Alex opens his mouth slightly. His lips are soft, and even though he’s kind of smelly, it’s surprisingly nice. Kissing him. I open my eyes, afraid I’ll see another boy’s face if I close them. Alex’s hand slips around my waist, pulling me tighter. This boy knows what he’s doing. His kiss is soft and sweet, with a hint of more just beneath.
I have a horrible thought that I’m turning into a slut. Maybe I’ve been storing up lust for so long because people thought I was gay. Because even though I barely know this boy, kissing him feels pretty darn good.
His hand travels up my side. I gasp a little. Alex pulls me in a little tighter, his lips push harder, and it becomes a little too intense. Alex, my mind reminds me. Not Zee.
The realization breaks my trance. Zee’s face flickers in my brain, and my blood pumps hot shame through my veins. I pull away and place my hands on Alex’s chest, pushing him and taking a step back.
“I’m sorry. This is crazy. I barely know you. I’m sorry.”
Alex looks slightly alarmed, and then he sneezes.
“Shit,” he says.
He begins to cough. He puts his hand up as if to say just a moment and then bends at the waist. He takes deep breaths, as if he’s struggling to bring air in and out of his lungs.
“Uh. Are you okay?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer, but it’s clear this is more than dealing with my sudden rejection.
I glance around in a panic, wanting to call to Zee, but he and Kaitlin are still going at it hard, and interrupting them is too embarrassing to contemplate.
I put my hand on Alex’s back and repeat, “Are you okay?”
He shakes his head and my heartbeat accelerates. I bend down to look into his face, and what I see makes me break out in a sweat.
“My puffer,” he gasps.
“Zee!” I call, no longer concerned about etiquette. “There’s something wrong with Alex.”
“You’re telling me,” he murmurs. “Leave her alone.” But then he looks over and spots Alex and almost comically pushes the Amazon girl away.
“What the hell?” she says, but Zee is already at Alex’s side.
She glares at me and then storms back inside the house.
At this point, Alex has sunk to his knees and is making awful wheezing sounds. His face looks almost gray, and his lips are getting kind of bluish. My heart is racing, and I’m actually wringing my hands together, knowing something is wrong, but not sure what, or what to do about it.
“What the hell, Sam?” Zee yells. He grabs Alex and shakes his shoulders. “What the hell, dude? Breathe.”
Alex doesn’t respond.
“What’s wrong?” My voice comes out shrieky and panicked.
“He’s having an asthma attack,” Zee says without looking at me. “Alex. Alex, you okay, buddy? Where’s your damn inhaler?”
I look around the deck as if someone new will leap from the shadows and tell me what to do. I don’t know anyone with asthma. I have no idea what to do. Should I pound on his back? Give him mouth to mouth?
“Go see if someone knows where his inhaler is,” Zee yells at me. “Look for his sister, Chloe.”
Like I even know who Chloe is. I scramble to open the patio door and pitch myself inside the kitchen. The heat and music hit me immediately. I tap the first person I see on the shoulder. “Alex is having an asthma attack,” I say loud enough to be heard over the music. “Inhaler.” I gesture like I’m pressing the pump on an inhaler. “Do you know where there’s an inhaler?”
The boy stares blankly at me. He shrugs, continues to the fridge, opens it, and takes out a beer.
“Oh my God,” I say, looking around in a panic. I loathe the thought of having to make a scene, but I glance outside and see Zee standing over Alex, who is now sitting on the ground.
“Help!” I yell. “Does anyone know where Alex’s inhaler is?” Hardly anyone looks at me for longer than a curious second.
Self-consciousness no longer a luxury, I race to the attached living room and jump on the couch, almost stepping on a boy’s hand. I hold up my hands like a megaphone. “Alex is having an asthma attack,” I scream as loud as I can. “We need to find his inhaler.” No one responds, other than a few concerned stares. “Chloe?” I yell, and people stare at me now, like I’m a novelty at the zoo. Someone yells for Chloe, and the name spreads along the crowd, and then the pretty girl in the black dress is running toward me, her face intense with concern.
