Kiss Collector Read online

  I’ve been a mess all day. Sadness makes my stomach feel off. Everything feels off. I woke up super early this morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. Then I went to get a drink and found Dad sleeping on the couch. He tried to jump up and throw the blanket down to play it off like he just came in and sat, but I knew. He slept there, which means he and Mom were probably fighting. Again.

  He rubbed his face and said, “Hey, Zae-bae. I got in late last night and didn’t want to disturb Mama.”

  I hardly think having your husband crawl into bed with you after a long shift is an unwanted disturbance, but I’ve never been married, so what do I know?

  Dad lost his job as a retail manager at a department store in the mall last year, so he’s the manager at a barbecue restaurant now. The problem is that the pay is less, and he has to work night shifts. I know it’s hard, and it sucks, but my parents need to get their acts together and adjust. My eighth-grade brother, Zebediah, and I are ready for some stability again.

  Thank God it’s the last week before spring break. And thank God there’s no cheer practice now that basketball season has ended. Tryouts for senior year are in a couple of months, but for now I’m a free woman.

  I meet Lin, Monica, and Kenzie at our usual corner at the end of the junior class locker bay. Their hushed conversation stops when I walk up, and the three of them take in the sight of my downcast face. All at once they converge on me with hugs.

  “Wylie deserves to lose his balls. Painfully.” Ah, lovely Lin.

  “He doesn’t deserve you.” Girl power Monica. “You’re better off without him.”

  Kenzie nods in agreement, her tender heart making her eyes well with tears on my behalf.

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  A mob of fellow eleventh graders begins to surround us, some with genuine concern and some just nosy for drama.

  “You guys broke up?”

  “Ah, that sucks.”

  “Sorry, Zae.”

  I hug people back, trying to pull myself together, but it’s hard when I hear people whispering “ . . . cheated on her with a freshman!” Then looks of pity. I clear my throat.

  “I’m okay,” I say. Don’t think I don’t notice the way guys are suddenly looking at me like fresh meat back on the market. Thankfully the warning bell rings, and the throng scatters, except my three girls. My squad.

  “So this means you’re single again,” Lin says carefully.

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “And it’s going to stay that way.”

  They give one another skeptical looks.

  “I mean it,” I tell them. “I never want a boyfriend again.” Ever.

  “Okay.” Kenzie pats my arm with gentle care and I feel myself scowling a little.

  The second warning bell rings, so we dash off our separate ways.

  One more week before break. I can do this.

  I plop down at my desk in English class.

  “Open your books to page three seventy,” Mrs. Warfield says in a chipper voice. “We’ll be doing a short modern poetry unit this week.”

  The whole class groans, me included.

  “It’s almost spring break!” whines one of the football players in the back. Jack Rinehart, a jock. Let’s just say this is one of those times when the stereotype is dead-on.

  Mrs. Warfield seems amused by our complaints. She smiles as she passes out the assignment sheet. Then she gets all mushy-gushy, talking about letting our bottled feelings explode onto the page with a handful of carefully chosen words. Behind me, I hear Jack’s forehead hit the desk.

  Our first assignment is to capture one of our emotions in a poem. I stare at the page, annoyed. I’m not feeling creative. The emotions I’m dealing with are not appropriate for Mrs. Warfield’s eyes.

  “It can rhyme, but it certainly doesn’t have to,” she says. “Let yourselves reminisce on good times, like holidays, et cetera. And bad times, like experiencing a loss, et cetera.”

  Against my will, an image comes to mind. A vivid snapshot of my parents on Christmas morning when Zebediah and I were younger. Mom was sitting on Dad’s lap while Zebby and I opened our presents. I remember thinking how comfortable they looked. And in love. The way his fingers twined with hers, and how he kept absently kissing her hand over and over, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

  I’d give anything to have that moment back. My parents haven’t shown affection in a long time. They’re both focused on work and trying to make enough money to pay the bills. I just want them to be happy again.

  All at once my hand is flying across the page, scratching out words as they flood my mind. It’s weirdly freeing. I’m not artsy by nature. Foreign languages are my thing. So the flow of words feels both strange and exhilarating.

