Confessions of a Serial Kisser by Wendelin Van Draanen

  My dad cringed, and my mom asked, "That was Eric Clapton, right? What happened to him?"

  "It was Robert Johnson," my dad said. "And he was poisoned to death for womanizing."

  I couldn't help grinning at him as I headed to my room. "You got off easy!"

  93

  The Key

  THE NEXT MORNING I staggered into the kitchen to down a bowl of cold cereal, only to find my mother making my favorite (but rarely consumed) breakfast: scrambled eggs, sausage, and flaky buttermilk biscuits. "Happy birthday, angel!" she said with a dramatic wave of the spatula.

  I looked around suspiciously for my dad.

  I was just not ready to wake up to his presence.

  Then I noticed that there were only two place settings. "Smells great," I said, sitting at the one with two little gold-wrapped boxes.

  "You might want to wait until after breakfast to open those," she said, bringing a platter of food to the table.

  "I might not!" I laughed. So I opened the top box and discovered a gold necklace with a heart-shaped pendant.

  "Those are little rubies," she said, pointing out the tiny stones along one side of the heart.

  I admired it, then draped the necklace back into the box. "It's very pretty, Mom. Thank you."

  I started ripping into the second box, but as my mother scooped some eggs onto my plate, she said, "I'm serious about waiting until after you eat to open that one."

  Immediately I understood why. "It's from Dad?"

  She put a biscuit and sausage on my plate and gave a little shrug. "He wanted to be here, but I didn't think you were ready for that." She eyed the box. "And I really don't know how you're going to react to that."

  So I nibbled on my breakfast, keeping one eye on the half-opened box.

  What could it be?

  Was it jewelry?

  What else could fit in a box like that?

  I shook it, and it rattled.

  Was it...a key?

  Had he finally bought me a car?

  I found myself getting really upset. I didn't want him to buy me a car! Not like this! It would seem like a bribe. It would be just...wrong.

  "Oh, just open it," my mom finally said. "You're not eating anyway!"

  So I did. And what I discovered inside was, in fact, a key.

  Only it wasn't a car key. It was tarnished and cheap-looking. Bigger than a luggage key but way smaller than a house key.

  "What does this go to? Some kind of locker?"

  Mom took in a deep breath. "You could say that."

  I stared at her. "You're not going to make me guess, are you?"

  She shook her head. "It's under my bed."

  94

  Under the Bed

  THE LAST TIME I'D LOOKED UNDER MY MOTHER'S BED, I'd discovered A Crimson Kiss. It was like the place where this all began. Had she thought about that?

  Probably not, but I couldn't help pausing for a moment.

  What was under there now?

  When I finally looked, I discovered that instead of books, there was now a long, flat, tattered rectangular case.

  I knew right away what it was.

  I gasped, then pulled it out by the handle and just stared.

  "How do you feel about that?" my mother asked from the bedroom doorway.

  There was a huge lump in my throat. "Strange," I choked out. I looked up at her. "You must've told him what I said about not teaching me."

  "Oh, yeah," she said with a little smile. "Izzy had quite a talk with him, too."

  "Izzy is in on this?"

  She laughed. "Open it, would you?"

  So I clicked open the latches and came face to frets with the Fender I'd played at Izzy's.

  I covered my mouth. I stared. I giggled. And when I finally pulled it up by the neck, my hands were shaking.

  It had a beautiful new padded black strap attached, and when I stood up and slung it over my shoulder, it didn't feel nearly as heavy.

  It felt like it belonged.

  Mom was shaking her head a little, tsking, as she leaned against the doorframe. "Oh, you do look good in guitar," she chuckled. Then she added, "Your dad says we've got to get you an amp, a tuner, some cables...."

  "Can we do that today?"

  She straightened up. "You're talking about playing hooky?"

  "Why not? It's my birthday!"

  "No! You're going to school. You're going to college! You can love music, you can love your guitar, but you're not following in your father's footsteps!" Then softly she added, "But maybe you can call him and tell him you like it?"

  I smiled at her and nodded.

  I had no problem with that.

