Page 17 of Kiss Collector
I miss him, too, but I’ll never tell him that.
I made a mistake, he says.I will never ever do that again, Zae. I swear.
It’s too late.My chest shudders in memory of today’s crying spree.
Wy:I want to see u. Plz. I’m coming over.
Me:You don’t have a car or license.
Wy:I’ll take my mom’s car.
Me:No!! Don’t. I just want to sleep. I’m turning off my phone.
I do exactly as I say, switching the sound off, and I fling an arm over my eyes. Now I’m wide awake and pissed off. Leave itto Wylie to use my parents as a way to try to get what he wants. He probably doesn’t even care. I swear, if he comes knocking at my window in twenty minutes, I will go out there and punch him.
And now I can’t get back to sleep. I hate everyone.
Chapter Seven
Iknow I told Mom I was going to school, just to spite her offer, but when my alarm goes off, not even the possibility of a Capri Sun poem can pull me out of bed. Once when I was little, my parents took us to the Renaissance Fair in Maryland. I remember trying to pick up a knight’s chain-mail vest, and struggling. I couldn’t imagine someone walking around with that heavy thing on his body, much less battling.
That’s how this feels.
I text the girls to let them know I’m not coming, and I roll back over. An hour later I hear Zeb moving around on the floor above me, probably trying to find something to eat since Mom’s at work, and I’m so heavy. A ton of chain mail is on my chest, and I’m on the constant verge of weeping. My plan is to lie here for hours, worthless, ignoring my basic needs, but I suddenly remember. I have a Spanish presentation today! Withall the moving crap going on, I completely forgot.
I drag myself out of bed. When I go upstairs, I see the countertops covered in boxes, and the chain mail weighs heavier on my shoulders.
I’m in the middle of maneuvering my way around boxes to make a cup of ramen when Zeb comes out of the bathroom. He takes one look at me and says, “Whoa.”
I’m rocking the cave-woman look in my baggy sweats and oversize T-shirt, hunched over, ponytail askew with half my hair falling out of it.
“I don’t feel good,” I say defensively, not bothering to point out his own bedheaded bouffant.
He puts his hands up. “Sorry.”
I pour boiling water into my Styrofoam cup of noodles and weigh down the paper lid with a fork. “Want one?” I ask.
“For breakfast? Nah. I had toast.” Despite his jab against my breakfast-food choice, he grabs a bag of off-brand barbecue chips.
The glasses are packed, so I pour us both paper cups of orange juice and we sit at the table. I have to push back two boxes so I can actually see my brother’s face.
I peel back the paper lid on my noodles as Zeb talks.
“Mom says the neighbors are helping us move tomorrow since Dad has to work a double shift.”
I don’t respond because I know a tirade against our parents will ensue, especially my dad. He can’t take a couple of hours off?
“It might be kind of fun living in an apartment, right?” Zeb asks. “It has a pool.”
I nearly choke as I force myself to say, “Right.”
I proceed to stuff my face so I don’t have to lie to Zeb anymore. Likewise, he shoves in handfuls of chips as his eyes glaze over in thought. I wonder what he’s thinking, but I don’t have the energy to ask.
Instead, I open the family laptop so I can work on my presentation. I have to pretend I’m a news reporter, using a real news article from a Central American country of my choice, and talk for three minutes. I chose one about the Panama Canal, and I already did my research and written portion at school. Now I search for images of the canal to go along with my visual presentation. Then I type up my verbal part and go over it several times. I’m allowed to use notes, but I want to memorize as much as I can.
I barely finish in time, and there’s not even a minute to spare for a shower. I change real quick, yank a brush through my hair, yell “Bye!” to Zebby, and race to school.
Chapter Eight