  I barely hear Mrs. Warfield talking. “It doesn’t have to be long. I simply want to feel what you’re feeling in several lines. I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”

  I’m done in ten. And it’s more than four lines. I read it over and over, feeling the punch of emotion each time. I erase words and change them, wanting each line to be perfect as it summarizes the nostalgia and longing I feel.

  “Okay, class,” Mrs. Warfield sings. “I want you to pair off, but I’ve learned my mistake from the last time I let you pick your own partners.”

  More groaning from the class as she pairs us off into couples of her own choosing.

  “Zae Monroe and Dean Prescott.”

  My heart flutters. It actually does, I swear, which feels bizarre because I’ve been wholly devoted to Wylie for so long that other guys don’t affect me. But Dean had been one of my many crushes in ninth and tenth grades.

  The girl next to Dean moves, so I stand and go to her seat.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hey.”

  I take the opportunity to stealthily look him over. Dean is a large guy. A football player of the anti-stereotype variety—quiet, kind, and smart. And did I mention big? He’s over six feet and as broad as the doorway. Okay, maybe not that broad, but for real. His chest and shoulders are massive. He’s got a linebacker body with an adorable smile and wavy brown hair.

  He stares at me as if he can read my thoughts, and I look away.

  A wave of guilt crashes over me for thinking Dean is sexy, but that guilt is chased away by an indignant voice screaming You have every right to check out guys! You’re single now! My stomach tightens at the reminder.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” I clear my throat.

  The room gets loud and Mrs. Warfield has to shout instructions over us. She wants everyone to share their poems and “gently critique” one another. Everything she says after that is drowned out by the panic of blood pumping into my eardrums.

  I can’t share this poem. Not with Dean or anyone. It’s way too sappy and personal. I haven’t even shared these feelings with Lin, Monica, and Kenz. Everyone’s parents fight sometimes. I don’t even know why I’m writing stupid poems about it.

  The poem sits facedown on my desk, and when Dean reaches for it, I snatch it to my chest. I feel my eyes go unnaturally large.

  “Whoa,” he says. “Sorry.”

  Embarrassment stings my cheeks. “No, it’s okay. I just . . . it’s bad. Like, really, really bad. I didn’t know we’d be sharing.”

  He watches me in a way that feels like he can see under the surface of my lie.

  “It’s all right,” he says. “Mine sucks, too.”

  Man, his voice is deep. I chew my lip as he hunkers over his paper with his arms crossed in front of him, biceps bulging. I stare for too long and when I finally look at his face again, he gives me a slow grin, two adorable indentations dimpling his cheeks.

  When he first moved to the area in eighth grade, we were science partners and I talked his ear off, forcing him to converse with me. It’d always been my personal objective to draw out the quiet ones.

  “So, do you want me to critique you?” I nod to his poem.

  “Only if I can do you, too,” h
e says. Then he blinks. “Wow, that sounded bad.”

  I burst into laughter and watch as his ears redden. He shakes his head, grinning.

  “What I meant is, I’ll let you read mine if you let me read yours.”

  I clam up. “No deal.”

  “Man, you’re really embarrassed about it, huh? Don’t worry. Dean don’t judge.”

  I laugh again but shake my head. “I’m not a poet.”

  “Nobody here is. At least tell me what it’s about,” he urges. “Is it your boyfriend?”

  “No . . .” Damn that stupid wave of sadness and loss that keeps crashing over me when I’m not expecting it. “We broke up.”

  “Oh.” He gets quiet, studying my face. “My bad.”

  I shake my head. “Um . . . okay, my poem. It’s about Christmas when I was little. And my family. Dumb stuff.”

  He stares at me like he doesn’t believe the downplay.

  “Okay,” he says. “Well, mine’s about a girl I used to see.”

  If I were a dog, my ears would have gone straight up, all pointy-like.

  “Who?”

  He gives a nonchalant shrug. Okay, now I have to read his poem.

  “Was it that girl from last year? The one from Brooklyn?” I ask.

