When We Kissed Page 6

  “That’s right.”

  “You’ll still help me with math?”

  “Best I can. Coop will, too, like always.”

  “Sure will, Birdie.”

  Cheyenne frowns, shaking her bouncy curls, clearly displeased with Coop’s generosity. “Coop don’t give good help. Mrs. Gibb gave me an F on my last homework. I hate her.”

  “Chirp—”

  Coop chokes, drops his fork. It clatters against the edge of his plate before bouncing to the floor. “She did what?” he exclaims. Rogue peas fall from his gaped mouth.

  I’m done. I push the rest of the repulsive legumes to the edge of my plate.

  Coop isn’t the only one who wants an explanation, though. I may be smart, but Coop? Coop’s a math genius. He hasn’t earned anything lower than ninety-eight percent in a math class his entire academic life—that two percent deficiency credited mostly to sloppy penmanship. Although, I have a sneaky suspicion my little brother’s crushing pretty hard on a girl. That girl I saw him with before break may be tripping his brain. Anything can happen when a female’s involved. I should know.

  “Hate is not nice, honey,” Mama chides.

  “But I do, Mama. She never calls on me to erase the board, even when I raise my hand.”

  “This woman gave you an F? Every answer on that page was right. I checked ‘em myself.”

  “Mrs. Gibb said the answers may have been right, but I didn’t show the work.”

  “Is she nuts?”

  “Coop—”

  “What? There wasn’t no work to show! It was simple subtraction. Stuff done in your head!”

  Don’t judge his poor grammar. I said Coop’s a math genius. Besides, like me, he, too, has an A in English. Just because we don’t speak like scholars doesn’t mean we’re stupid.

  “Yeah, ‘cept sometimes it’s not in my head to do,” Cheyenne huffs.

  My brother looks positively baffled. The very idea of math being any harder than breathing is probably like witnessing an ice storm in the Serengeti—for Coop, an inconceivable concept.

  “Think we should transfer Birdie into another school after break, Mama. I’m not so sure them teachers over there know what they’re doin’.”

  “Your concern is duly noted, Cooper,” Mama placates in that soothing tone she uses whenever Coop gets something stuck in his craw. “How’s Ashley, Whitney? We haven’t seen her since Christmas. You two all right?”

  “Everything’s okay.”

  So, I’m hedging a little. Ashley and I are okay, all things considered. Her mood swings lately leave me dizzy. She hasn’t been by much over the last two weeks. We spent two evenings in her den within that time. She hated my Christmas gifts, even though I got her the expensive ass sweater and sunglasses she said she wanted. We aren’t paupers by any stretch of the imagination, but Dev makes sure we remember where our help comes from in every possible way. Every penny I spent on her gifts, I had to earn.

  I asked her to ditch this party tonight, hang out here with us.

  Shocker: that pissed her off.

  It’s New Year’s Eve, but AP English is kicking my butt right now. We’re reading The Stranger by Albert Camus. About some weird guy who drank coffee at his mom’s funeral, then, later, killed an Arab man. Whole lot more happens in there, none of it enticing me to go longer than four minutes before I set the book down. I need to finish the thing before we go back.

  My phone vibrates with her third text in an hour. She knows Mama doesn’t tolerate phones at the supper table. I already told her I’d try to head over before it gets too late. I’m really not in the mood, though.

  “Are you sure? Because—”

  “Boy says they’re fine, now leave it,” Dev growls.

  Which makes me want to roar in return because Cheyenne’s big blue eyes well with tears, the gut-wrenching, Pavlovian reaction from her when Dev’s being, well, Dev. There’s a finite list of things that push me to lose composure. Seeing my baby sister’s tears sits near the top.

  Ever been somewhere you can’t wait to leave, yet feel like it’s where you most need to stay? That’s me, in this house. Knowing I won’t be here to protect anyone if things go bad is enough to keep me awake some nights. On the occasion when Dev forsakes his brotherhood with Jack Daniels, he’s the greatest daddy in the world.

  When they’re in fellowship?

  Well, we didn’t make a move across the country because we love snowy winters.

