So the whole milkshake thing is about Matt wanting me to talk about what happened that afternoon. Fuck, I should have stayed at home. Maybe I could get started working on writing an apology letter for that half-assed paper I gave to Ms. Tanaka, but since we're at the diner, I decided to hear Matt out.
"Sure," I shrug. "What the hell do you want to talk about?"
"First, let's drop the sarcastic attitude," Matt says sternly. "You're being a bitch to everyone around you, and it's kind of pissing me off."
I place my straw in my glass and then cross my arms.
"Everyone, huh?" I repeat. "Can you be a little bit more specific?"
"Your principal has been calling Andie and me nonstop, asking us where you were." Matt begins. "You gave your classmate twelve stitches-"
"She was a racist piece of trash, Matt!" I hissed defensively. "What do you want me to do, smile and say 'sorry'?"
Matt says nothing. He massages his face with his tattooed hand, then looks at me for a moment.
"Look, I read your paper," Matt says softly. "And I can see why Ms. Tanaka gave you a D-minus."
I scrunch my eyebrows. "What makes you say that?"
"You sound pretty angry in your essay."
Of course, it sounds angry. It didn't make sense to me why Edmond Dantes got his perfect life taken away by two of his closest friends. Shouldn't they be supportive of him? If I were Dantes' best friend, I would work my ass off to give him the best wedding on the planet. Sure, I will be broke as shit, but Dantes and his fiance deserved to be together, you know?
I don't know why Ms. Tanaka doesn't get that, but it's my opinion.
"So, how is your writing coming along so far?" Matt asks suddenly.
I stop sipping on my milkshake. Ever since my parents forced me to get a job, I haven't used my grandpa's typewriter. There was nothing wrong with it. The keys are functional, the ink is still fresh, and it has that antique smell I love. The only thing that was bothering me was trying to put that fresh ink on a piece of paper. Biting the tip of my thumb, I stare at the cherry floating on top of the melted ice cream and massage my eyelids.
Matt stops sipping his milkshake and asks me if I am okay.
"Yeah," I answer quietly. "I am fine."
Okay, well, are you going to show me your story?"
"Why do you care?" I retort.
"You know I support you," Matt tells me softly. "So do Andie, Mom, and Dad."
"It doesn't feel like it," I mumble. "You guys are always busy."
Matt leans his back against his cushioned chair, staring at me. He gives his chocolate shake one last sip before leaning his face close to mine.
"I know, Kat," he replies. "I know we haven't been spending a lot of time together, but...
"It's not your fault, man," I insist, cutting him off. "I don't mind you, Andie, and Mom and Dad working nights, I just want us to do something awesome together—like a family. But we can't do that unless we have money on the table."
His smile stretches from ear to ear as Matt pinches my nose. I blushed, swatting his hand away from me.
"Quit it," I pouted. "I'm not five, anymore."
"Are you sure about that?" Matt teases. "Ms. Potato Head?"
Mrs. Potato Head is a nickname Matt gave me when we were kids. To this day, I have no idea why he keeps calling me that, but it suits him. Plucking my straw from my milkshake, I subtly rub my middle finger on my cheek until Ollie sits next to me.
"Damn, man." I snorted, looking at my wristwatch. "What the hell took you so long?"
"Well," Ollie begins calmly. "I went to Cancun, then Mexico, and that special country called 'Fuck you, Kat'."
I lift my middle finger at him, then move away to give Ollie enough room to sit on the couch. Ollie takes his melted vanilla milkshake and finishes it without a second thought. Matt sucks the whipped cream with the end of his straw, then stares at Ollie's black eye until Ollie drops his straw in his empty cup and drapes his arms behind his head.
"A douchebag soccer player kicked a ball in my face," Ollie explains with a yawn.
"What?" Matt asks.
"You want to know why I have a black eye, right? Well, that's the answer."
"Oh. So, is your mom okay with you having pink hair?"
Ollie pokes a fresh pimple on his cheek, then bobs his head. "Yeah, my mom doesn't care what I do with my hair as long as it's not stupid."
"What does your mom do?" asked Matt.
"She's an art curator," Ollie replies. "She works most nights, while my stepdad works at the auto shop."
