Who I Kissed (13 page)

Swallowing jitters, I pull open the top drawer. His black work socks are shoved inside, unsorted. I refuse to match them up and roll them together. Instead, I throw them on his bed in a big pile on laundry day. It’s very un-Dad-like that they go in the drawer the same way.

I run my hand under the socks, searching the bottom of the drawer for something, but there’s nothing secret stashed away. I repeat this in his other drawers, not aware of what I’m looking for but sensing there’s something to find.

Ignoring my bad feeling, I look around his room and then take a step inside his walk-in closet. Dress shirts line the inside racks, displayed on cheap white coat hangers with the protective plastic from the drycleaners. I don’t do work shirts. I hate to iron.

Above the hangers is a long shelf that runs the length of his closet. Sweaters are folded neatly in piles and then, at the end, there’s a long white storage box. I stare at it for a moment and then tuck the necklace in my pocket, walk over, stand on my tiptoes, and pull it down.

SANDRA is written on top in thick black marker.

My heart pounds. I’ve never seen this before. I have no idea what’s in it. I carry the box to the bed.

Slowly, I lift the lid. A pale pink baby sleeper lies on top of a pile of cards and pictures. There’s a sweater under it that looks homemade. Knitted or crocheted, I can’t tell the difference. It’s so tiny. I pick it up and hold it to my nose. It smells sweet. I reach for the stack of pictures and pick one up. My heart skips a hurried beat. It’s my mom, and she looks so young. Maybe not much older than me. She’s wearing flared jeans that go all the way to the top of her waist with a tight, short T-shirt. Her hair is huge. I peer closer. She’s smiling at whoever is taking the picture.

I flip to the next one. Her in a retro Speedo bathing suit. I flip and flip. There are so many more. Younger versions, and gradually shots of her with Dad. Arm in arm. In one they’re wearing matching hiking clothes on a mountain. They’re smiling. Happy. In another she’s sitting on his lap, and they’re smiling into each other’s eyes. Under the pictures is a frame, and I pull it out. It’s her. Sitting in a rocking chair. She’s wearing a yellow hoodie with bright red sweat pants. She’s holding a baby to her chest, half swathed in a blanket. Leaning up against her feet is a black Labrador retriever. She’s smiling, but there’s sadness in her eyes. Tired. She looks tired.

I put the frame down and look back in the box. A set of candles in a plastic see-through box. Baptismal candles. My name and birthday are printed on them. There’s a white sleeper with a silk cross on the front. I recognize it from my baptism pictures from the album Dad keeps out for me with pictures from my childhood. Before everything went digital and got stored on his computer.

In the picture, Mom’s holding me facing the camera, the only baby girl not wearing a frilly white baby dress.

The box is empty now except for an old VHS tape. I take it out. On the spine, in Dad’s handwriting it says “Sandra.” And a date close to when I was born.

I put everything back in the box, everything except the framed picture and the video. I plunk the lid on and place it back in the closet where it was.

I sit down on the bed for a moment, thinking, and then I take the frame and place it on top of Dad’s dresser. I tuck the tape under my arm and go down to the basement, wondering where Dad would stash the old VCR, knowing it wouldn’t be thrown out. Not yet.

There are a few unopened containers in the storage room. Each one is labeled. Dad’s organizational skills are reliable. Inside a box marked “Electronics” I find the VCR. The cords are still attached.

Triumphant, I carry it to the TV, hook it up, plug it in, and nod in satisfaction when the TV switches over. I put the tape in, waiting impatiently while it whirs and beeps, taking forever to load. I listen with one ear for sounds from upstairs to indicate that Aunt Allie and Dad are home, but it’s quiet. I wonder if they went out for dinner. An image flickers on the TV and then a voice speaks from off camera. The image wobbles and then a woman, blurry and out of focus, appears on the screen.

“Sandra, Samantha, look over here,” Dad’s voice calls.

I hold my breath and the picture comes into focus.

My mom sits on the edge of a pool. Her feet hang in the water. She’s wearing a black one-piece suit and has long, pale legs. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she turns and smiles at the camera, but her eyes don’t smile along with her mouth. The baby in her arms is chubby, with rolls for arms and legs.

Compared to the roly-poly baby, my mom looks too thin. The baby—me—I look too big to have come from her body. But she holds me under my arms and dips my toe into the pool. The baby—me—I squeal, and then a giggle erupts from my lips. Off camera, the deep voice of my dad chuckles. “Just like her mom, a natural in the water.”

