And We Call It Love

by Vink, Amanda;

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  Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Vink, Amanda.

  Title: And we call it love / Amanda Vink.

  Description: New York : West 44, 2019. | Series: West 44 YA verse Identifiers: ISBN 9781538382752 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781538382769 (library bound) | ISBN 9781538383384 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCSH: Children’s poetry, American. | Children’s poetry, English. | English poetry.

  Classification: LCC PS586.3 A539 2019 | DDC 811’.60809282--dc23

  First Edition

  Published in 2019 by Enslow Publishing LLC 101 West 23rd Street, Suite #240 New York, NY 10011

  Copyright © 2019 Enslow Publishing LLC

  Editor: Caitie McAneney Designer: Seth Hughes

  Photo Credits: Cover (apple) © istockphoto.com/ StephenKingPhotography; cover (apple interior) Wavebreakmedia LTD/Thinkstock.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer.

  Printed in the United States of America

  CPSIA compliance information: Batch #CS18W44: For further information contact Enslow Publishing LLC, New York, New York at 1-800-542-2595.

  For Mom, Dad, and Markus— for always showing what the best love looks like.

  Zari

  Love Is

  dedication, responsibility, success. Love is always doing your best. Love is coming out on top when put to the test.

  Listen to This

  Zari says. Between her pointer finger and thumb is a neon green earbud. I slip the peanut shape in my left ear. Zari already has the other one. And we walk, connected to one another and belting “Bohemian Rhapsody” at the top of our lungs.

  We’ve Been Friends

  since Zari moved here. Since then, everything between us is shared. Zari knows what makes me scared. I know exactly what makes her hair stand on end. Zari makes me laugh. Almost makes me pee my pants on a completely regular basis. I know we’ll always be friends.

  I Am Singing to Myself

  when I realize her camera lens is on me. Your face, Zari laughs from her belly. I grab the phone from her hands and we tumble over each other. We come up laughing, and I pound DELETE. Party pooper, she pouts. I flip the camera around and take a selfie of us. The two of us smiling: all the things good about me reflected in another human being.

  At the Forest Line

  I go left and Zari goes right. Byeeeeeee! she yells. A wave of the hand, and she’s gone. I kick at the patchwork colored quilt of fall leaves: yellow, red, and brown. I try not to carry them inside, but one sticks to my shoe.

  Mom Comes Home from Work

  at the café. I’m boiling water for pasta. Her purse is trying to get away from her. Her backpack is open with one of her school textbooks falling out. How was your day? she asks. What she really wants to know is how the debate went in social studies class. I twist a jar of spaghetti sauce open, dump it in the pot. The only good thing about it, I say, was I didn’t throw up. I’m not smart enough for debate. Mom puts a comforting hand on my back. Sighs. You’re absolutely smart enough. I’m not good at fighting for what I believe, then, I say. Mom changes the mood. I’ve got just the thing to cheer you up! she says. A slice of leftover cheesecake. We share a smile that looks the same. She says, Dessert first—don’t you think?

  Fascinating

  Mom says. She licks a finger. Turns back a page in her textbook. She’s studying for an exam in botany, the study of plants. Trees in a forest communicate with one another through an underground web. It’s that stuff in the dirt that looks like white thread. Without this support system, a tree is less likely to be able to protect itself from disease. It’s called the Wood Wide Web. What a name, she laughs. Huh, I say. There used to be two apple trees outside the apartment complex until one was hit by a car. Since then, the other one has just been limping by. I suggest: Maybe we should plant another apple tree out front? Ha. If they gave us the money for it, Mom says dryly.

  Have You Thought...?

  That’s how my mom begins most of her conversations. We’re getting ready to meet my dad and brother for dinner at the Lakeside Bistro. Have you thought about wearing a different top? You look so good in blue. She applies pink lipstick and blots it with tissue paper. Have you thought about the colleges you’d like to visit? Wait, what?

