“Right?” I’m glad she understands. “Then Cole was always ‘busy’ over the summer. I wound up hanging out with my dog, Frankie, all of June and hiding from Mitchell and listening to my parents argue, until Frankie got so sick in July that he couldn’t eat or walk anymore and we had to have him put to sleep—” My throat closes and I cough. “And Dad moved out in August right when school started”—oh lord, I gotta talk about something else—“so I felt awful and I really wanted to patch stuff up with Cole, right, so when school started I sat with him and Erin at lunch, which was awkward because I have nothing in common with her, or whatever, and Cole was a lot more interested in talking to her than talking to me, so they excluded me a lot. Which sucked. One day neither of them were responding to anything I said, and I just kept babbling about Frankie and my dad. By the end of the lunch bell, Cole was staring daggers at me and I was like, ‘Just tell me what you’re mad about.’ Erin looked at me like I was dirt and said, ‘You invited yourself to our table and talked about your dad and your dead dog for half an hour and didn’t even tell him happy birthday.’” I grimace at how stupid and selfish I felt. Still feel. “It was such a facepalm moment. I said I was sorry, but he laid into me. I got the idea he’d had it pent up for a long time. He said all I ever focused on was myself and I never paid attention when other people felt stuff and he was tired of it and no offense, but how about I sit somewhere else at lunch from now on. I ran to the bathroom crying like a freaking idiot. I haven’t talked to him since, even though we have a class together and I see him in the hallways and—well.” I clear my throat again, but the choked-up feeling just gets worse.
“And your dog died and your dad left and now you’re taking care of Chewbarka on top of everything else,” Ash says. “That’s way too much all at once.”
I cross my arms and look at my feet. If I lean into her sympathy, I’ll turn into a blubbering puddle.
“Daniel . . .” She sets Chewbarka down, steps close, and puts her hands on my shoulders. “Feeling stuff really hard doesn’t mean you’re selfish.”
For a frozen, stretched-out moment, I look into her eyes. They’re warm brown at the edges and fade to a pale green by her pupils.
I never realized how interesting hazel is. Like it’s a word for a collection, a spectrum, instead of a word for a color.
Ashley pulls me closer and kisses me.
I blink in surprise at the warmth of her lips on mine. Then I lean in and kiss her back, and it’s everything I ever hoped a kiss would be: so sweet and sudden and wonderful that everything else disappears. It only lasts a moment before she ends it and I make an accidental mwah sound and Ash starts laughing.
“What?” I cover my mouth, afraid I did it badly again, that I suck at kissing—
“It’s better from this side!” she says through her laughter. “So much better!”
I must look confused, because she explains how she’s always disliked hearing people kiss because the shape of the sound was so doofy, but that the shape is different when it’s happening to her, with her mouth, in her head. She grins and blushes the whole time she’s explaining it, and I can’t help smiling too, sucked into her light and laughter.
“Should we do it again?” I ask.
“Heck yes.” We kiss again, and it’s just as magical till Ash ends with an intentional mwah, and she dissolves in giggles and so do I and all my problems with my friends and my family and my fear disappear.
Just for a minute. Just enough that I can breathe again.
11
Boy Skirt Girl Punk
Ash
Mom pulls into the parking lot of the Mexican restaurant at 1:33. Dad steps out of his car wearing a button-down shirt with khakis instead of his usual white tee and jeans. He pointedly looks at his watch.
I suppress a sigh. If he’s already mad that we’re three minutes late, this could be rough.
“Don’t let him give you a bunch of crap,” Mom says. “He can’t talk to you like you’re eight years old anymore.”
“He’ll try.” Mom and Dad never got along beautifully—according to her, they first connected because they were both leftists who enjoyed arguing politics, and they each understood where the other was coming from even if they didn’t agree on specifics—but Dad’s changed a lot since the divorce. “I just hope he lets me finish my food this time.” Dad has a habit of assuming that when he’s done eating, the meal is over.
“Good luck, baby. I’ll see you when he drops you off, okay?”
“Yep.” I take a deep breath, then get out and cross the lot to Dad.
“Hey, kid.” Dad pulls me into a hug. For a moment, it’s nice—he’s tall and strong and he hugs fierce, and it’s easy to feel safe. But that quickly changes to feeling suffocated. “What’s the flavor of the day?” He lets me go.
I hate how that question reduces me to only my gender. “Um, girl still.” I guess.
He gives my neutral outfit a once-over and we go inside. As I trail after him, I notice he smells different than usual. More . . . I don’t know, soapy. Once we’re seated in a booth, I see he’s neatly trimmed his salt-and-pepper goatee as well.
Does he look all polished because he has a date tonight? Eew.
A stooped, gray-haired man with warm brown eyes hands us menus and asks what we’d like to drink. I request lemonade and Dad gets a Diet Coke, which is odd. He usually goes for the full-sugar stuff.
“So how’s school?” he asks
