Something About Love: A YA contemporary romance in verse

Smiling,

  Eyebrows raised.

  “The dock?”

  I suppress the memory of what happened

  Last time I was at the dock

  Alone with Trevor.

  “I’ll bring my assistant,” I say,

  “She needs the hours, and

  You need the water to make you look good.”

  “I thought you said I was hot.”

  “I said everyone thinks you’re hot.”

  “You pay someone to help you take pictures?”

  “Sort of. She’s more like an intern.”

  Sufficiently satisfied with my answers,

  Trevor stoops for his man bag, and

  Agrees to meet me at the dock

  After school tomorrow.

  “I JUST FELL OUT OF LOVE WITH HIM,”

  Mom says about why she left Dad.

  I’d never asked her,

  But while my problem is that

  I’ve bottled everything up

  Mom’s is that she never shuts up.

  This is another thing about love

  I do not understand.

  The word “fall” should not be applied to

  Anything but a season.

  My grandpa fell last year,

  Broke his hip, and

  Hasn’t walked normally since.

  I fell out of bed as a baby,

  Goose-egged my head, and

  Cried all night.

  Or so Dad says.

  Gravity takes complete control

  Of things,

  Making them fall,

  Shatter,

  Split,

  Separate.

  Like my parents,

  My family.

  Where is this “love” place anyway?

  The only thing I imagine when someone says,

  “I’m falling in love with him,”

  Is pain,

  Injury,

  Danger,

  Death.

  Like jumping from an airplane

  Without a parachute,

  Hoping to hit the magic vortex

  Labeled LOVE, and

  Find someone there you like enough

  To live with forever.

  “Not forever,”

  I mutter to myself

  As I clean up my photography equipment.

  Because apparently,

  You can fall out of love

  Too.

  I wonder if falling out hurts more than falling in,

  Or if it’s like

  Slipping through the cracks

  When no one is looking.

  “DAD, WHY DID MOM LEAVE?”

  My voice fractures the silence of dinner and

  Causes Rose to look up sharply from her spaghetti.

  Dad twirls his noodles,

  Breathes in deep, and

  Meets my eyes.

  “I mean, you don’t work late”—

  Something I’d heard my BFF Jacey’s mom complain about—

  “You make enough money.

  I make dinner.

  Rose is the cutest thing ever.”

  I don’t know why I’m asking.

  I don’t really care.

  I’ve just been thinking about what Harris said,

  Why he thinks he loves me,

  What he means by it.

  “It’s good spaghetti,” Dad says,

  Pointing his fork toward Rose,

  Which means,

  Let’s talk later.

  “Thanks,” I say, answering both his spoken word, and

  His unsaid gesture.

  “Mom loves us,” Rose blurts,

  Her voice too high.

  “You told me that, Liv.

  Doesn’t she love us?”

  “Of course she does,” Dad soothes Rose.

  “She did not leave because of you,

  Or because I work late or don’t work late,

  Or because Olivia burns every chicken dish she attempts.”

  Rose chuckles, but the worry

  Doesn’t leave her expression.

  “You are the cutest thing ever,” Dad reassures,

  “Mom just needed…

  Something else.”

  “What?” Rose asks, and I find my mind

  Puzzling through the same thing.

  Dad sighs, and

  Puts down his fork

  To pick up his garlic bread.

  While I overcook poultry,

  I’m killer with baked goods.

  “I don’t know, girls.

  Honest, I don’t.

  I suspect Mom doesn’t even know.”

  He looks at his bread

  Like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

  “But it doesn’t matter.

  We’re okay.”

  He pierces me with his gaze, and

  Then Rose.

  “Right, girls? We’re okay, right?”

  Rose nods, her little chin quivering.

  I feel a love so fierce for my father,

  That I don’t know how to vocalize my emotions.

  So I just nod too.

  “YOU IGNORED MY CALLS YESTERDAY.”

  The words float behind me,

  Frustration,

  Not anger,

  In Jacey’s words.

  “I did not,” I defend

  Without turning around.

  “I didn’t get them until this morning.”

  I pull out my phone and send my best friend a quick text,

  Even though Jacey’s standing right behind me.

  “I responded.”

  Her phone chirps,

  This annoying sound of someone saying,

  “Hey, psst,”

  In a not-so-stage whisper.

  I turn as Jacey looks at her phone,

  Her black hair falling way past her shoulder

  As she ducks her head.

  “Smart aleck.”

  But she smiles.

  “But seriously, what’s with you and Trevor Youngblood?”

