I think of her note. The words she left behind to remind me to be brave.
“I feel like you’re pressuring me. I told you I didn’t want to go inside, and now you’re making me feel bad about it,” I say. The words surprise me when they come out. For a brief second I feel strong—brave—but then I’m overcome by an intense wave of guilt.
He shifts his jaw and lifts his shoulders. “I’m not trying to pressure you. I just don’t understand.”
I feel my knee lock and unlock like a nervous tick. I wish it wasn’t so hard to tell people what I’m feeling. A long time ago, it wasn’t hard for me to tell Jamie anything. I wonder if it will ever be like that again. “I’m not asking you to understand.”
Jamie pulls his neck back and shakes his head. “Why are you making it so difficult for me to hang out with you?”
My stomach somersaults and I feel something swell inside my chest. It isn’t long before my throat tightens and my head starts to spin. I don’t know how to answer Jamie’s question.
His blue eyes soften. “Look, I’ll be right back. Don’t leave, okay? Please?”
When he disappears back into the house, I really, really want to drive away. It’s uncomfortable between us now. It’s not like it was when we were kids—now it’s complicated.
But I don’t leave because he has eyes like gems that make me want to stay, even when he says the wrong thing.
Jamie comes back with his iPod and some headphones. He’s still holding the kiwi water and cookies I brought.
“Will you sit with me?” He lowers himself onto the sidewalk, twists the bottle of water open, and pulls out a chocolate chip cookie from the package. A crooked smile appears in the corner of his mouth.
Suddenly I don’t want to leave as much as I did before.
I sink down onto the concrete next to him, mostly because being closer to the ground makes me feel steadier.
He holds out the cookies. As soon as I take one, my eyes start to water. I blink as hard as I can.
We both crunch and chew into the humid night air. When I’m finished, I dust the crumbs from my fingers and blink again to make sure the tears are gone.
His hand falls to his lap. “Sarah isn’t my girlfriend, by the way. Our parents are still friends, so we hang out whenever we’re in the same place.”
She’s not his girlfriend. That’s . . . “Oh. Okay.”
He fountains the bottle into his mouth and swallows like he’s in pain. “This is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted.”
I can’t help it—I laugh so loud that the sound bounces off the street and fills my own ears. For a second I’m stunned by the noise, and I can hear it in my head long after it’s quiet again.
I clear my throat and hope he doesn’t see all the redness burning through my face.
“If this is what you drink at your house, you should definitely come inside.” Jamie scratches the side of his head. “We’ve got water. And soda. And pink lemonade. All three of which are better options than this twisted form of torture you brought to my cousin’s house.”
Part of me wants to say yes. Why is it so hard? It’s just as difficult as saying no, when it should be so much easier.
But the more I think about going inside, the more my heart feels like it’s going to burst.
“I can’t,” I say to the street.
“You can’t or you don’t want to?”
This time I look straight into Jamie’s eyes. “I can’t.”
A sad kind of acceptance washes over his face, but it disappears quickly. “Here.” He holds out an earbud.
I put it in my left ear, and he puts the other in his right.
Drums. Violins. A keyboard.
“What is this?” I ask.
Jamie doesn’t look at me. His head is tilted back and his arms are crossed over his knees. “Wilco. Do you like it?”
“Yeah. It’s relaxing.”
“I listen to a lot of Wilco when I’m taking photographs. And The Smiths.”
“I don’t know them.”
“You will. We might be here for a while.”
I rub my fingers along my shins. “You can go back to your party.”
“Of course I can,” he says. “But I want to hang out with you. That’s why I invited you over.”
We listen to two more Wilco songs, and when Jamie puts on The Smiths, I start to forget where I am. The almost-black sky is painted with stardust, my left ear is full of guitar strums, and every time Jamie taps his thumb against his knee to the beat of the music, I fall more in love with him.
The earbud drops to the concrete and I am on my feet. I’m not in a position to be falling in love with anyone. And especially not Jamie Merrick, who I’ve loved practically all my life, who could probably crush my heart with two fingers and a half smirk.
I’m supposed to be coming up with a plan. I’m supposed to be figuring out what I’m doing with my life. I’m supposed to be finding a way to get out of this town for good.
“I should go home,” I insist before any words tumble out of his partially opened mouth. “But thank you. For sitting with me, and for Wilco.” And for trying, I want to say.
Jamie gets up and wraps the earbuds into a tight coil. “Okay. No problem, Kiko.” His face looks strained because he doesn’t understand me. He doesn’t know how to fix me.
He doesn’t know I don’t want him to fix me.
Prism was going to make everything better, but now that it’s out of the picture, I know I have to work through the clouds in my head all on my own. Otherwise the next time I lose what’s important to me, I might not have the strength to come up with another plan.
Hearts aren’t meant to be broken an infinite amount of times.
I drive home without looking at him again, even though I really, really want to.
• • •
I paint Jamie sitting on the sidewalk, watching the stars, listening to Wilco, with a ghost sitting beside him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
You can’t get so disheartened when someone doesn’t act the way you want them to. Even Mr. Darcy wasn’t perfect. And just because someone makes you feel uncomfortable doesn’t make them your mom.”
