Something About Love: A YA contemporary romance in verse

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Something About Love: A YA contemporary romance in verse Page 9

by Elana Johnson


  Now get in here.”

  “Persistence,” he mutters behind me.

  I smother the smile that rises to my face

  When I hear his footsteps.

  The living room is picked pretty bare, but

  There’s an old dining table in the kitchen.

  “There.” I direct him to the table and

  Have him sit down.

  “No…stand back up.

  Maybe just sit on it…

  Not all the way on it,

  Just one cheek…

  Yeah, like that.”

  He crosses his arms, and

  A strange glint has entered his eye.

  I lift the camera,

  Adjust the focal length, and

  Snap the picture.

  “Will you go out with me?” he asks as

  I step to the side to get a different angle.

  I almost drop my camera.

  “What? No.”

  My hands shake the slightest bit, but

  I manage to get off a few more shots.

  The pictures are the best I’ve taken, but

  It’s not because of the lighting, or

  The technique, or

  The lens.

  It’s because Trevor is finally in the moment.

  His mind is alive,

  Seething,

  Working through how he can get me to go out with him.

  I can see it through my one-hundred twenty millimeter lens, and

  I don’t like it.

  Not one little bit.

  “CRAP.”

  Trevor isn’t the only one who hears the sirens.

  We hold each other’s eyes for a long moment, then

  We spring into action together, like

  We’ve rehearsed every getaway scenario

  Together.

  He helps me pack my lens and

  Flash equipment before

  Jumping in the driver’s seat.

  “Go,” I say as I fling myself in the passenger seat.

  He doesn’t need to be told twice.

  He flips the gearshift into drive, and

  Floors it.

  I turn toward the window and

  Smile, because

  It feels like Trevor and I just got away with something dangerous.

  Together.

  “WE COULD JUST GO SEE A MOVIE,”

  He says after putting ten minutes of driving distance between

  Us and the abandoned house.

  “No funny business, I promise.

  Friends go to movies together, you know.”

  “Right,” I scoff. “On Saturday night.

  That’s not a date or anything.”

  I stare determinedly out my window,

  My smile gone,

  My arms folded.

  “Not a date,” he confirms.

  “You’d go with Jacey, right?”

  I tighten my jaw as

  I tighten my arms.

  “My mom will be mad.”

  “Like you care if she’s upset.”

  “I do,” I say,

  Suddenly very,

  Very angry.

  “You have no idea what I care about.”

  I suddenly hate myself for saying those words, because

  I’ve heard my mom say them to my dad.

  I hated her when she said them too,

  When she told him he didn’t know her,

  Didn’t make an effort to like what she liked, and

  Therefore, she couldn’t be married to him anymore.

  I hate the things I see in myself that come from her, including

  Wanting to be with a Youngblood.

  “I know you come alive behind that camera.”

  Trevor doesn’t slow down enough for the right turn he takes, and

  I almost fly into the window.

  “I know you care—”

  “Shut up!” I yell.

  “You do not know what I care about, or

  Don’t care about.”

  My chest heaves, and

  I feel hot everywhere.

  “You have not been part of my life for

  A long time, and

  You do not—

  Know me.”

  “I know more than you think.”

  His voice is tight,

  Controlled,

  Unlike mine which

  Has pitched too high and

  Come out too loud.

  He’s driving so fast, and

  I’m so furious, and

  For a few terrible minutes,

  I think that’s it,

  That he won’t say anything else,

  That he’ll simply speed to his dad’s and

  Drop me off.

  Then he slows,

  Turns away from the Youngbloods, and

  Picks his way toward my house.

  He stops in the driveway, but

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

  It’s my mom’s weekend, and

  She’ll be pissed if I stay here.

  “You’re wrong,” Trevor says to his window.

  “I do know you;

  I know everything about you,

  Down to the pencil-thin lines on your toes, and

  The reason you cut your hair so short.

  I know you do that to make your mom mad, and

  I know you get tattoos to teach yourself a lesson.

  I know you love Rose more than anything, and

  I know you blame your mom for more than you should.

  I know you have a strange affinity for lemon sorbet, and

  I know you adore absolutely everything about photography.

  You’re a good cook;

  A good student;

  A good friend.”

  His voice finally wisps into silence, which

  Is only broken as

  I start to cry.

  “DID JACEY TELL YOU ABOUT THE TATTOOS?”

  I ask after I’ve managed to stem the tears.

