Confessions of a Serial Kisser Read online

  "Get in," he said, rolling his eyes.

  I scooted across the worn vinyl bench seat to my usual in-the-middle spot, and Adrienne came flying in right behind me. "Home, James!" she commanded. Then she grabbed my arm and whispered, "The gossip is insane!"

  "I haven't heard anything," I said quite innocently as I turned on the radio and tuned in my favorite station.

  As Neil Young's "Like a Hurricane" blasted from the speakers, Brody pulled into the traffic jam of students trying to escape the joys of secondary education. "I haven't either," he said.

  Adrienne reached over and changed the radio station, muttering, "What is this song?" but Brody stopped her, saying, "At least give it a chance!"

  "Yeah, choirgirl," I laughed. "Give it a chance!"

  Adrienne rolled her eyes, then put Brody on the spot, saying, "So, you haven't said anything about Evangeline's new look."

  "Huh?" He was busy with traffic, but he managed to glance at me. "She looks nice."

  Fashion isn't exactly a priority for Brody. He and Adrienne both get a clothing allowance, but he never seems to buy anything new. He just cycles through the same old T-shirts. Still, I couldn't let nice stand. "Don't be fooled, Bro! I'm mean as mercury!"

  I don't know why I said mercury, but Brody thought it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. He chuckled about it the whole way home. Maybe in the cultish world of advanced placement physics, mercury is known as an evil substance, I don't know.

  When Adrienne and I were safely alone in her bedroom, she threw her backpack down, plopped in her desk chair, and said, "I want to hear every detail! Tell me what happened with Robbie!"

  So I did. And when I described the "kiss," her face contorted into knots of revulsion. "Eeeeew."

  "Exactly."

  "Wow," she said after a minute. "How disappointing." Then after another moment of absorbing the shock of it all, she nodded at my Rolling Stones shirt. "Maybe that gave him the wrong idea?"

  I looked down at the oversized lips and tongue. "A guy doesn't base his kisses on the T-shirt a girl's wearing! He's just a horrible kisser."

  She shook her head. "So disappointing." Then she brightened. "But, Evangeline, think about it! You did it! Robbie Marshall kissed you! It's, like, insane."

  "He mauled me," I grumbled, but she was right--it was a little surreal. I laughed. "Good thing it was a disaster, or I'd be in serious trouble!"

  "Because of Sunshine?"

  "Oh, yeah."

  She laughed, too, then asked, "So now what?"

  I lay back on her bed. "I'm not sure." I hugged a pillow as I propped myself up on an elbow. "How do you know if a guy's going to deliver a crimson kiss?"

  She frowned. "All right, enough of this. What exactly is a crimson kiss?"

  I smirked at her. "If you'd read the book, you'd understand."

  She gave a little snort and rolled her eyes.

  "See? You always put it down, but believe me, you want a crimson kiss too."

  She studied me a moment, then said, "Fine. I'll read it."

  I sat up. "Really?"

  "Mm-hmm."

  I snatched up my book bag and unzipped the small front pouch.

  "You carry it with you? Still?"

  I smiled and handed it over. The pages were curled, the cover tattered. "Be careful with it."

  She sniggered. "Right."

  "I'm serious."

  She laughed. "You're insane!"

  I laughed, too, and it felt good. I had a friend who cared, and (awful or not) I'd been kissed by the hottest guy at Larkmont High.

  Maybe I wasn't living my fantasy exactly, but at least it felt like living.

  12

  The Kissing Corridor

  I SHOULDN'T HAVE WORRIED about the awkwardness of seeing Robbie the next morning.

  That boy totally ignored me.

  Sunshine was waiting for him outside first period and made a big show of latching on to him as she escorted him away.

  So it was true! Robbie had engaged in a little unauthorized mouth-to-mouth.

  Tsk, tsk, tsk!

  Such a naughty boy.

  Since I was totally over him and his deceptive good looks, the news didn't even faze me. If Sunshine could resuscitate their relationship, more power to her.

  But Adrienne's "So now what?" was a good question. Did I really want to go through weeks of pursuit again? And who would I pursue? Someone on campus had to be in possession of a crimson kiss, but who?