  Mom, I' a Sophomore

  Barely, I say. But Mom counters: I know, Zari, but if you want to get into a top school, you need to start thinking about it now. She hooks up a golden bracelet, which Dad bought her last year for their anniversary. I guess, I say. The truth is, I haven’t given it a lot of thought. It’s time you got serious, Zari, she says. We want what’s best for you.

  I Text Clare

  after my mother’s line of questioning. Save me… She writes back: Always a place for ya here, Zar. ;) But we both know my parents would FLIP if I skipped out on their fancy dinner plans... And maybe I don’t always understand the things they want or do, but I know they really love me. So I listen and do the things they ask.

  I Have Homework

  but I can’t resist strumming my guitar. Math, history, and bio don’t excite my blood the way a C6 chord does. Mom stands in the door. You look so much like your daddy when you play. I fumble with my lucky pick. Daddy gave it to me right before he died. Mom looks tired. She’s been working too many long hours and studying in the cracks left over.

  I’m Like Daddy

  Except not. Everyone liked him. Mom looks sad, so I crack a joke to lighten the mood: Daddy with pink hair? It works. She smiles. Your father… It wouldn’t be a surprise! Daddy was the lead singer and guitarist of a folk band. He died of a heart problem he didn’t know he had. Died when I was 10. Already five years ago. That night plays in my head: Mom was at work, and I found him. I tried to wake him up, but no luck. I didn’t know what to do, so I stupidly didn’t do anything at all. I shake the bad thoughts away and try to think of the good ones.

  Like the Memory

  of when Daddy picked me and Mom up and didn’t drive home. Where are you going? We can’t afford to burn gas, Mom said. But she was not-so-secretly delighted. This family has been working TOO hard, Daddy said. He didn’t tell us where we were headed, and we were surprised when we got to the beach. And he unpacked a picnic dinner. You don’t need money to enjoy life, he said. Then he took out his guitar and taught me chords to play.

  When Mom’s Not Looking

  I go through the stack of bills. Their ripped envelopes look like jagged teeth. Like they might bite if you’re not fast. We’ve turned the temperature knob way down even though nights are starting to get cold. Yet still the electric company is bold and asks for more and more each month. I’m told every day, and I know it’s true: the rich get richer and the poor get poorer.

  At Dinner

  We are celebrating my dad’s new article, set and ready to print for this big journal. It’s a big deal for him— a major journal. He says, It means something for this family. Wilson makes faces at me from across the table. My brother has never been one to sit all proper and still. Toward the end of the meal, Dad leans back. The napkin in his lap drops to the floor. But he’s so focused on what he’s saying, he doesn’t notice. Zari, he says. I spoke to Irving.

  The Two Reasons

  my dad gave us for moving to this town four years ago were 1. It’s within an hour of the two major universities in the country, one of which is where my dad was hired. 2. Irving Mallory.

  Irving Mallory

  has won countless book awards. When we first moved here, Dad found any e
xcuse to drive by his house so he could catch just a glimpse of “genius.” Irving Mallory is my dad’s favorite author and fellow professor.

  What They Don’t Tell You

  about teaching college-level English is it’s not as glam as it sounds. My dad has spent hours, really years, perfecting his lectures, his writing, and his classes. And still he’s not the person everyone comes to see. So, somewhere along the line, he decided being in the spotlight is what he wants for me

  I’ve Been Writing Poetry

  for a long time, though for me it’s not about fame or fortune. It’s about the way words come alive on paper and the way they seem to know me. So each morning, no matter what, I write in my journal everything I can think of that means something to me.

  Back to Dinner

  Mom takes over. Have you thought about doing an internship with Irving? To be honest, I haven’t. And I don’t want to. When I don’t say anything, Dad butts in, suddenly angry: Not every girl has connections like this. I feel a bit like a pressure cooker, sealed tight. I mean, I guess, is all I say. Because I know they’ll be happy if I do it. Good. It’s settled. There’s a party at Irving’s on Saturday, Dad says. We’re so proud of you, Mom adds.

