Who I Kissed

by Janet Gurtler

  For the rest of my life, this will be something that defines me. When people eventually find out, their opinion of me will change instantly. I switch the channel.

  There’s a younger mother holding a little boy’s hand. They’re standing in a classroom. He’s cute, with lots of floppy copper hair and blue eyes that sparkle. He’s grinning the face-busting, nose-wrinkling grin of a young, happy kid.

  “Rusty has nut allergies and a severe allergy to peanuts,” his mom says.

  Beside her, he lifts his bicep and makes a muscle and does a strong man pose.

  His mom smiles down on him. “We’ve taught him from a young age to be careful. No sharing food. No cupcakes at birthday parties. His school has a peanut table. It’s great in theory, but what happens if a child who does have peanuts or peanut butter forgets to wash their hands? And then they touch my son in a game of tag? Or holds hands with him in the hallway? They’re kids. They’re messy. They forget things.”

  The little boy turns to the other side and flexes again, grinning cheekily at the TV camera.

  “I would feel absolutely horrible if a child ate a peanut butter sandwich and killed my child.” The camera zooms in closer to the mom’s face. “But what about you? How would you feel if it was you? Your child who killed mine? What would that do to your kid too?”

  The camera cuts to the boy.

  “I just want to send him to school and know he’s safe. I don’t want to have to worry just because there’s nothing else you think you can feed your child besides a peanut butter sandwich.”

  Dad pops his head into my bedroom. He glances at the TV and then at the clothes and books lying all over my floor. A sock I’d been trying to throw in the laundry bin hangs off the door handle. “Turn that off, okay?” He glances around my room but doesn’t comment. “I made some pancakes. You need to eat. And you could clean up this mess.”

  “No.” I don’t look up or untangle my limbs from the sheets on my bed. He walks inside, takes the remote from my hand, and presses the power button.

  I stare at the black TV screen as if it’s fascinating. My stomach growls, but I ignore it. “You going to swim tonight?” he asks. His voice is hopeful, but underlying anger ripples the edges. He’s trying not to be pushy. He’s trying to give me time. I can only imagine the strength it takes for him to stay calm about my refusal to swim.

  “It’ll help to get your blood flowing again. Make you feel better.”

  “No.” I wait, hoping he’ll get mad. Yell at me. Instead, he takes a deep breath. We both know how much speed and endurance I’m losing.

  I stare at him, but he’s the one looking into space now.

  “Why don’t we ever talk about Mom?” I ask.

  “Your mom?” He looks me in the eyes and seems surprised, as if he’s forgotten a woman was involved in my creation. His back straightens, and he rolls out his neck. “She died a long time ago, butterfly.”

  I move my gaze back to the blank television screen. “Obviously, I know that. But we never talk about her. I don’t even know what she was like. Did you love her?”

  “Of course I loved her.” He’s pressing his lips tight, and his forehead explodes into wrinkles. His voice does not convince me that this is a fact. His lips disappear, and then he exhales and they reappear. “What do you want to know?”

  “Lots of things.” I wait, but he says nothing. He isn’t going to make it easy. “Am I like her?”

  “No.” He says it so quickly and with so much force it startles both of us. He turns away and studies the bulletin board on my wall. The first thing he hung up when we moved in. Layers and layers of different colored ribbons are stuck onto it with equally colorful pins. Above the board are pegs with medals dangling from them, and the wall is almost full with framed swim certificates. Club records I’ve broken. State records.

  Dad gets everything framed. He keeps everything I’ve accomplished up on display, but he hides memories of the woman he created me with.

  “Your mom was a glorious swimmer.” He turns and looks into my eyes. “And you look like her. But you’re different. She…” He glances away. “Had difficulties.”

  He’s never told me that before. He steps forward and runs a finger over the top ledge of the TV, and then rubs it against his thumb to wipe away the dirt. “You’re different from your mom,” he repeats. Then he sighs and walks to the doorway. “We’ll talk about it another time. Come on. Come and get some supper.”

