The ABC's of Kissing Boys (6 page)

But it wasn't sweaters or jeans or jackets that were filling my brain. Strangely, it was the doorway kiss. Being mouth to mouth with Tristan had been, well, remarkable. A whole new experience. Which, when I stopped to analyze it, drove home my suspicion that my ex had been a dud in the kissing department.

But to keep things in perspective, I knew it wasn't the boy or the up- close action that I'd liked, as much as it was what that kiss had signified: hope.

The bell in the doorway tinkled when I entered Anna Banana's, and I made a beeline to a colorful table of V-necked sweaters, thinking how great they might look with a T-shirt underneath.

A momlike voice broke me from my musing. “Parker?”

I looked up to see Anna herself, dressed in her customary airy gauze clothing and too many necklaces.

“Looking for a back- to- school outfit?” she asked, her German accent so watered down from years in the U.S. that all that remained were some harder- than-usual syllables.

I nodded. “I kinda have my eye on that gray skirt in the window.”

“Oh—oh … on
you?
Perfect! You've got the long legs to pull it off.” She took me by the shoulders and turned me until I faced a dressing- room door. “You—there. Me—right back with everything in your size.”

I let out a laugh and followed her instructions. Anna was great. And it had been a while since I'd gotten a compliment. Chrissandra had this theory that truly confident people—like we were supposed to be—didn't need the gratuitous support of others. That we could stand on our own two feet. And she felt that
some
compliments were actually backhanded insults, meant to demean previous outfits or hairstyles or other friends.

Her philosophy seemed a real stretch to me, maybe even a little paranoid, but rather than rock the Chrissandra boat, I'd learned to bite my tongue when she or Elaine wore something new or Mandy did some new streak in her hair. And to sort of frown at people and wave my hand dismissively if they said nice things about my looks in Chrissandra's presence.

Of course, with Chrissandra snubbing me, all that had changed. And how raw was the irony that now I didn't even have friends to trade compliments
with?

Anna came back with a huge pile of clothes, including some long- sleeved tees that she swore would “make any day special.” I loved her attitude, not to mention most everything she had me try on. Seeing the cash-register total, on the other hand, made me feel a little sick, but I punched in my mother's PIN, knowing she was cool about my clothing allowance. I figured it was payment for forcing me to “accept” the JV position.

I grabbed my receipt and was just turning to leave when I had a near collision—with Becca. I was hardly surprised to see her. She was, after all, an Anna Banana junkie, too. But I was surprised to almost knock her over and hoped my fancy-seeing-you-here expression thawed any ice.

“You're the last person I expected to see,” she said, neither smiling nor frowning, showing not much of anything.

“Why? I shop here all the time.”

“I mean,
now.
Chrissandra and some people are across the way, headed into the new Matt Damon movie.”

The world spun before my eyes. Rationally, I knew my friends’ lives hadn't stopped. I'd figured that phone calls and text and instant messages were firing around DeGroot, connecting people with plans that did not include me. But what I hadn't known for sure hadn't hurt me.

Now I knew.

And wow, it hurt.

“Why aren't you with them?” she asked.

I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. The truth seemed too easy—and yet too hard. And I had no idea how she'd react. I mean, sure, we used to have that unconditional BFF thing going on, but that was back when my idea of a great summer day was a blue raspberry slushy after a bike ride to the east side of the lake.

So, out of desperation, I did what any self- respecting loser would do: I laughed. And added an “Oh, yeah, well …,” which could have meant anything from
I'm totally over Matt Damon
to
I am an alien just visiting this planet in the body of Parker Stanhope.

Becca studied my face. “You guys have a falling- out?”

“No!” I said, then paused, wishing I could recall my too- loud yelp. “No. I mean, not
really.
Okay, there's this little issue of me not getting promoted to varsity. You know,” I said, like she or anyone would have a clue how dig- a- hole- in- the- ground humiliating it felt, “a temporary problem until Coach finds a place for me on varsity.”