  Far as I know, Dev’s never raised a hand to Mama, but I’m not with them behind their closed door. He’s taken a belt to both me and Coop before, even when we didn’t do anything to warrant punishment. Growth spurt and weight gain brought that to a screeching halt. For me, anyway. Coop still catches it on occasion when I’m not around to diffuse ticking bombs. Times are changing, though. What Coop’s lacked in size, he’s beginning to make up for in agility and strength. I worry more about what will happen when I’m not here to blow out his match. Coop can be a hothead and his logic can be pretty black and white. Once the first punch is thrown, all bets will be off, regardless of his instigating. Right time, right place, I like that about him. Now, however, is neither.

  I take a deep breath, calm my nerves. Send Coop a warning look to keep his ass in the chair and his trap shut. Hold my arms open for Cheyenne, snuggling her close after she settles on my lap.

  “How ‘bout Coop and I both work with you on that math tonight? We can probably play a couple rounds of Chutes and Ladders afterward, if you want.”

  Anxiety takes a back seat to the allure of my bad spins and frequent regressive slides towards the starting line. She gives me a feeble smile, “Yes, thank you.”

  “Good deal. Go ‘head, get started. Coop’ll go with you.”

  “Think I’ll stay right here.”

  “You’ll go, Coop.”

  He glares, obviously in the mood for hell-raising. I move Cheyenne from my lap, glare right back. She don’t need to see Mama on the verge of tears. Anyway, Coop has a ways to go before he’ll be a threat for me.

  Wisely, he caves, jumps out of his seat. His glass topples on its side, a single current of milk leavings its mark on Mama’s tablecloth. Smoke billows from his head as he storms toward the stairs with Cheyenne in tow. My eyes go back to him, following his angry retreat.

  Once he’s out of sight, I lean over, right the glass. Toss my napkin over the mess. Lucky for him, wasn’t much left inside. I mop the puddle, then collect the two abandoned plates, stacking them on top of my unfinished meal.

  “Leave ‘em there. She can get ‘em,” Dev slurs, lifting his lover to his lips to drain the rest of its contents in one quick pull. He slides it over to his left. “Get me another.”

  Mama pastes on a smile, rises to her feet, ever obedient.

  I slide the glass from my Mama’s unsteady grasp, plant a kiss on her cheek. “I’ve got it, Mama. That meatloaf was so good, you deserve a break—and I just needed some study time. Ashley will be by tomorrow.”

  Since I know she won’t eat another bite, I add her plate to the load, carry them and Dev’s glass to the kitchen. Consider his refill.

  Put the glass in the dishwasher. No doubt, he’ll grab a clean one.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Simone

  “Whose brilliant idea was it to have a pool party when there’s frost on the windows?”

  “Uh, hello? Think like a guy, Simone. Girls in skimpy suits, climbing out of a heated pool to walk around in the cold?

  What’s the point of having an indoor pool if you’re going to turn the thermostat in the room down on sub-zero? It’d be different if the Davis’ couldn’t afford the bill, but there isn’t a house in this subdivision that costs less than 1.5 mill, and most of the others can probably fit in their garage. Then again, with the copious amount of alcohol flowing around this place, I doubt anyone else in this place feels the actual temperature.

  I’m freaking freezing in the shortest, cutest swimsuit cover-up I could find last minute on th
e clearance rack at J. Crew to go over the itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny, black and white striped bikini that my aunt demanded I return—the suit, not the cover-up. I was hoping to make a good impression on J.J. which, trust me, I’m not. The only heat in this place is coming from the MA-17 show, starring him and his new boo thang.

  “Right.”

  Nights like this usually mean work since holidays combined with cold weather are totally worth social suicide once tips start rolling in. My motto? Earn more, give more. Ordinarily, I clock out with mere seconds to spare before Mr. Tate starts bellowing at the top of his lungs. According to the fantasy world inhabited by my boss, the government is chomping at the bit to catch me in what he calls a blatant attempt to violate child labor laws. Let him tell it, their purpose for singling me out is so they can strip his joint faster than an unlocked Escalade parked in the hood. Personally, I believe the government denies the very existence of such an antiquated establishment located in a township founded within the last fifty years.

  Tonight, however, is New Year’s Eve. I caved to peer pressure, requested the night off for this party in the Heights so Ashley wouldn’t have to show by her lonesome.

