Call It What You Want

by Brigid Kemmerer

They were life changing. I stayed up all night reading. I actually did do that. My social life is nonexistent.

“Nothing is your fault.”

Maybe I don’t miss him at all.

He’s cute in the way baby chicks are cute: fluffy and bouncy.

I told her they made me feel like I was in kindergarten, and I got the hell out of there.

When I was a little boy, I always thought she was beautiful, and I still think so, even now.

If a professional doesn’t know what to say, I sure don’t.

“You said you wouldn’t get here until eleven. I couldn’t keep sitting around the house, so I headed over. It’s dark outside, and I didn’t want you to have to park and walk in alone, so five minutes ago I went down to

wait on the bench.”

Not only was he ready to work, he was being chivalrous.

AHHHH

Most boys at school shake hands with the passivity of a trained cocker spaniel, but Rob’s fingers close around mine securely. I can feel the strength in his grip. I have to swallow.

His voice is low, and it takes me a second to realize he’s making a joke.

I never really noticed before, but she’s very pretty. In an understated way.

Except me. I can’t pay attention to anything at all. I’m too stuck on the fact that, for the first time in months, someone treated me like me, and not like the son of my father.

There’s a part of me that wants to trail after her like a beaten dog looking for a pat on the head,

I would rather be anywhere than at this dinner table. Literally anywhere.

I hate secrets. Especially the secrets of other people.

They haven’t asked me one single thing since we sat down at the dinner table, and I am one hundred percent okay with that.

I hesitate. He’s so forward. And I’m a terrible liar.

Okay, fine. He’s attractive.

Her sister can pummel me on the field, but Maegan is the one who can pin me down with words.

Maegan chokes on her soda, then laughs. She’s so serious all the time that it feels like a reward to make her laugh. I have to smile in return.

But she doesn’t let go of my hand. It’s the first time in months someone other than my mother has voluntarily touched me. Her fingers are a warm weight over my own. I forgot what this felt like. My breathing goes shallow. I don’t deserve this, but I can’t bear to pull away.

Okay, good. He sounds like a prick, too. At least I’m on a level playing field.

“People love finding the weak link that makes them feel superior. I see it in lacrosse all the time. Girl can’t keep up? Cut her down even more. If someone else is weak, it means you’ve got the advantage.”

“When you’ve lost everything,” he says, “sometimes you don’t see anything wrong with taking a little back.”

I don’t deserve her friendship. I don’t deserve kindness. Not from anyone.

“I don’t carry a grudge, but I have a functioning memory.”

I didn’t drift off until after four in the morning, so it was a real treat when the alarm blared at six.

Throne of Glass books,

No one texts me. No one apologizes. I pick up my fork and start eating.

Maybe it’s knowing I have nothing more to lose. Maybe it’s realizing I’m not the only one with problems. I have no idea.

In fact, a dark, angry part of me wants to spill all his secrets on the floor of this cafeteria so our classmates can see who they’re idolizing.

It’s fine.” But I’m lying.

My social life took a bullet last spring, but apparently I took it from gasping on the floor to DOA.

Now my face falls. She’s right.

The low voice is encouraging. Maybe we’re okay.

I have no idea why I’m staring at his mouth.

Somehow his voice has grown a little … deeper, maybe. Softer, but more intense. Or maybe it’s the cold and the dark and the uncertainty between us.

She smells like she’s chewed an entire package of spearmint gum.

My sister is literally hanging off him, but his gaze finds mine and holds me there.

I think of the way she brushed her fingers over mine and want to do the same thing.

You’re kind. And honest. And thoughtful. She’s all those things. Not me.

My eyes flick down her form again, and the part of my brain that is very much not a gentleman wishes we were going somewhere more private—and leaving her sister here on the lawn.

I want to touch her so badly that my hand aches, but I still can’t tell if she feels the same way or if she’s saying these things out of kindness.

It’s Zach Poco. I should have brought Owen.

He’s never been this close to me before, and he smells like spices and warmth and every dirty thought I’ve ever had.

Then I realize he’s asked, “Do you want anything?” and he’s waiting for an answer. I want you to keep breathing against my neck like that.

“You sure?” His hand finds my waist, and I’m sure it’s to keep me from moving away, but my world narrows down to the feeling of his palm against the half inch of skin between my shirt and jeans.

He leans down to talk.