“Temporary.”

“Totally. Over before you know it.” If I lived that long. I shuffled my feet again. “Um, so, I guess I'll see you at school.”

“You keep saying that.”

“What?”

“ ‘See you at school.’”

I shook my head. “What? You won't be there?”

“I will. It's just, well, it's not like we really
see
each other there.”

Huh? Couldn't she tell that this was no time to split hairs? Didn't she see that I was dying here?

I must have looked pissed or confused or something, because Becca shrugged, flashed something close to a smile and walked away.

I cruised on through the doorway, dragging my spirits and my chin behind me on the ground.

Outside, I headed toward home—not about to go anywhere
near
the movie theater. Wondering if I was still on Chrissandra's speed dial and in Mandy's and Elaine's Top Five. And if any of them had even once stopped to put themselves in my shoes, to try to imagine what I was going through and how it would have felt if the world had continued rotating without them.

But of course, I thought, it wouldn't have been one of them. Mandy and Elaine were the stuff college soccer scholarships were made of. And even though Chrissandra had gotten in Hartley's face a few times as JV captain, she could practically kick a ball into the solar system. I was a solid player, but with Legs of Steel Rachael returning and that new girl transferring in, solid just wasn't enough.

Until now, our fearsome foursome had had nothing to do with talent and positions and everything to do with heart and trust and, well, loyalty. We were
there
together,
with
each other,
for
each other. Friends to the end.

I thought.

My breath caught in my throat as it really sank in for the first time. Was this the end? Like a ref giving me a red card that took me out of the game … forever?

Hand Kiss
:
This gesture of
extreme politeness is considered totally
impolite to refuse.

C
layton called that evening to check up on me. The mere sound of my brother's voice lifted me up, and I tried to sound sincere as I lied and said I had a handle on everything.

“Your coach doesn't know who she's tangling with,” he said, and chuckled.

I made noises of agreement, thinking how glad I was to have him (and Luke) on my side.

We hung up, and I tried to copy a charcoal- eyeshadow look from a fashion magazine; then I went downstairs to borrow my mom's SUV for the next lesson.

Minutes later, Tristan and I were speeding off, his jaw clenched over “words” he'd just had with his dad.

“It was nothing,” he said, and exhaled.

When I'd walked over to get him, he and his father had been arguing in the open garage.

“Is it because I'm older and therefore automatically a bad influence? Or because I'm my father's daughter?” I asked playfully.

He shot me an ice- cold glare, real electric blue, like wild- berry Gatorade.

“Wait—it
was
about me?” Unbelievable. Like I was social outcast number one.

“So what if it was?” He turned on the radio, but my mother kept the volume set so low that we didn't have to raise our voices. “Besides, he's got his own issues. Like why he won't get out of the car when he drops me at my mom's. Or the fact that he's involved in this nonsense with your dad.”

“Well, that second part is easy,” I said, braking for a traffic light. “He made that first call, after all.”

“But he didn't. When he finally
did
decide to report something, it took him forever to even figure out how. I was there.”

I found it hard to believe that Mr. Murphy wasn't the instigator. Who else would it be? We only had a neighbor on one side, and Mrs. Logan was almost too old to be alive, and practically blind. The rest of the people on Millard Circle kept to themselves and/or had lives.

“Well, however it got started,” I said, “our dads have certainly gone bonkers. They think they hate each other, but they seem like twins separated at birth.”

“Which would make us cousins, you know. And make our deal illegal in quite a few states.”

I made a face. “Don't even go there.” I reached out and changed the radio station, turned up the volume and headed on to the scenic drive north.

After a time, the houses became farther and farther apart, until they all but disappeared. Finally, I pulled onto a dusty old road that led to a rocky bluff overlooking Lake Superior. I liked to think of it as my place, a little- known spot I'd discovered as a kid for picnicking and skipping rocks. My parents and Clayton had forgotten all about it, but after I'd gotten my driver's license, I'd brought Chrissandra, Elaine and Mandy out a few times. And after the varsity names were posted, this was where I'd come to cry.

