Confessions of a Serial Kisser by Wendelin Van Draanen
No, it belonged to Stu Dillard.
Apparently my jaw had fallen out of its socket, because Sunshine snarled, "Get over it."
"Consider it done," I answered.
"Consider it your fault!" she seethed in my ear as I went by.
"Consider yourself lucky!" I called, then snipped, "Stu's gotta be a better kisser!"
I escaped the two of them, threading my way through the crowd, searching for Adrienne. Or any friendly face. Being alone in a crowded gym where everyone else seems to have someone else is so...embarrassing. It feels like everyone's staring at you thinking, Don't you have any friends? Couldn't you get a date? Doesn't anyone want to dance with you?
I took a deep breath.
I told myself, Say your fantasy, see your fantasy, live your fantasy. You'll never get a crimson kiss by moping around! This gym is full of guys! Find one! Dance! Have some fun!
There was a warm touch to my elbow. "Evangeline?"
I turned and saw a smiling...Blake Jennings? We'd had a few classes together as freshmen, but I couldn't remember having seen him since. He was definitely older, and much hipper-looking.
"Blake?"
"Wow, you look great!" he said, eyeing me up and down.
"Didn't know you still went to school here," I called back over the music.
"I don't! I do still have friends here, though. They invited me. How have you been?"
"Great! You?"
"Great!"
We smiled at each other, sincerely at first, then awkwardly. We'd already run out of things to say.
He looked out at the bobbing glow sticks. "You want to dance?"
He was standing very close to me; his breath was warm and sweet. "Sure," I called back.
The odd thing about dancing is that you're immediately thrown up against someone you may barely know, and it means nothing. Girls wrap themselves around guys, guys latch on to girls, people gyrate like animals, and when the music stops, they separate and walk off like it was no big deal. Do that on campus in the middle of the day and the whole school will be talking, but on the dance floor? No one seems to care.
Anyway, the instant I said "Sure," Blake grabbed my hand and led me into the sea of sweat and overtaxed deodorant. And even though a bass-heavy tune that was not exactly meant for slow dancing was playing, Blake latched on to me and started to sway.
But after a few turns he began nibble-kissing my shoulder, working his way up my neck to my earlobe. Then he started licking the edges of my ear and huffing into it.
I pulled away from him, but before long he'd pulled me back, zeroing in on my ear again, this time thrusting his tongue inside it and doing licky laps around it.
Saliva began dripping down my neck.
He was giving me a full-on spit bath!
I was going to get swimmer's ear!
I felt like shouting, "It's an ear, dude! An ear," but instead I just broke away.
"What'sa matter?" he asked.
I casually wiped my neck and ear dry and made an attempt at diplomacy: "That was a little intense, is all."
He grinned, totally misinterpreting my comment. "You want to go outside? It's cooler."
I shook my head. "I've...I've actually got to find my friend." Then I did what all girls do when they're desperate to escape a guy at a school dance--I made a beeline for the locker room.
40
Interception
ON MY ESCAPE TO THE LOCKER ROOM, I got waylaid by Jasmine Hernandez. Jasmine Hernandez, who hadn't said boo to me since seventh grade. (And whom I haven't wanted to say boo to since she fell in with the fast crowd last year.)
"Are you here with Robbie?" she asked.
"No!" I said, giving her a curl of the lip.
"So you guys aren't going out?"
"No!"
"But I heard he dumped Sunshine because of you! And I saw Sunshine here with Stu!"
I shook my head. "He didn't dump her for me. I want nothing to do with him."
Her jaw dropped. "How can you want nothing to do with him? He is smokin' hot."
I shrugged. "Go for it, Jasmine."
I resumed my trek to the locker room, and as I approached, a beacon of locker-room light shone on a girl gliding toward me. What a relief! "Adrienne!"
"I can't believe you're here!" she cried.
"I can't believe it either!"
"Wow, look at you!" she said. "Obviously you're not on a journalism assignment."
I shrugged. "It's a dance."