  How could you tell?

  At break Adrienne reported that she'd barely started reading the book, so that was no help. And since she was tied up with school-newspaper duties during lunch (leaving me to fend for my self in the quad with a still-angry Sunshine within striking distance), I wandered around thinking about kissing.

  Obviously extreme hotness was no guarantee.

  Maybe the place, the setting, was a factor. I took stock of my own setting and suddenly realized that I was surrounded by couples kissing. Against the buildings, on benches, under a tree...one, two, three, four, five couples kissing!

  What was this?

  The kissing corridor?

  Justin Rodriguez was shuffling my direction, flanked by his friends Blaine York and Travis Ung. Justin had been in my sophomore biology class, but all I really knew about him was that he'd spent the year pining away for Lolita Rey.

  He was obviously over that, because (despite his sorta geeky friends crimping his style) he had a confident swagger. "Hey," he said with a crooked grin.

  "Hey," I said back. And as he swaggered by, we sort of locked eyes and smiled at each other. That was it. No polite long-time-no-see conversation, no clever repartee, just "Hey" and the locking of eyes. And as I exited the kissing corridor, I found myself thinking, Nice....

  Nice eyes.

  Nice smile.

  Nice hair.

  Nice mouth.

  Just nice...

  During fifth-period chemistry I was still considering Justin Rodriguez's niceness. He was really cute. And maybe he was a romantic! He had pined away for Lolita Rey. Most guys don't show their vulnerable side, but he hadn't been able to hide it.

  Yes, I decided, with his good looks and the right setting, Justin Rodriguez could very well be a crimson kisser!

  I was brought back to the fascinating world of covalent bonding by Roper Harding's tap on my shoulder. "Do you get what he's talking about?" he whispered, eyeing the chalkboard where Mr. Kiraly had scrawled a series of complex molecular diagrams.

  I tuned in to our teacher's heavy Hungarian accent and watched as he pointed to various parts of the diagram with his middle finger. (The middle finger may be used for pointing in Hungary, but someone should point out to him that an upended middle finger has an entirely different purpose in America.)

  "No," I whispered over my shoulder.

  "Yes, you do!" he said.

  "Shh!" I whispered back.

  I try to be kind to Roper Harding, but it's not easy. He's zitty, he's whiny, he's always borrowing paper, and he stinks. You haven't experienced full-throttle B.O. until you've sat near Roper Harding. Honestly, he smells four days dead.

  "I know you get it. You've got an A in here!" he whispered.

  "Shhh!" I whispered back, then leaned forward in my seat, wishing it was not just light but also smell that was reduced in strength by the square of the distance.

  And then, to escape the smell of Roper Harding and the chalk-covered birdie-flipping finger of Mr. Kiraly, I returned to thoughts of Justin Rodriguez, wondering how I could set the scene to kiss him.

  13

  Groovy, Baby

  ON MY WALK HOME FROM SCHOOL, I took a little detour to Groove Records. It's one of my dad's favorite hangouts, too, but going there after school is safe, because he's tied up with his day job doing network installations for the phone company.

  Talk about making history come alive. Groove Records is like the world's coolest museum. There's not one new thing in the whole place. The walls are covered in
old concert T-shirts and framed album covers, there are signed posters and collector guitars in glass cases, there are beads between rooms (and there are a lot of funky little rooms), and there's rock 'n' roll kitsch everywhere. I think I'm in love with the sheer funkiness of the place. The floors are creaky and slanted, and there are bottomed-out couches where you're welcome to park yourself all day and read ancient issues of Rolling Stone.

  "Hey there, Bubbles!" the owner called over Black Sabbath's "Electric Funeral" when I jingled through the door. To him I've been "Bubbles" since my dad introduced us when I was a baby. Apparently I had a major talent for blowing spit bubbles.

  "Hey, Izzy," I called back. With his frizzy gray hair and beard, and his round, blue-tinted glasses, Izzy looks like one of the Jerry Garcia bobble-head dolls he has on the shelf behind the register.

  "Saw your old man at the Bluez Barn last weekend. His band was smokin' hot, as usual."

