Page 13 of Kiss Collector
Mortified is how I’d describe his expression now.
“Got it?” I ask with a small smile.
“Y-yeah,” he croaks.
“Come on, Zeb.” The crowd parts and we walk to the minivan. The bus-stop jerks gawk at us until we drive around the corner to our street, and Zebby lets out a giantwhoop.
“That was the most awesome thing ever! Did you see his face! That was priceless!”
He laughs and slaps his thighs. I laugh for the first time today, so glad to see his glee. To be sure, it felt good to release some of the wickedness inside me on that poor kid.
“Damn, Zae. You are the coolest sister ever.”
“Thanks. But don’t saydamn.”
“I’ve heardyousaydamn.”
I sigh. Hypocrisy is not cool. “Okay, fine.”
He smiles at me and I smile back, glad to have a comrade.
Chapter Five
Not another poetry day. I lay my head on the desk. Last night Mom made me start packing my room and taking down my posters. Now it doesn’t feel like home. I don’t want to be there, and I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be anywhere. I hate everything. So when we have to take out paper to write today’s poem—ode to an object—I choose an ugly, square, dry, boring cardboard box. It will make no sense to Mrs. Warfield why I have destroyed boxkind with words. And I don’t care. As soon as I finish, I put my head back down on my desk.
“It’s time for our daily dose of mystery reading!” Mrs. Warfield says in an overly cheerful, warbling voice.
I keep my head down, confident that my piece of crap poem from yesterday will not be the chosen one today. But still I listen, wondering whose soul will be displayed.
“Sadness,” she begins in an ominously low voice that sends a chill across my skin.
“Bowed spine. Downcast face.
I see you, a dark thundercloud amidst cumulous puffs,
their smiles fake, your frown real.
Sadness.
Even a sip of Capri Sun cannot cast the shadows away.”
I lift my face, and look at Mrs. Warfield as if I’d heard her wrong. But she only continues, oblivious to the cyclone that is suddenly circling inside me.
“What steals your color, lovely bloom?
What seeps the water from your petals?
The softness from your lips?
Sadness.”
My heart is thundering, like the cloud mentioned in the poem. I sit up, clapping along with my classmates. It hits way too close to home to be a coincidence. Or am I being an egomaniac, and it’s not about me at all? There could be tons of people drinking Capri Suns at Peakton that I haven’t noticed. But what if? I pretend to fiddle with my backpack on the floor while I stealthily glance around the room. The bell is about to ring, and everyone else is starting to shuffle, too. I’ve known most of the kids in this class since middle school, and some even from elementary school.
Who in the world wrote it? I look at the back row. EmberlyBray, track star, hard asleep on his desk. Joel Ruddick with his sweatshirt hood up and arms crossed, also sleeping, but with his head leaned back against the wall. He’s new to Peakton. I heard he might be a drug dealer. He transferred here from Hillside, and he never says much. Did he know Wylie? Stupid Wylie.
Next to him is John, Lin’s boyfriend. Definitely not him. I keep glancing around. Raul is on the cheer squad, but he’s not into girls, plus he can’t keep a secret to save his life. Could it be Mike, my lab partner from last year? He’s nice, but he’s a scab picker, definitely not a poet. Angelo Garcia? We kissed in eighth grade. He’s a loudmouth, so I can’t imagine him not taking credit for the poem, but maybe? Super shy and quiet Flynn Rogers, who I think is in a band? Elliott Fields, the dirty-blond redneck break-dancer? No, seriously, he wears camo and talks nonstop about fishing, but he can break-dance like nothing I’ve ever seen. It’s hard to picture him writing that, but maybe?
I continue browsing. Brent Dodge, the baby-faced varsity baseball player, who’s currently flirting with Jana from the step team? Not likely. Then there’s skater boy Taro Hattori, who’s currently doodling a Japanese anime sketch. He’s definitely creative. And cute in his skinny pants, with black hair that hangs across half his face. I eye him, but he doesn’t look up. Quiet and mysterious. Hm. A definite possibility.
