Page 73 of Kiss Collector
She gives me a small smile. “And where do you plan to apply?”
I shake my head. I feel... inadequate whenever this subject comes up. Lin and her parents have already started college tours. All my friends know where they’re applying.
“Where do you think I can get in?” I ask.
She presses her lips together and looks down at my paperwork. “Well, your grades are good. All As and Bs, but the problem is your course load. You’ve chosen all regular classes. I believe I urged you last year to sign up for an honors or advanced placement course. That’s what colleges are really looking for.”
I rub my sweating palms down my jeans.
“I only care about the foreign languages. I want to take Spanish four and French four next year.”
“And you’re doing very well in both. To be in the fourth level of two languages is impressive. Can you apply that same effort to English and history?”
I shake my head. I have no interest in taking those AP courses, reading all those boring old books, and writing millions of papers. My friends always have tons of homework.
“Mrs. Crowley, what kinds of jobs can I do with a language background besides teaching? What if...” I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud. “What if I don’t want to go to college?”
She examines me in silence for a long time, making me squirm. “I’m really not sure what language-related careers are out there that don’t require a degree, but I can look into it if you’d like?”
“Yes. Please.”
Mrs. Crowley nods and makes a note on my file.
My parents will be disappointed. They want me to be the first in the family to go to college. I wanted that, too—to make them proud—so the thought of abandoning it leaves me disheartened and anxious. But it’s their dream for me, not mine. My dream is to travel and make use of my foreign languages, but there’s not exactly a job for that, at least, not one I know of. I know I’m going to be stuck being a secretary or something, translating for immigrants who haven’t learned English yet, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Any job is respectable, in my opinion, but it doesn’t make me excited. I guess not everyone can have a job they love.
Lunch is terrible, despite the number of people who approach me, laughing and giving me fist bumps. Apparently I was very entertaining in the kitchen at Quinton’s. Kenzie and I can’t stop staring around the room, waiting for Camille to show. Monica chooses to sit at a table across the cafeteria with a few other cheerleaders and dancers, and Kenzie looks sadder than I’ve ever seen her.
“Vincent’s promposal was super cute,” I say.
This makes her light up. “Yeah.” She pokes at the chicken patty on her tray. I usually get on her case about eating, but I can’t say anything today since I don’t have an appetite either. “Maybe you can go with one of his friends. I’m sure Brent would love to take you.”
I start shaking my head before she even finishes the sentence. I’ve been thinking about it since this morning. Prom isabout romance and couples dancing and gazing and all that gag-worthy stuff.
“I don’t want to go.”
“Please, Zae?” She reaches across and grabs my hand. “What if you’re on the prom court?”
“What? No.” We both glance toward the busy table by the windows where student council reps are taking silent ballot nominations for junior-class prom prince and princess, and senior-class prom king and queen. There’s no way I’ll be nominated. I’ve pretty much ruined my reputation lately.
As I’m gazing around, alert, I see Joel and Kwami outside in the open-air courtyard. Joel looks over at that exact moment, and our eyes snag through the windows, making my heart grow hummingbird wings. We stare for two fat seconds before he turns back to Kwami and doesn’t look my way again. My heart fluttering weakens. I should go thank him or apologize or something, but I’m so embarrassed.
“Come on.” Kenzie stands with her tray. “Let’s vote before the bell rings.”
I have no interest, but I follow her anyway. I write Kenzie’s and Vincent’s names on ballots and put them in the boxes at the table.
Panic sets in when we part ways by our lockers and I head toward the foreign-language wing for Spanish class. I probably look psychotic the way I keep glancing behind me. And then, as I round the corner, everything in me seizes.
There, at the end of the hall, is Camille. With her sleek hair and nails that can shred a face. She and all her girls lift their chins when they catch sight of me across the expanse of students.
“Shit!” I breathe. I duck into the nearest set of doors, which happen to be to the guidance department, and come face-to-face with Joel. His eyes widen, and I’m so damn happy to see him.
I blurt, “Camille wants to kill me!”
He scrutinizes my face and says, “Ah. Quinton. Stay here.”
I hiss, “What are you doing?” as he slips out the door. I sneak a peek through the glass pane of the door and watch him stop in front of Camille and her friends. He appears at ease. Unintimidated. The door is open a crack, and I strain to listen. As the bell time nears, the halls get quieter, leaving behind the rush of late feet on tile. I can hear their voices down the hall.
“Camille,” he says politely.
