Oh, my gosh. I am so floored. This cannot be my mother telling this story. All I can do is stare at her, my emotions coiling like writhing snakes. I knew something was off last year, but I had no idea . . . I was so focused on my friends and cheer and Wylie.
“The man ended up confronting Daddy in the parking lot of his job, and they got into a fight. They both spent the night in jail. That’s when Daddy got fired.”
My heart is buzzing with quick speed as I remember back to last year. My parents were both on edge. Daddy without a job. Mom looked like she’d aged ten years overnight.
“We tried to make it work. We tried to get past it. He got a new job. We tried . . . but it’s like there was this unfixable crack in our marriage after that. He met . . . her, at work, and she was there for him. She was what he needed. I couldn’t even be mad.”
Tears are streaming down her face now. For the first time in ages, I don’t cry. It’s like it’s too much. I can’t process it. Images from my family’s story in my mind are changing and morphing, pages are flipping and rewriting themselves.
My mom cheated first.
“Zae.” She places her hand over mine, and I let her, though I feel like a cold, undead thing. “Please don’t be mad at him. He tried. He really did. We both did. And we love you and Zebby so much. You are the light of our lives. He misses you.” She sucks in a huge, ragged breath. “I don’t blame you for being mad at us. We both made mistakes, choices that we regret and wish we could change. I’m sorry.”
I say nothing. It’s still too big. Mom pulls her hand back and stands. I stare at the spot where she sat until she leaves me.
For five minutes my brain throbs, overloaded, and I can’t think. Then thoughts come rushing at me, bombarding my senses, and I fight to catch my breath.
My parents are a mess, just like me. Just like Zeb. Just like Lin who kept watch for Monica, and Monica who couldn’t help but like the guy I liked. We’re all . . . human. We’re messy. We’ve all made mistakes. Sometimes we’re lucky and it ends up being a “learn from it” mistake, and sometimes it’s a mistake that reaches out with its claws and snags other people you love, dragging them into it, shredding the bonds of a relationship, and turning your life completely upside down.
I stand, as stiff as a lifeless zombie, and gather a change of clothes. Then I head to the bathroom to shower.
When I’m ready, I sit silently on the couch with Zeb until Dad comes to the door. Mom opens it, and they share a long glance in which she gives him a telling nod. His whole demeanor seems to soften with relief. I don’t say hi to him or bye to Mom. I walk past them into the late April evening and let myself into the back seat of Dad’s car. Zeb happily takes shotgun.
I stare from the window as we drive across town to a cute condominium neighborhood. Inside has a noticeable feminine touch. Cream couches with pastel-flower throw pillows. And best of all . . . Dad goes to a huge dog crate in the corner and lets out a yellow Lab who dances around excitedly, wagging a heavy tail and nearly knocking us over as she greets us. Zeb and I both laugh and get down to pet her.
“You have a dog!” Zeb cries, letting her lick all over his face. We’ve always wanted one, but Mom is allergic.
“Yep. This is Sadie.”
Dad clicks a leash onto her collar and we walk outside together. He gives Zeb the leash and Sadie takes off down the sidewalk. He runs after her, lanky limbs flying. Dad chuckles and crosses his arms. As he stares at Zeb I stare at him, this man who everyone says I look like. Those round, chocolaty eyes—my own eyes—those dark curls that we both work so hard to maintain. And my heart squeezes at the thought of all he’s been through—all that I put him through with my attitude and my anger.
I slip an arm around his waist and snuggle into his side. He hesitates, as if surprised, and then his arm goes around me tightly, protectively, lovingly. I don’t want to let go, and neither does he, so we don’t.
We hold on.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I feel different at school on Monday. Changed. For the first time in a long time I sense the warmth of the sun shining through the proverbial cloud that has plagued me.
Lunch is kind of weird because Dean comes over to sit with us. I don’t look at him much because I’m still embarrassed about everything. And having a boy at the table means we can’t talk about certain things, but I refuse to let myself feel grumbly about it.
