Page 8 of Kiss Collector
We trudge to our home at the end of the row and I let us in. During cheer season I have practice most days, so I’ve been enjoying this after-school time with Zeb. Cheer tryouts are in two months, and then our crazy summer practice schedule begins. All this free time feels weird. My brother throws his bag in the middle of the floor and I kick it aside. He goes straight to the couch and turns on the television while I make a snack—celery and peanut butter, raisins for me but not him.
“Thanks,” he says before he shoves one in his mouth.
I munch one as I watch him zone out, staring at animated warriors, and I feel a surge of protective love. As kids, Zebby and I fought like crazy. He drove me nuts with all his annoying and gross habits. But in the past year since our parents’ schedules got crazy, we’ve had to rely on each other, and we fight less. I kind of like my brother now. As a person. It’s weird.
I pull out my phone and check all my social pages while I eat.
An hour later we’re still lounging in those same spots on the couch when Mom comes home carrying bags of groceries. Her bun hangs loose.
“Hi,” she says, sounding weary.
“Hey,” I reply. Zeb grunts, half-comatose. “Any more groceries to carry?”
“Nope, that’s it.”
Mom dumps her large purse and the bags on the counter with a sigh. “I feel like ordering Chinese tonight.” This makes Zeb perk up.
“Really?” he asks.
“I think so.”
She gives a small smile when we both cheer. Our parents rarely order out. Mom’s a baker at a tiny shop, which is getting less and less business because people get their baked goods at the grocery store for convenience—even though Mom’s bakery items are way better. Between the DC area’s cost of living and our family’s bills, it’s no secret in our house that we’re broke. But if Mom wants to splurge, I’m not complaining.
I help set the table, noticing the bags under her eyes seem heavier than normal. Plus, up close I see she still hasn’t colored her hair, which she normally does every month, so the gray at her roots is showing. I don’t say anything, but it makes me sad.
Dad gets home just after the food arrives. For a second I wonder if he’ll gripe at Mom for spending money on Chinese, but he doesn’t seem surprised, so they must have planned it. Dad kisses my temple and squeezes Zeb’s shoulder before he sits.
“How was school Xanderia? Zebediah?”
I cringe inwardly at his use of my full name. Nobody calls me that except him, probably because he’s Xander, and I wasnamed after him. When he was a toddler, Zeb called me Zae, becauseXanderiawas too hard to say, and thankfully the nickname stuck.
“Fine,” we both answer.
Zeb looks at me as we all sit. Mom and Dad haven’t even acknowledged each other. I shake my head, telling him not to worry, though I wish I could take my own advice. We fill our plates in silence, and I don’t mean silence of the comfortable variety. I can hardly even enjoy my amazing spring roll and sesame chicken with the blanket of awkwardness stifling the room.
“So,” I say. “I think I’m going to get a job this summer. Try to help out.”
“Oh, Zae.” Mom smiles softly. “That’s so sweet of you, but you’ll be busy with cheer, won’t you?”
“Well, yeah,” I say. “But maybe I can find somewhere that will work around my practice schedule. I can pay for my own camp this year.” Just the thought of taking that burden off my parents’ shoulders fills me with pride.
Mom and Dad share a quick glance, and Mom grabs her napkin to wipe her eyes.
“Allergies have been killing me,” she says. “Cherry trees are blooming.”
Dad spears a piece of broccoli.
My brother must be sick of the weirdness because he shovels down his food at hyperspeed and pushes back his chair to stand.
“May I be excused?” he mumbles.
“Actually,” Mom says, “Dad and I want to talk to you guys.”
Talk to us? I set my forkful of food back down on the plate, appetite lost. The half meal I’d eaten churns inside me with apprehension.
“Finish eating, sweetie,” Mom whispers to me.
“I’m done,” I whisper back.