  His footsteps clomp down the stairs, but I stay where I am.

  “You told Bob you wanted to go back to school and it’s time,” he calls up the stairs. “You’ll go back to swimming soon. But first, back to school. Tomorrow.”

  “I’ll never swim again,” I whisper to myself.

  I shudder thinking about going back to school, but a small part of me almost wants the finger-pointing. Even though none of the newspapers or TV shows named me, everyone in Tadita knows it was me. Social media isn’t as polite as traditional media. It’s time to face the haters head on. The kids on Facebook who’ve dubbed me the Peanut Butter Killer.

  We’ll see what I’m really made of when I am forced to face their wrath.

  chapter six

  Walking has become a skill to relearn. Nothing about it comes naturally anymore. The cloud of despair has spread from the top of my head and surrounds me completely. My heart beats at triple pace. My hands quiver and I make a fist to still them. My eyes stay hidden behind long hair dangling in front of my face. I’m thankful Dad pushed me to keep my hair long even though short would be easier for swimming.

  The horrible anticipation of running into Zee keeps my shaky steps moving through the hallway. Everyone veers around me as if I’m a live bomb about to go off, yet at the same time I might as well be naked, the way everyone stares. Their looks are either horrified or relieved, as if they’re glad it’s me and not them in this mess.

  I cross my arms in front of me, clutching my backpack, trying to hide behind it. When I glance up and catch the eye of a short boy, he drops his gaze fast. Feeling isolated in the crowd is worse than the isolation in my room, but this is what I signed up for. My head hurts from the intensity.

  “Hey, Sam,” a voice calls, and I glance up. A boy stares down at me, which means he’s pretty tall. Amazingly, his smile is bright and seems authentic. I recognize him, but my brain is mushy and sluggish and his name won’t come to me. I blink like a blank computer screen as my nose fills with the scent of an expensive, overpowering cologne.

  “Casper,” he says.

  An image pops into my head.

  “And now you’re totally thinking about Casper the Ghost.”

  A smile turns up my lips. Quickly I put my hand over my mouth to cover it.

  He reaches over and touches my arm and without meaning to, I pull away.

  “How you doing?” he says softly. “It’s okay to smile, you know.” He’s clearly a guy who’s familiar with the gym—and a number of styling products. Nothing about his tousled hair looks accidental.

  Other students whiz past us, their dirty looks and disapproval so potent I don’t even have to look to feel them.

  “Under the circumstances, not really,” I mumble. I move away, eager to get to my classroom. The first class of the day is a safe one. But it’s bringing me closer to the inevitable.

  Fingers dig into my shoulder. “Ouch.” I turn.

  Casper. He’s staring straight into my eyes. His expression is kind. “You didn’t know, Samantha,” he says softly, and the sympathy in his voice almost finishes me.

  I blink quickly and successfully keep the tears behind the shutters, out of sight. “Thanks,” I whisper. His niceness makes me feel worse because I so stupidly judged his carefully planned appearance. “Um. I gotta go.” I shrug away from him and run-walk through the hall and hurry into my clas
sroom. Safe for at least another hour. Everyone watches me as I take a seat near the front. By keeping my eyes lowered and staying deep inside my head, I pretend not to notice the hostility.

  The bell rings, and Mrs. Elliot walks toward the front of the aisle where I’m sitting. I know she’s coming toward me, but I duck my head and dig inside my backpack to pull out my textbook.

  “Everyone please get out your book and turn to page 65,” she calls as her shoes clack toward me.

  Backpacks unzip and bodies shuffle around to get their books. She bends and touches the top of my head so I’m forced to look up. She smiles, and the turn of her lip and tilt of her head express so much compassion I kind of want to crawl into her arms and cry.

  “We missed you the last couple weeks,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “You okay?”

