Something About Love: A YA contemporary romance in verse (9 page)

“Leaving already?”

Gramma-Linda asks,

Her voice set on syrup-sweet.

I know as soon as Rose leaves for the bus,

Gramma-Linda will pry,

Asking things like, “How are you
really
doing?”

“ENGLISH FIRST,”

Gramma-Linda says after

Rose heads to the bus stop,

After Dad goes to work.

Gramma-Linda piles the books on the kitchen table,

Where we’re sitting.

“Fine,” I mutter,

Pulling out the only book that looks like a novel.

“
Huckleberry Finn
?”

I meet my grandma’s eyes.

“I read this last year.”

I don’t tell her that I only read the first seven chapters, then

Faked my way through the quizzes,

Reports, and

Tests,

Because it was boring.

She plucks it from my fingers.

“Okay, then.

I’ll bring
A Tale of Two Cities
tomorrow.

Have you read that?”

“No,” I say,

Waiting for her next subject of torture.

“A one-page essay on Mark Twain, then.”

She tucks the novel back into her shoulder bag,

Glancing at me from over the top of her glasses.

“You have a computer, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I say, “You want me to do the essay right now?”

“Right now,”

She echoes before getting to her feet and

Shuffling to the couch in the living room.

“Wake me up when you finish.

I’ll proofread it for you.

Then we’ll do geography.”

“TORTURE?”

Jacey repeats as I pull into Taco Bell.

“So much torture,” I tell her.

“Which is why I need Mexican food.”

“Better than here, I bet,” she says, and

I think of Trevor,

Of seeing him in the hall,

Of continuing our playful banter.

Then I remember Joey, and

His crude comments;

The notes, and

Their hateful messages;

The lockers, and

How the janitor couldn’t quite match the old paint color—

A constant reminder that

Something happened.

“Still not sure,” I say before placing my order,

Though I have no desire to return to the hallways of Copper Hills High,

Definitely don’t want to risk seeing Harris again.

Jacey takes the tater tots I pass her, but

I almost drop my soda when she says,

“You’re still going to Preference with me, right?”

“I—who would I go with?”

The look on Jacey’s face says it all.

“I AM NOT ASKING TREVOR.”

“HE SUGGESTED YOU ASK HIM,”

She says defensively,

Leaning into the passenger window like I might hit her.

The thought has crossed my mind.

“He said he’d love to go with you.”

“I can’t!” I practically yell.

“He’s my freaking step-brother.

Why does nobody get that but me?”

My food sits untouched in the bag, and

The accelerator pays the price of my wrath.

I screech to a halt in my driveway,

Snatch my food, and

Stomp into my house.

Jacey follows,

A sheepish look on her face.

My anger melts away as I flop onto the couch,

Unwrap my burrito.

I sigh.

Everything was less complicated when

I was still with Harris.

Jacey and I could’ve gone to Preference

Without any drama,

She with her boyfriend, and

Me with mine.

“Sorry,” I mumble to my burrito wrapper.

“I screwed everything up when I broke up with Harris.”

I think about how I’ve lost so much more than a boyfriend.

I can’t go back to high school,

I don’t see anyone but Gramma-Linda and Jacey—and

Stupid Trevor, because

He pops over whenever he wants,

Somehow getting himself invited to dinner.

“No you didn’t,” Jacey says.

“You needed to break up with Harris.

I just wish—”

Her eyes go wide, and

She stuffs her mouth with a fistful of tots.

“You wish what?” I ask.

She shakes her head, then

Takes a long drag of my Diet Coke.

She barely has time to breathe before

She fills her mouth with more food.

I’ve known Jacey for years, and

I recognize the signs of

A) her stress-eating, and

B) her tactics to keep a secret.

“Jacey,” I warn. “You’re going to run out of tots in about four seconds.

Then you’ll have to tell me.”

She slows her chewing, but

The inevitable still comes.

When her food is gone,

She sighs and leans back into the couch.

She closes her eyes,

Another method she uses to prolong the silence.

“Spill,” I tell her, and

She jerks her eyes open.

“Okay, but just hear me out, okay?”

She leans forward,

Earnestly.

“So we know Trevor still likes you.

The real question is:

How do you feel about him?”

She holds up her hand

When I open my mouth to speak.

“I know, I know.

You don’t think you guys can be together.

But be honest with yourself, Livvy.

If you don’t like him, fine.

If you do, well…”

She trails off, but

There are too many ways to end that sentence.

“You’re
not
related.

That’s all I’m saying.”

“HOW ARE THINGS GOING WITH GRAMMA-LINDA?”

My mother sits at the bar in

The Youngblood’s kitchen,

A cup of steaming coffee in front of her.

“Fine,” I tell her as I open the fridge.

I don’t know why I came downstairs when

Dad bought ice cream bars for my tiny freezer upstairs.

Still, I poke around in this foreign fridge

For something good to eat.

I find nothing.

I should’ve known better.

Mom’s never been one to stock pudding, or

Anything that tastes remotely good.

Mom sips from her cup,

Taking little bits of my soul,

As she continues to analyze me.

I’m not facing her, but

I can feel the weight of her stare

As I rummage through kale,

Cabbage, and

Eggplant.

I close the fridge and

Turn to face her.

“Can we order pizza?”

Her eyes pinch for only a moment, but

The photographer in me

Sees it.

“Sure,” she says.

“AND I DON’T EVEN HAVE TO TAKE A MATH CREDIT,”

I finish.