  I’ve Been Stressed Lately

  because I want to help my Mom. But Mom says I’m too young for a job. So when Zari tells me I should sing on the street, it’s like I’ve found some purpose. Daddy used to busk sometimes. He told me tons of musicians do it. You think I could? I ask Zari. You’re kidding me, right? Of course you can. Zari—always being my heart when I need to be brave. The two of us go to a crowded street. I tune up my strings and place a hat in front of me. Ready? Zari asks.

  The Crazy Thing

  is we make 30 bucks. We spread the singles out in a fan and laugh. When we get home, I slip 15 bucks into my mom’s secret stash. You girls hungry? Mom asks from the bottom of the stairs. Dinner will be ready in a half hour. Zari and I both yell: Yes!

  I Have Some Lyrics for You

  Zari says. She pulls out a crumpled page of lines and throws herself on my bed. With her lyrics and my melodies, we’ve created some really great songs. Zari looks at me through a waterfall of curls, and just for a second, I wish I was her. Smart. Talented. Going somewhere. Then she asks, Play me a song?

  Daddy

  used to say, You can do whatever you put your mind to. I miss him saying that. After he died, I shut down. I let go of friendships I had since elementary school. I drifted. Until Zari moved to town. Somehow she woke me up, made me remember what it was to laugh from my belly. To live again.

  In the New

  dress my parents got me I look like Morpho peleides, the insanely blue butterfly Ms. Olson showed us in bio. My mother looks like the socialite she has become. She dances her way through the crowd. Over there, she whispers, right before she takes a sip from her bright red cocktail. I follow her gaze to see Irving Mallory. Do I have to do this? I almost ask. Mom pushes me in his direction.

  He’s Not What I Expect

  And that’s a good thing. Maybe a little stuffy, but kind. You must be Zari, Irving says after shaking my hand. Your father showed me some of your work. Impressive. Thank you, I reply. So, what do you want out of working together? Deep breath. Here goes: Honestly, I just love to write. I don’t really know anything except that. He smiles and says, Great answer. His reaction makes me feel better.

  Zari, This Is Dion

  Irving Mallory says. He grabs a boy who tries to walk by. My son, he adds. He’s going to be helping out, too. What do you both think of starting on Thursday?

  A Shrug

  from Dion like he has a thousand better places he could be. Irving Mallory ignores the attitude and nods. Meanwhile, Dion watches me. Can I go now? asks Dion after a sec.

  Dion Mallory

  has the posture of the sharp edge of a sword. I don’t think you could talk to him. To watch him is to feel uncomfortable in your skin. But I wouldn’t call him scary. Your new partner in crime, chuckles Irving Mallory. I make my way back to my mom, who’s waiting in the wings. Dion passes by and says, Nice to meet you, Zari.

  At Home

  Afterward, I videochat Clare. How was it? she wants to know. Um, not as bad as I thought it would be. There was even this cute boy there. Really? she says. Tell me more! Oh no. It wasn’t anything… Then slyly… I’m just going to be working with him five days a week. She laughs with me. Sweet. It’s about time we found you a crush, I tell her. Yeah, right, she says.

  Cheese

  Zari’s brother Wilson is making a grilled cheese that must weigh 20 pounds. The insides are running out. They turn brown and get caked on the stove where they drip down. Wilson smiles at me, and just like the cheddar— I melt.

  We’re Chilling

  on the couch in the basement. Zari. Wilson. And me. I’m thinking about dying my hair green, I say, touching my pink hair. Wilson laughs. I don’t know how you do it, he says, But you can pull off every color of the rainbow. Zari looks between us, sucking her teeth. Thinking. I look away. Then Zari adds: I mean, he’s right. I blush, deep red. Then I catch the clock and realize it’s time to go. Rush hour: prime busking time.

  Wilson Follows

  me up the stairs. Zari calls she’ll be right up, and suddenly the two of us are alone. My lungs catch, and I’m left smiling dumbly. Wishing I had something better to say. Open your mouth, I tell myself. So, both of us say at the same time. Then we laugh. What are you two giggling about? Zari asks. Nothing, Wilson says.

