Page 15 of Kiss Collector
I clench my jaw. They’re wanting details they can tell everyone. If I don’t play along, they’ll make up whatever story they want. But I hate this. I hate having my personal business on display. Yet here I am giving them info.
“I got in her face so she’d tell me what happened, but—”
“He fucked her?” Raul asks, and I cringe, my heart deflating.
“I guess.” I shove my trash into the paper bag. “He’s not my problem anymore, so whatever, you know? I’m done with that.”
My end-of-discussion stance leaves the three of them looking annoyed. I’m sure they’re not used to being dismissed.
“All right, then.” Sierra stands, and without a goodbye, they walk away from us, whispering, and then Meeka throws her head back in laughter. The three of us watch them in silence.
Meeka and Kenzie are next-door neighbors. They were best friends all through elementary school and middle school. Sierra moved to their neighborhood in seventh grade, and she slowly stole Meeka, making sure Kenz was left out little by little, and then completely. But it wasn’t enough to have Meeka all to herself. She had to make sure they displayed their new friendship all over social media, having parties where everyone was invited but Kenz.
By the time I met Kenzie in ninth grade, she was lonely and brokenhearted. I can see why Sierra would feel threatened and jealous. Kenz is her opposite: petite, bubbly, cute, naturally kind. Sierra has a more severe, womanly beauty, tall and big-boned. Controlling and conquering. Meeka and Sierra don’t acknowledge Kenzie unless they’re lifting her in a cheer stunt. I used to fear they’d drop her, but thankfully they keep it professional when it comes to the squad. Still, I prefer it when Lin and I are her bases, with Monica as the back spot, just to be on the safe side.
“Basic bitches,” Kenzie whispers, and then she crosses her arms and looks kind of guilty for saying it.
“You okay?” Monica asks me.
I nod, though I’m shaken.
“Why does Raul hang out with them?” Monica asks. “He’s like a different person when he’s in their claws.”
“He plays with my hair when they’re not around.” Kenzie sighs, running her fingers down the strands to her shoulders,dark-brown to light-brown ombre at the tips, sleek from great products and hours of straightening.
I ball up my paper bag and toss it like a basketball toward the trash can. When it makes it, the table of athletes cheers, making me and the girls laugh. I stand and give a curtsy just as the bell rings.
I decide right then that I’m going to focus on the positive. On the people who lift each other up. Not the ones who try to tear us down.
Chapter Six
Mrs. Warfield is smiling way too big when the rest of us roll into English on Thursday. I’m so tired and grumpy, I can hardly stand it. Mom and Zeb got in a fight last night because she got a call at work that he’d been involved in a spitball war at lunch and accidentally hit a girl in the eye. And then they fought harder when, instead of packing up his bookshelf, Zeb threw every item across the room. They both ended up in tears, which meant that I did, too.
Fun times.
“I think we should begin class with another mystery poem, this one being a sort of continuation of yesterday’s.” She actually giggles, and I sit straight up in my seat, my heart sprinting. I want to look around, to see whose face looks like the guilty culprit, but I’m too nervous.
Mrs. Warfield raises an eyebrow and scans the room to be sure we’re all paying attention before she begins.
“Ode to the straw that fits in the pouch that rests in your hand.
The straw that meets your lips, pink as blossoms.
The proud, cylindrical piece of plastic that stands up to greet you with its chest out, ready to be used by you, to quench you.
Oh, to be that straw, partially submerged in 66 percent fruit juice,
And partially submerged in your mouth. Enjoy, little straw, enjoy.”
Flames engulf me. Mrs. Warfield fans herself and winks as the class erupts into riotous cheering and laughter. My eyes are bulging out. I openly stare around the class, just as others do, trying to figure out who wrote it. Everyone but the sleeping Joel and Emberly in the back row is smiling and talking.
Then Dean says in a loud voice above the din, “All right, fess up! Who’s the smooth Shakespearean up in here?”
“Me!” Angelo Garcia stands, putting his forearm across his abdomen, and bowing regally. “Ladies, you can reach me at seven-oh-three—”
“I’m sorry, Romeo, but I cannot allow you to take credit,” Mrs. Warfield tells Angelo with a wink.
“Aw, man!” He sits, and everyone is laughing.