I’ve—surprisingly—

Told Mom most of what Gramma-Linda is making me

Do for homeschool.

Between her,

Me, and

Rose,

We’ve eaten almost two whole pizzas.

Mom even bought soda and

Cookie dough,

Which I’ve just put in the oven.

With Rose sitting between us,

I don’t feel such tension from my mother.

She catches my eye and

Smiles.

I return it before I can stop myself.

I can see it makes her immensely happy, and

I suddenly feel like crying.

I stand abruptly and

Leave the kitchen.

I’m halfway up the stairs when

Rose darts in front of me before

I can wipe my eyes.

“Why are you crying?”

Her face is so open,

Her tone so concerned.

I grab her in a hug, and

Hold on tight.

“I don’t know,” I whisper into her golden hair.

But I do.

I just don’t know how to say it in words, but

I know I’m crying because

I’ve been such a beast to my mom.

I’ve been so removed,

So angry,

So cruel,

That a simple smile from me

Makes her entire evening.

I release Rose and

Sprint up the rest of the stairs and into our room.

I close and lock the door before

Leaning against it,

The tears flowing in waves

Down my face.

YOU STILL UP?

My phone buzzes against my chest,

Waking me from the half-sleep

I’ve fallen into.

I check the text to see who it’s from.

Trevor.

I consider ignoring him, until

I remember the look on my mom’s face, and

The way my attention influenced her.

Unfortunately,
I text him.

What’s the harm in a text?
I think.

Nothing,
I answer myself,

If he wasn’t the guy you used to date, and

Exactly who you want to be alone with again.

You wanna shoot tomorrow?
he asks.

No, I do not want to shoot tomorrow,
I think, but

I don’t type that into my phone.

My plans for tomorrow are blank,

The whole day wide open for Mom to

Take me shopping, or

Sigh loudly at the shortness of my hair, or

Ask me to clean some random corner of this house I barely live in.

What time?
I text,

Wondering if I’m allowed to go back to Dad’s

On my mom’s weekend.

Afternoon,
he answers.

I have weight training in the morning.

Can you get my camera gear on the way over?

“YOUR DAD SEEMED SURPRISED TO SEE ME.”

Trevor unshoulders my camera pack and

Hands it to me as I step out of my bedroom and

Into the hall.

“I texted him,” I say, trying not to take a deep drag of Trevor’s cologne.

He smells like his typical musky aftershave, something

I’ve always been attracted to.

Now, my only defense against him would be to

Glue my nostrils shut.

I spend a few seconds admiring him.

His dark brown hair,

His blue eyes,

His football physique.

I turn away before

The situation becomes awkward.

“He should’ve known you were coming.”

“Yeah, well, he didn’t.”

He follows me as I start down the stairs.

“And might I say that I really like the new paint color in your bedroom.”

My step stutters;

I grasp the railing for support, because

The breath has left my body.

“You went in my bedroom?”

I can’t even remember what condition I left it in, but

I know I didn’t clean it before

Coming to the Youngblood’s.

“I had to.”

Trevor moves past me down the stairs,

Glancing at me as he does.

“Your dad had no idea where your camera bag was.”

“What else did you see in my bedroom?”

An image of the stack of journals on my nightstand

Makes my stomach turn.

I’ve been leafing through the diaries every night before

I fall asleep.

“Nothing,” Trevor assures me.

“Your dad came in the room with me,

Hunted around until we found it.”

My cheeks feel hot, and

I have no hair to hide that fact.

I close my eyes in a long blink,

Clench my fingers around the banister,

Until I feel like I can breathe again.

“I’ve been in your bedroom before,” he says.

“What’s the big deal?”

“Stop it,” I say.

“You know what the big deal is.

And—”

I point at him though it jostles the

Already-balanced-precariously camera bag on my back.

“—The
one time
you’ve been in my bedroom was

Simply to get my phone off my desk.

Nothing happened.”

“Don’t remind me,” he mutters, and

I can suddenly hear him telling me he wants to sleep with me.

The heat in my cheeks is no longer from panic.

I brush past him with my face turned so he can’t see the blush and

Head for the garage.

“You have a car, right?” I call over my shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says, “But I thought we were shooting here.”

I glance up at the vaulted ceilings,

The antique furniture,

The marble, silk, hardwood.

“Too stale,” I declare.

I turn to face him.

“You’re not stale. We need…”

I glance around like I’ll be able to find what he needs here,

In this lousy mansion,

A sorry excuse for a home.

“We need something…more exciting.”

“Are you saying I’m exciting?”

He gives me that sexy half-smile and

Steps closer.

“I’m saying get your keys and

Let’s get out of here.”

“DO YOU EVER MISS HER?”

Trevor won’t look at me, but

Focuses out the window,

On the road, or

Something.

I can’t really see his eyes anyway, because

He’s wearing sunglasses.

“Miss who?” I ask.

“Your mom.”

Instantly, I feel an invisible wall

Go up between me and

Him.

The same barrier that’s been between me and

My mother

For the past year and a half.

His car feels ten times colder, and

The low music from the radio is now too loud.

I don’t answer.

I don’t know if I miss my mom or not.

“I miss my dad,

Sometimes,” Trevor says.

I let myself look at him.

Click, click, click.

The need is raw on his face,

The tension evident in his shoulders.

“I mean, he hasn’t been around for years, but

I still miss him.

Watching you with your dad at dinner the other night is

When I realized it.”

I wish I knew what to say, or

That I could reach for my camera and

Capture this moment in pixels,