Something About Love: A YA contemporary romance in verse (3 page)

Takes my hand, and

Leads me down the deserted hall to the parking lot.

His car is immaculate, as always.

The music low, like usual.

The food standard, the ham sandwich my dad typically makes.

Harris is funny, his norm,

But there’s a burn beneath the surface, and

I wonder:

Which is the façade?

The in-control Harris Jacobsen,

Who’s never kissed me like he just did in the hall?

The one who smiles flirtatiously, and

Comes over when my dad isn’t home, and

Says “Livvy, I’m in love with you”?

Or the boy with desire on the tip of his tongue, and

A sigh of contentment when we part, and

Glazed eyes that speak of want,

Lust,

Heat?

He reaches for me;

I lurch toward the window.

“I’m shooting Trevor Youngblood,” I blurt.

“After school yesterday, and today, and maybe for a long time.”

I meet Harris’s gaze,

Notice the desire within him has cooled.

“Trevor Youngblood? The guy your—?”

“La la la,” I practically shriek

Until Harris stops speaking.

“Yes, that Trevor Youngblood.

I’m preparing a portfolio for the Junior Photography in Excellence award.”

“With…” Harris gestures to the air in the car,

Smart enough not to say Trevor’s name again.

“Yes, and I wanted you to know,

So you don’t, I don’t know,

Get jealous.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth,

I want to recall them.

“I mean, there’s nothing to be jealous of,

Not with me and Trevor.”

The idea is laughable,

Though the knot in my stomach betrays me.

Harris reaches for me again, and

I lean toward him,

Tucking my head against his chest.

The steadiness of his heartbeat is

Comforting.

“I thought you’d given up photography.”

He doesn’t sound jealous, just

Curious.

“I did, I mean…

I haven’t taken pictures for a while.”

My nerves come alive,

Sending jitters through my bloodstream.

“I’m just seeing how it goes.”

“Will you let me see the pictures before you turn them in?”

Harris strokes his fingers down my arm,

Across my thigh,

His voice throaty and warm.

“You know I won’t,” I respond,

Which causes him to chuckle

Before we kiss.

“THE NOISE IS INSANE,”

I mutter to myself

Over Trevor’s yesterday-afternoon pictures.

I’m in the library during fourth period

When I should be in Honors English.

Mrs. Peacock doesn’t report me,

Because she knows nothing will happen anyway.

The attendance office will call home,

I’ll intercept and delete the message, and

Simply skip fourth period whenever I want.

Dad and I have a nice system worked out,

Even if he doesn’t know it.

“The focus is too soft, too close to his face,” I whisper,

Thinking I shouldn’t have opened the aperture so wide,

Creating this shallow depth of field.

I like the background blur, but

“This is too much.”

My fingers fly,

From mouse to keyboard shortcuts,

Editing the shadow behind Trevor,

Cropping the right side so the end of the couch doesn’t show,

Taking out the thready ends on Trevor’s frayed jeans.

I get lost editing pictures.

The entire period flies by, and

I’m still working on the first photo.

There’s something still

Not quite right.

I change the saturation,

Add a vignette,

Whiten his teeth.

As the bell rings

I change the photo to

Black and white.

The shot transforms,

Becomes masterful.

I sit back,

Stunned,

Encouraged,

At the image I see on the screen.

I’ve selected a picture of Trevor

With his arm flung wide over the couch,

The smile in his eyes,

But not on his face.

I can see something in him

I never have before.

Apprehension.

Indecision.

About what?
I wonder.

“That’s lovely.”

Mrs. Peacock’s voice causes me

To slam my laptop closed.

I don’t like people looking at my photos

Until they’re ready.

“Thanks, Mrs. P,” I say.

“I gotta go.”

She smiles as I gather my things, and

I see the pity in her eyes

Even without my camera.

“HE’S LATE. OF COURSE HE’S LATE.”

I sit,

Fuming,

In my car,

Only glass separating me from the wind

Coming off the lake.

Living in California, but

Not on the coast,

Has some advantages.

No smog,

Sunny year round,

Day trips to the beach.

But the wind is murder.

I wonder how long it takes to stop,

Pick up a fishing pole, and

Drive to the dock.

I’ve ridden with Trevor before.

He drives fast.

He should be here.

A minute clicks by,

Shooting my frustration to near
I-want-to-scream
levels.

I snatch my camera off the front seat and

Enter the fierce breeze coming off the water.

I lift my camera,

Snap image after image,

Knowing I’ll never download them,

Just glad to be behind the lens again.

Photography soothes me,

Creates an outlet for my anxiety,

A drain in my body where

I can physically feel the tension flow out.

I wonder if Mom found her outlet

In money,

Fast cars,

Beautiful men.

I wonder if that’s why she left Dad,

Left me and Rose,

Left her whole life

To move across town to a new house,

A new husband,

New kids,

New new new.

I capture a duck taking flight,

It’s feathers glossy and bright,

Though the bird is clearly mature.

I wonder what’s so wrong with being old,

With the comfort of a long marriage,

A whole family.

“WINGS!”

Trevor’s voice floats to me on the air.

I don’t turn.

He can see me, because

The dock isn’t that long.

I’m leaning against the railing,

Staring into the water.

My reflection ripples on the miniscule waves,

Making my face wavy and my features distorted.

Trevor settles next to me,

His back to the water,

His eyes on me.

“You’re late,” I say,

“I have to be home for Rose at four.”