The baby shrieks again, but the giggle turns into an angry wail. I watch my mom stand, pulling the baby up with her as she gets to her feet. The baby shrieks. Loud and angry cries.

The look on my mom’s face makes my heart sink. She looks angry, terrified, defeated in the span of a second. “Take her,” she says. “Please, Jonathan. Put down the camera and take her. She hates me.” She’s holding me out, with her arms straight, her eyes opened wide, her lips pressed together.

“Sandra,” my dad’s voice says off camera. It’s changed. He’s talking in a low voice, I recognize the sound. He’s angry, but he’s trying to remain calm. “She’s probably cold. She doesn’t hate you. Just hold her close. Warm her up.”

The baby howls louder.

“Take her. Please.” On screen there’s a close-up of baby me, with squinched-up eyes and an angry, toothless mouth wide open and hollering.

“For God’s sake, Sandra.” The camera jiggles around and then turns off. There’s blackness and then a hissing and horrible pop from the TV. I jump and press mute on the remote, then I find the fast-forward button on the VCR and press it. Another image wobbles on the screen, distorted until I let go of the button.

The baby again. Older. Wearing a goofy flowered dress. Baby me is sitting up on my own.

“Sam?” Dad calls.

Noises come from upstairs. The front door’s opened, and Aunt Allie and Dad’s feet thump on the floor above. Fredrick’s little paws scrape along the hardwood.

I turn the VCR off. “Down here. I’ll be right up.”

Fredrick hears my voice, scrambles down the stairs, and jumps at my legs. I pick him up and he attacks my nose and mouth with his little tongue until I spurt and move him away. I carry him up the stairs with me while he grunts and snorts and noisily greets me. He’s wearing a new bandana covered in orange pumpkins.

Aunt Allie is at the top of the stairs with a sour look on her face. Her eyebrows are pressed together, her lips tight. Dad smiles, but it wavers and quickly fades. Immediately guilt plops into my head. Do they know? About me and Casper? About me snooping in his room?

“Where’d you get that robe?” he asks when I walk into the kitchen.

“Aunt Allie gave it to me.” I glance at her.

“It was your mom’s,” he says and presses his lips together and shakes his head.

“I know.” I stare at Aunt Allie. She glares at my dad.

“I thought she should have it. She has so few things from her mom.”

“It’s fine.” He waves his hand in the air. “Fine. Sorry we’re late,” he says to me with another sigh. He squeezes my shoulder as he walks by me to his wine cupboard. “We went for dinner and texted and called your cell to see if you wanted to come, but you didn’t answer.”

Aunt Allie swoops in and pulls me close and tries to squeeze the stuffing out of me. When she lets go, I reach into my pocket and pull out the necklace.

“What’s that?” she asks, narrowing her eyes to peer closer. Dad has a wineglass in each hand, but he stops moving and his face goes almost white.

“Where’d you get that?”

I glare at Aunt Allie. “You put it here.”

She shakes her head. “No, I didn’t.” She holds out her hand. “Let me see it.”

I close my fist.

“What is it?” she repeats and shakes her hand at me.

I open my hand and dump the necklace in hers. She sucks in her breath and her eyes open wider. She lifts the open locket up close to her eyes.

“It’s Sandra’s. Jonathan. Did you see this?”

He’s put the wine glasses down and is walking toward us. “Where’d you get that?” he repeats.

“It was in the pocket.”

He glares at Aunt Allie. “Did you find it and put it there?”

She shakes her head. “No. I washed the robe before I gave it to Sam. I know the pockets were empty. I’ve never seen that necklace before.”

Dad’s face is almost white. Aunt Allie hands him the necklace. His face crumples.

“She lost this,” he whispers. “She was so upset with herself. It disappeared right before she died.” He looks at me. “I gave it to her for her birthday. And when she was wearing it, it slipped off. We never found it.”

Shivers run up my spine.

“Allie. You must have put it in the pocket,” he says again.

“I didn’t, Jonathan.”

“Then how?”

The three of us look at each other and then down at the necklace.

“Sometimes things happen,” Aunt Allie says.

“Don’t start with that stuff,” Dad says, but his voice is low and gravelly. He wipes his finger under his eye. “Really, Allie. You never put it there. Sam? You’re sure you found it in the pocket?”

I nod. “Take it, Dad. Take the necklace.”

Dad looks at me. “Oh, butterfly,” he says, and he steps forward and takes me in his arms. And then he opens the clasp on it and secures it around my neck.

He pushes me gently back, studies the necklace, and glances at Aunt Allie. “Your mom must have meant for you to find it. She wants you to have it.”