  I nod once and then drop my gaze, studying her feet. She’s wearing awesome brown leather boots with a long boho skirt. She’s youngish for a teacher, and I wonder if she has any little kids at home. I imagine her with an apron on, oven mitts up to her elbows, pulling a steaming pan of chocolate chip cookies from an oversized oven, and I almost smile. Then, with a start, I wonder if her child has an anaphylactic allergy to peanuts, and my whole body flushes.

  “Let me know if you need some help catching up. Although with your grades, it shouldn’t be a problem.” She spins and click-clacks to the front of the class to begin her lesson.

  After class, I take my time gathering up my things, waiting until everyone is gone before standing. It’s hard to breathe, knowing that they’re all out there. In the hallway.

  Mrs. Elliot glances at me from the desk, where she’s grading papers. No doubt an exam I missed while hiding out at home.

  “You okay?” she asks.

  I pause before I stand. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  She brings the red pencil to her chin, studying me. “Alex was a good boy, and the kids around here miss him. We all do. But no one is blaming you, Sam. You know that, right?”

  My lips quiver. She’s wrong. They do blame me. How can they not? There’s blood on my hands that can never be scrubbed away. There is no forgiveness for this. None. There is nothing that can bring back a life. A real person is gone. A real person who will never speak again.

  “The school had a memorial in the gym, did you know that?” she asks.

  I nod. It was on Facebook. I’ve stalked his page. Thousands of condolences complete with updates on events. The memorial notice was posted.

  “I was hoping you would come. But I guess it was…hard…”

  I clutch my backpack closer and start inching toward the door.

  “I can do the make-up test Friday,” I say.

  Her expression changes, and she glances down at her work. When she looks up she nods. “Fine. Come see me at noon on Friday,” she says. A flash of something crosses her face. “Take care, Samantha.” Her voice is soft. She bends her head and returns to her work, dismissing me.

  My heart dips, and even though it’s me who brushed her off, I can’t shake a twinge of disappointment. I want to go admit that my insides feel hollowed out. Tell her I worry I’m turning into a statue or an ice block chiseled into shape with a chainsaw.

  An almost paralyzing desire to talk to my mom stops me in my tracks. Her face turns into Mrs. Elliot’s. Mrs. Elliot is way too young to be my surrogate mother figure. She doesn’t even know me. I wonder if I’ll keep looking for someone to mother me in every woman who’s nice to me.

  I force myself to start walking and step into a tidal wave of people. Some glare at me, and the hostility is palatable. Someone elbows me in the side. Hard. Another voice calls, “What’s for lunch, Samantha? Peanut butter sandwiches?”

  “Reese’s Pieces?” Someone else calls.

  I blink faster, and the bodies become blurry roadblocks. I’m suddenly missing every single person from my old school. At least there people knew me as more than the swimmer who killed Alex.

  “Sam!” a voice calls, ringing with familiarity.

  I spot the hair first. Taylor lifts her hand, and relief flows into my blood and gives me extra oxygen. She runs at me, throwing her arms around me, squeezing me hard. I nestle my head against her shoulder, wanting her to absorb some of my pain but not wanting to hurt her. Yet I find I’m too weak to turn her away. I’m not as masochistic as I thought.

  She is the first to let go. “You’ve ignored all my calls and texts,” she says. “And there were a lot of them.”

  “I know.” I duck my head as people walk by and gawk when they realize who Taylor is talking to. “I’m sorry. I just…” My mouth clamps shut, unable to continue.

  “I know.” Taylor places an arm over my shoulder and pulls me close. I inhale the clean smell of shampoo, a hint of chlorine. “You should have told me you were coming today. I would have come with you?”

  “Really?”

  “Really. God, Sam. You don’t need to face it all alone.”

  I don’t? I inhale deeply and close my eyes. “Thanks,” I whisper. She’s thrown me a lifeline, and surprisingly, I grasp onto it, digging my fingernails in tightly. I didn’t realize how frightening it would be to be alone with this. I didn’t realize how much I want someone with me. Taking on the blame might be more than I thought I could handle.

