up in a pile.
Laughter tinkles down to us, and we look up to see Mom on the balcony, motherly pride and adoration on her face. I rub my wrist and get back up.
“Again,” I say.
The failed attempts go on longer than I care to admit. Half the time I freak out and stop. When I do it again, Zeb growls.
“Zae, just do it already! I’m getting hungry.”
“You just had a huge Slurpee!”
“That was, like, an hour and a half ago.”
I look up at Mom, who nods that he’s right. I flop down on the grass, frustrated and tired. And then, to my amazement, Zeb runs, does a sloppy roundoff with his feet too far apart, throws himself backward, and does a back handspring, stumbling but staying upright. My mouth falls open.
“How did you do that?!”
His eyes are as huge as his smile. “That was awesome!”
“It’s because he’s not scared, sweetie, and you are,” Mom says from above us.
My hands clench. I am scared. I don’t know how to stop being scared. I yank out a handful of grass and throw it. “I’m done.”
When we get upstairs, Mom pulls a piece of grass from my hair. “How was school?”
“Bad.”
She sighs. “I brought broccoli soup and sourdough bread from the shop. Let’s eat.”
The rest of the week is more of the same. I avoid everyone but Kenz, and everyone avoids me. It’s really freaking depressing. How long are we going to do this? I feel sick about it every day.
Friday morning comes, and there is a crowd around the grassy knoll at the side of the school. Kenzie and I press in on our way up from the parking lot to see what everyone is murmuring and smiling about.
On the side of the green hill, written in colorful, real flow
ers, is a message:
Monica, prom? Dean.
It hits me way harder than it should, in a jumble of harsh emotions.
Kenz gasps at my side and aws. It’s beautiful. It really is. I have to swallow several times. Looking around, I don’t see Dean and Monica, so I assume she’s already seen it, said yes, and gone happily inside the building.
I trudge with the crowd up the stairs and into the school. When I get to English, I slump into a seat. Am I jealous? Yes, but not in the traditional way. I had a mad crush on Dean, but I have to face the fact he doesn’t like me like that. The knowledge is humbling, but mostly because I was mistaken. He only ever liked Monica. He was my friend, and he wanted to get to her. That’s fine. It’s not Dean that I want, it’s love in general, which makes me mad at myself. I don’t want to want love, but it’s part of who I am.
And then there’s Monica. I never dreamed we’d not be friends. It’s hard to accept the fact that she just got the most gorgeous promposal I’ve ever seen, and I wasn’t at her side to jump up and down and hug her. It’s all wrong. The loss is gutting me.
A figure stops beside me and I suck in a breath as I look up at Dean. My face heats with embarrassment.
“Hey,” I say, clearing my dry throat.
“You okay?” he asks.
I nod. “Mm-hm. I liked your, um, the flowers. It was pretty.” I force myself to look up at him, despite the knowledge that my face is embarrassingly red.
“She said no,” he tells me.
My abs squeeze, and I frown. “What?”
“Well, she said ‘maybe,’ which is a no.” He shrugs, like it’s no biggie, but it’s a show. He is hurt. I stare up at him in shock, at a complete loss for words. He’s telling me this for a reason.
The bell rings, and he moves to the back to sit. I turn to watch him go, but what I end up seeing is Joel watching me, unsmiling. He pulls his hood up to hide his eyes, leans back, and crosses his arms. What is his problem?
I face forward, trying to digest Dean’s revelation. Why on Earth would Monica not say yes? The only conclusion I can come to is . . . me.
“Good morning, Panthers,” says the senior president over the announcement speakers. “Please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance.”
Kiss Collector Page 17