17 First Kisses (19 page)

I set her up with
Beauty and the Beast
and a mug of hot chocolate. The fire is gone now. I scoop the charred remains into a dustpan, walk calmly to my dad's office, and fling them on his desk. Soot and blackened paper fragments and inky drops of water fly everywhere.

“What the hell, Claire!”

He kicks away from his desk in his rolling chair. His big hands swipe at the black splotches on his shirt, but he'll need Spray 'n Wash if he ever wants those marks out. His black eyebrows come together in the middle. He's mad, but I'm madder.

“Those are from your briefcase. I found Libby setting them on fire when I got home because you couldn't be bothered to watch her. Would it kill you to spend time with her? Or act like you're the least bit interested?” I spit each word at him, not knowing if I'm talking about Libby anymore. What I really want to ask is,
If I'm your one, then why do I feel like I'm in this alone?,
but that thought cuts too deep.

He frowns. “You've been drinking.”

Of all the things I expected him to say, that was not one of them.

“Yeah. I have. I've been drinking for a while now. But you and Mom never noticed because you've stopped being parents.”

“I don't need my intoxicated sixteen-year-old talking to me this way.”

“Oh, we're not making this about me.” I swallow the lump in my throat because what I have to say is too important. Someone thinks I'm worth loving, even if it isn't him, and that thought keeps me strong. “This is about our family. It isn't right that Mama still stays in bed all day.”

His eyes widen, but he recovers. “You have to understand. She's been through so much.”

“I
do
understand. I've been through it with you guys. But it's been seven months. You get to a point where you have to start trying to heal. And we hit that point a long time ago.”

My dad takes what I'm saying as a personal attack. And I guess maybe it is. “You can't expect everyone to grieve on your timeline. What are we supposed to do? This isn't something you can snap out of. Your mother isn't going to forget he existed just because you're ready for her to move on.”

“I'm not asking her to forget. Hell, I'm not even asking for her to be happy. But she
has
to get out of bed.”

I don't know how to fix my mother. But I do know that lying in bed and crying all day won't fix anything. Because I've tried that.

“Your mom just needs time.”

I am done with giving things time and waiting to see if they get better.

“No. Mom needs a therapist. And not just someone at church—a real therapist. She needs someone who can make her want to try. And Libby needs her parents. And I need . . . I need some help around here. I'm not a grown-up.”

“Claire—” He reaches out to me, but I jerk away.

“No. If you want to hug someone, Libby's downstairs watching a movie.”

I turn and slam the door on my way out, and then go to my room and slam that door too. I flop on my bed and look around. I better get comfortable, because between the drinking and the way I just talked to my dad, I'll probably be in here for the rest of high school. I replay everything I said to him and wince. At least I'll have thoughts of Tanner to keep me company.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

M
egan must have gotten the report about me maybe being ready to make up, because she comes over to my house after school that same day. She shuffles into my room with her shoulders drooping and her head hanging low—very un-Megan-like posture.

“Can I talk to you?”

I turn my desk chair to face her.

“I guess,” I say, even though nothing she says will be good enough. I forgave her before, but you can only give someone so many chances.

She sits on the absolute edge of my bed, like she's poised to spring up and run at any moment. I wait and wait, but she just stays there, silent, biting her lip, looking more and more like she's
about to unravel. I'm determined not to cave, though. My brain goes over the likely excuses, but there is not one, not a single reason, why it was okay for her to—

“Chase is engaged,” Megan blurts out. Then she bursts into tears.

There were a lot of things I thought she might say. That was not one of them. She usually treats Chase like something mildly unpleasant she'd like to wish out of existence. Like store-bought pie crusts.

But by the way she's sobbing into my bedspread, it's obvious she feels much more strongly about him than she does about ready-made baked goods. And even though I should be really pissed at her, and am still a little pissed at her, I can't help but sit beside her on the bed and put my arm around her while she cries.

“Chase is an idiot. We hate Chase.”

“I know.”

“Would you really want to be engaged to him?”

“N-no. I mean, I know it's a good thing we broke up, because we want different things out of life, and I'm embarrassed that it hurts this much, but it does.” The words come out all garbled by her tears. “Amanda texted me a link to his fiancée's blog while we were at the party, and I was looking at pictures of them, and they looked so happy. Like, really, truly happy. That was so close to being me. And I started freaking out, wondering if I'll ever be able to make someone else that happy.”

“Hey.” I pull her back into a sitting position because I need her to hear me say this. “Hey, of course you will. Someday. Just not
stupid Chase Collins. He's
twenty
and getting married. You don't want that. You want out of here, remember?”

She nods like she's thinking about believing me. “After that, I drank too many mai tais. And then I found you guys on the swing.” She hesitates. “Luke was such a good listener. I was crying, and he put his arm around me and started running his hand up and down my shoulder, and then he looked deep into my eyes, and I swear he was wanting to kiss me. I did try to kiss him first, but I wasn't imagining the connection. I mean, he wouldn't have done those things if he wasn't interested.”

I don't say anything back. Her story sounds similar to when Luke was comforting me. But . . . she must have misinterpreted what he did. I know what it was like with Luke on that porch. I'm positive he wanted me. I don't tell Megan this, though. Because he ended up with her. He chose her. So maybe I was the one who misinterpreted things.

Megan stops crying now, suddenly serious, like she's just remembered the reason she's here.

“I know it was really crappy of me to break those rules we made about Luke.” She traces the designs on my comforter with her index finger. “I guess when I was alone with him, it was like I forgot all about the rules. I just wanted him so bad.”

“I get it,” I say. “There were times I really wanted to kiss him too. But I didn't. And I
really
liked him.”
Like
him.

“I know.”

“When you told me at lunch, you didn't even seem sorry.”