Emery always has the best advice, even when it’s compacted into five minutes because that’s all the spare time she has between classes.
I text Jamie a GIF of a Pikachu making a weird face.
He texts back a GIF of James Franco smiling and mouthing the words “It’s okay.”
And just like that, we’re back to normal again.
When I get home from work, the acrylic tubes are still on the desk, but not the way I left them. I know because when I have a new painting idea, I always line them up a certain way to get a feel for the color scheme. But they’ve been pushed to the side, like someone was looking for something.
It wouldn’t be strange if I was used to people coming in my room and touching things, but nobody comes in here. Mom would probably rather die than admit she’s seen a painting of mine, and my brothers don’t bother because all the video games and food are in other rooms.
I’m not trying to be a jerk when I immediately blame Uncle Max, but I can’t help it. Who else would come in here?
“You shouldn’t accuse people of things when you don’t have any proof,” Mom says from the couch. She looks irritated that I’ve interrupted her TV show.
“But you said you didn’t go in there, and I’m telling you, somebody was in my room.” I feel like she’s treating me like a whiny little girl. But I have a history with Uncle Max. I have a history with him coming into my bedroom.
Why doesn’t she ever seem to get this?
“Is it really that big of a deal? Maybe he was interested in your drawings.”
WHAT I WANT TO SAY:
“You’re already a crappy mother for letting him back in this house. If you let him in my room, you’ll be the world’s worst mother.”
WHAT I ACTUALLY SAY:
“It’s a big deal to me. It’s my stuff.”
Mom rolls her eyes dismissively. “Well, what exactly is it you want me to do?”
I shrug. Just be my mother, I think. “Just tell him not to come in my room,” I say.
She looks at me like winter has inched through the house and we are freezing from the inside out. With the remote control attached to her hand, she raises her arm toward the TV and mutes the sound.
“I really need to talk to you.”
My chest thumps with excitement. I wish it didn’t. Disappointment always, always follows excitement.
Mom leans forward. “Are you gaining weight?”
I blink. “What?”
Her blue eyes are full of very real concern. “I don’t want you to get upset, but your face is looking rounder than usual. Now that you don’t have to walk around school, I’m wondering if maybe you aren’t getting enough exercise. It’s important, you know. For your health.”
“I’ve only been out of school for a week. I doubt my face is rounder after seven days of not walking to class.” My words are all right, but my voice is shaking so bad I’m positive she’s never going to hear them. I close my arms around myself protectively.
“Don’t be sensitive about this,” she scolds. “I’m only saying it because I love you.”
I don’t know what else to say, so I shrink back upstairs and lock myself in the bathroom.
When I look in the mirror, I don’t see a fat girl. But after five minutes of pinching my skin and studying every angle in the reflection, I see the fattest person in the world.
• • •
I paint a girl in a circus freak show with wide, stumpy legs and a face shaped like a perfect circle.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When I drive Shoji to tae kwon do practice, I ask him if he thinks I’m fat.
“Obviously not,” he says, staring at his empty hands. He must have forgotten his book today.
“You can’t tell if I’ve put on weight?”
His head falls to the side. “Why are you asking me this? You sound like Mom.”
I grimace. That’s the last thing I want, so I stop talking immediately.
The car pulls up to the building, but Shoji doesn’t move right away.
“Are you going away for college?”
My eyes widen in surprise. “I want to. I don’t know though. I didn’t get into Prism.”
“Yeah, I know, but are you still moving out?” He’s watching me impatiently.
“Probably.” I have to. Staying here isn’t an option—it can’t be.
Shoji is still for a while. I wonder if this is about my room—maybe he wants to swap after I’ve gone. I have the bigger closet by a long shot.
“Do you think Dad and Serena would let me move in with them?” His voice is floating somewhere high above us. I barely hear him.
“You don’t want to stay with Mom?” I ask quietly. I always knew Shoji preferred Dad, but I never realized it was enough to want to move out.
He looks at me with careful eyes—desperate eyes—but the light in them vanishes quickly, like a window being slammed shut. Shoji doesn’t want me too close—he’s protecting his heart too.
Shoji clicks his seat belt and jumps out of the car. “Never mind,” his voice clips as quick as a paper cut. “I’ll see you later.”
I watch my little brother jump up the stairs and disappear behind the glass doors. The car engine rumbles and the bass of the stereo makes the seat vibrate, but I don’t drive off.
Shoji feels what I feel—the urgency to get away. Because being around Mom is like swimming in poison. It kills your soul, slowly, bit by bit.
It’s one of the reasons art is so important to me. It’s my lighthouse, guiding me through the storms.
But eventually that lighthouse is going to wear out. Eventually the storm will reach it.
I can’t let my soul die to the point where I lose my art. I just can’t. Shoji protects himself by being invisible, but I’m not good at that. Not when it comes to Mom. Because it hurts too much when she doesn’t look at me the way I need her to. I don’t know how to turn that off.
I have to get away. I don’t want to stay here, I don’t want community college, and I don’t want to live with Dad and Serena, even if they are the nicest. I just want to go.
