Bitter End Page 4

  A weathered fence post

  A handful of rusted nails

  Rolling out of me like marbles”

  For a long time after he finished, he didn’t say a word. Just sat there and stared at the paper. My face started to feel hot, and I felt a tug in my rib cage, embarrassment welling up inside me.

  I hadn’t ever shown anyone that poem, except Mrs. Moody. When I finally let her read it, she took off her reading glasses and rubbed the imprints left on the bridge of her nose, then told me she knew exactly what I needed to do with it. She’d given me a printout the next day of the guidelines for a youth poetry contest held by some college writing group. She told me she thought I really had a chance. Two months later, when I found out I’d won first place, I was ecstatic. But still embarrassed. That poem was like a part of my soul. My thoughts. My private feelings. Showing them around would have felt like going to class in my underwear.

  “There probably weren’t very many entries,” I said at last, my voice sounding electric and crackly in the silent room. I reached for the paper in Cole’s hand. He snatched it away.

  “Are you kidding?” he said. “It’s really good. I mean really good.”

  I felt my cheeks pull up into a smile, even though the embarrassment was still so intense I squirmed. “Yeah?” I said.

  He finally looked up, his lips parted. “Oh, yeah. Definitely. I don’t read a lot of poetry, but this…” He gazed at the paper again. “Wow. You’re like… Emily Dickinson or something.”

  “Ha! Thanks,” I said.

  He looked at me, and our eyes locked. If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn he looked… moved.

  Finally, I broke eye contact and busied myself pulling my notebook out of my backpack and slapping it down on the desk between us industriously. “So what do you have to work on today?” I asked.

  But he was still staring at me, only now the dimple was there, perched above the corner of his lip. “Does it have a title?” he asked.

  I thought about it, feeling really self-conscious now. In a good way, but still. I cleared my throat and grinned.

  “Yes,” I said. “It’s called ‘My Sparkling Personality and Unforgettable Good Looks.’ ” Our inside joke.

  He smiled for real this time, and held it for a few seconds before cracking up. He handed me back my poem, and I stuffed it into my backpack, feeling the unease and self-consciousness melt away.

  “Can we get to work now?” I asked, glancing at the clock. “Mrs. Moody would kill me if she knew I was wasting lab time showing you my poems.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said, reaching to the desk behind him to pick up his English textbook. He plopped it on the table next to my notebook and started flipping through the pages. “If you insist. But personally, I don’t think it was a waste of time at all.”

  He continued flipping the pages of his book, but when I glanced up at him, he was looking straight at me. I looked down again quickly, blushing and telling myself that his look was nothing. He was just impressed by the poem was all.

  Still. Whatever the stare was about, there was no denying, I could feel its intensity right down to my toes.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I barreled through Bethany’s front door without even knocking. We’d been friends long enough that her parents just expected it. When we were little, Bethany lived right across the street from Zack and me. We barged in and out of one another’s houses so freely nobody even seemed to notice anymore. By the time Bethany moved to the other side of town, in sixth grade, the habit was so ingrained in me, I still did it anyway.

  Bethany’s mom was sitting on the couch, holding Bethany’s little brother’s head in her lap, a pair of tweezers poised over one ear. He was squirming and ranting, his glossy red hair flouncing up against her arm.

  “Hi, Alex,” she said when I came through the door. “Don’t suppose you’ve got an extra hand?”

  “Sure,” I said. I was already late as it was. Zack had probably already eaten all the pizza, and he and Bethany were probably cooking up a “punishment” for me. Last time Bethany was late to a Vacay Day, Zack made her let us videotape her while she sang “I’m Too Sexy” and then upload it on her Facebook page. But Bethany’s mom was so nice and always so frazzled watching after Bethany’s four insane little brothers, I kind of felt sorry for her.

  “He stuck a raisin in there,” she said, handing me the tweezers and pointing to his ear. “I can see it, but he won’t stay still long enough for me to get it.”

  I hesitated. “You want me to get it?”

