Page 83 of Kiss Collector
“This is crazy, Zae,” Monica says. “You were all-star at camp last year. You have to talk to Mrs. Hartt. She has to make an exception.”
“She won’t,” I say. “I already talked to her, and it wouldn’t be fair anyway. You guys need tumblers. Maybe this will help the squad actually win.”
Monica glares. “The reason we don’t win isn’t because of tumbling. We’re just as good as every other squad in the county, but we’rePeakton. Nobody cares about Peakton. Mrs. Hartt can change the requirements all she wants, but we’ll still be seen as the thug school full of losers who don’t matter.”
We’re all quiet as that truth sinks in. With other sports our teams can win because of the point systems. Our guyshave won states twice in the past five years for basketball, and qualified for states in football and baseball. Cheerleading is different, though. So much about the scoring is subjective, based on individual judges’ opinions. Every year we work so hard, and every year we feel cheated out of a first-or second-place win. It really is exhausting.
“We do it for us, remember?” Kenzie says. “Not for them. It doesn’t matter what they think.”
It kind of does, but I don’t want to burst her bubble. I know she means well.
A scream and crash come from the other end of the cafeteria, followed by a frenzy of scuffling feet. From what I can see through the hordes of people jumping to their feet, two girls are going at it, grabbing hair and scrambling to overpower each other. I recognize the puff pigtails and long, slender legs of Meeka.
Sierra screams for someone to help. Next to her, Raul takes off running toward the doors where the officer usually stands. It takes less than a second for students to leap from their seats and converge on the fight, yelling, standing on tables and chairs to see. We jump up and grab our bags.
“That was Meeka,” I say, feeling ill at the sounds of violence and the ensuing mob of bystanders.
“Yeah,” Dean says, lifting his chin to see. “And Quinton’s chick.”
“Camille?” Kenzie asks. She and I share aholy craplook. I remember the way Meeka pulled me away from Quinton at the party. And how someone told Camille he went into his room with a cheerleader. Oh, Meeka...
Teachers and staff come running, pushing through, and the bell rings. Sierra runs from the cafeteria, looking shaken.
I’m despondent as I walk to my locker, realizing fights and things are what people think about when they think of Peakton. We’re defined by the negative, no matter how much good stuff goes on here. No matter how much passion we have. I wish I could change it. I wish I could fix it all.
When I open my locker a piece of folded paper falls to my feet. I bend and pick it up. Was it in my locker? Because I don’t recognize it. I open it and see typed writing. Air fills my lungs as I gasp. It’s a poem.
I see your smile.
It looks good on you.
A welcome change from the heavy hue.
Is it here to stay?
Or will it go away?
Hold tight to every new day.
“What’s that?” Kenzie asks. I breathlessly hand it over, my hand trembling. She reads through and sags into me.“Ohmagarsh!!”Then she stares up at me with doe eyes. “Holy crap, Zae! Who wrote this?”
We both look around, but only random guys are passing, none of them paying a bit of attention to us. I shake my head, still dazed, then I fold the paper carefully and slide it into my back pocket. We’re smiling like idiots as we jog to class through the locker bay and main hall.
In a strange sort of slow-motion vibe, I catch the eye ofguys as we pass their groups, and a weird sensation of realization flits through me. These guys are not out to hurt anyone. With the exception of possibly Rex Morino, they’re nice. In fact, I’d been no better than Rex during my conquests. These guys could be little brothers like Zebby. And I’d treated a bunch of them with disdain as I went on my tirade against males, not caring if I hurt any of them. Now, as I pass them, I feel bad. Male, female, and all the other ways we categorize each other—we’re all just people—individual personalities, making mistakes and trying to get by. I want to do better. I never want to return to that dark place, even though part of my soul still aches, and might always.
Brent watches me with a grin from beneath his Peakton varsity baseball hat. Taro gives me a shy smile from his group of skinny-jeans friends. Rex wears his bad-boy glare from his group of guys in black, like he hates me but he can’t look away. Flynn pulls a book from his locker and swishes his loose, dark-red curls to the side when he sees me, tucking them back and giving me a wave. Elliott walks past with his buddy in Carhartt hunting pants. He holds up a palm and I smack it, followed by Kenz.
Then there’s the double whammy of Quinton and Joel standing with Kwami and our star basketball forward, whispering. But all four glance over as we pass. Joel’s gaze and nod heats my neck as it sweeps over me, like I was somehow branded when he kissed me there.
I don’t hate the feeling, and I’m not sure what that means. My anger at the male sex may have dissipated, but I still don’t want to fall hard for Joel when there is a super romantic mysteryguy out there. And what if mystery guy is someone I don’t like? Are the poems enough to change that? I have to ask myself, what burns hotter: The poet’s words on my heart, or Joel’s lips on my neck? They’re pretty darn close. This is killing me!
We run to our next class, where I’m distracted by all that’s happened today. I check my locker thoroughly between each class, hoping for another poem, but there’s nothing.
After school, I rush out to meet the girls in the parking lot.
Lin has her hands on her hips. “Excuse me, missy, but what’s this about a poem?”
I pull it out of my back pocket and experience a squishy, ooey-gooey pride as they read it and freak out on my behalf. When they finish, Monica peers over her shoulder and looks back at me, fiddling nervously with the strap on her book bag.