"So...have you danced?" She leaned in. "Have you kissed?"
I pulled her farther away from the locker-room light and told her all about Blake Jennings.
"Eeew," she said. "Ew-ew-ew!"
I shook out my ear. "I need a sponge mop!"
Adrienne laughed. "Spit spill in canal two!"
I laughed, too, then said, "You know, I don't think I'm going to find a crimson kisser here. How long do you have to stay? Can you come over, maybe spend the night? We could still catch a movie...or rent one?"
She pressed the light button on her wristwatch. "Brody's picking me up at eleven. I've got choir practice at nine tomorrow morning...."
"I'll get you there on time."
She looked at me skeptically, as we've been known to talk all night.
"C'mon!"
"Okay. But I've got to interview the DJ first. It shouldn't take long. You want to meet me back here in fifteen minutes?"
I shrugged. "Sure."
But after five minutes of watching glow sticks bob and waiting for Adrienne to return, I began feeling very self-conscious. My hands were suddenly odd and awkward attachments that didn't seem to belong anywhere. Then I realized that light from the locker room was shining on me. It began to feel like a spotlight. A spotlight on a dweeby wallflower with odd and awkward hands hanging out by the girls' locker room.
I finally moved toward the dark safety of the bleachers. I sat on the edge of the first row, alone, keeping an eye on the place Adrienne said she'd meet me.
Blake Jennings walked by with his arm around a girl.
She looked like a freshman.
I couldn't tell if her ears were wet or dry.
A few minutes later Sunshine Holden staggered by, possibly drunk, definitely crying.
Stu Dillard was nowhere in sight.
The bleacher seats behind me started thumping and shaking, and when I turned around, I saw Eddie Pasco coming toward me.
Eddie Pasco is Larkmont's soccer star. He foots a ball everywhere. Between classes, at lunch, after school, around the track, on the cross-country course...he and his soccer ball are inseparable. One of his girlfriends Magic Markered big eyes and oversized lips on his soccer ball and wrote "Eddie's True Love" when she dumped him. Everyone agrees it's one of Larkmont High's best breakups.
Eddie Pasco is also in my psychology class. He sits in the back fantasizing about soccer, much to Mr. Stills's obvious annoyance.
"I've never seen you at a dance before," Eddie said, sitting beside me.
"I'm not big on school dances," I confirmed.
"But here you are," he said, a twinkle in his eye.
I snorted. "I must be insane."
"Rumor has it," he said with a nod.
"Hey!" I backhanded him. "Not nice!"
He laughed. "So who you with?"
"Nobody." I eyed him. "You with the soccer ball?"
He gave me a very appealing, very seductive grin. "Not nice."
I shrugged, but I could feel myself blushing.
He maintained the sexy grin. "Feel like dancing?"
The memory of a soggy ear clouded my mind. "It depends," I said, scrutinizing him, "on what kind of kisser you are."
His grin grew broader. "Isn't that a little backward?"
"I'm not going out there so you can maul my ear," I said firmly. "I've had enough ear mauling for one night."
"Your ears are not what interest me," he said. Then he cupped his hand behind my head and pulled our faces together.
41
Wasted Breath
EDDIE PASCO TASTED LIKE BEER. And spicy wings. With traces of burned or charred...something. The taste, the odor, was very distracting. Familiar, but not.
What was it?
Where had I smelled it before?
In...the bathrooms?
As my senses finally connected the dots, I pulled away from him, mentally slapping myself upside the head. Eddie Pasco was stoned!
"Hey! Where you going?" he asked, pulling me back.
"Uh...you're wasted?" I said, trying to free myself.
A disarming grin crossed his face. "Aw c'mon. I had, like, one beer and a coupla hits. That's it."
I broke away and said, "Sorry, I'm just not into that," but I felt oddly conflicted. I didn't want to be with a guy who drank beer and smoked pot, yet I'd basically asked a stoner to kiss me.
And the real killer was...it hadn't been a muddled gray kiss, or a barely pink one.
