Confessions of a Serial Kisser

  Thank you, Trevor Dansa!

  "Okay," I said as he put the one earbud he'd removed to listen to me back up to his ear. "Just making sure."

  Eddie Pasco, on the other hand, was not easy. For starters, I couldn't find him. I scoured the Snack Shack line, the quad, the alcoves surrounding the boys' locker room, the football field...I must've walked two miles looking for that boy!

  Not finding him was, I confess, something of a relief. My brain could dismiss him as a smooth-talking stoner, but every time I saw him, my lips had remnant tingles from our kiss in the gym.

  Eddie Pasco had undeniable magnetism.

  Bottom line--he was dangerous!

  But then, with a lightning bolt of deductive reasoning, I knew where I'd find him.

  Behind the football field bleachers.

  Never in my life had I gone behind the west-side bleachers. Besides being the place where stoners were known to party, it was also not a place you just happened to stumble upon.

  You only went there with the intention of going there.

  You have to walk clear around the track (or cut across the football field) to reach the bleachers. And to get to the notorious eight-foot strip behind them, you have to go down a narrow corridor between the concession stand and the bleachers.

  For stoners it's perfect. It's a place to go in broad daylight and toke on weed or light up bongs or whatever stoners do to get stoned. They're hidden, but between the slats of bleachers they can easily see anyone who's coming to bust them.

  Knowing this, I felt very self-conscious as I crossed the football field.

  Were people watching?

  Did they think I was hiking over to join them?

  That I wanted to be a serial-kissing stoner?

  And was Eddie even there?

  Was he crowing to his friends about how irresistible he was? I knew she'd come back for more, man, I just knew it.

  I felt small in the openness of the playing field. What was I doing? Why didn't I just wait until after psychology class let out?

  But my feet were in motion, and they marched on. "Eddie!" I shouted when I reached the bleachers. "Eddie, are you there? I want to talk to you!"

  There was no acknowledgment. Just the feeling that darkness was studying me between the slats.

  "Eddie!" I called. "Come out here."

  His dreamy voice drifted like smoke through the seats. "Why not come back here?"

  I crossed my arms. "Look, if you're not coming out, I'll just say this from here." I liked that idea better, actually. No face-to-face with his dangerous magnetism. Just voice-to-voice with a stoner.

  But a few moments later he sauntered out from the shadows, his soccer ball in hand. "Hey, hot stuff," he said with a comfortable grin, "here to dance?"

  I dug in mentally and said, "Actually, I know you're going to think this is totally stupid and lame and all of that, but I'm here to apologize."

  An eyebrow arched slightly as he moved toward me, tossing his soccer ball lazily from one hand to the other. "For what? Being a hot chick?"

  He was close to me now, but to my great relief his magnetic pull was not working. Maybe it was blocked by my realization that there was something truly pathetic about spending a beautiful spring day hiding behind bleachers getting high.

  "No," I said. "I'm apologizing for coming on to you at the dance."

  He hesitated, then his brow furrowed. "You're kidding, right?"

  I shook my head. "I know it's dorky, but that's why I'm here. I just wanted to say I'm sorry and clean the slate."

  He was now looking suspicious. "You in a program?" he asked.

  I laughed. "You're the second person to ask me that. No!" Then I looked him in his bloodshot eyes and ran the risk of totally overstepping. "But I've heard they work."

  "Huh?"

  I nodded at his soccer ball. "That should be your future, Eddie." I cocked my head at the bleachers. "Not that." I shrugged. "You know they don't go together."

  Then I turned around and cut back across the football field, not caring at all that in Eddie Pasco's book, I'd probably just gone from hot chick to complete dweeb.

  86

  Curbed

  EDDIE DIDN'T EVEN SHOW UP for sixth period. There was nothing I could do about that, but I could still try to smooth things over with Paxton. So when the dismissal bell rang at the end of school, I went directly to the student parking lot. If there was no after-school choir practice, odds were Paxton would be heading for his car like the rest of the drivers. If there was choir practice, I'd just wait in the parking lot until it was over.

  I found Paxton's white Lexus, no problem. (Larkmont isn't one of those schools where Mercedes and BMW and Lexus models glint like so many diamonds in the parking lot sun. We've got a couple of acres of B-list brands, and the few "cool" cars are mostly restored and lowered.)

  The bumper-to-bumper exit lines formed fast. Speakers started thumping; horns honked as cars jockeyed for position and peeled out of the parking lot and onto Larkmont Boulevard, leaving bluish puffs of smoke behind.

  It took a good fifteen minutes, but then it was quiet except for the occasional mom cruising in near the Performance Pavilion side of the lot to pick up her kid.

  Clearly Paxton was staying after school, so I parked myself among construction trucks on a comfy yellow SCHOOL VEHICLE ONLY cement curb two aisles over from the Lexus and waited.

  I didn't mind waiting. I wanted to be done with this; wanted to get it behind me.

  Unfortunately, I'd been so intent on checking another name off my list that I hadn't thought about how Adrienne might be getting home.

  Brody's truck had not been in the parking lot.

  Of course not.

  He was suspended.

  But sitting on the curb, I realized suddenly that it would appear. It would appear at the appointed hour to pick up Adrienne after choir practice, because that's the way Brody was. Quiet, punctual, reliable, considerate.

  My stomach tied into a knot just thinking about him.

  And then I heard laughter. Tinkling, joyful, familiar laughter. I turned, and there was Adrienne, walking beside Paxton. She was glowing, hanging on his every word.

  They weren't holding hands, they weren't even walking that close together. But he was laughing, too, enjoying being the center of her attention.

  I stayed stock-still on the parking curb as they approached the Lexus. I didn't want to interfere; didn't want to ruin this moment for her. In all the years I'd known her, I'd never seen Adrienne look this way. Even when she'd been around Noah in middle school, she'd never looked like this.

  Paxton chirped open the door locks of his car, then held the passenger side open for her.

  Spotting me was not an issue--they only had eyes for each other.

  Adrienne ducked in as gracefully as a girl with an oversized backpack can, then beamed up at him as he closed the door for her.

  Moments later he was in the car and driving off.

  I watched them go, feeling a strange mix of love and loss.

  87

  Shut Out

  ON 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 alon
e 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. Nowhere. 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

  MY MOM OFFERED TO TALK TO ADRIENNE 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

  WHEN 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

  THE 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 tak
en 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?"

  92

  Crossroads

  MY MOM DROPPED HER KEYS and her jaw when she eased through the door after work. "Better hurry," my dad said, tapping the side of the ice cream carton with his spoon.

  I nodded, inspecting the mound on my spoon. "It's fudge-mocha swirl, and it's divine...and almost gone!"

  My mom approached us cautiously but was smart enough not to make a fuss. Instead, she got herself a bowl and a spoon and pulled up a chair. "There's nothing I like better than an after-work ice cream party."

  "How'd it go?" my dad asked, just like he used to. Just like the past half year hadn't happened.

  But it had happened, and it was weird, and despite the fact that I'd spent an hour listening to my dad's heartfelt apologies and promises about the future, it didn't erase the past. Maybe it had been a crossroads for him. Maybe he had made a foolish turn when he should have gone straight. That didn't mean I could act like nothing had happened.

  All of a sudden I was exhausted. All of a sudden I just wanted to go to bed.

  My mom read my mood and held me by the arm as I started to stand. "I know tomorrow's your birthday, but this was the best present you could have given me."

  I nodded once and said, "We're still a mess. Don't think we're not." I turned to my dad. "And just because everyone of those guitar gods you love covered 'Crossroads,' don't forget what happened to the guy who wrote it."