  I wait for her next question,

  Knowing what she’ll say before she says it.

  “You’re not hooking up with him, are you?”

  We start down the hall to first period.

  “I mean, I wouldn’t blame you if you did,

  But Harris is more your type.”

  What she means is “more available.”

  Trevor Youngblood doesn’t have a girlfriend,

  But he’s off-limits.

  At least to me.

  “And,” Jacey continues,

  Even as we pass the un-hooked-up-with Youngblood’s locker,

  “I’ve already heard three separate rumors about

  Why he followed you home yesterday.”

  Outside Jacey’s art classroom, she stops.

  I do too.

  “Did any of the rumors include the word photography?”

  Jacey peers at me and

  Frowns a little.

  “No.”

  “Well, I got nominated for the

  Junior California Photography in Excellence award, and

  I need to submit a portfolio by March.

  Trevor is the subject.”

  Jacey’s brown eyes couldn’t have gotten wider,

  Her gasp louder.

  She grips my sleeve and pulls me toward her,

  As if we aren’t already close enough, and

  The hall isn’t so loud that no one could possibly overhear us.

  “I thought you weren’t going to enter.”

  “I wasn’t,” I hiss back in the same

  half-shocked, half-overjoyed voice

  That Jacey used.

  Her eyes flicker between mine,

  Her hair the only protection

  From passing eyes.

  I brush my short locks

  Away from my face

  Though they aren’t long enough

  To stay tucked behind my ear.

  Jacey leans closer,

  And I get a
n up-close-personal

  Look at the skin blemishes

  She’s covered with makeup.

  “Then why are you snapping shots of the hottest guy in school?”

  “First,” I say, “That point is debatable.”

  Jacey shakes her head, but I continue.

  “Second, I didn’t ask him to model for me.

  He—”

  “I VOLUNTEERED.”

  All sound in the hall evaporates.

  I stare at Jacey,

  But her gaze switches from mine

  To Trevor’s behind me.

  “I can’t believe you said my hotness is debatable,”

  He jokes, and

  I wish my throat didn’t tighten

  At the low playfulness in his voice.

  His arm settles around my shoulders.

  “Wings is a heckuva photog,” he informs Jacey,

  As if she didn’t already know.

  “Even when she wanted me to take off my—”

  I shove him away,

  Mad, not playful.

  “Shut up, you idiot.

  I didn’t—have never—asked you to take off anything.”

  I make sure my voice is loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Trevor laughs. “She manhandled me.”

  “I did not!” I cry,

  Though I distinctly remember using those words.

  “I was posing you.”

  “Did you or did you not use the word ‘manhandle’?”

  “You know what?” I growl.

  Jacey grabs my arm as I advance on Trevor.

  I vaguely hear her say, “Not worth it, Liv.

  Mr. Archibald coming this way.”

  “No dock this afternoon,” I say sweetly to Trevor,

  Force a smile to my face, and

  A chuckle out of my mouth.

  I put a flirtatious hand on his chest, and

  Fiddle with a button on his shirt though

  I want to rip it off and shove it somewhere unpleasant.

  “Forget about the portfolio.

  You’re not worth the effort.”

  I spin,

  Air-kiss Jacey on both cheeks

  Though I know she sees the fire in my eyes, and

  Grin at Vice-Principal Archibald

  As he walks by.

  At the end of the hall,

  I dare to turn back to Jacey’s art classroom.

  She and Trevor are arguing, and

  Neither looks very happy.

  WHAT WERE YOU AND TREVOR TALKING ABOUT?

  I text to Jacey

  From underneath my desk in health class.

  Jacey: When?

  Me: Come on. After I walked away before first.

  Jacey: I don’t want to tell you.

  Me: Are you hooking up with him???

  Jacey: Not in the way you think.

  Me: Enlighten me.

  Jacey:

  Me: JC!

  Jacey:

  “I’M SORRY, OKAY?

  Can we still go to the dock this afternoon?”

  Trevor is standing outside my health class,

  Like he hasn’t even gone to first period.

  I bolted as soon as the bell rang, and

  He was already there, all Edward-Cullen-stalker style.

  I stop,

  Appraise him, and

  Let my eyes graze from the top of his head

  To the expensive Nikes he wears.

  “Bring your fishing pole.”

  “HARRIS, I NEED TO TELL YOU—”

  I can’t finish,

  Because we round the corner that leads

  To the band room, and

  Harris presses me into the wall,

  His lips already on mine.

  I lose myself to his touch,

  His heat,

  His passion.

  “Come on,” he says,

  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
r />   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,