He scratches the broken nail polish with his fingernail before staring at his milkshake glass. Matt studies Ollie's outfit. He wears a black Dead Milkmen t-shirt.
His long, gray sleeves cover his arms. His acid-washed jeans cover his legs. Anxious feet squirm inside his Doc Martens as Ollie tries to rest his legs against his chair.
Pushing his pink hair out of his eyes, Ollie notices the customers leaving the diner.
"Hey guys," he begins. "Does anyone know what time it is?"
I tuck my bangs behind my ears before looking at my wristwatch again.
"Shit," I mutter. "It's almost seven-thirty. We need to leave."
Matt bobs his head. He takes out his wallet, tosses the twenty-dollar bill in the center of the table, and tells us to move. Ollie gets up first. He distances himself from me, so I pull myself out of my comfortable seat. I make sure my red hoodie is secured before following the boys outside the restaurant. Matt unlocks the car. He climbs into the driver's seat while Ollie slips into the backseat.
I was just about to sit beside Ollie when I spotted Yusef's mom yanking her son's missing poster off of the restaurant's door. Her dark hair is messy. Her hot tears and snot ruin her makeup. She wears this white church dress that looks like it has been soiled with dirt. Looking at Yusef's photo, the woman sobs. She tears up the poster into shreds before collapsing on the floor.
Jesus Christ, she looks so fragile, you're afraid to touch her.
A loud car horn blares in my ears. I turn to see Matt rolling down the windows. He shoots me a fiery glare until I hurry over to the car, whips the door open, and crawl into the backseat. Ollie watches me strap in my seatbelt and asks me if I am okay, but I look at Matt's eyes in the rearview mirror and say nothing until we reach home.
******
Matt is downstairs with Andie, talking about something else, while I take a hot shower, change into the bathroom, and join Ollie under the covers. The radio moves on top of my writing desk.
Pouring out of the speakers is this new sound I've never heard of. It is both raw and honest. The beat has the type of grime that gets inside your shoes, no matter how many times you try to get it out. When I close my eyes, I think of the chaos and unpredictability of the world. The rapper's voice paints a story. You know, like the fables you would read as a little kid.
I look at Ollie for a second, then smile. It's no secret that Ollie loves hip-hop. If you sneak past his shitty stepdad and enter his room, Ollie has every tape, ranging from A Tribe Called Quest to Scarface. When I ask him about it, he tells me that hip-hop is like artwork. Sometimes it is unpredictable. You don't know what the artist is thinking. Most paintings would come off as bold and expressive, while a few would try to find a way to start a conversation.
Ollie tries to express that in his paintings, but they're not very good, in Ollie's opinion.
Raising my head off of the pillow, I ask him who the rapper is.
"He's pretty new on the scene," Ollie explains. "I think his name is Nasty Nas or something."
"Nasty Nas is pretty good. Where is he from?"
"New York."
I place my head on top of his shoulder and express a tired sigh.
"I wish I could go to New York," I say. "Or maybe Philadelphia. I heard that's where they have these amazing sandwiches called Philly cheesesteaks."
Ollie smirks at the idea. "Yeah, I've always wanted to see how they make their chocolates, plus I heard that their apartments are fucking cheap."
I lift my head from his shoulder and look at him. "Still, we need money to go there."
"Shit, you're right." Ollie huffs. "How much have you saved up?"
"Twenty. You?"
"Thirty bucks."
"Wow. We are shit at saving money." I snort. "Maybe tomorrow, we can figure out how to come with the cash. But until then, sweet dreams."
Ollie massages his face with his hand and then closes his eyes.
"Yeah, you're right," he mutters. "Night, KitKat."
"Night."
After I shut off the lights, we slept under the thick covers. I curl up on my right while Ollie snores on his left. We never touch, kiss, or cuddle. We hug sometimes, but we don't do anything beyond that. Besides, I don't think he's attracted to me. One time, when we were smoking on the school rooftop, I asked Ollie if I can kiss him.
