Grown(19)

I clutch the phone to my chest, sinking deeper into the crook of the L-shaped sofa. Just the thought of Mom knowing makes my stomach twist into a cramp.

“J . . . just Mackenzie.”

Mom smirks. “Oh, I see.”

“I . . . I left my textbook in my room,” I say, sprinting down the hall. “Be right back!”

Behind me, Mom whispers with a giggle to Shea, “I think your sister has a little boyfriend.”

Korey Fields asked me to send him a photo . . . the one thing I’m not good at. I hate taking pictures of myself; I never do. I’m not even big on sharing pics. Another thing Gab and I have in common. She hates social media and doesn’t want her face on the internet. Most of my Instagram pics are of me and the Littles.

But . . . Korey Fields wants a picture. And I can’t just tell him no.

I shut my bedroom door, using it as my backdrop, and try a few different angles, the same way I’ve seen Shea take selfies.

Hey! Where’s my pic?

The seconds tick louder. I’m taking too long. More attempts. Smiling, not smiling. Posing. Duck lips. Pull my T-shirt off one shoulder. Ugh!

“Chanted!” Mom calls. “Come help with dinner!”

“Just a second,” I scream back, my voice shaky.

Another twenty shots. Maybe I should try some of Shea’s makeup. Or a filter. Maybe black and white. Or a new shirt . . .

Or . . . maybe he’s just being nice. Maybe I’m doing the most and overthinking all of this.

But . . . he called you beautiful. And he loves your eyes.

With a deep breath, I take one last selfie with my regular smile and send it before I can stop myself.

Typing bubble . . .

You always cut your hair short?

I give in to the instinct to glide a hand down the back of my neck.

Yeah. It’s easier for swim meets.

Within seconds I regret the answer.

Stupid! You sound like a kid and . . . this is Korey Fields! He’s used to dealing with women. Real women. He dated a Kardashian.

You ever think about growing it out?

A twitch of . . . something scratches at my stomach, mouth dry.

No. Why?

There’s a long pause. My heart drops so low it sits next to my heel.

Footsteps down the hall. Mom’s footsteps. I frantically search for a book to keep up with my lie when my phone rings. Different from my regular ring . . . it’s a FaceTime.

Korey Fields . . . is FaceTiming ME.

“Holy shit,” I gasp.

Mom’s footsteps inch closer. I snatch my biology book out my bag and stare at the phone. Do I answer it? Tell him I’ll call him back? What if he never calls again? But how will I explain this to Mom? I’m not even supposed to have his number.

It took 432,000 tiny paper cuts to press decline . . . just as Mom swings open the door.

“Found it!” I yelp, wiping the sweat off my neck.





Chapter 22


Feels Like Home




Saturday comes and I can’t decide what to wear. I try on everything, even some of Shea’s outfits. I settle on a tight green top and jeans with a denim jacket.

Daddy is taking me to the studio today but doesn’t plan to stay.

“I have to go to Far Rock,” he says, resisting a grimace. “Make sure the place is all right. Might run into some traffic, so just wait for me at the Starbucks on the corner when you’re done. And remember to behave, Korey’s doing you a big favor. He’s big time!”

I tell Korey we have an extra two hours, and his smile could light up the world.

“That’s just what we need.”

We sing “Best Part” by H.E.R. and Daniel Caesar (one of my parents’ favorite songs). Then we sing “Shallow” by Lady Gaga and Bradley Cooper (Korey loves playing the guitar), followed by a Whitney Houston solo (he loves my voice).

I don’t fit in at school or in Will and Willow. And I can’t fully be myself at home because, well, no one really wants me to sing. The only place I’ve ever felt comfortable letting loose was at Grandma’s. But here, with Korey, feels like it’s the first time I’ve been myself in a long while. If I could stay here forever, I would.

“Ready to write a little something?” Korey says, waving a notebook.

“For real?” Been bringing my songbook with me, waiting for the right moment to share. I could just burst as I slip it out of my bag.

“Yep,” he laughs, pulling me over to the sofa. “Well, first, we gotta talk about making love.”

I freeze. “What?”

“Making love,” he says, matter-of-factly. “We gotta talk about it so we can write a song about it, Bright Eyes.”

I close my songbook, full of childish words. “Um. OK.”

His head cocks to the side. “Hold up, you ever been with a guy before?”

“Like . . . sexually?”

He laughs. “Damn, you make it sound mad . . . formal. But yeah. Sexually or whatever.”

I shake my head.

“Ever been kissed?”

I shrug, since it feels like that sloppy, wet kiss with Jose Torres shouldn’t count.

“Damn, Bright Eyes, you really don’t know nothing. That’s good, though. It’s better to learn that type of stuff from someone you . . . trust.”