  We Set Up

  in a new spot. Zari sits on the street and pulls her legs up underneath her. She bangs on my guitar case— a sort of drum. We’re having fun until the cop shows up.

  You Can’t Be Here

  he says. He’s got hair so light it looks see-through. Pack up and leave. But we can be here. You see, buskers have to be careful to follow certain laws. You have to know where you can and can’t play. And here is okay. Which is what I’m telling him when he tells us we’re coming with him.

  They Let Us Off

  with just a warning because it turns out we were allowed to play there. But I had to call my dad to let him know why I wasn’t home. When he asked what happened, I couldn’t lie. So he comes to get me, and he’s mad. He glares at Clare and looks her up and down from pink hair to tattered jeans. Our drive home is silent. He parks the car in our driveway, and before we go in, he says, We expect better from you.

  The Mallory House

  is a small mansion, with an archway right over the main door. To get there, you have to travel up to the hills. From the driveway, you can see the entire town below. I feel a little bit like Cinderella going up to the castle.

  A Week

  goes by, and then another. Mom and Dad ask how the work is going every night. Dad wants to know all the details. He makes notes in his journal while I talk, which is slightly odd. To be honest, the whole thing makes me feel a little like a fake.

  Not Bad

  That’s what Irving Mallory calls my first post. He’s starting an online magazine, and I’m helping him with social media. I set up Twitter and Tumblr and Instagram. It’s my job to post about pieces I love, and hype them up to a “younger crowd.” My feeling is disbelief. Because to be honest, I didn’t think this would go so well. I sit at my desk, smoothing out the print-out paper with my ideas, all marked with Irving’s notes. That’s when Dion finds me.

  Good Grades?

  He asks, looking down at my paper. Yeah! I am unable to contain myself. He offers a smile. You must be really smart. He almost never says good things. I look at him closer, wondering what exactly he means.

  Where Have You Been All Week?

  I ask Dion. Casually. It’s been me, by myself, in the big old library. Dion shrugs. Dad doesn’t really expect me to help out. He’s just hoping I will. Oh. I’m getting the awkward family vibes loud and clear. But what do you say to that? Well, that makes two of us, I say. Are you serious, Zari? Dion smiles, and my stomach flips out. Maybe he’s no
t so hard to talk to.

  Mom Is Rearranging

  our lives. And also the kitchen. Everything old is going out in favor of the new and the bright. I eat my breakfast—a piece of toast with peanut butter—around the nails and bolts. Zari, my mother says. She is holding up a piece of wallpaper to the morning light. She looks at me and says, Your father and I are a bit worried about you. We don’t want you hanging around on street corners. But Mom, I try to explain. We’re not doing anything illegal. Besides, Clare and I are writing songs. I don’t think you should waste your talent doing that. She won’t listen. So I say, Off to school! and then I haul my butt out of there, knowing full well I’m not going to stop.

  I’m Strumming

  the lines of a song I just wrote. Turns out this is a perfect place to test new material. I like to imagine that Daddy will pass round the corner and drop $1 into my hat.

  When Wilson

  walks up to my corner, I freak. Don’t let me stop you from playing, he says. Because I don’t know what else to do, I start strumming. Wow, Wilson says. You’re so good. How come I’ve never heard you play?

  I Don’t Know

  how to answer, so I shrug. Can I join you? he asks, taking his own guitar off his back. My heart stops in my chest for a long beat. Yeah, sure. I didn’t know you played, I say. When my mom’s not looking, he laughs. He tunes up and joins in.

  Pretty Soon

  I am no longer in my body. Or maybe my body is made of only music. At the same time, I feel every feeling. And the world seems slow and right. Wilson starts to sing, and so do I. Our voices fit together in perfect harmony. Afterward, we laugh together. Tuesdays? he asks shyly. Same time? Same place? Absolutely, I say.

  My Friday Nights

  are now spent in the library at the Mallory Mansion, laying out the essays and opinions of writers I truly admire. I’ve started to spend longer and longer in their worlds and less and less in mine. And the thing is, I really love it.

  I Need