  She nodded. “I’ve done it a million times before. Trust me, as long as you don’t push it farther down in there, it’ll be no problem. You’d think they’d learn. Stop, Ryan,” she hissed at Bethany’s brother, clamping his legs under her now-free arm.

  “I don’t know if I…”

  Ryan let out another wail and a new series of kicks with even more vigor than before, almost freeing his head from under his mom’s arm. “Ryan! No!” she said, and swatted his bottom. Now he was screeching as well as wiggling. “You’ll be fine, Alex. Just do it fast.”

  I bent over and held my breath, hoping against hope that Bethany’s little brother didn’t suddenly break loose and get an eardrum full of tweezer. My face was right next to Bethany’s mom’s. It was lined and looked weary. She smelled like macaroni and cheese. Quickly, before thinking about it too much, I stuck the tweezers into Ryan’s ear and plucked out the raisin, which—thank God—came out in one piece. Bethany’s mom let go of Ryan and he bolted out the front door, screaming and holding his ear as if I’d punctured it.

  I handed Bethany’s mom the tweezers, and the raisin dropped into her lap. She let out a deep breath and ran her free hand through her tangled strawberry blond hair.

  “Boys,” she said, and then chuckled. “Thanks for the help, honey.”

  “No problem,” I said, but before I could say anything else, there was a crash from the kitchen, followed by rapid-fire barking issued by Bethany’s dog, Perry, and another of her brothers shouting “Mom!” Bethany’s mom gritted her teeth, slapped her palms on her thighs a few times, and got up.

  Sometimes I wasn’t sure if I’d trade my so-silent-it-hurts life with Bethany’s wild and crazy one if you paid me a million dollars. Her house was in constant chaos, and her brothers destroyed everything. Her dad worked some weird night shift and was never home and awake when everyone else was, so studious and obedient Bethany often stepped in as second mother to the boys. No doubt, she wanted to save the Earth because it seemed so much more savable than her own household.

  I picked up my purse and scurried to Bethany’s bedroom, where she and Zack were already sitting on her bed with the laptop open. A box of pizza lay next to them, and Zack was chewing and laughing at the same time, his eyes glued to the laptop screen.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said, tossing my purse on Bethany’s dresser and grabbing a slice of pizza. I took a bite. “I was on the phone.” As I said it, I felt my face redden and suddenly wasn’t sure if, no matter how long I chewed the pizza, I’d be able to swallow it.

  This was new, but I was starting to feel it more and more often whenever I thought of or talked to or saw Cole. After I’d shown him my poem on Monday, he’d seemed to be around more often, tossing a shy “Hi, Alex” my way or waving at me from across the parking lot or whatever. I was starting to get a vibe off him that there was more to it than coincidence.

  And tonight he’d called my cell just as I was getting ready to walk out the door.

  “Hey, Emily Dickinson,” he’d said, and immediately I felt as if I was trying to breathe on the top of a mountain. The air felt thin around me.

  “No biggie,” Bethany said, reaching under her bed and pulling out the green binder we’d all started calling the Obsessive Files. It was crammed beyond capacity with everything about Colorado she could get her hands on. There were itineraries and computer printouts, coupons, guidebooks, even ancient, crayon-written lists we’d once made
of which celebrities we would be on the lookout for (Ricky Martin and the Spice Girls were at the top of the list). “We haven’t started yet.”

  “But you will be punished,” Zack said in his game show announcer voice.

  Bethany rolled her eyes. “He has an Oreo in his sock,” she said.

  “Ew,” I said, flopping on the bed next to Zack. “I’m not eating it if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “Nice, Spoiler Sally,” he said to Bethany. “You got any soda?”

  “In the fridge,” Bethany said absently, flipping through a stack of maps. “Bring me one.”

  “Me too,” I added.

  “Oh, well, I do live to serve, after all,” he said, hopping off the bed. “Hey, Mrs. M!” I heard him bellow when he left the room.

  I took my chance while he was gone.

  “Beth,” I hissed.

  “Hmm?” she responded, scratching her chin and studying the map. “Hey, you know, I think there’s this dinosaur museum or something on the way there.”

