Confessions of a Serial Kisser (25 page)

87

Shut Out

O
N MY WALK HOME
I took inventory. I had no friends, my hard-won GPA was probably history, living a fantasy had become a fiasco, and I was turning seventeen the next day.

Talk about having the blues. What kind of mess had I made of my life?

My fingers were still very tender, but I had the sudden urge to play some power chords. The afternoon I'd spent playing guitar at Izzy's was one of the only really great days I'd had all year. Maybe it would get my mind off things.

Maybe I could master that AC/DC riff.

Or maybe I'd just make mood-bashing
noise.

But when Izzy saw me inside his store, he hurried over and said, "Oh, hey. I'm really sorry, but I've got to close up for a little while."

I had my heart set on playing, so I asked, "Can I hang out in the guitar room while you're gone?" I smiled at him. "You know, lock the door and let me shake the walls?"

Izzy had left me alone before while he'd run out to do an errand, so I didn't feel at all weird asking. But he was looking over his shoulder now, avoiding eye contact with me, acting very uncomfortable. "Uh...actually, I probably won't be coming back today."

It felt like he didn't
trust
me, but I told myself that I was being paranoid. And since the lights were still on and music was playing through the speakers, I said, "Can I just go play a few chords while you close up? I'll leave the minute you're ready to go."

"Sorry," he said, escorting me out. "Maybe tomorrow." Then he closed the door in my face, flipped over the
OPEN
sign, and flicked off the lights.

I left there feeling shut down and totally bummed out. I had no one. No
where.
And as I walked away, what shot through my heart was clear and simple:

I wanted my mother!

88

Salting the Soup

I
RAN ALL THE WAY
to Murphy's Market.

"Sweetheart?" my mother said when I faced her across the checkout scanner.

My eyes pleaded as I whispered, "Can you take a break?"

Without a word to me, she pushed a button on her PA announcement microphone and paged a checker to her lane. Within five minutes, we were out of the market and walking through the sunshine toward the Soup Savant, three doors down.

"What happened at school?" she asked.

So I told her about my apologies, I told her about Robbie and his parents' divorce, I told her about seeing Paxton and Adrienne together and how much I needed Adrienne to forgive me. And when I was done with that, I just broke down and blurted, "I feel like I've lost everything! I feel like I belong nowhere!"

I didn't want her to tell me everything would be fine--it would have been a Band-Aid on what felt like a gaping hole in my heart.

My chin quivered helplessly as I talked.

I salted my soup with tears.

And my mom sat there, even-keeled and strong.

And listened.

89

Considering a Dismount

M
Y MOM OFFERED TO TALK TO
A
DRIENNE
and I almost took her up on it, but in the end I decided that it was something I needed to do myself.

When I got home, my heart practically leaped through the door ahead of me.

The phone was ringing!

Maybe it was Adrienne!

She'd read my note! She'd forgiven me! And she was, of course, dying to tell me about Paxton!

I punched the talk button. "Hello?"

"Evangeline?"

"Yes?" I gasped, realizing who it was and wanting desperately to hang up.

"It's Brody."

"Hi," I choked out.

"I read your note," he said. "The one you left on our porch?"

I nodded.

He didn't say anything more, and it finally occurred to me that he couldn't hear me nodding. "Oh," I managed.

"I know it was to Adrienne, but...it helped."

"Oh," I said again, my mind a maddening blank.

"I'm sorry things are weird." His voice was choppy. Like he couldn't get any air.

"Me too," I said, feeling terrible.

"Is there anything I can do about it?" he asked.

There was something so sweet, so incredibly kind about that question. A massive lump formed in my throat as I choked out, "Forgive me?"

He hesitated. "There's nothing to forgive. And if you want to go back to being friends--or brother-sister--that's okay with me." His words were flowing smoother now, and him relaxing made me relax a little, too.

"You don't think that would be too weird?"

"Weirder than this?"

I laughed, and instantly I felt lighter inside.

"Look, I know we didn't talk a lot before, but...maybe that could change, too."

He was being so open. So...reasonable. And in a flash of insight I saw that Brody Willow was the kind of guy you could actually build a life with.

But...what about the magic?

What about the crimson kissing?