  Tee Davis’ parties are legendary. Think United Nations for every high school within a twenty-five mile radius (four, to be exact). Most of the kids crammed in this natatorium won’t hesitate to diss one another when their teams go head-to-head, but not tonight. There’s like, some undetectable force field that zaps grudges once people step in the yard. I swear, our entire government would act like favorite first cousins if they hung out at 4600 Bay Ridge Lane for a night.

  The Davis’ live large in this expansive three-story contemporary cocooned by a nest of majestic pine trees, strategically spaced to afford just the right balance of privacy and natural light. More windows than walls, skylights everywhere. The property backs up to a pond where everyone except me used to skate during winters—that is, until Adam Kinney fell through the ice and ended up at the hospital with a serious case of hypothermia.

  Posh digs aside, our host for the evening is cool as a fan. Think Ferris Bueller with darker skin and better clothes. Surprisingly humble. Cute. Volunteers at a shelter every week. Unbeknownst to most people, Tee will empty his pockets so a stranger has lunch. I only know because we sort of “talked” right before sophomore year.

  I like Tee, but we didn’t spark.

  For all his goodwill ambassador ways, Tee is the life of every party. Whereas, I’m better chilling at the house, watching movies. Deep down, I knew we weren’t fated to be the next Will and Jada. Sucks, since a certain someone strutted his way onto our campus that same year.

  That someone opted out of the party in favor of hanging out with his family. Him, not being here? Score for me. His absence tonight guarantees I’ll relax, at least a little. The Cowboy and I are back to our pre-make-out-in-the-closet-selves, meaning, mostly civilized strangers who happen to share common friends. I’d rather not rock the boat.

  Shawn, king of mixed signals, won’t be here, either. Supposedly, he’s doing the family thing, too. Weekend getaway with his brothers. He told me via text message so the story may or may not be true. Gossip floating around tonight suggests there may be something between him and Jenny Wang.

  Whatev.

  Even if the rumor is true, it’s a nonissue. We’re nowhere close to being exclusive. Heck, we’re not even officially dating. More like hanging out when there’s nothing else going on. We’ve barely spoken since Christmas.

  Which is why I’m here, discovering other options to achieve my goal is fairly inevitable.

  “That’s why guys are throwing all the single girls in. Forced cuddling,” Ashley further explains, freeing one hand from her furious typing for air quotes.

  “I can see that,” I murmur.

  A major bargaining chip in Ashley talking me into coming tonight was J.J. Roman’s so-called interest in hanging out with me. J.J., one of the original contenders on my list—first pick, dang it—looks to have a list of his own. Safe to say, I’m not holding his top spot. I’d be surprised if I’m even on the page judging by the kiss he’s planting on that girl in his lap.

  So goes the story of my life.

  I grab a bottled water from a case sitting on the floor, drink half.

  Bridgette. I recognize her now.

  I tear my eyes off of the make-out session across the way, scanning the rest of the room until they stop on a group of idiots egging on Brian Medina as he guzzles beer straight from the nozzle. No surprise, Tee is smack-dab in the middle, fist pumping, yelling the loudest.

  At least he used bowls for the snacks instead of leaving open bags lying everywhere. I help myself to the gargantuan bowl of pretzels set in the center of the table. Might as well get a free meal out of the night. Only thing that would make this night better is if I’d brought my Kindle. With the keg on the other side of the pool, no one would bother me over here.

  Ashley finally glances up from her phone, snags a broken twist off the top. “Pretzels. Yum.”

  “Yep.”

  My tone must be pretty darn foul. She stops chewing, finally noticing the love fest that’s been unfolding before my eyes while she’s spent the last half hour texting.

  “Oh, shit, Simone. I didn’t know, I swear. He asked if you had a boyfriend when we spoke last week. He seemed really excited when I told him no.”

  “Guess he’s more excited about Bridgette.”

  “Impossible. She’s a junior,” she stresses what she obviously sees as an unquestionable inferiority. “She’s not even as pretty as you are and she’s a hoe.”

