Page 11 of Kiss Collector
“I have a special treat. Someone, who shall remain anonymous unless they so choose to reveal themselves, wrote a gorgeous piece of poetry yesterday. I wasn’t expecting anything of this magnitude in the short span of time I’d given, so I feel Imustshare it with the class.”
Discomfort prickles the back of my neck.
It can’t be mine. I mean, yeah, the poem was emotional for me, but writing’s not my thing, so it can’t be any good. And then it dawns on me that maybe it’s Dean’s poem. I shoot a quick glance over my shoulder. His eyes meet mine immediately, and his brows go up with interest.
For the moment I’m not thinking about my family tragedy. I’m thinking how I’d love a glimpse into Dean’s mind and his relationship with that Jenna chick.
She clears her throat. I feel unreasonably nervous, shaking on the inside as she begins in a low, somber tone.
“I woke my little brother and we crept to the den
To see presents where empty space had once been.
A blue bike and a dollhouse with red velvet bows
Stood near our stockings laid out in neat rows.”
Great God above. She is reading my freaking poem. Scalding heat takes over my face and I slink down in my seat. The teacher never looks my way, never gives away my secret as she continues, but I want to screamShut up! Stop!
“Mom was there in her nightgown, her head on Dad’s shoulder,
Smiling so broadly at something he’d told her.
That’s when they still laughed and kissed and held hands,
Long before they happened to stop being friends.”
Mrs. Warfield enunciates each word with ripe emotion, and my heart squeezes like a fist inside my chest. Yesterday when I wrote the poem, I was sad, but I still had hope. Today I’m a different person, and the words hold even more power over me. Each line nearly strangles me as it slides from her lips. The way her face contorts with feeling. Each stanza coaxes my tear ducts, urging them to spill. I fight it with every ounce of energy and self-preservation I have. I refuse to melt down in front of my peers.
“Colors on the tree blinked bright and shimmered,
As nutmeg and clove in the oven did simmer.
Then Dad sang out in his tenor soft and low,
‘Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.’”
She puts a hand over her heart and closes her eyes dramatically. The class is quiet for a moment, and then everyone applauds. As an afterthought, I clap, too, so as not to give myself away. I hear classmates murmuring and whispering about whose it could be. From the corner of my eye I feel the stare of Dean, causing me to remember how I’d told him my poem was about Christmas and my family. Damn it.
I struggle for breath. He has to know it’s mine. I feelexposed and raw and edgy as hell.
When the bell rings, I spring from my seat. I see Mrs. Warfield trying to catch my eye, but I refuse to look at her. I know she had good intentions, but I wish she’d have asked me first.
Behind me I hear Dean’s deep rumble of a voice as I hit the hallway. “Hey, Zae. Wait up!”
Nope. I hitch my book bag higher on my shoulder and ghost into the crowd.
I manage to avoid Dean for the next two hours, which is good because I cannot fake the funk. If he confronts me, I will cry. I can’t force a smile for any amount of money. All day people ask me what’s wrong. I reply with “family stuff” or “not feeling good,” but I go from being numb to feeling cynical and angry.
At lunch, Kenzie and Monica try to make light conversation, but I can’t concentrate. I find myself glaring at happy couples, thinking about how it’s only a matter of time before their feelings change and they end up hurt. Why does anyone even bother?
I half-heartedly sip the Capri Sun Mom packed with my elementary school–worthy lunch. Every day I drink the kiddie drinks and eat string cheese with crackers, or PB and Js with potato chips. She says it’s cheaper than the school meal plan, so I eat without complaint. But today I have zero appetite.
Monica eats the school’s mac and cheese with Lit’l Smokies, the teeny weenies, which I usually make jokes about, but can’t bring myself to today. Kenzie is sipping a can of something inside a Koozie, but it doesn’t look like a regular soda can.When she turns to talk to someone, I pull down the top to look.
What the hell? A weight-loss drink? Monica and I both look at each other with dread. Kenzie is naturally tiny, but she has this weird, warped image of herself. She doesn’t see what we see. She sees fat where there is only skin and lean muscle.
Kenz turns around and snatches the can from me, saying, “Hey!” Her light-brown cheeks turn a mottled red.