Somehow it just seemed fitting to bring Tristan here, since he was—I prayed—the key to turning my life back around.

I killed the engine, and we got out. The night was dark and cool, the only light coming from the full moon, the only heat from, well, us.

Tristan moved to the lone wooden picnic table, then hopped up and sat, resting his feet on the bench. That's when I realized he was
sans
his trusty notebook.

“What? No notes tonight?”

He tapped his forehead. “It's all up here. And,” he said, and lifted his hands, “right here.”

Something stirred inside me.

But this was no time for self- analysis, so I climbed up and scooted close, until my thigh practically touched his. Crickets chirped everywhere—the bushes, the brush, the trees, more like a movie sound track than real life— and heightened my senses and anticipation.

He reached for my face with both hands, settling in with a palm on the side of my chin, his fingers splayed on my cheeks.

“The face hold,” he said, “helps the kisser establish both interest and control, signaling his intentions to the kissee. The kissee then has the choice of backing away or holding still and waiting for the next move.” His voice dropped, as did his hands. “Now your turn.”

Dutiful student, I raised my hands and molded them to his face, much as he'd done. His skin felt warm, and smooth in some places, rough and stubbly in others.

“Now make your advance,” he said, “until our lips touch.”

I did, expecting the brush of our lips to take us someplace fabulous, or at least to deepen into, well, something. But as soon as we made contact, he pulled away.

“That was good. Now start again.” My frown must have been evident in the moonlight, because he made a noise in the back of his throat. “Hey, you want to get this right or not? This could be a critical part of your performance at the sports fair.”

He was right. Again. Still, I arched a brow to remind him to be respectful to his elders. But just as I was about to put him in his place, my words and thoughts were stolen by the sound of an approaching engine.

Leaping up, I spotted headlights out on the road. I hopped off the table, half figuring I'd creep through the brush to get a better look and half planning to stay there to keep from getting caught with Tristan.

The car lights were definitely getting brighter and bigger and seemed to slow, then to beam straight on me as the car braked on the bluff.

I tensed, panicky. I mean, I knew we hadn't done anything wrong, anything illegal. And anyone could be behind those lights: tourists, park patrol, grown- ups I'd never met. It didn't
have
to be a fate worse than death, right?

But the thing was, this was no hot spot. Especially at night. You almost had to know how to find it.

“Parker?” a male voice called out of the driver's- side window. “Is that you?”

Struggling to shield my eyes from the headlights, I scrambled to place the voice. “Uh,” I managed, “yeah. Who's there?”

The driver's- side door popped open, and a lanky figure climbed out. After he'd taken a couple of steps, I recognized the strutting gait as Kyle Fenske's.

Chrissandra's Kyle.

Omigod. Did that mean
she
was behind those interrogation lights, too? Could this
get
any worse? I would probably have preferred my chances with an ax murderer.

“Hey,” Kyle said, coming out in front of the lights. “What are you doing out here? All alone at night and everything?”

Alone? My gaze swept from his to the picnic table.

Empty.

If it was possible to love someone two grades behind you, I suddenly did.

I zapped my focus back to Kyle. “I—I came out here after dinner to sort of clear my head. Things have been,” I said, and swallowed hard, “sort of exhausting lately.”

He nodded. He knew.
Of course
he knew. Chrissandra liked to talk.

“You have a car here, right? I mean, I'd give you a ride home and everything, but …”

“No, I'm good.” Kyle always had been nice to me— even before he was dating Chrissandra, he'd offered me rides. I smiled at him and did my best to be casual. “I was just leaving, anyway,” I said, and forced out a laugh. Before he could stop me, I scurried in the direction of the parked SUV. “See ya,” I called back.

As I walked by, I peered into the dark interior of his car.