  "Izzy...," I warned him. "We've discussed this.... You need to keep that sort of information to yourself."

  He came out from behind the counter, making his way past long wooden crates of LPs and bins of trade-in CDs. "I...I just miss the old days."

  I looked around his shop and chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. "No kidding."

  "No, I mean you and him."

  "Stop it," I said firmly. "This is my favorite place to be, but I can't come here anymore if you're going to keep bringing him up."

  "I hear ya, I hear ya," he said quickly, but then brought him up again. "He hasn't been in in ages." He flipped through some LPs, shuffling a few that were out of order. "He's probably buying online now, huh?"

  "I don't know! I don't care!" I almost stormed out, but then an odd connection gripped me. After shopping at Groove Records for nearly twenty years, my father probably had started shopping elsewhere.

  Just like he'd done after close to twenty years of marriage.

  Suddenly my heart went out to Izzy, and I reached for his arm. "I'm sorry."

  He nodded. "You just gotta wonder why."

  I snorted softly. "Exactly."

  14

  Chicken Soup for the Shattered Soul

  I SPENT ABOUT AN HOUR AT IZZY'S and on my way home decided to swing by Murphy's Market to see my mom. I actually like my mom quite a lot. And I missed her. The old her. The cheerful her. The pre-separation her.

  And as I was walking along, I got the brilliant idea that maybe she was ready for a makeover, too! I knew just how I wanted to do her hair--long layers, red highlights...with chandelier earrings? Whoa. It would give her a whole new lease on life! Maybe over the weekend we could even do things together like we used to. Maybe she was finally ready to get out and have some fun, too!

  So I breezed into Murphy's, anxious to see her. But after making the rounds at the checkout stands and not finding her, I walked up to the manager and said, "Hey, Mr. Banks, is my mom on break?"

  He looked up from some paperwork he was reviewing at his little manager's stand by the value sacks of dog food. "Evangeline?" he asked. "My, haven't you grown up."

  I suddenly felt very self-conscious. I'd forgotten that I'd changed my look. "Uh, yeah. It happens."

  He laughed. "I'm sorry. I used to hate it when people said that kind of thing to me."

  That threw me again, because I couldn't imagine it. Mr. Banks is a rosy-cheeked roly-poly puppy of a man. One of those belt-around the-equator people. How had he looked as a teenager?

  "But you were asking about your mother," he said with a warm smile. "I'm sorry to report that she called in sick. She sounded terrible." He went back to sifting through papers. "Tell her to take it easy and get well soon, will you?"

  "Sure," I answered. And since I didn't know if she had a cold or the flu or just needed a day of R&R, I bought a couple of cans of chicken noodle soup, some Jell-O, and Gatorade, and hurried home.

  I found her in bed, a box of Kleenex on one side, a pile of used tissues on the other. "Evangeline, honey!" she said, sounding very stuffy-nosed. "I'm so glad you're home. Come here." She grabbed a tissue and patted the bed. "How are you? Tell me all about yourself. It feels like ages since we talked."

  "I'm fine. But I found out from Mr. Banks that you're not, so I picked up some chicken soup and Jell-O and--"

  "You're wearing makeup?" she asked. "Since when have you been wearing makeup?"

  "Mom, I'm a junior! Most girls have been wearing makeup since seventh grade."

  "But you don't need makeup. You're a natural beauty." She cocked her head. "What made you decide to start wearing it?"

  I shrugged. "I don't know. Just felt like making a change."

  She studied me a moment. "I do like your hair.... I told you that already, right?"

  She had. Sort of. It had been a cry of shock as I was moving from the bathroom to bed.

  I smiled. "Actually, I was thinking that I could do yours."

  She shook her head. "Oh, I don't think so."

  "It might give you a lift, Mom." I set the groceries on the bed. "And it would be fun." I pointed out her earrings, dangling from my lobes. "I'd even lend you your earrings."

  She sighed. "They look great on you, Evangeline."

  "You don't mind?"

  "Mind?" Her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. "You brought me chicken soup and Jell-O. Borrow whatever you want." She wiped away a tear. "And yes. I would love some soup."

  While I was heating it and unearthing the saltines, she called, "Do you and Adrienne have plans tonight?"