  His face goes a little slack. “The Bronx, yeah.”

  I’m rapt. “Let me read it. Please?” I may or may not tilt my head cutely and pout with duck lips.

  His eyes go straight to my mouth and he pauses, wavering. Yes! Dean is not immune to my charms! His hand wavers over his paper before he suddenly puffs out his chest in defiance. “Not unless I can read yours.”

  Dang it! I really wanted to find out about that girl. I think her name was Jenna. The name was far too sweet for her, though. Rumor was, she’d been sent to live with her aunt and uncle here in Virginia to avoid being put in the New York foster-care system. She’d had a wicked accent and a permanent badass scowl. I never officially met her since we didn’t have any classes together, and before I knew it she’d been sent back to New York. She got in two fights during the four months she was here, and the only person she ever talked to was Dean. Rumor also had it that they “did it.” A lot.

  “Okay, class!” Mrs. Warfield called. “Let’s wrap it up. The bell’s about to ring. Place your poems on my desk as you leave.”

  I give Dean a fake angry glare, letting him know he wins the battle this time but I’m not done with him. He chuckles.

  “Whatever, girl. You’re too cute to scare me.”

  I stop glaring. Dean Prescott just called me cute. He’s always been friendly, but never flirtatious. Before I can think of any joking comeback, the bell rings and Dean is out of his seat, moving toward the door.

  I notice with some satisfaction that his ears are, once again, tinged red.

  Chapter Three

  I drive Lin, Monica, and Kenzie home from school. Lin doesn’t have a license yet. Monica’s mom only has one car. And Kenzie ran over her family’s mailbox the first week she got her license, so she’s scared to drive now. That was three months ago. As long as they’re not too embarrassed to be seen in the fourteen-year-old minivan that sometimes sputters when it starts, I’m happy to keep giving them rides.

  I drop them at their houses and drive to my neighborhood of crammed-together brick-and-siding town houses just as my brother, Zebby, is getting off the middle school bus. I wave when I see his curly brown hair, and he trots over. Each day I give him a ride to our home around the corner, at the end of the street. We live in an old neighborhood bordering some of the only forests in the county that haven’t been torn down for more houses and stores.

  Zeb slumps in the passenger seat and crosses his arms, staring out the window.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I ask. “Hey, put your seat belt on.”

  “Seriously? We’re only driving for a minute.”

  “Have you seen how some of the crazies drive around here? Why are you so grumpy?”

  His response is an incoherent grumble.

  I pull into a visitor’s spot down the street, since our parents use our two assigned numbered spots. I wish we had a garage. Sometimes I have to park two streets away and run through the rain. Zeb reaches for his door handle, but I grab his arm.

  “Tell me what happened,” I say gently.

  He huffs out a loud breath. “This kid on my bus is a dickwad!”

  Whoa. “Don’t say dickwad. What’d he do?”

  “Every day on the bus he’s like, ‘Dude, your sister’s so hot. When you gonna hook me up?’ And when I tell him to shut up, he laughs and keeps going. Talking about all the stuff he wants to . . . you know . . . do to you.”

  Ah, one of those boys. I want to laugh at the thought of this middle schooler who thinks he’s got game, but I hold back because Zeb is too out of sorts. His cheeks are splotchy with anger. Aw, my cute, protective little bro.

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  “Rob.”

  “Weren’t you on the track team with that kid? I thought you guys were solid.”

  “Yeah, we were. Kinda. He’s always had a big mouth, though.”

  “Zebby, you need to ignore that idiot. He’s just trying to piss you off. He knows exactly how to get to you and he thinks it’s funny. Some people are like that.”

  Zeb grinds his teeth together. “I’m gonna kick his ass someday. I swear.”

  I rumple his hair and open the door. “Don’t say ass. And you better not get in a fight. That sh— stuff will follow you.” I climb out, silently vowing that if I ever see that little Rob creep I’ll kick his ass myself.