“I
am
sorry. I was just so nervous about telling you. I totally
screwed it up.”

“Yeah. You did,” I say, and Megan winces. “I'm really, really, really sorry, okay? Can't we be friends again? Please?” She peeks at my face, and I guess what she sees makes her realize I'm going to forgive her because she smiles and adds, “Don't forget Pact number one.”

I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling too. “Oh. Ohhh. Well, if you're invoking Pact number one, I guess I have to forgive you, don't I?”

In my heart, I know I forgive her. I do. But that doesn't mean I would leave her alone in a room with my boyfriend. If I had one. Which I don't. Thanks to her.

Mama snaps another photo of me and adjusts her footing on the bark chips carpeting the back half of our yard.
Click. Crunch.
She's taken senior pictures of most of my friends now, and yesterday she shyly asked if she could take mine. She squats in front of me, taking another test shot, playing with the angles and the lighting until she gets it just right. I lean against my pear tree—we thought it would be a good place to start—and smile the picture smile I've been practicing in the mirror all morning. Whenever I feel my smile getting stiff, I take a deep breath and let it out in a slow, gentle sigh, smiling as I do so because Megan says Oprah says it's the secret to a natural looking smile.

“You look beautiful, sweetie,” Mama says with the camera still in front of her face.

“Thanks.”
Click.
That time I know my smile was natural.

We speak in soft voices because that's what the fruit grove
makes you do. Ever since Timothy died, it feels like a church.

“I can't believe how much I missed,” she says.

“What are you talking about?”

I think I know, but since we don't talk about
stuff
in my family, I must be wrong. She lets the camera hang against her chest by the neck strap. Without it between us, I can see her eyes are red with tears. Maybe I'm not wrong.

“You're all grown-up now. I'm so sorry.” Her voice cracks, and she clears her throat. “I should've been giving you mother-daughter advice and taking you shopping and . . .”

She sinks to the ground. After everything that's happened with my mom over the past few years, I could be upset. Or bitter. I'm not, though. Maybe I will be in a couple of years. Maybe I'll look back and be really resentful and need therapy or something. But right now I'm so relieved and so happy to have her back, I don't have room to feel anything else.

“It's okay.” I leave my spot by the tree and sit next to her, the pieces of pine bark digging shapes into my palms, and put my head on her shoulder. “You're here for me now. That's all that matters.”

Mama puts her arm around me and rubs my back in between my shoulder blades like she used to when I was little and I couldn't fall asleep.

“I can't change anything that happened. There are so many things I wish I could do over.” She shakes her head. “All I can do is try to make it up to you.”

I've dreamed of her saying these words. I've imagined exactly what she would say to me and what I'd say back and every different
possibility, each more perfect and wonderful than the last. I've focused on this moment in my mind, like if I wished for it hard enough, I could will it into existence. And now here it is, and I'm terrified.

Because I want it to last and I need it to be permanent. I need her so freaking much that it hurts to breathe. And I don't know how much I can hope for, but I'm already hoping for everything. And it will be that much worse if she disappears again.

“That sounds good to me,” I say, scared that I'll ruin everything if I let myself say more.

We sit there like that for a long time, my head on her shoulder, her hand on my back, both of us watching the fall breeze ripple through our little grove that is four fruit trees strong. Timothy's tree made it, even though he didn't. It's at least three feet tall now, and although we've never seen it flower, its leaves are waxy and green and alive. I guess they weren't as connected as I thought.

Sam grabs a Diet Dr Pepper from my fridge. Since we've practically grown up in each other's houses, he doesn't bother asking.

“Sam!” Libby tears across the kitchen and tackle hugs him. “I didn't know you were here.”

“Hey, girl. I just got here.”

She grabs for his drink. “Can I have a sip? Ewww. Never mind, it's diet.”

“Yeah. Because I gotta drink the diet if I want to keep this bod. Check out these guns.”

He flexes his bicep, and she laces her fingers over the top of
it so he can lift her off the floor.

“Now me. Now me,” Libby says. She flexes her skinny arms. “Which way to the gun show?”

Sam gives them a squeeze. “Your sister's a beast.” He winks at me.

After some gratuitous flexing by both parties, Sam and I head to the living room so I can help him with his AP Calc homework. My books and notes are already spread over most of the coffee table, and I talk him through a few problems.

“Can you believe Megan and Luke have been dating a month now?” I ask.

“They have?” Sam continues to scribble away at his piece of notebook paper.

“Yeah. I was kind of hoping it wouldn't last.”

Sam gets a serious look on his face. “You know, the guy's not the best boyfriend.”

“What do you mean?”

“A couple of times when it was just guys hanging out, he said stuff about Megan. Like, he makes fun of the stupid stuff she does. And he called her dumb.”

“Really?” I can't help smiling a little.

“Okay, I didn't say that so you'd get excited. I said it so you'd realize maybe he isn't the nicest guy.”

“Well, maybe he
would
be a good boyfriend. He just needs the right girl. Luke's smart. He needs a smart girl to match him.”

Sam smacks his palm against his forehead. “Ugh. You're ridiculous. I could tell you the guy never washes his socks, and you'd be
all like, ‘Isn't it sweet how he's conserving water.'”

“I would not. He does wash his socks, though, right?”

“Ohmygosh.”

“Okay. Okay. Sorry. We'll talk about something else. Liiiiike . . . did Amanda Bell steal your V-card yet?”

“Dude. There will be no talk of V-cards during homework time.”

I poke him in the ribs. “Did she? Did she?”

“No, she didn't. And I—”

All talk of V-cards really does screech to a halt, because my mom pokes her head into the room.

“Sam, are you staying for dinner?” she asks.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“We're having fajitas. I'll set an extra place.” She bustles back to the kitchen.