Page 6 of Kiss Collector

He stares at me as if he can read my thoughts, and I look away.

A wave of guilt crashes over me for thinking Dean is sexy, but that guilt is chased away by an indignant voice screamingYou have every right to check out guys! You’re single now!My stomach tightens at the reminder.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I clear my throat.

The room gets loud and Mrs. Warfield has to shout instructions over us. She wants everyone to share their poems and “gently critique” one another. Everything she says after that isdrowned out by the panic of blood pumping into my eardrums.

I can’t share this poem. Not with Dean or anyone. It’s way too sappy and personal. I haven’t even shared these feelings with Lin, Monica, and Kenz. Everyone’s parents fight sometimes. I don’t even know why I’m writing stupid poems about it.

The poem sits facedown on my desk, and when Dean reaches for it, I snatch it to my chest. I feel my eyes go unnaturally large.

“Whoa,” he says. “Sorry.”

Embarrassment stings my cheeks. “No, it’s okay. I just... it’s bad. Like, really,reallybad. I didn’t know we’d be sharing.”

He watches me in a way that feels like he can see under the surface of my lie.

“It’s all right,” he says. “Mine sucks, too.”

Man, his voice is deep. I chew my lip as he hunkers over his paper with his arms crossed in front of him, biceps bulging. I stare for too long and when I finally look at his face again, he gives me a slow grin, two adorable indentations dimpling his cheeks.

When he first moved to the area in eighth grade, we were science partners and I talked his ear off, forcing him to converse with me. It’d always been my personal objective to draw out the quiet ones.

“So, do you want me to critique you?” I nod to his poem.

“Only if I can do you, too,” he says. Then he blinks. “Wow, that sounded bad.”

I burst into laughter and watch as his ears redden. He shakes his head, grinning.

“What Imeantis, I’ll let you read mine if you let me read yours.”

I clam up. “No deal.”

“Man, you’re really embarrassed about it, huh? Don’t worry. Dean don’t judge.”

I laugh again but shake my head. “I’m not a poet.”

“Nobody here is. At least tell me what it’s about,” he urges. “Is it your boyfriend?”

“No...” Damn that stupid wave of sadness and loss that keeps crashing over me when I’m not expecting it. “We broke up.”

“Oh.” He gets quiet, studying my face. “My bad.”

I shake my head. “Um... okay, my poem. It’s about Christmas when I was little. And my family. Dumb stuff.”

He stares at me like he doesn’t believe the downplay.

“Okay,” he says. “Well, mine’s about a girl I used to see.”

If I were a dog, my ears would have gone straight up, all pointy-like.

“Who?”

He gives a nonchalant shrug. Okay, now Ihaveto read his poem.

“Was it that girl from last year? The one from Brooklyn?” I ask.