  95

  Give 'n' Take

  MY DAD AND I HAD A REALLY GOOD TALK that morning, and although Mom offered me a ride to school, I knew she was really dying to go back to bed, so I told her I felt like walking. But when I left the condo, I discovered a familiar red truck parked along the curb.

  Brody was leaning against the cab, waiting for me. "Happy birthday," he said with a shy smile. "I thought you might like a ride to school. Maybe let me buy you a frappuccino on the way?"

  I laughed. "I can't believe you remembered!"

  He opened the passenger door, and as I ducked in, I gasped. The upholstery had been completely redone. In place of the tattered black vinyl seats, there was now red and white diamond-tuft leather upholstery.

  "Wow, wow, wow!" I said, sliding in. And when Brody took his seat behind the wheel, it struck me that he had been rotating through the same faded T-shirts all year, but that now, suddenly, he'd been able to completely redress his truck.

  And that there wasn't actually anything "sudden" about it.

  It had taken thought.

  Planning.

  Saving.

  No...investing.

  Brody was blushing. "So you like it?"

  "It's amazing." But as he started the truck, I felt all the open space in the cab and realized that someone was missing. "So...how's Adrienne getting to school?"

  It was probably a somewhat thoughtless thing to ask, but Brody took it in stride. "She's getting a ride from Mom this morning."

  "Ah," I said with a nod.

  "I tried to talk to her about you, but she's still high on her horse, sorry."

  "Thanks for trying," I said.

  "So what did your parents get you for your birthday, do you know?"

  "An electric guitar!" I said, practically bouncing up and down. "A Fender Strat. It's used, but it's so cool. It's...it's amazing!"

  He studied me a moment. "An electric guitar." He pulled into traffic, murmuring, "That's a perfect present for you." Then he smiled at me and said, "To me you are music, you know?"

  I blinked at him.

  In all the pages of A Crimson Kiss, in all the movies I'd seen, all the stories I'd read, there was no line that compared.

  96

  Room 212

  I REALLY DIDN'T WANT TO BE AT SCHOOL. I didn't want to be reminded of the damage I'd done to my "reputation." I didn't want to face the tests I'd bombed or the homework I hadn't done. And I especially didn't want to face being shut down by Adrienne.

  What I wanted was to be home with my guitar.

  Or suspended like Brody.

  Anywhere but school.

  But as I trudged over to first period, the thought of Robbie Marshall made me feel a little lighter. I owed him an apology way bigger than the one I'd given him for our kissing fiasco. I'd never once thought that his change from smart boy to dumb jock could be anything more than the alluring pull of jockdom and popularity, and I felt bad for stereotyping him like I had.

  I was also impressed that he'd been willing to talk things out with me (despite some pretty erratic behavior on my part).

  So when he caught up to me outside of math and flashed his diamond-dusted smile and said, "Hey! Can you tutor me today?" my mind kind of blanked on the fact that it was my birthday and that there was a guitar waiting for me at home. I just said, "Sure!" a
nd told him to meet me in Room 212 after school.

  After that, I had a surprisingly calm and focused day. At lunch I ate in the usual spot in case Adrienne decided she wanted to forgive me on my birthday, but apparently she did not.

  I tried not to let it get to me too much, and after school I went straight to Room 212.

  "You're back?" Mrs. Huffington asked, obviously surprised to see me.

  "I'm meeting a friend here to tutor him in math."

  She fluttered uncomfortably, glancing at Lisa and the other two tutors. "I see."

  Obviously I was violating some tutoring protocol, so I said, "Look. I'll help anyone, as long as they don't stink and aren't rude. If you're not comfortable talking to Roper about his odor, how do you expect me to be comfortable tutoring him?"

  "Amen," Lisa muttered.

  Then Robbie walked in.

  "Hey," he said, giving me his gorgeous smile.

  "This is who you're tutoring?" Mrs. Huffington asked.

  I made the introductions and said, "Robbie is lost in a deep, dark mathematic abyss, and I'm going to help him find his way out."

  "I see...," Mrs. Huffington said, but judging by the look in her eye, she was seeing more than was there.