“We’ve got time,” he says,

Smoothing down his hair.

“Sorry, Wings. I swear.”

“Why do you call me Wings?” I ask, and

Stand up straight to look at him.

Trevor glances away,

Suddenly not so calm and collected.

I remember the apprehension and

Indecision

I caught in his expression yesterday.

“Remember when we used to come here?” he asks

Instead of answering.

“Before all that stuff with your mom happened?”

He sighs.

“I miss doing that.”

He pins me with a meaningful look.

“I call you Wings because we used to be friends.”

“Trevor—”

“I miss you, Livvy.

Why does it have to be this way?

I mean, I get why
you
think so,

But I think you’re wrong.”

I step back and lift the camera.

“I’m not wrong.

You wanna shoot or what?”

“I’M NOT WRONG,”

I repeat to myself as I drive home.

The shoot was short, yet

Nearly perfect.

I’d captured Trevor as

A vulnerable boy who loves fishing.

I caught him casting,

Reeling,

Patiently waiting.

I know I’ll be able to get at least one

Good shot for my portfolio.

One that shows the little boy behind

Those murky-water eyes.

My entry needs ten photos, and

I have two that showcase completely different sides of the subject:

Teenage uncertainty, and

Childhood love.

I don’t allow myself to hope

To win the Junior Excellence in Photography award.

“What will it change, anyway?”

When Rose rides in the car with me, and

I talk to myself,

She always asks, “Who you talking to, Livvy?”

“No one, kid,” I always answer.

“Myself.”

Trevor’s right: We used to be friends.

But things change, and

There’s little either of us can do about it.

It’s dealing with the change

That makes us into the type of person we are.

So he’s flirtatious,

Hot, and

Sought after.

I’m closed,

Quiet, and

Only noticeable because of my buzzed hair

And the rumors about my mother.

Not exactly what I want to be known for.

I want to be friends with Trevor, but

It doesn’t feel possible.

I tell myself again,

“I’m not wrong.”

“COME ON, GIRLS,”

Dad calls,

“Time to go to your mother’s.”

I curse silently,

Get up, and

Enter the hall.

“Can’t I stay here this weekend?”

I yell down the stairs as

Rose comes out of her bedroom with her overnight bag.

“Olivia,” Dad warns.

Rose trains her baby blues on me, and

I certainly can’t make her go alone.

“I need to pack,” I mutter, and

Return to my room.

With all this stuff going on

With Trevor,

I’d forgotten it was my mom’s weekend.

“I HATE IT THERE,”

I say to the window as Dad backs out of the driveway.

We’ve eaten dinner, and

He has to deliver us by eight o’clock.

It’s 7:45.

We’ll be late.

Mom won’t care.

I’ll be shocked if she’s even home.

“You’ll be fine,” Dad says,

“You don’t even have to come out of your room.”

I grunt in response,

Because I can’t argue.

After the first weekend at Mom’s,

I cried,

Howled,

Begged

Not to go back.

Dad said he’d do everything he could

To make every other weekend bearable.

That included buying a mini-fridge,

A microwave, and

Many and varied boxed,

Canned, and

Frozen foods.

Mom furnished the room with two twin beds,

Two desks,

A flat-screen TV,

A laptop, and

Anything else Rose asked for.

I don’t come out of my room for meals.

I don’t come out of my room for “family” activities.

Rose does.

She is better than me in so many ways.

But for those forty-eight hours

Every other weekend,

I only leave my room to use the bathroom,

And only after everyone else is asleep.

“O-
LIV
-IA!”

Mom sing-songs like we’re celebrities

Who only meet over lunch

To share the latest gossip.

“Hey, Mom,” I deadpan.

I brush past her outstretched arms,

Let my eyes skip past her perfectly painted face,

Her stylish hair,

The disapproval that shows in the corners of her mouth.

She doesn’t say anything,

Simply turns to Rose,

Her arms still begging for a hug,

Which Rose gives her happily.

I let them bubble over the activities of the past two weeks

While I beeline for the stairs.

I keep my head down, and

My iPod on loud,

So it’s a miracle—

Or a nightmare?—

That I hear,

“Hey, Wings,”

Coming from the doorway

Across from mine.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

I gasp,

Dropping my iPod

As I skid to a stop.

“I live here,” Trevor says, “Remember?”

“Not every other weekend,” I practically yell.

My heart pounds too hard, and

My voice borders on screechy.

“Not
this
weekend!”

He shrugs.

“My mom is out of town on a business trip.”

“No.” I shake my head,

The word reverberating through my skull.

No no no no no no no.

My mother has lived with Trevor’s dad

For over a year.

I’ve been existing within the walls of my bedroom-away-from-home

For ninety-six hours a month,

Safely knowing that Trevor is at his mom’s.

Across town.

Not here.

He’s never been here on my weekends.

That was a stipulation of mine

When my parents and I discussed visitation.

He can’t be here.

“DAD, PLEASE,”

I whisper into my phone.

“I can’t stay here.”

Dad starts into something about

How I’ll be fine, and

That I don’t even need to leave my room.

I listen,

Near tears,

Shaking my head but

Not speaking.

“So tell me, Livvy,

What’s really going on?”

I’m desperate to tell him the real reason

Why I’m so freaked out, but

I stifle a sob instead.

“Nothing,” I say,

Though it sounds raw and alien.

The word gets muffled by the clothes in the closet

Where I’m hiding,

Articles my mom purchased

For me back when she thought