“But how?” I ask.

“Not everything can be explained,” Aunt Allie says. “Sometimes we just have to go with it.”

Dad doesn’t try to come up with a logical explanation.

Maybe there is one. But maybe none of us wants to find it.

I make it through classes with an invisible bubble around me that keeps me safe from onlookers. I suspect it has something to do with the locket.

Taylor texts me, but we miss each other in the halls. I wonder if it’s possible to get through the whole day without speaking to anyone other than teachers. But I have English after lunch, and I’ll see Casper, so probably not. I’m surprised I haven’t gotten any texts from him, which I’d both expected and dreaded.

At lunch I take my brown bag outside to eat alone. I try not to remember earlier days of sitting in the cafeteria with the swimmers, close to Zee while he made jokes about my three sandwiches and Taylor threw crusts at him.

The air outside is chilly, so there aren’t many kids around. I stand in the entranceway and lean against a railing, not wanting to sit on the damp grass. I watch the usual groups hang around the outskirts of the school like they do at school grounds all over America. Dad always says teenagers think they’re original, but other than having a lot more technology, they’re not so different from their parents. I can’t imagine that he’s right. It has to be harder now than when he was a kid.

I chomp on my sandwich, down to one from three. I’ve cut back on the huge portions, afraid of eating too much. Without swimming, I’m afraid of ballooning up. For the millionth time, my fingers go to the necklace, and I rub the locket and stare at cars passing the school, making up stories in my head about the people inside.

“I hope that’s not peanut butter.” My mouth stops chewing, and chunks of bread and ham stick to the roof of my mouth.

A girl is staring at me. She walks close, her long legs perfect for the black skinny jeans she’s wearing. Her arms are crossed over a thin black sweater with no jacket to keep out the chills. She’s either freezing or has lava running through her veins. She snaps her gum, and even though she’s pretty, with her short whitish blond hair and big hoop earrings, she reminds me of someone from a TV commercial about troubled youth. She’s the girl from English class. The one Casper dropped as a partner for me.

She uncrosses her arms and squints as if she wants to give me a beat-down. I force myself to swallow the food in my mouth and stare back at her, trying to look tough and not terrified.

“It’s not peanut butter,” I tell her. “I don’t eat it anymore.” My cheeks turn red, realizing how stupid that must sound.

“Yeah? Too bad you didn’t put that into practice a few months ago.”

I want to say something snarky back, but don’t have the energy or will. I drop my eyes and look at her scuffed-up ankle boots.

“You know who I am?” Her voice challenges me to something I’m not sure of.

I push off the railing, drop my hands to my side so I’m standing taller, and look straight into her eyes. We’re about the same height, but I’ve got more muscle and bulk. I can’t believe I’m sizing her up and noticing all this. I’ve never had to fight to protect myself in my life.

I swallow and think Xanax-y thoughts.

I
am
not
afraid. I am not afraid.

The anxiety in my belly tells a different story.

“Callie Zibler,” she says. “I’m Callie.”

“You used to partner with Casper in English.” I twist my braid around my fingers.

“Used to.” She shifts her weight, juts a scrawny hip out, and lifts her thumb to her mouth to gnaw on the nail. Her bottom lip quivers just a little, enough for me to notice. “He thinks you’re smarter, and that’s all he cares about. He’s desperate to be valedictorian. As if he needs scholarship money. He wants bragging rights.”

She sighs and doesn’t look like she wants to beat me up anymore. “He’s an ass.”

It’s such a relief that I put my hand over my mouth to stop a giggle. I crumple the rest of the sandwich I’m holding in my other hand and wait for her to say more.

She pulls her thumb from her mouth. “Alex and I used to go out. We split up a few months ago, before he died. But we stayed friends.”

I glance down. A ladybug crawls on the pavement by my shoe. It only has two spots and is more orange than red. She’s out late in the season, and cold weather is coming. Stupid ladybug facts live in my head. Useless information stored for no apparent reason. They hibernate in groups in the cold. I wonder where the bug’s friends are.

“I’m sorry. I wish I could have known him better.” I stare at the ladybug, thinking about Alex’s friends. He had a lot of them. “That probably sounds horrible coming from me.”

“No. He was a really good guy. You would have like him,” she says. “And actually, I kind of screwed him over,” Callie says.

I look up, surprised. “Alex was good about it,” Callie continues. “Chloe’s my friend. From softball. She’s really good. Like Alex was. I think he and I kind of went out by default. Both of us ball players, you know?”