It had shot past crimson to fiery red.
42
Flashbacks
BRODY WAS ALREADY WAITING in the parking lot when we finally got out of the gym, so Adrienne begged off spending the night and I didn't put up much of a fight. I was still muddled over Eddie.
Adrienne hadn't seen the kiss, and I wasn't sure I wanted to tell her about it. I certainly wasn't going to spill it in front of Brody! (There are some things you just don't discuss in front of brothers, be they blood or adopted.)
So while Adrienne chatted about her interview with the DJ, I searched the radio for some decent rock 'n' roll to block out the residual tingles from Eddie Pasco's red-hot kiss. Nothing seemed to work, though. His kiss was like a forbidden flashback that I couldn't seem to block from my mind.
I was dropped off at the condo at 10:58, only to discover that my mom was not home.
"Dessert and coffee," I mocked. "Dessert and coffee, that's all."
I devoured rocky road right out of the carton, trying to cool the sizzle of Eddie's kiss.
Bite after bite just melted.
At 11:37 I finally put away the carton, washed off my makeup, and went to bed. I wasn't even close to sleeping when the digits on my clock said 12:02 and the muted jangle of bracelets and keys announced Mom's return.
"Have a good time?" I called. "You think maybe he's the one?"
She came into my room. "Please don't be like that. Your father and I had a lot to discuss."
Even in the dim light from the hallway, I could see she was dressed in a way I hadn't seen in a long time: fitted leather jacket, tight jeans, stylish boots...just my dad's style.
I pulled the covers over my shoulder and turned my back.
She continued: "I would have called, but I was afraid of waking you up...."
I flipped around and sat up. "How can you talk to him? How can you trust him? You know what he's capable of!"
"I'm not naive, Evangeline. But we were married for eighteen years. We have a lot of history, a lot of memories. It's very hard to let it all go."
I flopped back down. Let them have their history. Let them have their memories. I didn't want to think about him or her or what used to be.
I had a memory of my own that was refusing to go away.
43
Disconnection
MY DAD CALLED TOO EARLY the next morning. (Okay, it was ten o'clock, but any time before noon on a Saturday is too early.) I knew it was him because I could hear my mother's side of the conversation:
"No, it's fine, I was up."
(The liar.)
"That's interesting...."
(Yeah, I'll bet.)
"No, I don't think that's a good idea."
(Finally! She's come to her senses.)
"I'll tell her."
(Wait. Her? Who? Me?)
"What was his name again?"
(His name? Whose name?)
"He must've just gotten it out of the phone book."
(Someone--some guy--was trying to reach me? Who?)
I suffered through a very long pause; then my mother's voice started up again. "You may think it's a good opportunity, Jon, but I know she'll just hang up on you. I'll give her the information."
She sounded so firm. So in control. So uncharacteristically calm.
But after another pause, something began churning under the calm. "Jon, she's not dating," she whispered. "I would know, wouldn't I? And so what if she was? Are you forgetting that she's almost seventeen?"
(Yeah!)
"And why would he call your house? She would have given him our number!"
(Score one for logic!)
Then in a loud, testy tone she said, "Jon, stop! You are in no position to screen her boyfriends!"
(Boyfriends?)
"No, you listen to me. Stop being so controlling!"
When she hung up, I emerged from my bedroom and said, "That was tellin' him, Mom." I meant it, too.
She closed her eyes, and I could see that she was trying to collect herself, but her face stayed flushed, her nostrils flared. And after presumably reaching the calming number of ten, she shoved the phone notepad toward me. "As I'm sure you overheard, you had a call." She studied me. "Is this someone we should know about?"
"We?" I asked with an eyebrow suitably cocked.
"I. Is this someone I should know about?"
I read what was scrawled on the notepad and tried to act nonchalant as I said, "Just someone in my math class. Probably needs help with homework."
There was no way I was going to tell her about Robbie Marshall.