“What’s wrong?” she says. “Is he okay? Is he still outside?”
I point toward the patio door.
“Shit,” she says, kicking off her heels and running for the deck. A couple of people follow her. Seconds later, she leans back inside. “Someone call 911,” she yells. Her voice is hysterical and penetrates the party atmosphere. “Call 911 right now. Does anyone have an inhaler?”
Someone turns down the music, and people scurry in circles. Taylor rushes into the living room looking confused and upset. Justin has his arm around her. They hurry outside with some others, and from the deck I hear Chloe screech louder. “Help! Someone help Alex. Oh my God!”
There’s silence, and then she yells again. Her voice is hysterical now. “EpiPen,” she yells. “Does anyone have an EpiPen?”
My blood, moments ago so hot, turns to ice. EpiPen?
“Get out of the way!” Zee yells from the deck, screaming at people to step back. A crowd’s gathered around Alex, blocking him. I’m frozen in place, afraid to go outside. The atmosphere inside the house transforms. No one looks sophisticated anymore. Everyone looks like kids. Scared little kids.
Outside, the noise continues and builds momentum. Girls are crying. Chloe is screaming over and over again. I’m still standing on the couch, and the boy sitting beside me shakes his head. “This is not going to turn out well,” he mumbles to no one in particular. “Someone said he left his backpack at Zee’s.”
“What do you mean?” I ask the boy. “What’s happening?”
“Oh my god,” someone yells. “He’s not breathing.”
Chloe runs in the house then, her eyes wide and hysterical. “Did anyone give him anything that might have peanuts in it? Did he eat anything?” Her voice screeches. Tears chase each other down her cheeks. “Where the hell is the ambulance?”
I concentrate on breathing in and out. It’s difficult for me, but not impossible. Like it is for Alex. I step off the couch. I want to lie down and close my eyes.
I want to pretend it’s all a very, very bad dream. I want to be back in the kitchen at home with my dad. I want him to order me not to go to the party.
I don’t want to be so hungry all the time. I don’t want to act totally out of character and kiss a boy minutes after meeting him.
A boy who is allergic to peanuts and is apparently having an anaphylactic reaction on the deck. I don’t want to have snacked before the party even though I ate a full dinner. I don’t want the snack to be a peanut butter sandwich.
I consider bolting out the back door but plop down on a nearby chair, too shocked to do much of anything else. People run in circles around me. No one talks to me. No one asks me what I ate before I kissed him. My lips press tightly together.
The sound of sirens reaches the house. People cry and screech, in a panic. Two medics charge in the house and run out to the deck.
I don’t have to ask. It’s not good.
chapter three
I don’t know how long it’s been since the Amazon pointed an accusing finger at me as the girl who had been with Alex, but people have finally stopped firing questions at me. I’ve answered questions over and over again. What did I eat before kissing Alex? When did I have the peanut butter sandwich? What happened after?
Almost all the kids are gone. Taylor is at the kitchen table, crying softly. Justin sits beside her, loo
king like he’s about to.
A police officer’s walkie-talkie crackles. She speaks into it, then walks over to me.
“Alex died on the way to the hospital,” she says softly.
Taylor moans, and Justin drops his head to his hands. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. Back and forth. Back and forth. As if the motion can stop the truth from becoming real. No. I want to scream. This can’t be real.
The police officer puts her hand on my arm. “Have you been drinking?” she asks.
I shake my head no. I wonder why it even matters.
“You’re sure?”
“I swim,” I say, as if that’s an answer. My voice sounds foreign to me.
Her eyes soften, and I guess she’s a mom, thinking about her own kid, hoping she won’t drink either. Or kiss boys she doesn’t know at parties. “Did you drive here?”
I nod.
“I’ll drive you home in your car. My partner will follow us.”
