Page 4 of Kiss Collector
“It’s called self-control, Wy! You could be strong if you wanted to, but all you care about is yourself. All you want to do is have fun, no matter who you hurt, and I’m sick of it. Sick of making excuses for you. I’m not going to share you. Drunk or not, what you did was wrong. And, oh! You told Rube what we did!” I shove his chest in anger.
His eyes get big, and a nervous smile flits across his face. “I didn’t mean to. I just... you were fucking amazing, and—”
“Shut up!” My hands clench into little fists. “Just shut up! I hate you for this, Wylie. Get out of my way.”
I run past him down the sidewalk.
“Zae!”
“Leave me alone!” I scream the words, not caring when a neighbor’s porch light flicks on, probably wondering what on earth is disturbing their perfect peace.
Wylie doesn’t try to stop me again. He stares at me with a pitifully lost expression as I start the minivan and speed past him, past the perfect lawns, sprawling houses, and overpriced cars the other kids drive.
Damn it. I’ve never felt so cheap. Used. Stupid. Disgusting. But the worst part is, I feel like I’ve lost something vital, and my heart is stretching, reaching, trying to get it back.
I miss Wylie already.
Chapter Two
Ihate stereotypes. Especially the one about cheerleaders being stuck-up mean girls or annoying airheads or sluts. Me and my friends cheer, and I wish they’d put our squad in one of those movies. Crazy, fun, diverse girls. Most important, we’re nice—at least the four of us are. And smart...ish. And virgins, though not completely innocent. My night with Wy, for example. Stupid Wylie. My heart and stomach ache with pitiful pain as I stare unfocused at the whiteboard. Stupid Monday. Stupid math class.
My girls were there for me after the breakup. They showed up at my house on Sunday with essentials. Homemade churros from Monica—her mom knows they’re my fave. Countless Boys Suck memes on Lin’s phone. And Kenzie’s ’80s hip-hop playlist. We listened to it on my bed while Lin played with myunruly curls, giving me fishtail braids, the four of us getting cinnamon and sugar everywhere as we rated the images on my walls. I have posters of all the places I want to go: Paris, Buenos Aires, Berlin, Edinburgh, Dublin, Prague, Tuscany, the Swiss Alps, to name a few. My walls are covered.
“Zae?” My math teacher’s voice comes to me from far away as Kenzie elbows me in the ribs, and I realize I was daydreaming again. My face heats with embarrassment as everyone stares.
“Yeah, uh yes, Ms. Lane?”
“What do you have for number seven?”
“Um...” I look down at my trigonometry worksheet. Oh, thank God, it’s one of the triangle ones. I understand those. “SideACequals ten?”
She nods and turns back to the board. I exhale while my heart rate slows. Kenzie discreetly holds out her fist between us, her tawny brown fingers bumping mine. We hate trig, but we get by.
I’ve been a mess all day. Sadness makes my stomach feel off. Everything feels off. I woke up super early this morning and couldn’t go back to sleep. Then I went to get a drink and found Dad sleeping on the couch. He tried to jump up and throw the blanket down to play it off like he just came in and sat, but I knew. He slept there, which means he and Mom were probably fighting. Again.
He rubbed his face and said, “Hey, Zae-bae. I got in late last night and didn’t want to disturb Mama.”
I hardly think having your husband crawl into bed with you after a long shift is an unwanted disturbance, but I’venever been married, so what do I know?
Dad lost his job as a retail manager at a department store in the mall last year, so he’s the manager at a barbecue restaurant now. The problem is that the pay is less, and he has to work night shifts. I know it’s hard, and it sucks, but my parents need to get their acts together and adjust. My eighth-grade brother, Zebediah, and I are ready for some stability again.
Thank God it’s the last week before spring break. And thank God there’s no cheer practice now that basketball season has ended. Tryouts for senior year are in a couple of months, but for now I’m a free woman.
I meet Lin, Monica, and Kenzie at our usual corner at the end of the junior class locker bay. Their hushed conversation stops when I walk up, and the three of them take in the sight of my downcast face. All at once they converge on me with hugs.
“Wylie deserves to lose his balls. Painfully.” Ah, lovely Lin.
“He doesn’t deserve you.” Girl power Monica. “You’re better off without him.”
Kenzie nods in agreement, her tender heart making her eyes well with tears on my behalf.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
A mob of fellow eleventh graders begins to surround us, some with genuine concern and some just nosy for drama.
“You guys broke up?”
“Ah, that sucks.”