44
Waving a Plastic Spade
OVER THE WEEKEND I made a valiant attempt to focus on my schoolwork. I also did heaps of laundry, organized my dresser, listened to Jet's Get Born at supersonic volume, and spent Sunday afternoon at the Willows'.
I most definitely did not call Robbie Marshall.
Being at the Willows' was just like old times. Adrienne's parents were out back on their patio, enjoying the beautiful weather as they read through the Sunday paper and thumbed through stacks of catalogs.
Brody, Adrienne, and I wound up in the garage, blasting music and playing cutthroat Ping-Pong. We compete for the "golden paddle," which is just a paddle that was sprayed gold years ago (and has very little gold left on it). I'm a pretty slammin' player when there's a rockin' song on, which is why Adrienne's always messing with the station between points when I'm beating her. She knows that rap, synth, or pop will throw me off, and is not afraid to use this. Brody seems to thrive on rock, too, so he just fights back harder, which I like.
It occurred to me that Adrienne didn't know about Eddie's kiss, or Andrew's kiss, or about Robbie calling, or even that he'd asked me out. But the afternoon went by and I didn't catch her up. I just wanted to enjoy some uncomplicated time at the Willows', with things like they used to be before I moved.
On my walk home, I must have been in a good-old-days state of mind, because I accidentally went past my old house. Ever since we'd moved out, I'd taken a roundabout route to Adrienne's just to avoid seeing the house. For some reason, I just couldn't take seeing it.
I think Mom felt the same way, which is why we moved out when, really, my dad should have.
I did go back once early on, to retrieve my iPod and a big box of CDs, which had somehow not made it in the move. I was also planning to snatch the computer. Why should my dad get it? He mostly just surfed the Web and used it for e-mailing gig announcements, whereas I desperately needed it for school.
But when I arrived, there was a FOR SALE sign dangling from a four-by-four post.
My home. My childhood. Up for sale.
I'd stood by the hedge of hibiscus shrubs that lined our property and stared at the sign. And after a while I'd become aware of how tall the hibiscus plants were. When had that happened? They were taller than I was. And the blooms were amazing. Together the shrubs made a beautiful living fence of alternating reds, yellows, and pinks.
Pictures of me as a toddler waving a plastic spade as Mom planted hibiscus shru
As the FOR SALE sign clinked in the afternoon breeze that day, it had struck me how ironic it was that the bushes were now large and bursting with blooms, while I felt small and vulnerable.
I hadn't retrieved my iPod or CDs, or the computer; I'd gone back to the condo and cried. And after that I'd never returned. Why torture yourself when you don't have to?
But I must've had a brain fade when I left Adrienne's, because I suddenly found myself approaching the hibiscus hedge.
I could still have turned around without actually seeing the house, but I told myself that would be ridiculous. I had moved on! I was no longer living in the past! I had places to go! People to kiss! Fantasies to live!
So I went forward, and the first thing I noticed was that the FOR SALE sign was missing.
I was gripped with a sudden and crippling fear.
Had the house been sold?
Why hadn't they told me?
But fear turned to shock when I spotted my mother's car parked beside my dad's in the driveway.
It was so strange to see them there. The same cars that had been parked alongside each other every evening for years. Her Toyota. His '65 Mustang.
I tried to convince myself that their cars being parked together didn't mean my parents were parked together. Maybe she was strong enough now, brave enough now to face the memories. Maybe she had to talk to him there to finish closing the hole he'd blasted in her heart.
I considered going up to the door.
But...what would I do? Knock? Walk right in?
And what would I say?
"I'm home!"?
It was all so ridiculous.
There was no going back.
45
Ghosts
DELILAH THREW HERSELF UPON HER SISTER'S GRAVESITE and wept. Her exit from the house had been witnessed by no one, so at last she was free to let the long-held torrent of tears escape. Why Elise? her heart wailed. Why Elise? She had been so young, so innocent, so good. The question echoed madly in Delilah's mind as her body convulsed with the pain of her loss. Try as she would, she could find no justifiable answer.