  “Bethany!” I said again, louder this time. “Quick, while Zack’s not in here.” I motioned for her to sit on the bed next to me.

  She looked up and shut the notebook, then sat next to me. “What?” she said, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear, and resting the notebook in her lap.

  “Guess who called me.”

  “Who?”

  “Cole.”

  Her eyes widened. “Seriously? Hot Guy Cole?”

  I nodded, unable to keep my smile at bay.

  “What did he want?”

  I shook my head. “English class. He had a question about this Ray Bradbury novel they’re reading. But then we talked about stupid stuff, too. You know, like that assembly we had last week. That kind of thing.”

  Bethany looked confused. “So why is this a big deal?”

  I flopped back against her pillow and groaned. “I don’t know,” I said. “I just… it’s not, is it?”

  “Not unless you like him.”

  I giggled and smacked her with a Dr Pepper pillow. “Shut up; you know I kind of do,” I said.

  Her eyes got big. “You’re finally admitting it?”

  Holding back a huge laugh that wanted, for some reason I didn’t even understand, to burst out of me, I nodded slowly. “Yeah,” I said.

  “And you think he likes you, too?”

  Again, I nodded, feeling like a big happy dork with my smile.

  “That’s awesome,” she said. “He’s really cute, Alex. You should make your move.”

  “No way,” I said, hitting her with the pillow again. Pieces of her hair floofed up, and she had to wrangle them down again. “And don’t tell Zack. You know how he gets. The whole world would know tomorrow.”

  “Oh, please, Zack is the last person I would tell,” she said. But then we could hear Zack coming down the hall, talking to one of Bethany’s little brothers. Bethany opened the notebook again just in time for Zack to open the door, carrying the entire twelve-pack of Dr Pepper.

  He stood in the doorway eyeing us. “Okay, I missed something,” he said.

  Bethany and I hovered over the notebook as if it was the most absorbing thing we’d ever seen in our lives.

  “Uh-huh. Just so you know,” he said, shutting the door with his foot and digging cans of soda out of the box, “I’m not going to any girly spa and wearing a short robe and cucumbers on my eyes while we’re out there, if that’s what you’re planning.”

  Bethany and I glanced at each other and cracked up.

  “But you can get massages at those places,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Bethany agreed. “With lots of oil and maybe a hot masseuse walking on your back. Topless.”

  Zack tossed Dr Peppers onto the bed and flopped down next to them. “Alex,” he said, smacking the back of my head as if he’d just had a brilliant idea, “I think I just thought of your punishment!”

  “Ew!” I said, rolling away from him. “I am not coming near you with my bare feet. Or bare anything else, for that matter.”

  “Come on, Alex,” he teased. “Best friends share everything. It’s in the rule book. Rule number seventy-seven: Best friends don’t keep things from each other.”

  Bethany and I locked eyes over his head and then giggled. For now, Zack didn’t need to know that I was totally crushing on Cole.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I was still glowing from the phone call and Bethany’s excitement for me when I got to school on Monday. Something about saying it out loud made my crush on Cole seem more real. I found myself looking around everywhere I went, hoping I’d see him and we’d get a chance to wave at each other. Maybe say hi. Maybe lock eyes. Which all seemed kind of goofy and oh-so-middle-school, but that was the way I’d started feeling when I was around Cole—like crushes were new to me.

  But by seventh period, when he didn’t show at tutoring, it was obvious that he was absent, and I felt a little deflated. By Tuesday, when he still wasn’t back, I started to get anxious, and by Wednesday I was trying hard not to take it personally. I sat in the lab by myself, writing poems and wondering where Cole was.

  It’s not like it was a huge deal, of course. It’s not like we were a couple, or even that I knew for sure he was into me. It was hardly the end of my world, not seeing him.

  But when I got to The Bread Bowl Wednesday night and he was sitting in a booth in the corner, all by himself, that wave of crush rolled up over me again. I tried not to look too excited when I saw him. He waved. I waved back. I clocked in and took my place at the register and tried not to look up at him too often.