I lean my head against the headrest, trying to think of a way to change my future so it stops feeling like an empty hallway that stretches forever and ever.
• • •
I draw a little mouse so afraid of the world that he hides in the dark until he goes blind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Ican’t find my new brushes. Or the twenty-dollar bill I left next to the receipt, which is also missing.
Mom tells me I’m being dramatic when I tell her I think Uncle Max is stealing from me. I don’t think it’s dramatic at all. He doesn’t have a job, but he goes out every night and comes back with drunk eyes and bad breath, if he even comes back at all. He must be getting the money from somewhere.
“I want to put a lock on my door.” I’m looking at Mom seriously, but she’s smiling like this is the funniest conversation in the world.
“No. It’s my house, and nobody is locking me out of the rooms I pay for.” She’s flipping through a catalog from some hipster-looking clothing store. I seriously doubt she’ll buy anything—I think she’s just judging the models and playing her “Who’s prettiest?” game.
“I’m going to be eighteen in a month. I think I should be allowed to have a lock on my door.” Especially since Uncle Max is sleeping across the hall from me, I want to add.
“I said no. Drop it.” She stops flipping the pages and holds up one of the glossy images for me to see. “What do you think of this sweater?”
It’s a black-and-white patterned kimono with tassels.
“Are you going to a music festival?” I ask dryly.
Mom squints her eyes at me. “Don’t be mean.” She stares at the picture again. “I think I’d look super cute in this.”
“If I can’t have a lock on my room, I’m going to move out. I don’t trust the people living in this house,” I say.
She lets the catalog flop onto the kitchen counter. “Can’t you see I’m trying to have a nice conversation about clothes? Why do you always have to be so negative?”
“Can’t you see I’m trying to have a conversation about somebody stealing my money?” I feel like a vein is going to burst from my neck. It’s not easy for me to say what I’m thinking, but I’m trying anyway because it’s important. I need her to know how uncomfortable I am with Uncle Max being in my room. I need her to understand. Why can’t she see that? Why doesn’t she care?
“God, Kiko!” Mom marches to the living room and shoves her hand into her oversized purse. She comes back with her wallet. “Here.” She flings a twenty-dollar bill at me, which I ignore and let fall to the floor.
“I don’t want your money.” I dig my hands into my ribs.
“What is it you want from me, then?” Her voice is shrill and sharp.
WHAT I WANT TO SAY:
“For you to be the mother I need.”
WHAT I ACTUALLY SAY:
“Permission to put a lock on my bedroom door.”
Rubbing her temples with her peach fingernails, she shakes her head. “You can’t have a lock. If you want to keep your stuff safe, find a better hiding place. Or better yet, go talk to Max and you can clear up this entire misunderstanding.”
I don’t tell her I shouldn’t need a better hiding place in my own home. I don’t tell her talking to Uncle Max won’t bring back my stuff. I don’t tell her Uncle Max would never admit to stealing from me.
She’s not listening. She never listens.
I leave her and her twenty-dollar bill in the kitchen.
• • •
Taro comes into my room while I’m painting and flicks my ear.
Flinching, I pull my chin toward my chest.
He snickers. “Your boyfriend left this for you on the porch.” H
e tosses a shoe box on my desk. It’s wrapped with an obscene amount of Scotch tape. On the front are the words: FOR KIKO.
“I saw him pull up outside, so I know it’s from him,” Taro states. He adjusts his thick plastic glasses. “Are you going to open it?”
“Not in front of you,” I say with a laugh.
Taro looks offended. “Why not?”
“Because it’s none of your business.” I blink at him. “Do you want something?”
He laughs. “I want to know what’s in the box. What if it’s a bomb?”
“You’re an idiot,” I say.
He starts walking toward the door but stops. “Someone took some money out of my room too.”
“Seriously?” I feel my chest start to tighten. “Did you tell Mom?”
“I don’t tell Mom anything. I’m a lot smarter than you.” He laughs again, but this time it sounds sad. “I’m only telling you so you don’t think I did it.”
“I didn’t think you did.”
I don’t know what else to say to him. Taro never sounds sad. I’m not sure I realized he could be sad. He’s been smirking and avoiding feelings for as long as I’ve known him. And I don’t know why he suddenly cares what I think about him. He’s never cared before.
Has he?
I honestly don’t know. I understand my brothers even less than I understand Mom. It never occurred to me Taro might understand a little bit about me.
He scratches his nose with his knuckle, laughs uncomfortably, and leaves me alone with the shoe box.
A rush of excitement builds, and I’m no longer thinking about what it means to have brothers who never talk to you but somehow still know you—I want to know what’s inside the box. I saw at the tape with a pair of scissors until the lid comes free. It’s full of photographs.
They’re all from the fair. Some of them are black-and-white and some are colored. They’re candid and beautiful. When I look through them, I can smell funnel cake and fresh doughnuts. I can hear the blend of laughter and screams. I can hear the popping of balloons and air rifles, and I can hear the clink of glass bottles and plastic rings. I can almost feel Jamie next to me, looking at things the way I do—with too much focus on what’s least important, which to us is the most important of all.
Starfish Page 10