  "She had choir practice after school today," I called back. "We talked about getting together"--I stuck my head back in her room--"but I think I'll just hang out with you."

  "I miss you, too," she said, but it seemed to be too much effort for her to smile.

  After I delivered the soup, I sat down on the edge of her bed and watched her eat. She looked so small. So vulnerable. My mind flashed to the countless times she'd sat on the edge of my bed feeding me soup, keeping me company, watching me.

  Had she thought the same things?

  Please feel better.

  Get well.

  And please, please...smile for me.

  15

  Coffee, Tea, or Me

  THE NEXT MORNING my mom was feeling a little better and jonesing for some Starbucks chai. When I offered to run out and get the tea for her, she handed me a twenty and the car keys. "You really are an angel. And get whatever you want."

  It felt great to be behind the wheel again. I powered down the windows, cranked up the radio, and enjoyed every second of the ride. It was a blast of total feel-good.

  The Starbucks line was insane. Not that that's anything new. Especially midmorning on a Saturday. I'd be a frappuccino freak like half the school if it weren't for the line. Thank God for the line. Like I need a five-dollar-a-day addiction?

  I'd applied a little makeup before leaving the house. After two weeks with it, I thought I looked washed out without it.

  It was a good thing I had.

  There were hotties all over the place!

  Starbucks hotties come in a wide variety, but the two main categories are the rebel hotties and the fast-track hotties. Rebel hotties put a lock on you with their eyes but don't say much. I try to act cool and nonchalant when that happens, but I usually bump into something or miss the trash with my straw wrapper.

  Rebel hotties bring out the dweeb in me.

  Fast-track hotties, on the other hand, are usually a little older (like mid-twenties), but they smell good and look good, and they've obviously got something going on besides hanging around a coffee shop all day (unlike rebel hotties). They also don't mind engaging in clever conversation with others in the line.

  Fast-track hotties make me feel older and more clever than I actually am.

  Usually I see someone I recognize from school at Starbucks. Not this morning. This morning it was just me and the hotties. (And lots of moms, moms being big into Starbucks.)

  Ahead of me was a fast-track hottie.

  Beh
ind me a couple of moms, comparing day-care notes.

  In the chairs to my side Johnny-wanna-be-Depp and his java mates, getting an early start on their ne'er-do-welling.

  Johnny locked on with his eyes, giving me a smirk and a twitch of the eyebrow.

  I tried a cool smirk and a twitch in reply (although it probably looked more like I had a cramp), then moved forward in the line.

  Unfortunately, the line hadn't actually moved, so I stepped on the heel of the fast-track hottie in front of me.

  "Oh!" I said when he turned around. "I'm sorry!"

  "No problem," he said with a smile. "Triple shot of molasses with your line this morning?"

  I laughed. Our baristas are always pushing the flavor shots, which would be annoying if they weren't so cheery about it. But then I choked back a gasp as I took in this hottie's face. He had a cleft chin, a dimple in his left cheek, and beneath his long black lashes were dark, smoldering eyes.

  Except for his clothes, he fit to a T the description of Grayson Manning in A Crimson Kiss.

  I tried not to gape as he kept the conversation going. I tried to banter back, but all my clever replies seemed to form too late, backing up in my brain as we moved forward in line.

  He ordered a double latte, and I watched him doctor it up at the sugar station as my order was being filled. Forget Justin Rodriguez--this was fate! I'd never, ever seen a guy with a cleft chin and a dimple in his cheek. There must be a reason he'd been in line right in front of me. There must be a reason he'd been so charming. There must be a reason I'd stepped on him!

  The reason was destiny.

  He was a crimson kisser!

  He was also walking out the door.

  No wave goodbye, no smile, no wink...he was just leaving.

  But then I saw that he'd left his sunglasses on the sugar station counter.

  "Evangeline!" the java goddess who'd filled my order called.

  I snatched my tea, grabbed his sunglasses, and bolted out the door.

  I looked around frantically.

  Where had he gone?

  There! Across the parking lot!

  I ran over and inserted myself between him and his car.

  "Oh, hi," he said, taking a step back.