I look up at the clock a few minutes before the bell and decide it’s time to drop a bomb on my friends. Something I’ve been dreading.
“I’m not trying out for cheer next year.”
Both of them stare at me, aghast. Even Dean looks shocked.
“Is it the tumbling?” Monica asks. “Because mine is rough, too. We can work on it together.”
“It’s really no use,” I say. “I’ve been practicing hard and I can’t get it.” Saying all this out loud, seeing their faces, it dredges up every horrible feeling of failure I’ve managed to tamp down. The thought of not cheering, it’s like I’m abandoning my people. For the first time ever, I won’t be a part of the hustle, the craziness, the uniforms and games and . . . my friends. But they’ll go on without me, just like when they’ll be off at college next year without me. A sensation of alarm and loss splits me from the inside, but there is nothing I can do to change the situation. It’s hopeless.
“You have to be on the team,” Kenzie says. “You have perfect jumps, and you’re an amazing base. I can’t stunt without you!”
“Yes, you can,” I say, but I hate the thought of not being the one to catch her.
“This is crazy, Zae,” Monica says. “You were all-star at camp last year. You have to talk to Mrs. Hartt. She has to make an exception.”
“She won’t,” I say. “I already talked to her, and it wouldn’t be fair anyway. You guys need tumblers. Maybe this will help the squad actually win.”
Monica glares. “The reason we don’t win isn’t because of tumbling. We’re just as good as every other squad in the county, but we’re Peakton. Nobody cares about Peakton. Mrs. Hartt can change the requirements all she wants, but we’ll still be seen as the thug school full of losers who don’t matter.”
We’re all quiet as that truth sinks in. With other sports our teams can win because of the point systems. Our guys have won states twice in the past five years for basketball, and qualified for states in football and baseball. Cheerleading is different, though. So much about the scoring is subjective, based on individual judges’ opinions. Every year we work so hard, and every year we feel cheated out of a first-or second-place win. It really is exhausting.
“We do it for us, remember?” Kenzie says. “Not for them. It doesn’t matter what they think.”
It kind of does, but I don’t want to burst her bubble. I know she means well.
A scream and crash come from the other end of the cafeteria, followed by a frenzy of scuffling feet. From what I can see through the hordes of people jumping to their feet, two girls are going at it, grabbing hair and scrambling to overpower each other. I recognize the puff pigtails and long, slender legs of Meeka.
Sierra screams for someone to help. Next to her, Raul takes off running toward the doors where the officer usually stands. It takes less than a second for students to leap from their seats and converge on the fight, yelling, standing on tables and chairs to see. We jump up and grab our bags.
“That was Meeka,” I say, feeling ill at the sounds of violence and the ensuing mob of bystanders.
“Yeah,” Dean says, lifting his chin to see. “And Quinton’s chick.”
“Camille?” Kenzie asks. She and I share a holy crap look. I remember the way Meeka pulled me away from Quinton at the party. And how someone told Camille he went into his room with a cheerleader. Oh, Meeka . . .
Teachers and staff come running, pushing through, and the bell rings. Sierra runs from the cafeteria, looking shaken.
I’m despondent as I walk to my locker, realizing fights and things are what peo
ple think about when they think of Peakton. We’re defined by the negative, no matter how much good stuff goes on here. No matter how much passion we have. I wish I could change it. I wish I could fix it all.
When I open my locker a piece of folded paper falls to my feet. I bend and pick it up. Was it in my locker? Because I don’t recognize it. I open it and see typed writing. Air fills my lungs as I gasp. It’s a poem.
I see your smile.
It looks good on you.
A welcome change from the heavy hue.
Is it here to stay?
Or will it go away?
Hold tight to every new day.
“What’s that?” Kenzie asks. I breathlessly hand it over, my hand trembling. She reads through and sags into me. “Ohmagarsh!!” Then she stares up at me with doe eyes. “Holy crap, Zae! Who wrote this?”
We both look around, but only random guys are passing, none of them paying a bit of attention to us. I shake my head, still dazed, then I fold the paper carefully and slide it into my back pocket. We’re smiling like idiots as we jog to class through the locker bay and main hall.