I don’t argue. She pulls me up. I don’t look at Taylor or Justin. I don’t look at anyone. I wonder if I can stay inside my head and make it all go away.
It’s raining outside and the wind is whipping leaves around. The cop asks me a couple more questions on the way home, but other than supplying my address in a squeezed voice, I can’t speak. I can’t talk anymore. I can only shake my head and stare at my lap. I’m holding so many emotions inside, and they’re fighting hard to blast out. Swallowing is virtually impossible.
“We already contacted your dad. You won’t be charged with anything,” she’s saying. “In a case like this there’s no intent. No liability.”
My joints weaken and my stomach gurgles. I should go to jail. Live behind bars. Be punished forever for what I did.
She parks in the driveway and walks me to the door, and my body starts to shake when my dad opens the door. For a second I imagine Chloe going home. Her parents waiting at the front door. No son or brother will walk inside again. Horrified, I slip past my dad while the policewoman has a hushed conversation with him in the doorway. They talked earlier, but he’s just learning that Alex died. I hover behind him. Waiting.
When she finally leaves and he closes the door, my body lets go. I throw my arms around him, crumpling against him. He squeezes me harder than he ever has before and the tears I’ve somehow kept down gush out. I’m a snotty, blubbering mess.
Horrible sounds emanate from a deep, dark place inside me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…Daddy…Oh my God. I killed him.”
My dad murmurs soft words that make no sense. A part of me recognizes how stiff my dad’s arms are, but he’s holding me close and not letting go, even as I soak his golf shirt with my groaning and weeping. I’m certain I’ll never be able to stop. I rock against him, unable to process the horror of what I’ve done.
Time must pass, but instead of dying, like I should, I start to breathe a little more slowly. My guttural sounds turn to normal sobs. My dad tries to untangle himself, but I cling to him, terrified to be alone. He gently but firmly removes my arms from his.
“I’ll be right back,” he says. “Stay here.”
I curl into a ball on the couch and squeeze my eyes together. I don’t want to see or to hear anything. I don’t want thoughts or images in my head. A notion formulates in my brain. I want my mommy. Oh God. I want my mom more than I’ve ever wanted her in my life.
I start another whimpering sound, but it’s almost a song of sorrow that I hum to keep myself sane on some primitive level.
Dad’s footsteps return and then he crouches down beside me. “Butterfly?”
I open my eyes, and he holds out his hand, flat. In the middle of his palm is an oval blue pill. In his other hand is a glass of water.
“Take it,” he commands, holding the pill closer to me.
I don’t have the wits to question his order. I don’t ask what the pill is or protest. I can only sit up and obey. Someone needs to tell me what to do. I place the pill on my tongue, take the glass of water and swallow it down. Bitterness taints my taste buds.
Dad holds out his hand again, but this time it’s empty. I recognize that I’m expected to take it. I slip my smaller hand inside and he tugs me up. He puts his other hand under my legs and swoops me up, and my arms wind around his neck. He walks slowly, carrying me, climbing the stairs with me, taking me down the hallway to my bedroom like I’m a three-year-old, not a five-foot-eight seventeen-year-old who weighs almost 130 pounds.
He grunts a little and kicks open my bedroom door. He has to step over a pile of clothes before he can plop me gently down on my bed. I immediately roll away from him and curl into a ball, but instead of tight I’m almost limp. My brain is black and emotionally spent. I’m so exhausted it feels like I’m sinking inside my head.
Dad sits on the bed, and his weight moves me a little closer to him. He strokes my hair the way he did when I was a little girl.
The pill is already working. I’m beginning to drift, and I welcome the escape with only a tiny level of awareness.
“Why, Sammy?” he whispers. “Why were you kissing a boy you didn’t even know?’
I don’t answer him. I’m so tired. But a lingering thought survives the weariness and travels through the dark. It goes deep and imprints on my already contrite soul.
“Why did Mom die?” I whisper.
How can I possibly get through this without a mother? Maybe with her guidance I wouldn’t have gone around kissing boys I barely knew for attention.