  I’m not sure if I was crying because

  He does know me, or

  If I’m angry he knows about my lemon sorbet fetish, and

  My tattoos, and

  That I blame Mom for not just some things, but

  For everything.

  He doesn’t understand;

  Jacey doesn’t either.

  I will not be like my mother, and

  Every time I see her,

  I’m reminded of how much

  I am exactly like her.

  “Well? Did she?” I ask again,

  Hoping for something else to focus on besides

  The fact that my mom—a beast—left my dad—a good guy.

  Beasts do not deserve good guys, and

  I will not destroy Trevor

  The way my mom ruined my dad.

  Trevor shakes his head,

  A movement I can barely see, because

  Darkness has descended.

  “I know you, Wings,” he says.

  “Whether you like it or not,

  Whether you’ll admit it or not.”

  He turns toward me now, and

  There is nothing between us.

  No secrets.

  No lies.

  No masks.

  No camera.

  I wish I could see inside his mind and

  Find out what he’s thinking.

  Right now, he looks vulnerable,

  Yet strong.

  “I want to be with you,” he says,

  Laying it all out.

  Click.

  I see the desperation in his face.

  Click.

  I see him wipe it away,

  Shut himself off.

  “Another thing I know:

  You want to be with me too.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but

  The words die.

  He’s already seen into my soul

  And my soul

  Doesn’t lie.

  “You should set up that ca
mera

  To take some selfies,” he says,

  The self-assured Trevor returning as

  He smiles.

  “You’re always bragging about how you can

  See the soul through your lens.

  Maybe then you’d be able to see yourself and

  What you really want.”

  “You’re unbelievable,” I say, but

  The words have no anger behind them because

  He might be right.

  He’s been right about so much already.

  “So I’ll wait,” he says,

  Reaching for the keys and

  Starting the car.

  He pulls into the street and

  Makes his way to his dad’s.

  “I can be patient… and

  What did you say?

  Persistent.”

  “I HATE HIM,”

  I whisper to myself as I lean away

  From the computer.

  The picture I’m working on came out of the camera

  Nearly perfect.

  Trevor, half leaning, half sitting

  On that beat-up kitchen table,

  Grinning at me like he knows he’ll get what he wants

  One way or

  The other.

  His arms are crossed, saying

  Say what you want,

  We’ll still be together.

  At the same time,

  The skin around his eyes is puckered because

  He’s thinking really hard about

  How he can get what he wants.

  The contrast between what his body is saying and

  What his eyes are conveying

  Is sheer perfection for my portfolio.

  The table is stained,

  Dirty, and

  Drab in every way.

  Trevor is polished,

  Clean, and

  Exciting in every way.

  I captured the exact right moment,

  With the exact right specs,

  With the exact right model.

  A thrill shoots through me, and

  I know: Trevor was right.

  I do absolutely adore everything about photography.

  I mutter again,

  “I hate him.”

  “NO SCHOOL TODAY,”

  I announce to Gramma-Linda

  As soon as Dad leaves for work.

  “You’ve been working me to death.”

  I hold up my camera.

  “Let’s go shoot something.”

  Gramma-Linda looks up from the pile

  Of supplies she’s brought.

  “No school? Shoot something?”

  She slips her glasses off and

  Peers at my camera.

  “It’s Friday,” I whine.

  “I’m sick of reading, and

  History, and

  Chemistry.”

  I hurry toward her to help her stand.

  “I’m all caught up. Please,

  All you have to do is wait in the car.”

  I glance over my shoulder to the front door.

  “But I have to get out of here.”

  This week has been a bear, with

  Boring days and long lessons, an

  Absence of Jacey as she studies for midterms with Mason, and

  Only Rose to drive to dance now and again.

  I haven’t heard from Trevor at all,

  Not even a text.

  I never hear from Mom, so

  That’s not new.

  Dad compliments my cooking and

  Checks with me about school, and

  That’s it.

  “Oh, all right,” Gramma-Linda sighs.

  “But it’s cold out there.

  Get a sweatshirt.”

  I don’t care that she’s being overprotective.

  She wants me to wear a sweatshirt?

  I’ll wear a sweatshirt.

  “DON’T LOOK AT ME,”

  I complain.

  I’d only gotten about two dozen shots of

  Gramma-Linda before she noticed I was

  Taking her picture.

  “Just do what you were doing.”

  She resumes watching the wind blow through

  The leaves, but

  The shots aren’t the same.

  She knows I’m shooting now.