  Bridgette’s one of the few girls Ashley saves the stink-eye for. Don’t know why. I’ve asked, assumed it has something to do with the fact she seems pretentious. Bridgette owns the drama department, struts onto campus sipping a venti Starbucks after posing inside the brand new Beemer her daddy bought. She’s known for kissing popular boys, too.

  “Clearly possible. Don’t really know if she’s a hoe, but she’s a rich hoe, if so. Guess rich trumps pretty, not saying I’m all that.”

  “Stop it. You’re gorgeous. Rich too, not that you act like it.”

  Don’t plan to, either. The fewer people focused on my financial status, the better.

  I’m sort of a trust fund baby. Adopted at five, the unfortunate heir of a lot of money by nine thanks to someone else’s selfishness. My parents were well-known philanthropists. Wise investments became lucrative investments. They made it possible for them to donate money all over the city. What most people aren’t aware of is with only the sum sitting in my accessible accounts, I could buy the restaurant where I work. Easily. Technically, I won’t obtain full control over my inheritance for another eight and a half years, but my bank account gets padded with a monthly stipend, due for a substantial increase on my eighteenth birthday.

  “I don’t get why you stay at that place. You, like, never have to work a day in your life.”

  “Keeps me from getting bored.”

  “You have any idea how many people would love to be in your position?”

  “Well, let’s see,” I begin, trying and failing to control my rising anger. She’s essentially asking me why I don’t glorify blood money. I know Ashley well enough to know the filter from her brain to her mouth sometimes malfunctions when she has a lot on her mind. Usually, I blow it off, but on top of the J.J. setback, I’m not feeling her line of questioning. “I lost my family in order to get in this position. Given a choice, those people can have every penny if it means I can have them back.”

  “Oh, don’t get mad, Miss B. What happened to your parents and Billy was awful,” Did she really mean to add that dismissive wave, like she didn’t just suggest I be giddy over being the only survivor in the crash that left me without my family? “I’m talking about knowing your bills are paid, or whatever. Lack isn’t a worry you’ll ever have. Busting your butt day in and day out for pennies at some restaurant is something you can walk away from whenever you want.�
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  I don’t keep many secrets from Ashley, but I’ve never confided how my tips and sometimes the rest of my check gets donated to Dina. What she’s doing for her kid is awesome. I’d do more if she’d let me.

  “Let’s just say I feel better knowing I can take care of myself and drop this conversation.”

  Ashley rolls her eyes. “I need a drink,” she announces, skidding her plastic lawn chair back with a noisy scrape against the tile floor.

  She’s giving me attitude? Seriously?

  “Whatev.” I slide the bowl of pretzels closer. “Just remember you’re my ride home.”

  I hardly trust sober drivers. I definitely won’t ride shotgun if she has a drink. There’s no room for compromise or exception. Call me a killjoy. When you’re the only one of four who survives sitting at the bottom of a river inside a submerged car, then you can judge.

  “Whatev,” Ashley tosses right back, a defiant gleam flickering in her eyes.

  She storms off, her hair doing its usual supermodel fanning thing.

  Okay, the distance from here to home is what? Six, six and a half miles? I’ve walked farther. Exercise will be good for me. Maybe I’ll work up a good sweat, burn off the calories from that mocha I sipped on the way here. Change clothes, head out now, I can be home in about an hour and a half. No more than two.

  Should’ve worn a heavier coat.

  Know what? Doesn’t matter. Tee will loan me one. I grab a handful of pretzels, in case it’s my last meal. Lose a few when someone bumps the back of my chair.

  Ashley flops back into the seat she abandoned seconds ago like her legs won’t take her any further. Slumping low, she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. My anger deflates equally as fast when she averts her gaze to the left. It’s what she does to stave off tears.

  “I’m, sorry, okay?” she offers, her eyes rounded wide with sincerity. “That stuff I said . . . sometimes, I’m jealous, I guess. No, I am. Not about the money, or you know, the dead family thing. It’s just everything about you is so secure.”

  Is she freaking kidding? Everything about me is secure? Me? The girl who almost hyperventilated when she stepped too close to that pool? Or, the girl who has a driver’s license, but won’t make use of it without some form of bribery? What about the girl who’s prone to vomiting when nervous, whether be the contents in my stomach or in words?