Something About Love: A YA contemporary romance in verse

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 screech
y.

  “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

  She could buy my love

  With designer jeans and sparkles.

  That’s another funny thing about love.

  It can’t be purchased,

  Coerced,

  Taken,

  Imagined.

  It has to be felt,

  Earned,

  Cultivated.

  I wonder if Mom has fallen out of love

  With me too.

  “Honey?” Dad’s voice comes through the line,

  Insanely curious,

  Smudged with worry.

  “It’s fine, Dad,” I muster,

  “I’ll survive.”

  I hang up,

  Knowing I’ve disappointed him

  By staying silent.

  I just can’t find the words

  To tell him

  That it’s my fault

  Mom left.

  My doing that she met Darren Youngblood

  In the first place.

  My eyes who first saw them kissing

  At the dock.

  My silence that bought our family

  Another year together.

  My lies that ruined

  My relationship with Trevor,

  Dad’s marriage,

  Rose’s chance at having a real mom,

  Our family.

  ARE YOU GOING TO STAY IN YOUR ROOM ALL WEEKEND?

  Trevor texts

  Around noon on Saturday.

  I don’t respond to him, but

  Call Harris to come get me.

  “THIS IS NEW,”

  Harris says as we drive away from

  The Youngblood’s.

  “I’ve gotten used to our

  Every-other-weekend schedule.”

  “Sorry,” I say,

  “Did you have something else going on?”

  It suddenly occurs to me

  That Harris could be cheating on me,

  Every other weekend,

  With another girl.

  “Not really,” he says.

  “Playing Halo, you know,

  Busy stuff.”

  I smile

  Without showing my teeth,

  Not sure what to even say.

  Harris doesn’t ask,

  Just drives.

  He takes me to a movie,

  Something that makes me squeeze his hand tight,

  Because I won’t have to speak.

  Harris seems to know exactly

  When I need to talk, and

  When I don’t.

  After previews and popcorn,

  After the hero is on the run,

  I lift the armrest between us, and

  Cuddle into Harris.

  He squeezes my shoulder, and

  Kisses the top of my head.

  I turn my mouth to meet his, and

  Try to drown out my fears by

  Kissing my boyfriend.

  “YOU’RE LATE,”

  Are the first words I hear

  Upon arriving back at the Youngblood’s house.

  The voice belongs to my mother and

  Comes from the shadows in the living room.

  The lamp snaps to life and

  Illuminates my mom.

  She stands,

  Wearing a pair of purple satin pajamas.

  From a distance,

  She looks perfect,

  Polished.

  Up close,

  I see the imperfections:

  The pilling of fabric along the seams,

  The hair that refuses to be tamed, and

  The crinkles around her eyes.

  Strangers come into the house, and

  Exclaim over its magnificence,

  Its cleanliness,

  Its grandeur.

  Their eyes sweep over

  The garbage disposal that doesn’t drain right, and

  The scuffs along the baseboards, and

  The dust on the too-high-to-reach light fixtures.

  I see all of that, and

  More.

  From the outside,

  My mom looks like she has a perfect life,

  A perfect house.

  From this close,

  I see the truth:

  She traded in a family

  For money,

  And she’s no happier than she was before.

  Something different didn’t help, and

  I wonder when she’ll leave

  The Youngbloods

  In search of what she’s looking for,

  But still can’t find.

  “WELL?”

  She places one hand on her narrow hip, and

  Skates her eyes down the length of my body.

  “You cannot simply leave this house

  Without telling anyone where you’re going, and

  When you’ll be back.”

  “I told someone where I was going, and

  When I’d be back.

  It just wasn’t you.”

  “Olivia!”

  She throws her hands into the air.

  “Texting your father does not count.

  It’s my weekend.”

  Something unfolds inside my body,

  A monster,

  An animal, and

  Claws through my stomach and

  Up my throat.

  “When you left us a year ago,

  You gave up the privilege of knowing

  Anything about me.”

  Anger blazes in Mom’s expression, and

  I can tell she’s fighting her own monster.

  “I just want to know you’re safe.”

  “I was fine.

  I am fine.”

  “Where were you?

  Who were you with?”

  I squint at her,

  Hoping to see her more clearly.

  I can’t.

  She is so far removed from me,

  It’s as if a continent separates us.

  “Olivia.”

  Her voice carries only warning,

  Not compassion,

  Not worry,

  Not concern.

  “I was with Harris!” I yell,

  Not caring that it’s two o’clock in the morning.

  This house is huge, and

  The people here probably sleep

  With those machines that simulate the sound of the ocean.

  “We drove around a little,

  We
nt to a movie, and

  Then had hot sex in the back of his car!”

  My chest heaves,

  The monster inside is desperate to come out and

  Scratch my mother’s vocal chords from her throat.

  “Is that what you wanted to know, Mom?”

  She stumbles back a step,

  One hand clutching her heart.

  “You didn’t.

  Tell me you’re lying.”

  “Why do you care?” I ask.

  I take my raging emotions, and

  Tighten them back into the box

  I’ve so carefully used for the past year.

  “At least I’m not married to someone else but

  Sleeping with him.”

  I don’t wait for her response, because

  I think I may have just stepped over an invisible line, and

  I’m scared at how satisfied I feel.

  “IS THAT REALLY TRUE?”

  Trevor’s voice pierces the darkness

  Outside the bedroom I share with Rose.

  Upstairs, quiet reigns.

  Rose left our door open, but

  I didn’t wake her with my tantrum.

  “You sleeping with Harris.

  Is that really true?”

  His silhouette dances with

  The moonlight spilling through his room.

  The monster flees, but

  I keep my feelings from showing on my face.

  “I mean, you’ve been dating him for

  Eight months, but…”

  Trevor lets his words die in the night, and

  I have nothing to add.

  I’m trying to figure out why Trevor

  Knows how long I’ve been dating Harris.

  I barely know that.

  “Please,” Trevor begs, and

  I hear the compassion,

  Concern, and

  Worry

  In his voice.

  Everything I wanted to hear in Mom’s.

  “I have to know if you’re sleeping with him.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  The truth leaks from me, and

  I’m not sure why.

  Truth is a dangerous thing.

  It can free a person, and

  When spoken plainly

  Can build trust.

  When hidden, the truth

  Can destroy relationships,