I shook off the flurry of thoughts and said, "I'd like that." Then I added, "Your sister's not talking to me at all, you know. I've been trying to apologize to her, but she won't listen."

"Don't worry about Adrienne. I'll get her to read your note." Then he muttered, "She needs to get off her high horse."

My immediate reaction was
That's right,
but with another wave of clarity it struck me that Adrienne had only been on her high horse for two days.

I'd been on mine for half a year.

90

Treasures and Trash

W
HEN
I
WAS A LITTLE GIRL
(and, okay, also when I was a not-so-little girl), my mother would put me in my room and tell me I was not to come out until it was tidy. She would close the door tightly behind her, and I would look around at the enormous mess that had piled up, not knowing where to begin.

An hour later she would look in and discover that I was reading a book. "Evangeline!" she would scold. "You haven't done a thing to clean up this mess!" She would then heave a big sigh and say, "Sort out the clothes. Put away the ones that aren't dirty, make a pile of the ones that are."

Off she'd go again, and because it's much simpler to have your mother wash, dry, fold, and put away your clothes than it is to sort them and put away the clean ones, I'd make a giant pile of all the clothes and get back to reading my book.

"These were all dirty? Really?" she'd ask, but then she'd focus on the next phase. "Now pick up all your papers. Go through them; decide what you want to keep and what you want to throw away."

Step by step she'd walk me through the process of tidying my room until we'd be down to a heap that neither of us quite knew what to do with. "Well," she'd finally say, "it won't go away on its own."

So we'd tackle the final heap. And some of the things that I'd elect to throw away she (in moments of sentimental weakness) would fish back out of the trash sack, finding remote places for them in my room.

Other things she'd be desperate to get rid of but I'd tug-o'war for, saying how I would never-ever-ever in a million years part with it.

I'm better now at sorting, cleaning, folding, and putting away. What I have yet to conquer, however, is what to do with the final heap. How do you sort the treasure from the trash? When does something move from sentimental to disposable? And if you think you are ready to part with it, are you really? If you throw it away today, will you regret it tomorrow? Or will it be something you never think about again?

Sitting in my room after Brody's phone call, I realized that I
had
made significant progress in sorting out my messy life. I had
not
escaped to the pages of a book. I'd taken action. I'd analyzed and scrutinized and apologized.

But as much progress as I'd made, I was still left with a heap in the middle.

A heap I really didn't want to face.

A heap I really didn't know what to
do
with.

A heap known as my dad.

91

Opening the Sack

T
HE HEAP WASN'T GOING TO GO AWAY ON ITS OWN
.

I knew that.

And although I'd stuffed it in the trash sack many times, Mom had fished it back out. It was like a favorite toy that had been shattered. I wanted it out of my sight so I could forget about it; she wanted to superglue it back together.

But the cracks always show when you superglue. And superglue doesn't work on everything. Try all you want, some things will not hold together (although your fingertips will be cemented for hours).

My dad was obviously the sort of thing that could not be super-glued. So in my mind I'd stuffed him in a sack and hauled him out to the garage. And every time my mom opened the sack to take a sentimental peek at him, I refused to look. I yanked the drawstrings closed, waiting for the next trash pickup, when I might convince her to help me lift him into the bin and be done with him.

But it had been clear for some time now that she didn't want to be done with him.

So now here I was, taking a deep breath, peeking inside the sack and feeling the sentimental
Ohhhh.
The songs he'd sung for me, the concerts he'd taken me to, the stories he'd read to me, the bedtime tuck-ins, and the breakfast pancakes shaped like music notes and guitars...it all flooded across my heart.

And I let it.

Was it just the passage of time taking some of the sting away?

Was I tired of using the hurt he'd caused as a fuel?

Was Adrienne's unwillingness to listen or for give making me see myself more clearly?

Perhaps it was a combination, but I finally caved in to the
Ohhhh.
I picked up the phone, sat down at the kitchen table, and dialed my old house's number.

"Hi, Dad," I managed when he answered the phone.

"Evangeline?" he asked, his voice soft, hopeful.

My throat pinched, my chin quivered, and then the strangest thing blurted out of my mouth. "Do you have any ice cream?"