  We trudge to our home at the end of the row and I let us in. During cheer season I have practice most days, so I’ve been enjoying this after-school time with Zeb. Cheer tryouts are in two months, and then our crazy summer practice schedule begins. All this free time feels weird. My brother throws his bag in the middle of the floor and I kick it aside. He goes straight to the couch and turns on the television while I make a snack—celery and peanut butter, raisins for me but not him.

  “Thanks,” he says before he shoves one in his mouth.

  I munch one as I watch him zone out, staring at animated warriors, and I feel a surge of protective love. As kids, Zebby and I fought like crazy. He drove me nuts with all his annoying and gross habits. But in the past year since our parents’ schedules got crazy, we’ve had to rely on each other, and we fight less. I kind of like my brother now. As a person. It’s weird.

  I pull out my phone and check all my social pages while I eat.

  An hour later we’re still lounging in those same spots on the couch when Mom comes home carrying bags of groceries. Her bun hangs loose.

  “Hi,” she says, sounding weary.

  “Hey,” I reply. Zeb grunts, half-comatose. “Any more groceries to carry?”

  “Nope, that’s it.”

  Mom dumps her large purse and the bags on the counter with a sigh. “I feel like ordering Chinese tonight.” This makes Zeb perk up.

  “Really?” he asks.

  “I think so.”

  She gives a small smile when we both cheer. Our parents rarely order out. Mom’s a baker at a tiny shop, which is getting less and less business because people get their baked goods at the grocery store for convenience—even though Mom’s bakery items are way better. Between the DC area’s cost of living and our family’s bills, it’s no secret in our house that we’re broke. But if Mom wants to splurge, I’m not complaining.

  I help set the table, noticing the bags under her eyes seem heavier than normal. Plus, up close I see she still hasn’t colored her hair, which she normally does every month, so the gray at her roots is showing. I don’t say anything, but it makes me sad.

  Dad gets home just after the food arrives. For a second I wonder if he’ll gripe at Mom for spending money on Chinese, but he doesn’t seem surprised, so they must have planned it. Dad kisses my temple and squeezes Zeb’s shoulder before he sits.

  “How was school Xanderia
? Zebediah?”

  I cringe inwardly at his use of my full name. Nobody calls me that except him, probably because he’s Xander, and I was named after him. When he was a toddler, Zeb called me Zae, because Xanderia was too hard to say, and thankfully the nickname stuck.

  “Fine,” we both answer.

  Zeb looks at me as we all sit. Mom and Dad haven’t even acknowledged each other. I shake my head, telling him not to worry, though I wish I could take my own advice. We fill our plates in silence, and I don’t mean silence of the comfortable variety. I can hardly even enjoy my amazing spring roll and sesame chicken with the blanket of awkwardness stifling the room.

  “So,” I say. “I think I’m going to get a job this summer. Try to help out.”

  “Oh, Zae.” Mom smiles softly. “That’s so sweet of you, but you’ll be busy with cheer, won’t you?”

  “Well, yeah,” I say. “But maybe I can find somewhere that will work around my practice schedule. I can pay for my own camp this year.” Just the thought of taking that burden off my parents’ shoulders fills me with pride.

  Mom and Dad share a quick glance, and Mom grabs her napkin to wipe her eyes.

  “Allergies have been killing me,” she says. “Cherry trees are blooming.”

  Dad spears a piece of broccoli.

  My brother must be sick of the weirdness because he shovels down his food at hyperspeed and pushes back his chair to stand.

  “May I be excused?” he mumbles.

  “Actually,” Mom says, “Dad and I want to talk to you guys.”

  Talk to us? I set my forkful of food back down on the plate, appetite lost. The half meal I’d eaten churns inside me with apprehension.

  “Finish eating, sweetie,” Mom whispers to me.

  “I’m done,” I whisper back.

  I don’t like family talks. They only happen when something bad is going on. Last year it was Dad losing his job.

  The room is so quiet I can hear the clock ticking, filling the room with an echoing dread.

  Mom and Dad both set down their utensils and look at each other. He gives her a nod and I want to scream No! Don’t say it! Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it. I grip the edges of my seat and hold my breath.