17 First Kisses (16 page)

He puts his arm around me. His hand moves up and down my shoulder, giving me chill bumps and making me forget what I was going to say next. Our eyes lock like they're passing electricity back and forth. I am acutely aware of the mere eight inches hovering between our lips. Luke leans closer, closing the gap. If he kisses me . . .

And at that precise moment, the front door creaks open and Megan steps onto the porch with a panic-stricken look on her face.

“Claire! You will not believe . . . Oh. Hi, Luke.” Her face shifts into a smile so quickly I almost wonder if I imagined the look I saw before.

“Hey.”

Her eyes rake over us. “What are y'all doing out here?”

“Just talking,” I say.

“Oh.” I can see her gears turning. She takes a step towards us and trips. “I need to go home. I feel really drunk. I think that Creepy Creeperson Jimmy Marcus might have spiked my drink with Everclear.” She looks at Luke. “Have you had anything to drink yet? Do you think you could drive me home?”

She teeters again and grabs the porch railing for support. Her boobs strain against their seashells. Was she stumbling before?

“Sure. I haven't had anything yet.”

“I'll do it,” I say. “Just let me get the keys from Britney.”

“She and Buck disappeared to his bedroom and shut the door.” She shudders. “I am so not walking in on that. And besides, her car's blocked in.”

Luke stands. “It's okay. I can do it. I just got here, so I'm parked on the street.”

“Do you need me to go with you?” I ask.

“No, we'll be fine.” She fumbles down the stairs and falls against Luke, accidentally, I'm sure. “Oops. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. Here.” He puts an arm around her waist, his head
bent toward her. I can't tell where he's looking, but I'm praying it's not at her seashells, and do his fingers really need to be skimming the top of her sarong?

“Thanks.” Megan gazes up at him with the look the princesses wear in Disney movies.

This isn't going to end well.

 

Kiss #9 xoxo

The most painful breakup in the history of the universe started with a flyer. A four-by-six neon-green sheet of paper slipped in front of me before bio.

      
Screaming Lemurs Premiere Concert

      
Opening for the Mangled Guardrails

      
9:00 p.m. at the Maverick

“Check it out,” Tanner says. “We're a legit band now.”

He leans over my desk while I read it, so he's way inside my personal bubble—close enough for me to smell the shampoo in his hair, which has recently been dyed rock-star black. The skin around my neck gets hot.

“Dude. That's awesome,” I say.

“Thanks. So. You think you can make it?” He tugs at the earring in his left ear while he waits for me to reply.

I would give
anything
to go to this concert, but . . .

“I don't know. My parents are super strict. They'd never let me go to a bar.”

“No. It's okay. It's teen night,” he says quickly.

“Yeah . . . they'll still say no.”

Tanner is crestfallen.

“I really want to hear you play, though.” I look at him with big, flirty eyes and hope he gets the subtext, which is
I really want to make out with you, though.
“I'll try to work something
out.”

He smiles. He gets it. “Cool.”

When I get home from school, I carefully remove the flyer from the front zipper pocket of my book bag. Then I race over to Megan's. I let myself in and run upstairs. Her door is shut, but there's light and music coming from inside. When I twist the knob, I hear several thumps, and Megan scrambles to pull on her robe.

“I'm chan-ging. Do you mind?” She turns around. “Oh, it's you. I thought my parents were home.”

“What's going on?”

She glances from side to side even though we both know we're alone. Then she opens the robe.

“Um. Are you planning to be a prostitute for Halloween?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “No. I'm planning to lose my virginity tomorrow.”

“Seriously?”

Every excruciating detail of their physical relationship has dominated our lunchtime discussion for Lord knows how long. I shouldn't be surprised. They've been stuck on third for months. And with Chase in college now, she's probably feeling more pressure.

“Yep. It's our seven-month anniversary. He doesn't have class on Fridays, and I'm going to stay home with the stomach flu. It's like fate.” She stares into the distance with bright eyes. “Now help me figure out what to wear!”