In a strange sort of slow-motion vibe, I catch the eye of guys as we pass their groups, and a weird sensation of realization flits through me. These guys are not out to hurt anyone. With the exception of possibly Rex Morino, they’re nice. In fact, I’d been no better than Rex during my conquests. These guys could be little brothers like Zebby. And I’d treated a bunch of them with disdain as I went on my tirade against males, not caring if I hurt any of them. Now, as I pass them, I feel bad. Male, female, and all the other ways we categorize each other—we’re all just people—individual personalities, making mistakes and trying to get by. I want to do better. I never want to return to that dark place, even though part of my soul still aches, and might always.
Brent watches me with a grin from beneath his Peakton varsity baseball hat. Taro gives me a shy smile from his group of skinny-jeans friends. Rex wears his bad-boy glare from his group of guys in black, like he hates me but he can’t look away. Flynn pulls a book from his locker and swishes his loose, dark-red curls to the side when he sees me, tucking them back and giving me a wave. Elliott walks past with his buddy in Carhartt hunting pants. He holds up a palm and I smack it, followed by Kenz.
Then there’s the double whammy of Quinton and Joel standing with Kwami and our star basketball forward, whispering. But all four glance over as we pass. Joel’s gaze and nod heats my neck as it sweeps over me, like I was somehow branded when he kissed me there.
I don’t hate the feeling, and I’m not sure what that means. My anger at the male sex may have dissipated, but I still don’t want to fall hard for Joel when there is a super romantic mystery guy out there. And what if mystery guy is someone I don’t like? Are the poems enough to change that? I have to ask myself, what burns hotter: The poet’s words on my heart, or Joel’s lips on my neck? They’re pretty darn close. This is killing me!
We run to our next class, where I’m distracted by all that’s happened today. I check my locker thoroughly between each class, hoping for another poem, but there’s nothing.
After school, I rush out to meet the girls in the parking lot.
Lin has her hands on her hips. “Excuse me, missy, but what’s this about a poem?”
I pull it out of my back pocket and experience a squishy, ooey-gooey pride as they read it and freak out on my behalf. When they finish, Monica peers over her shoulder and looks back at me, fiddling nervously with the strap on her book bag.
“Hey, Zae? Do you mind if, um, if Dean drives me home today?”
My heart falls at the fact that she feels nervous even asking me. “Dean can take you home anytime you want, Monica. I’m not upset about him, I promise.” I realize as I say it that I mean every word, and the relief is a balm to my soul.
Monica gives me a hug and jogs away to Dean’s coupe.
Kenzie spots Vincent across the lot, walking to baseball practice with the other guys. “Ooh!” She jumps as high as she can, several times, waving. Vincent lifts a long arm in the air, and she giggles.
Lin’s phone dings. Her face lights up when she reads it. “Parker wants to see me this week! I have a feeling he’s going to ask me to be his girlfriend.”
“Yay!” Kenzie exclaims. “What are you going to say?”
“Yes, of course! The boy has abs and thighs of steel and he can kiss. Good lawd, can he kiss!”
And just like that, all three of my friends are pretty much taken. And though I’m happy for them, I am now an outsider in every way.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
This week I’m pulled out of math class and sent to guidance again. I’m happy to get out of math but nervous about what Mrs. Crowley wants now.
I come to a dead stop in her doorway at the sight of both my parents sitting there, looking up at me with puzzled expressions. What is this?
“Zae!” Mrs. Crowley says. “Here’s a seat for you. Join us.”
I sit, peering around at the three of them in worried confusion.
“I’ve called you all here today because I have good news. I’m sure Zae shared the pamphlet about studying abroad.”
Holy crap! Is she for real? I wince and squirm. “No,” I say. “I told you we couldn’t afford that.”
“Were you supposed to bring something home to me?” Mom asks in her parental voice. Dad leans forward, his eyes searching me for answers.