And I know what you are probably thinking; I never wanted Ollie as a boyfriend or a future husband. I only did it so I can get close to Christina Meyer. She was spunky, liked the same music I do, and had a falling out with some jock last summer. But every time I was in the girl's locker room, Christina would brag to her friends about this new guy who made out with her at that Bruce Springsteen Tour
It was gross, but I figured if I kiss a guy then Christina would let me in her inner circle. When I first told Ollie about what happened in the locker room, I thought he would back out. But to my surprise, Ollie shrugged his shoulders and agreed to do it. He wasn't nervous or excited. He just put away his sketchbook and pulled out some mints from his book bag. After we ate a few, Ollie and I made sure we were comfortable with each other and shared a thirty-second kiss.
I tried to kiss the way the couples did in John Hughes movies, but I didn't feel any spark. No butterflies or tingling chills down my spine. And while I was figuring out how to make this kiss feel enjoyable, Ollie just puckered his lips and sat awkwardly until the bell rang for Study Hall. As soon as we moved away from each other, Ollie and I wiped the saliva from our mouths and agreed not to do it ever again.
Though the kiss was downright awful, I have learned one good thing from my not-so-sexual experience: don't seek kissing advice from Sixteen Candles.
The next morning, I woke up to find a note lying on my pillow. I pick up the piece of paper and stare at the misspelled words scrawled outside the lines.
"Went home," it said. "See you at the warehouse, KitKat."
Underneath the note, I stare at the lopsided drawing of a KitKat bar and laugh until Mom opens my door. I fold the piece of paper under the pillow and pull the sheets close to my chest.
"Hey, Mom." I squeak. "Good morning!"
Mom tightens the knot on her flower-printed bathrobe and asks if I have brushed my teeth yet.
"Uh, no." I stutter. "But I am going to—"
"You don't have school today," she interrupts me. "The principal is giving everyone a three-day vacation.
I force myself to get up from my creaking mattress and move my sleeping fingers through my chaotic hair.
"Seriously?" I repeat a brilliant smile appears on my lips. "A three-day vacation?"
My mom laughs. She puts her hands on her hips and then condescendingly shakes her head.
"Just because you don't have school today doesn't mean you're going to sleep all day."
"I am not going to sleep all day," I grunted. "I'm going to work on making a lot of money to keep everyone in this apartment."
Mom walks up to me. She sits on top of the bed and tousles my curls until I plant my chin on top of her shoulder.
"Katherine," Mom says softly. "Don't focus so much on that. Focus on your studies, okay?"
"But Mom-"
"Focus. On. Your. Schoolwork."
My mom places a kiss between my eyebrows before getting up from her bed and walking out of my bedroom. I collapsed on my bed. Stretching my arms across the mattress, I rest my head on top of my pillow and close my eyes.
The good news is that I don't have to take a History test, but the bad news is that I can't stop thinking about the unpaid bills piled up in Mom and Dad's room. Tumbling out of bed, I scratch my cracked lips with my fingers and trudge toward the bathroom.
Andie yells at me to get my ass downstairs. I can smell the bacon and eggs cooking in the frying pan, and I spent a good chunk of my time combing my untamed hair.
"Kat, did you hear me?" Andie screeches. "Eat your breakfast!"
God, she always sounds like a broken record when she screams.
"Yeah, I am coming!" I shout.
I went over to the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and washed the grease, dry saliva, and eye crusts off of my face. Cold water soaks my oversized black shirt. I draped it over my soft blue shorts before trudging down the carpeted steps. Dad sits at the kitchen table, drinking his black coffee. His black hair is shaved. He wore an iron-pressed gray suit and expensive loafers that Mom bought for him on their third anniversary.
"Dad!" I squeal.
Rushing over to him, I wrap my arms around my dad's shoulders and kiss him. Dad chuckles. He sets down his orange coffee mug and squeezes me tight until Andie sets a plate of breakfast across from me.
"Alright, Katherine," Dad says carefully. "Go eat your breakfast and listen to what your older sister tells you."
I take a look at my annoyingly perfect older sister, who wears a smug smile on her face.
"Seriously?" I scoff. "What about you, Dad? Aren't you going to eat breakfast with us?"
Dad sighs. He tucks a loose curl behind my left ear and gets up from his chair.
"I can't, sweetheart," he tells me. "Since your mother is feeling a bit under the weather this morning, I am going to have a word with Stanley."
My heart shrinks. "What? Why?"
Dad doesn't answer. He just kisses my forehead, picks up his cup, and leaves the kitchen.