She jerks open her robe again like a flasher. It's all black lace and pink ribbons crisscrossed in ways that don't make sense to me. Garter belts hold up her thigh-high stockings.

“Do you like this one better?” She gestures to the one she has on, then leaps over to her closet and pulls out a hanger. “Or this one?”

It's white and sheer. Significantly less complicated and significantly less trashy.

“The white one,” I say immediately.

She turns to appraise the white one. “Is it cliché to wear white when you lose your virginity?”

“I don't think so. I thought you were supposed to.”

She shrugs. “Okay. Let me try it on for you.”

She strips right in front of me. None of my friends have any modesty. But then, if my body looked like any of theirs, I guess I wouldn't either. I still have more muscles than curves.

“I think I do like this one.”

She examines her butt in the mirror from eighty billion different angles.

“If I put candles and rose petals around the room, d'you think it'll be too much?”

My jaw hits the floor. “You're doing it here?”

“Yeah.”
Megan looks at me like I'm an idiot. “He has a roommate. Plus if my mom calls, I need to be home.”

“Aren't you worried about getting caught?”

The thought of sneaking a guy into my bed is enough to make me feel like I'm having a panic attack.

“Nah. He'll be gone way before my parents get home. And he's going to park a few streets away and walk over so your mom doesn't narc on me. No offense.”

“I doubt she'd even notice anymore,” I mumble. Then I remember why I'm here and I perk up. “I have to tell you something too. We
have
to go to this concert on Saturday. Amberly just texted me that B's parents will be out of town, so we can stay at her place. It'll be awesome.”

I whip the flyer out of my back pocket, but Megan doesn't seem interested.

“I'll see,” she says. “I mean, I might be hanging out with Chase, and I doubt he'll want to go to a high school concert.”

“Oh. I'm Megan.” I prance around the room in an exaggerated impression of her. “I'm having sex with my college boyfriend tomorrow, and I'm waaay too cool to hang out with high schoolers.”

She flings a pillow at me, and we burst into giggles. I leave her to her lingerie because I need to get back to my house and start dinner.

I'm shocked to find my dad's car in the driveway. Ever since Timothy, he's been staying late at work, sometimes sneaking in after we're asleep. He's always liked working and he's always been on the quieter side, but I guess tragedy sometimes turns people into more extreme versions of themselves. Today he's home early, though. Maybe he'll even eat dinner with us. I pop a Stouffer's lasagna in the oven and head straight to his office, where I find him bent over some drawings. Shocks of gray have
sprung up around his temples in the past couple of years. When I was little, I used to wish I had black hair just like him.

“Hey, Dad. We're having lasagna in half an hour.”

He lets out an exhausted sigh. “Can you just leave my plate in the microwave? I've got a lot of work to do.”

“Okay, sure. Well, guess what. I got a ninety-eight on my bio test.”

“That's nice.” He doesn't even look up from his desk.

My shoulders slump. It's like nothing I do matters anymore. The meals I cook, the babysitting I do, the grades I make. None of it. I narrow my eyes at the back of his head.

“I'm going to a sleepover at B's house Saturday night. I won't be home until Sunday morning.”

“Okay.”

He doesn't ask about parental supervision. I stomp out of the room in disgust. I expected my mom to crumble after we lost Timothy. But not my dad. He's supposed to be the breadwinner, the genius architect, the overly involved father. He's supposed to know what to do—no matter what. We're supposed to be in this together. I put him on a pedestal and dismissed her as a housewife who dabbled in photography, and I never realized she was the glue that held him together.

Libby and I eat dinner at the kitchen table alone. We tried eating in the dining room right after, but it was too depressing with just the two of us. Afterward, I wrap one plate in plastic wrap and put it in the microwave for my dad. I place another on a tray with some garlic bread and a mason jar of sweet tea. I
tiptoe up the stairs, past the closed door that still hides an empty nursery, and push open the door of my parents' bedroom.