  He had the Ray Bradbury book with him and was slowly sipping a cup of coffee with the book propped open in front of him, but I tried not to get too excited when I realized that every time I looked up, he was looking at me, too, instead of at the book.

  After the dinner rush, Georgia sent me on break, and I decided to casually stop by Cole’s table.

  “Hey,” I said, trying not to look too awkward. “Where’ve you been?”

  He hesitated, glancing down at his book. “Family stuff,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise. That’s why I’m trying to get caught up tonight.”

  “Oh,” I said. “How far behind are you?”

  He grimaced. “Really far. You on break or you off?”

  “On break,” I said. “I don’t get off until eight.” My turn to grimace.

  “So you’ve got a few minutes?” he asked. Again with that smile. I nodded, feeling goose bumps rise on my arms. Something about that smile. It occurred to me that the tenderness I felt when Cole smiled at me was something I’d never really felt before. Dad never smiled, and Celia only frowned. Beth and Zack smiled at me all the time, but their smiles didn’t feel like this. Their smiles felt like laughter. Cole’s smile felt like warmth. And like it was meant for only me.

  There were a few moments of awkward silence between us, during which time I mostly focused on the sweat that I could feel trickling down my back. Suddenly I was afraid that if I were to look down, I’d have giant pit stains and would die of embarrassment right on the spot. I cleared my throat. My fingers drifted to the dream catcher and pushed on the beads.

  Then finally he shut the book and slid out of the booth. “Come with me,” he said. “I have something to show you.”

  He brushed his hand up against mine as he walked past me, digging his keys out of his jacket. I followed him out to the parking lot.

  He led me to an old blue muscle car—one I’d seen in the school parking lot without even registering whose it might be—and popped the trunk.

  “You showed me your poem,” he said over his shoulder as he walked, “so I figured it’s my turn.”

  He reached into the trunk and pulled out a guitar case.

  “Sit down,” he said, motioning to the curb. I sat, wrapping my arms around my knees.

  “You play guitar?” I asked.

  “A little,” he admitted. He laid the guitar case on the sidewalk behind me and thumb
ed open the clasp. He pulled out a gleaming acoustic and sat down next to me, laying it across his lap. “I taught myself how to play, so I’m not great or anything. It’s just a hobby.”

  “Cool hobby,” I said, running my finger down the strings. I could feel his shoulder, warm against mine. “I can’t play anything.”

  “But you can write killer songs,” he said. “Check it out.”

  He propped the guitar up against his chest and started strumming. His fingers moved along the strings like it was nothing. Like everyone could do this. After a few bars, he started humming, and then pretty soon he sang, softly, “I cannot swallow your hardened eyes…”

  My mouth dropped open. My poem. He was singing the words of my poem. I honestly didn’t know what to think. I was still self-conscious hearing my words out loud, and Cole looked so vulnerable, sitting on the sidewalk singing and playing guitar. Hearing my feelings out loud like that, I could almost feel them all over again—the night when the hole where my family should be had swallowed me so completely I could do nothing but write about it. It was such a raw moment—so exposed—it felt almost too intimate to handle. I dropped my forehead to my knees and listened, clenching my eyes tight. When he finished, I turned my head to face him, resting my cheek on my knees where my forehead had just been.

  “That. Was so awesome,” I said. “I can’t believe you memorized my poem.”

  He plucked at a few random strings. “I didn’t have all the words exactly right,” he said. “But I tried to remember most of them. It was the first thing I thought about when I read it—wow, this would make a good song.”

  I reached out and strummed the guitar softly with my free hand. “I always wished I played an instrument.”

  “Really?” He moved so he could sit up straighter. “Maybe I’ll teach you sometime. It’s not that hard.” He hovered his hand over mine and strummed the strings with more confidence. The vibration under my fingertips seemed to move down my entire body. I curled my toes up inside my shoes.

  Suddenly, there was a knock on the front window. Georgia was standing there, fiddling with the blinds. She raised her eyebrows at me.