I hide my surprise. She’s a jock? She doesn’t look the part. But what do I know? Until recently I was a fake lesbian. Now I kill boys with my spit and make out with my study partners.

“I like Alex, but we were better as friends.” She pauses. “Liked.” She shivers, and her knees wobble together. “He was cute. Cool. We just weren’t each other’s type. He was so good about it. He was a great guy. Like I said, you would have liked him.”

A boy in the school yard whoops as his friend tackles him. We both watch them goof around for a minute.

“I’m sorry.” I manage again and let out a huge sigh.

She reaches out and touches my arm. “I know,” she says. “It must be awful. I mean. I miss Alex so much. It’s hard to believe he’s gone. But for you.” She shakes her head. “It could have been me too. You know. I mean, I ate nuts and stuff when we dated. I wasn’t always a hundred percent safe.”

I swallow again and again, but my throat feels like it’s growing and stretching out of my skin. The boys are play fighting; their friends are gathered around watching.

Callie stares at me as if she’s waiting for me to say something, and I wonder what I could possibly say. “I wasn’t at the party,” she says. “The night it happened.”

“Lucky you.”

She half smiles, but it fades quickly. “Yeah. I heard it was pretty awful.”

I nod and look toward the street. An old truck rumbles past. It’s white, but the body is covered with orange rust. A girl is squished up close to the driver, and she has her head tilted back and her mouth open, laughing. The boy driving is smiling. I wonder what he just said to make her laugh. I want to run after the truck. Hop in the back. Ask them to share and take me away from this conversation.

“He talked about you. Said you’re a swimmer. I heard you’re awesome.”

I glance at her, almost surprised. I shrug. I was a swimmer. I’m not sure what I am anymore. But it’s nothing she needs to hear.

“Anyhow.” She narrows her eyes. “Alex was a good guy, but sometimes he did stupid stuff.”

I frown. It’s not nice to talk about a guy who’s no longer around to defend himself. It doesn’t matter so much anymore if he did stupid things.

She shivers and rubs her hands up and down her arms, avoiding my eyes. “I’m only saying so because some people are being pretty ignorant, acting like everything is your fault.”

I look across the school yard. The kids horsing around look tough, kind of like druggies. The boys’ pants hang halfway down their butts. The girls’ makeup looks like war paint, and they’re heavily pierced. I imagine them mocking me and my clean lifestyle the way the druggies in Orlie used to. I judged them too, and what they did to their bodies. We’re all judging each other and trying hard to find someone to fit in with.

“That’s kind of to be expected,” I tell her. “Under the circumstances.”

“It’s not right,” she says.

A gust of wind blows a cluster of leaves toward us, and I pull my hoodie closer. She wraps her arms tighter around herself; her thin sweater is for fashion, not warmth.

“Frick. It’s cold. Listen, the reason I followed you into this freezing weather is to tell you something.”

“What?” I finally ask when she doesn’t say more. “Can you enlighten me?” I try to sound patient.

“They’re investigating his death. Like, a coroner is.”

“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

“You do?” Her brows furrow together, and she seems genuinely surprised.

“Casper told me.”

“He did?”

“We’re—” I pause, but a sliver of shame creeps onto my face. “Working on that English project together.”

She tilts her head as if she smells embarrassment and glances past me toward the group of kids who are now heading our way. She narrows her eyes, and the toughness I saw before is back. “I didn’t think you’d know. Alex’s friends are all pretty messed up by all this.”

“I know,” I tell her.

“Everybody deals differently, right? I’m glad Casper told you. We’re all kind of watching Chloe’s back. But you don’t deserve to be reviled.”

I almost chuckle at her word choice. Why wouldn’t they revile me? But I have Chloe’s back too. She just doesn’t even know. I would do almost anything to protect her.

She peers closer at me. “She doesn’t hate you.”

“I would,” I say automatically. “Hate me.”

“No,” she shakes her head, and her earrings bob around. They’re so big it looks painful. “I don’t think you would. Especially if you knew everything.”

I frown.

The kids are getting closer. One of the boys waves to her. She waves back and jumps up and down on the spot. “God. It’s cold out here. I gotta go back inside.”

“If I knew everything?” I repeat.

She jumps. Up, down, up, down, up, down. A human pogo stick. “Talk to Chloe,” she says, her eyes on the boy, and then she hurries to the front doors of the school and disappears inside.

I weave my braid around my finger. What the hell was that supposed to be about? What don’t I know?

My pocket starts to vibrate. I pull out my cell phone and frown at the caller ID.

“It’s Dad. You got anything important next period?”

“Not really.”

“Then come right home.”