  It’s the moments when people don’t know

  I’m clicking away

  That I want to capture.

  The look of contemplation as they consider something important, or

  Worry about money,

  Their children, or

  Their job.

  As they live life.

  The thrill of seeing a dragonfly, or

  Listening to the trees sing, or

  Whatever it was that had brought

  The gentle joy to Gramma-Linda’s face.

  I sigh as I lower my camera.

  I can only hope one of the first few shots I got

  Will be good enough.

  “Brunch?” I ask her as we get in the car.

  “I’ll buy.”

  “You will not,” she says.

  “You don’t even have a job.”

  I laugh, and

  Suddenly wish I was nine,

  Like Rose, and

  Could snuggle up to Gramma-Linda,

  Breathe in her powdery smell, and

  Tell her I love her.

  “Okay, you pay,” I say,

  My voice only slightly choked.

  “And, Gramma-Linda?”

  She swings her face toward me.

  “Hmm?”

  “Thanks.”

  She pats my knee and

  Says, “Of course, honey,” which

  I know means,

  I love you and want you to be happy.

  “MMM,”

  I moan as I eat the last bite of my pancake.

  I remember when Mom used to look at me

  With the same fondness in her eyes

  That Gramma-Linda has watching me scrape

  The strawberry syrup from my plate.

  The small shake of her head,

  The slight lift in her mouth,

  Showing that she’s happy

  I’m happy.

  Showing that she loves me.

  “Good?” she asks,

  That love loud in her voice.

  I nod and

  Reach for another slice of bacon.

  “Gramma?” I start.

  “Do you think my mom still loves me?”

  The peaceful expression on Gramma-Linda’s face

  Disappears,

  Gets covered with worry and

  Tension.

  “Of course she does, Livvy.

  You know she does.”

  I lean forward,

  Resting my elbows on the table.

  “Do I?

  How would I know?”

  Gramma-Linda picks up her fork,

  Something she’d abandoned ten minutes ago

  When she’d claimed she couldn’t eat another bite.

  She begins pushing the cold eggs around her plate.

  “She’s your mother.”

  “So what?” I challenge.

  “That doesn’t mean she loves me.”

  “She does,” Gramma-Linda says.

  “She’s your mother.”

  “She doesn’t call me,” I say.

  “Or text.

  Or know what my grades are, or

  If I’m home by curfew, or

  What I like to do in my spare time.”

  As I speak,

  I realize that Gramma-Linda knows more about me than

  My mom does.

  “Well, for one thing.”

  Gramma-Linda points her fork at me.

  “She puts up with your attitude.

  If that doesn’t take love,

  I don’t know what does.”

  I cock my head to the side,

  Almost smiling at her.

  “Okay,
fine. She puts up with me.

  I put up with the wind, and

  The rain, and

  Mosquitoes.

  But I certainly don’t love them.

  In fact, I hate them and

  Only tolerate them because

  I have no other choice.”

  I slump back in the booth.

  “That’s what she’s doing too, isn’t it?

  Putting up with me because

  She has no other choice.”

  “No,” Gramma-Linda says forcefully.

  “Now stop it.

  Your mother loves you, because

  You’re her daughter and

  She cares about you.”

  “She left me to live with Darren Youngblood.”

  My voice is barely-there,

  A whisper in the crowded restaurant.

  “Well, everyone makes mistakes,”

  Gramma-Linda says airily.

  “But you make no mistake about it.

  Your mother loves you.”

  “How do you know?” I ask.

  “Because I’m a mother, and

  Until you become a mother you don’t

  Understand how deep love can go.”

  She replaces the fork carefully on the table.

  “That love is endless, honey.

  No matter what my children do—

  No matter that your mother abandoned you,

  Rose, and

  Her husband—

  No matter if I think it was the biggest mistake of her life—

  I still love her.”

  She pauses.

  “It’s what mothers do.”

  “STOP SQUIRMING,”

  I tell Rose, who

  Can’t seem to hold still for longer than four seconds.

  “Are we almost done?” she asks

  For the third time.

  “Susie should be able to play now.”

  “Fix your belt, and

  We’ll do a couple more shots.

  Then we’ll be done,

  I swear.”

  I lift my camera as

  Rose checks her belt.

  Click, click, click.

  I don’t want these pictures of

  The top of her head, but

  I do want to catch her

  Innocence when she glances up,

  Preparing to get ready for the shots.

  I want to see her in that pinch of time.

 

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