He doesn’t say anything, and the drugs make my brain hazier. As I close my eyes and succumb to darkness, one last coherent thought flits through my head:
I wish I could join her.
My mom.
chapter four
In theory I understand that I am grieving, but I haven’t wept since Friday night. My insides give me sensory proof that I’m still functioning, but it seems likely that while I was drugged my organs were replaced with robot parts. Everything works the way it’s supposed to. My heart beats. My lungs expand and contract. But it’s like I’m hollow or watching a movie about someone else. None of this feels real. I can’t break out of the trance.
I lie in my bed and think about poking something sharp into my skin. To see if it will hurt, to see if I’ll bleed, to test whether I’m still alive. I don’t, though. For one, because moving means effort. Two, because I’m afraid if start bleeding that I won’t stop myself from draining all life from my body. Or worse, that I will.
I ignore my cell phone. Dad tells me Clair and Aunt Allie are texting and emailing frantically. Taylor too. He brought the phone to my room and it quickly ran out of juice. I leave it dead on my dresser and ignore the landline. Taylor calls, and Aunt Allie persists longer, but in spite of knowing how much she’ll persevere, I don’t want to talk even to her.
Monday morning is the first time I’ve missed a swim practice except for when I’ve been too sick to move and once when I pulled my hamstring. I ignore my dad and refuse to budge from my bed for the 5:00 a.m. swim. He stands in the hallway outside my room for a while looking confused and unsure of what to do.
“What’s the matter, Dad?” I say in a flat voice. “You look like someone died.”
“Oh, Sam,” he says and comes in and sits on my bed, asking over and over if he should stay home with me. I shake my head and tell him to go to work. Finally he pats me on the head and says he’ll leave me for a few hours but tells me to call if I need him. Clearly he’s out of his league here. But so am I.
Hours later when he gets home, he comes directly to my room. I’ve become an extension of my bed. My hair is unbrushed, my teeth are still filmy. I’ve been up to use the bathroom, but other than that I’ve drifted in and out of sleep and, between naps, stared at the ceiling. I know a lot about my bedroom ceiling. The stains. The spider web in each corner.
&
nbsp; “Clair called me at work,” Dad says.
Nothing about that makes me react. “She offered to take you to a grief counselor. To go with you.” I roll over on my side, so my back is facing him.
“But I made an appointment for you myself. Just you. I mean, I can in go with you if you want. But Clair shouldn’t have to take you.”
It sounds like he’s asking me a question. If I do want Clair to take me. I can’t deal with his uncertainty and contemplate my wall. Clair is from an old world. One I can barely remember.
“I got you in right away,” he says. “Wednesday morning. The doctor made a special arrangement to get you in.”
“Lucky him,” I mumble to my wall. “I’m sure I’ll be fascinating.”
“Sam.” He doesn’t move from the end of my bed.
I don’t answer, but I sense him staring at me. A sigh drifts in the air until he leaves. I flip onto my back again, and a few minutes later Dad walks in with a sandwich and some snap peas on a plate.
“Can you eat something?” He hands me the plate, and I take it and place it on top of the messy sheets bunched up on the bed.
“Sammy,” he says. His voice cracks. “I can’t stand to see you like this.”
I don’t answer. There’s no other way to see me.
“I want to help you. Please. Talk to me.”
The thing he doesn’t realize is that he can’t help me. And because he’s so good at keeping things he doesn’t want to talk about inside, somewhere along the way I developed the same ability.
“I’ll be fine. Really. I just want to be alone.”
“I need to do something to fix this.”
“I know, Daddy.” We look each other in the eyes. I haven’t called him that in a long time.
“I’m sorry,” he finally says, and his voice is uneven.
“Did you know that the funeral is tomorrow?” I ask, staring at the flat peas on the plate.
“I know,” he says.
I pull a loose thread on my comforter. “Do you think I should go?”
Who I Kissed Page 3