Page 5 of Kiss Collector
“Sorry, Zae.”
I hug people back, trying to pull myself together, but it’s hard when I hear people whispering “... cheated on her witha 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 ina 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.
