“Can I kiss you now?”
You swallow hard and close your eyes, and when you do, images of the stars from the sky flash before you, all purplish, black, and silvery white. You feel movement and you open your eyes. Ben is inching forward on his stomach, and then his hand goes to your shoulder and his lips touch yours, and he’s kissing you softly and you’re kissing him back. It’s perfect and it tastes like you thought it would—like peppermint from his gum and chocolate from his milk shake and a little bit salty sweet. It’s cool, not hot, and he doesn’t shove his tongue into your mouth the way Alex did. He just glides it across the inside of your mouth gently, exploring you a bit. He knows how to kiss, and it’s slow and fabulous and you make a noise that sounds like a soft, happy cry.
After a few moments he pulls away but he’s still holding on to your shoulder. You want to tell him not to stop, because you’ve never felt like this. You’ve never had this feeling in your life, and you feel like you could burst. You never want to leave this boy ever. You don’t know how you’re going to say good night to him when the date is over. You don’t know if you’re going to be able to do it.
You catch your breath. You’re smiling at him. He’s doing the same, smiling at you.
“It’s my turn to ask you a question,” you say finally. Your heart is racing from his kiss.
“You want to play the game now?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
You nod.
“Okay.” He sighs. You can only imagine what he’s thinking.
“Okay, here’s my question…” You pause, and then: “Will you kiss me again?”
13
You’re at the dinner table. You and your monster. You are trying.
You’re rarely at the dinner table. You make up excuses, telling your mom you have a stomachache or that you ate already, or that you’re just not hungry. Or sometimes you sit at the kitchen counter while your family eats and you pretend to eat, or you watch them eat, not even pretending to eat.
But tonight you’re sitting with everyone: Your mom. Your dad. And your brother. He’s not wearing his earbuds.
There are steaming bowls of food on the table. Corn. And some mashed potatoes speckled with pepper, and a big splat of butter melting in the center. There are rolls, and you know those are good. You will eat those.
There’s also a plate of grilled chicken. And some fruit. A mixture of slimy fruit. The colors are pretty—pastel and … well, fruity looking. You bet they might smell like they taste good, but you never get close enough to know for sure. Apples are the only fruit you actually like. But your mom didn’t even think to put apples on the freaking table—the one fruit you would actually eat.
You have a drink. Water. Shayna says you need to drink more water. That you’re going through most days dehydrated. You told her you drink water. That you drink like three glasses a day, and you drink milk. And soda.
“Soda doesn’t count as your water intake,” she told you at therapy.
Still. It’s liquid. In your mind, that counts.
Shayna told you she was “in recovery” too. Like for the past fifteen years. What the hell does that even mean? You don’t want to be in recovery for the rest of your life. You want someone to kill the monster, slice his head off quick and easy, with a machete or in a big ceremony in the center of town, complete with a guillotine, and get rid of the bastard once and for all.
“Can I get an apple?” you ask.
Your mom smiles at you. Hell, she’s beaming. You would have thought you’d asked for a steak.
You get up and grab an apple, the peeler, and a knife. You won’t eat the apple skin. Because that’s like people skin. You can’t do it.
You come back to the table and your dad and Todd are already digging in.
“How are your seven a.m. practices going?” your dad asks Todd. He’s on the varsity football team and practice has started even though school doesn’t begin for two more weeks. It’s all they ever talk about. Sports. Football. Sports. It’s annoying as freaking freak.
“Mmm,” Todd replies, his mouth full of dead chicken. The thought that the stuff in your brother’s mouth used to have a beak and feathers and flapped its wings and probably laid eggs makes your stomach churn. The thought that it used to cluck on a farm and that children’s nursery rhymes are written about the very thing your brother is chewing makes you want to run to your room and scream for hours.
“Gross,” you say. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“You should try it sometime,” Todd says back to you. “This food-in-your-mouth thing. It’s pretty good.”
“Kids, please. Stop,” your mom says. “I would just like to try and have a nice family meal for once. Please.”
She’s tensing up already, you can tell. She reaches for her wine and takes not really a sip, not quite a chug, more like a big swallow.
You grab a roll, put it on your plate, and start to peel your apple. Slowly. Everyone knows you’re stalling. You know you’re stalling. Your dad and Todd look your way and your brother rolls his eyes. You do your best to ignore him. You’re waiting. Just waiting. You take a sip of your water. Your mom cuts her chicken and takes a bite.
There are brown spots on your apple.
“Can I get a different apple?” you ask your mom.
“If you eat some chicken,” Todd says, laughing in your direction.
“Shut up,” you say to him.
“Stop,” your mother says. Your dad keeps eating.
No one has answered you yet. You ask again, “Can I?”
“Yes,” your mom says.
You go to the fridge and choose a better apple, then come back to the table.
“How’s that Ben kid?” your dad asks.
“He’s good,” you offer, and start the slow process of peeling your new apple.
“I don’t like him,” Todd says.
“You didn’t even meet him,” you say. “What do you care anyway? You don’t even like me,” you accuse.
“True,” he says.
Your mom picks up her plate and wineglass and takes them to the sink.
“What, Mom?” Todd asks.
“I’m not going to sit here and listen to my children talk to each other like this. I try. I try so goddamn hard, and this is what I get.” She is near tears, and you feel bad. You look down at your plate. You pick at your roll, place a piece of the bread on your tongue, like it’s communion.
Your mom looks from you to Todd and back at you. Then she looks at your dad.
“Well? Are you going to do anything about these children?” she asks him as if he has an answer.
Your dad shrugs, shoves a forkful of potatoes into his mouth. Your mom lifts her wineglass, looks at the three of you, finishes the wine, and walks out of the room.
The monster has won again.
14
Can I see you tonight?
You’re surprised when you get the text from Ben because it’s Saturday night and he left last night to go camping with his family for the weekend.
You’re home?
Yep, bad weather up north.
Would love to see you.
Can I come by in 15?