  Robbie, though, was amazing. He didn't flirt, he didn't fidget, he focused. And he must've noticed how Lisa and another female tutor were ogling him, but he didn't let it interrupt his concentration. He asked questions, he worked problems, and he kept at it until everyone else was long gone. Mrs. Huffington finally shooed us out, saying, "You'll have to resume this on Tuesday, or elsewhere. It's time for me to be getting home."

  "Feel better?" I asked Robbie as we walked toward the parking lot. "Tons." Then he turned to me and said, "You're a really good teacher."

  I smiled at him. "So you want to meet again on Tuesday?"

  He smiled back. "Absolutely."

  He offered me a ride home, but I decided it would be wiser to walk.

  Besides, there was someplace I wanted to go on the way home.

  And I wanted to do it alone.

  97

  Good Lighting

  "BUBBLES!" IZZY SAID when I stepped inside Groove Records. He was smiling from ear to ear.

  "You are such a sneak!" I laughed, running up to hug him.

  "Happy birthday, kiddo," he said, hugging me back. Then he laughed and said, "Your old man has terrible timing!"

  "So it wasn't just that the guitar was gone?"

  "No! He was hiding right here!" he said, pointing behind a bargain bin of CDs. "I was sweating bullets."

  "Well, you fooled me! And I'm dying to get home to play it."

  He seemed shocked. "You've got a Fender Strat at home and you went to school today?"

  I laughed. "You're a bad influence!"

  He chuckled. "I know, I know." Then he hurried back behind the counter. "Here. Take this. You need something until you get a real amp."

  He handed over a guitar cable and a small greenish plastic thing about the size of a bar of soap. "It's called a Smokey. Just plug in and play. It may not be a Marshall, but you'll have fun."

  I hugged him again, then ran all the way home.

  I couldn't wait to try out my guitar, but when I caught a glimpse of myself as I passed by the entry mirror, I hesitated, then moved back for a second look.

  I'd stopped wearing makeup days ago, but I didn't feel plain-Jane or washed out. My cheeks were rosy, my eyes seemed clear and bright, and my haircut and highlights still looked great.

  Maybe it was the lighting, the afternoon sun coming through the glass arch of the front door at just the right angle.

  Or maybe, I thought as I smiled at my reflection, I was just starting to feel good in my own skin.

  98

  Shelved

  AT LONG LAST, Grayson held her in his arms and gazed upon her radiant beauty. How had nature managed such exquisite perfection? Soft as a dove, with eyes pure as crystals, she was like a pool of sunshine, a cleansing rain to his soul.

  As Delilah searched Grayson's deep, rich eyes, she saw an uncommon tenderness, a caring beyond earthly confines, a depth to his heart only dreams could imagine. With a small, helpless gasp, she surrendered to the strength of his arms, relaxing in their loving bondage, knowing he would never let her fall.

  As his lips descended, she could feel the pulsing of his heart, could taste the heat of his desire. In that moment, she forgot the world, forgot Elise, forgot the pain that had engulfed her for so long, and embraced his hunger with the sweet, unbridled abandon of her soul.

  I read the passage one last time, and then, with a heavy sigh, I filed A Crimson Kiss alongside Lord of the Rings and The Princess Bride on my makeshift stacked-crate bookcase.

  In the week I'd had it, my guitar had edged out A Crimson Kiss. Where the story was something I could imagine, the guitar was tangible; something I could hold.

  But still. A guitar cannot deliver a crimson kiss. And although the book might have lost its effect on me after so many readings, by shelving it I felt like I was also shelving my fantasy.

  Maybe there really was no such thing as the perfect kiss.

  Maybe it was just as Adrienne had said.

  Simply fiction.

  And I did need to deal with reality.

  I'd been trying all week to patch things up with Adrienne. I'd waited outside her classrooms. I'd waited outside the Performance Pavilion. I'd called her and left messages. I'd written her notes and explained how my kiss with Paxton was not really a kiss at all but merely a collision of lips followed by a shove-off. But none of it seemed to matter to her. She continued to ditch me, dis me, or simply ignore me.