“No.” I look pointedly at Mrs. Crowley. This is wrong of her, but she looks zero percent regretful. I can’t believe she called both my parents in for this.
She stares right back at me and asks, “Did you speak to them about your hopes and plans for after high school?”
I bite my lip hard as anger sparks and flares.
“I haven’t heard about any change of plans,” Mom says.
“Me either.” Dad folds his hands and all of them watch me, waiting.
What kind of crappy guidance is this? Forcing me into this awkward conversation when I’m not ready? Wasting everyone’s time? I barely open my lips to grumble the words.
“I don’t want to go to college.”
The looks on Mom’s and Dad’s faces crush me, making my heart gallop.
“I don’t think it’s for me,” I say. “I feel like it’d be a waste of money, just to say I did it, for a job I won’t even love.”
Mom looks down at her hands, and Dad’s eyebrows droop.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, silently cursing Mrs. Crowley.
She clears her throat and reaches for another pamphlet, sliding it across, where my parents open it and look together. Guilt surges inside me like a churn of acid.
“This really isn’t necessary,” I say, my voice raised. “I didn’t show them because it’s not possible. This is a waste of time.”
She ignores me and focuses on my parents. “I’m sure you’re aware that plenty of respected people don’t have college degrees. Steve Jobs, Bill Gates, Mark Zuckerberg.” My parents look unimpressed by this fact, but she soldiers on. “While it’s a necessary option for many, there are wonderful work opportunities out there for young people today. In Zae’s case, I think it’s important that we focus on her prolific language skills and seize this particular prospect. I’ll let you read through it.”
I want to snatch the pamphlet away and run out. Dad exhales in a huff before turning his eyes down to the paper in obvious disapproval. Mom makes a sound in the back of her throat when she gets to the prices at the bottom.
“Mr. and Mrs. Monroe,” says Mrs. Crowley. Her eyes sort of sparkle when she glances at me. “Zae. What if I told you there’s been an anonymous donor who would like to sponsor you?”
The room gets so quiet. So still. I’m afraid to breathe. I can’t . . . What did she just say? Oh my God, my heart feels like a racehorse just shot out of the gate.
Dad clears his throat. “Someone wants to pay for her?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Crowley looks ready to burst with the news. “They wi
sh to stay anonymous, with no strings attached. Every expense for the entire year.”
“Wait.” Mom closes her eyes. “A year . . . away?”
“The first semester would be in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She would come home at Christmas. Then the second semester would be in Paris, France. She would be home in time for graduation. The donor has also agreed to pay the community-college tuition fees for her to get the final credits she needs this summer before she leaves.”
Argentina! France!
The room is spinning. I’m in a dream. Mom covers her mouth and tears spring to her eyes.
Dad is staring at me like he doesn’t know me. “Xanderia? This is something you want?”
“I . . .” OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD. “I don’t know?”
“It’s an amazing opportunity,” he says firmly. “But I’m not going to sit here and act like I’m not surprised. I wish you’d confided in us sooner so we could wrap our minds around this. And keep in mind, we’re talking about your senior year. You’re a very sociable, active girl in school. Are you willing to miss all that? Because this is not something where you can get over there, get homesick, and easily come home.”
I can’t believe this is happening. I’m going to hyperventilate. I put my elbows on the desk and breathe, letting my head hang down. Mrs. Crowley chuckles.
“It’s a lot to take in. Listen, Zae. You have two weeks to decide. Think about it. Talk it over as a family. Weigh the positives and negatives.”
“Thank you,” Mom whispers.
We stand together, and my legs are numb and trembling. Mrs. Crowley stays in her office while my parents and I converge in thick silence in the guidance room. Thankfully there’s no aide in there right now to stare at us. When I look up at Mom and Dad, I feel lost, scared, excited, hopeful, worried. I don’t know what to think. I can’t imagine leaving my friends, my family, my school. Senior year was going to be the best year of my life. Traveling has always been my dream, but an unattainable dream. Not something right at my fingertips for the taking. Stuff like this doesn’t happen to girls like me.
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