The Coincidence of Callie and Kayden

the knobs to low. Steam fills the air as I take a lid off one of the pots and stir the noodles in the water.
     
    “So, about getting our hair done.” My mom picks the conversation up right where we left off. “What do you think?”
     
    “I think I’m going to go up to my room,” I evade her question, wiping my hands on a paper towel. “I’ve got a lot of stuff to do.”
     
    “But it’s break time,” she says. “We’re supposed to be spending time together. What are you going to do up there besides be bored?”
     
    My mother has always wanted me to be things I’m not, even before I changed. When I was six she wanted me to be a ballerina and I wanted to be a football player. When I was ten she thought it would be neat if we bought me a whole wardrobe of dresses for school and all I wanted was to pierce my ears. When I was eleven I decided I wanted to learn how to play the guitar. She signed me up for beauty pageant lessons.
     
    “Being bored isn’t all that bad.” I put the knife in the sink and walk toward the back door. “I’ll come back in a little bit.”
     
    It’s cold outside as I head for the garage, a light frost glazing the windows and railing. While I was away at college, my mom and dad put a ton of boxes in my room, along with my dad’s football memorabilia. I could either sleep on the couch in the living room or stay in the apartment above the garage. I chose the garage for privacy reasons. Plus I like that I don’t have to stay in my room, haunted by memories that will keep me awake all night. Up here it’s peaceful and quiet—my mind is somewhat clear from the storm.
     
    I climb the stairs and shut the door behind me, cranking up the two space heaters before grabbing my journal out of my bag. I take out my iPod and put my ear buds in, scrolling to “Seth’s Awesome Playlist.”  Seth has a very broad taste in music and I wonder what’s going to turn on when I click on the first song. “Work” by Jimmy Eat World flows into my ears as I flop down onto the mattress and kick my feet up on the metal headboard.
     
    I open my journal and put the pen to the paper, my heart and mind racing wildly.
     
    I’ve been wondering over the last few days what it would be like to be with Kayden. Like really, really be with him. The more I explore the idea, the more I wonder about it. Sometimes, it feels wrong thinking about this stuff, but other times, I enjoy my thoughts and very vivid images. It’s like I’m not me anymore, like he’s changed me into a girl who thinks about the possibilities of life and love.
     
    I was daydreaming the other day in the living room, picturing his mouth on my breast, like it was that night before I flipped out, when my mom came into the room.
     
    “You look so happy,” she said, sitting on the couch beside me. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen you smile like this.”
     
    I looked at her, and I mean really looked at her for a moment. Did it ever once cross her mind, even for just a split second, that maybe something terrible happened to me? Did she wonder, but the idea was so dark that her mind couldn’t grasp it?
     
    A warm hand touches my shoulder, startling me, and I wrench my arm away as I bolt upright, dropping my pen and notebook on the bed.
     
    Kayden takes a step back, putting his hands up in front of him as I breathe profusely, kneeling up in the bed. He’s wearing a pair of cargo shorts, a black hoodie, and sneakers. His hair is tucked under a beanie and his mouth moves as he says something.
     
    I quickly tug on the cord of my ear buds. “What are you doing here?”
     
    “Your mom told me you were up here.” He glances around at the tiny room that has no carpet and only sheetrock for walls, his gaze lingering briefly on the unmade bed. “Is this your room or a guest room or what?”
     
    I set the iPod down on the bed and stand up. “It’s supposed to be a guest house. My parents have been working on it for years, but this is as far as they got.”
     
    He smiles at a small hole in the wall that needs to be spackled. “My parents would flip if any part of our house was like this.”
     
    “Mine get sidetracked with other stuff; sports, town meetings, pie baking contests, trying to beg my brother and I not to go so far away for college. They have attachment issues.”
     
    “So they would rather do life. I like that.” He faces me, his emerald eyes sparkling. “Your mom seems nice. I know I’ve met her before and