  I didn't want to give up, but I didn't really know what else to do. By the end of the week I was wondering if lifelong friendships were like perfect kisses.

  Maybe they didn't really exist.

  But on Friday night (after doing scales on my guitar until my fingers were almost bleeding) I made a fateful decision.

  It was the opening night of Adrienne's spring choral performance.

  I was going to attend.

  99

  Yodeling the Night Away

  ONLY A REAL FRIEND (or duty-bound relative) would attend a Larkmont High choral performance. Putting it as kindly as possible, they're sad. The singing is good, but the songs are always strange, never-before-heard numbers that were most likely rescued from the depths of a waste bin by an overzealous janitor more than a hundred years ago. (I'm just speculating, of course, but I can't seem to come up with any other explanation for the sorry song selections.)

  To make matters worse, the choir is...sparse. There are maybe five singers on each part. And because it's a tradition (or something), they stagger the singers on three-tier aluminum risers across the entire Performance Pavilion stage. Mrs. Vogel plays the baby grand on one end, Mr. Vogel conducts from in front, but no amount of gesticulating on his part (or hers) can conceal the fact that there are about twenty singers on risers that could comfortably hold a hundred.

  Anyway, I picked up a small rose bouquet for Adrienne on my way to the Pavilion, then got my ticket at the box office, accepted a Xeroxed program from an usher, and went inside.

  The saving grace of any Larkmont choral production is the Performance Pavilion itself. It's new and plush, has stadium and balcony seating, and belongs nowhere near Larkmont High School. It is on campus but on the outskirts, and I don't believe the school actually owns it. I think the money was donated by an outside source and is maintained by some foundation.

  Why else would the box office workers, the concession people, the ushers, and the security guards all be senior citizens?

  If I'd been there to get extra credit for some class (as Miss Ryder has been known to offer for dramatic performances), I would have chosen a seat in the back or up in the balcony. But I was there to get friendship credit, and for that I needed to be visible. And although there were only a few minutes remaining until show time, seating was still wide open. So after looking ar
ound for any other Willows who might be in the audience (and finding none), I chose a seat right up front and got comfy.

  "Welcome to the Performance Pavilion!" came a recorded voice over the loudspeaker. "Please quiet your cell phone, and remember: Food, drink, and gum are not permitted inside the theater. Also, for the performers' safety, do not use flash photography. Please take your seat, as the performance is about to begin!"

  All twenty-five audience members got ready.

  The curtain parted.

  Mrs. Vogel started tinkling the keys of the baby grand, Mr. Vogel's hands went into action, and the choir was off, putting their heart and soul into janitorial pilferage selection number one: "How Mightily the River Doth Flow."

  The girls were all wearing blue taffeta gowns, and Adrienne looked absolutely gorgeous. Her hair was pulled back in an up do, with little ringlets falling from her temples, in front of her ears, and at the nape of her neck. Her diamond pendant sparkled under the lights.

  I soaked herin, remembering how we had climbed into her attic as third graders and discovered boxes of her mother's old clothes. Funky, oversized sweaters, dresses with wide belts and padded shoulders, shoes with radical heels, and the jackpot of dress-up: a box labeled Bridesmaid Dresses. (Mrs. Willow had, we learned later, been a bridesmaid eight times before becoming a bride.)

  The blue taffeta gown Adrienne was now wearing reminded me very much of one of those bridesmaid dresses. It was strange to see her looking so grown up, and yet still see her in my mind's eye, up in the attic, playing dress-up.

  It also drifted through my mind that in a way I'd been playing dress-up. I'd borrowed my mother's clothes, her makeup, her perfume...

  I wondered when the final shift into adulthood happened. When did you go from playing grown-up to being grown up? Sometimes it seemed like my parents were still playing at being grownups. Seventeen years after having a kid, they didn't seem completely comfortable in grown-up clothes.

  This is how I whiled away the time through "The Trumpet Vine on Window Nigh," and "Roses Blue and Cold," and "Underneath the Pock'd Moon." Then Mrs. Vogel announced the Germanic origins of the next tune, and when the choir launched into "Ach Du Lieber Meinen Hund," my attention turned to Paxton.