It's dark, but I can see the outline of my mother's body under the covers. Her skin is lifeless. Her hair is brittle. She's lost tons of weight—I barely recognize her. I don't usually notice how different she is. Maybe if my dad hadn't come home early tonight and gotten my hopes up, I wouldn't have. I shove the tray on the nightstand and try not to look at her, but it's too late. The sobs start deep in my chest, clawing their way out by the time I get to my room and shut the door. I sink into the carpet. Curl into a ball under the doorknob.

Why am I the only one trying in this family?

I miss Timothy too. I miss him so hard it feels like my heart might keel over from the strain, and I dream about him at night and wake up with tear-stained pillows. Every once in a while I'll dream about that day at the hospital, but most of my Timothy dreams are painfully normal. I'll have one about a time when we played peek-a-boo while I was babysitting or one about a memory that didn't happen where he's four years old and I'm teaching him to kick a soccer ball. The waking up is what really guts me. Realizing he'll never be four years old and I'll never teach him to play soccer. After his funeral, I spent days in bed with Sarah and Libby in a pile of arms and legs and tears, talking about what Timothy would look like if he grew up, what he'd be like if he lived, and how Grandma takes care of him in heaven.

But after all that, I got out of bed. And yes, it's hard, and some days, most days, I don't want to, but I force myself to do it
anyway. And I feel like I'm doing it all by myself, and it is killing me.

Timothy died.

And now neither of my parents is interested in living.

At lunch the next day, Britney and Amberly and I work out all the details for the concert and sleepover. My eyes are drawn to Megan's empty seat. I hope today is going well for her.

I don't get to ask her about it until Saturday when we're at Britney's getting ready for the concert.

“How was it?” I pounce on her the moment she walks in the door.

“Perfect. I had everything set up, and it was so romantic. Chase was sweet as can be.” She sighs deeply. “It was amazing.”

Amberly picks at her fingernails. That night after prom, the night when I stabbed Corey with my heel and we lost my little brother, Amberly lost her virginity in the hotel bathroom. She was depressed for weeks after.

“I just feel like this was one step toward starting the rest of our lives together. He's been talking a lot about our future. He really wants to buy a house here and raise a family. And I know that's not exactly what I had planned, but we love each other so much, you guys. I know we'll be able to figure something out.”

Not exactly what she had planned? It is the antithesis of what she had planned. It is the sledgehammer-wielding thug that annihilates what she had planned. I shiver. If this is what sex
does to people, I don't know if I ever want to have it.

We talk about Megan and Chase ad nauseam until Britney stands up and pulls a bottle of wine from under her bed.

“I thought we'd make tonight interesting. Drink up,
chicas,”
she says, pouring us each a glass.

Amberly's mom and Britney's mom both drink too much. The difference is that Britney's mom can put away entire bottles of white wine and sleep off her hangovers in a four-poster bed with a cold compress over her eyes and still be called a lady. When Amberly's mom drinks cheap rum by the handle and ends up barefoot and screaming in the 7-Eleven, people call her white trash. We steal their alcohol all the time, but they never notice. Britney can take a whole bottle of wine and leave it empty in the recycling bin and her mom will assume she drank it. We sleep over at their houses whenever we want to do anything—Amberly's if we're sneaking out, because the trailer doesn't have an alarm.

I haven't had a drink since last spring at prom, but then I think about how my dad acted and gulp down half a glass.

“Easy there, champ,” Megan giggles.

“Don't you want a glass?” I ask Britney.

“Can't. I'm driving,” she says. She's the only one of us to get her license so far, so she pretty much always drives. “I'll drink some when we come back for the sleepover.”

I try to forget about how bleak things are and have fun for one night. I borrow the shortest skirt Britney owns. At the Maverick, I go to the bathroom with Amberly and take shots out
of her flask. I dance with my friends until people stare. I'm tired of being good.

Finally, the hip-hop music playing over the speakers stops, and Screaming Lemurs takes the stage. Every girl in school nearly has a seizure. In middle school, these guys were some dorks in
the
band. Now they are heartthrobs in
a
band. Each song is greeted with a new wave of squeals. Some are covers—everything from Nirvana to My Chemical Romance to Aerosmith. Some are Screaming Lemurs originals. They are damn good.