  “Take a frickin’ picture,” she snarls, and I glance over to see a group of freshman girls blatantly staring at us. I almost smile at the way they break up and scatter, running off in the other direction.

  Taylor takes my hand and leads me. We walk slowly, and the crowd parts to let us through. Taylor seems oblivious. “We miss you so much at the pool.”

  I attempt a smile, but my lips quaver and instead I duck my head down to keep from bawling. “Thanks,” I whisper.

  She snarls at a couple more gawkers. “Get over it, bitches,” she calls and then turns to me. “Clair is nagging me to help get you back in the pool.”

  “Not yet,” I say. Not ever, I think. I drop her hand, but we keep walking together.

  “Well, hurry. I need you to keep my slow ass moving.”

  She’s lying. Taylor set a club record at a swim meet on the weekend, beating her best time in the 100 breast by over two seconds. She also beat my best time by half a second. Dad read me the results posted online.

  “I heard you did great at the meet. Congratulations.” I swallow back my competitive juices and try to be genuinely happy for her. I want to be. I’m supposed to be. But happy is a stretch.

  When Dad read off the winning times my legs itched. I did my best to ignore them. With neglect, my drive would eventually fade away the same way I would start disappearing off record books. Alex would never hit another home run. He’d never leap over a railing and pump his fist in the air while doing Parkour. Why should I be allowed to defend or break swim records?

  “Thanks,” Taylor says. “It was kind of awesome.” She smiles. “Of course, as soon as you come back, you’ll beat my time. Me. I am destined for second best.”

  “That’s not true,” I frown at her. “You’re not second best.”

  She shrugs a shoulder and then flicks back her thick hair and runs her fingers through it. “It’s not a big deal. It’s where my mom would prefer me to be.”

  The expression on her face changes. Her lips press together. Her eyes narrow. Interesting. I think of our swim meets. Neither of her parents is usually there. I’ve seen her dad around the pool, but I can’t remember seeing her mom. They never volunteer for the team. They’re what Dad calls “cutters” instead of “doers.” They cut checks instead of doing the work.

  “You’re just as good as me.” I’m surprised to realize it’s true. I never questioned that I was better, and that’s probably what kept me in front of her in the pool. I’ve always believed I would win. And apparently she’s always believed sh
e would come in second. It’s inexcusable that she felt this way and I was just too involved in my own life to notice. My shallowness surprises me.

  “Whatever.” She shrugs again and then pulls her phone from her jacket and glances down at it. “Only a couple minutes left.” She stops abruptly, and I almost crash into her. “I have to go this way. Biology with Mr. Bruster.”

  Reality hits with a thunk. I want to go back to thinking about her life. Go to class with her. I want to shrink her and carry her around in my pocket. I don’t want her to leave me. She leans in closer.

  “Sam,” she says, lowering her voice. “I saw you and your dad parked outside at Alex’s funeral,” she whispers. “I waited for you, but you didn’t come in.”

  I blink furiously as memories from the funeral day pop up.

  “Sam?” Taylor’s voice pulls me back to the school hallway. “Are you okay?”

  My hands shake, and I make fists to stop the trembling. “I couldn’t,” I whisper. “I didn’t want to upset his family.” I’m afraid the bigger truth is that I couldn’t made amends and I chickened out. And it shames me to the core. I never felt the quitter in me as much as I did that day. I didn’t like it at all.

  Taylor reaches for my hand and squeezes it and then lets it go.

  I open my mouth to say something, but my thought vanishes when something behind Taylor catches my eye. The air around me thins. I can’t talk or even breathe. I wonder if there’s a funky smell coming off me. I wonder if fear has an odor.

  My vision goes blurry. My moment of reckoning has arrived. I can only stare. He’s walking toward me, someone at his side. There’s no way for me to escape. He’s seen me. It can’t get any worse.