Confessions of a Serial Kisser

  I moved toward a speaker that was mounted near the ceiling, mesmerized. It was the clearest, strongest female voice I'd ever heard. And as the song went on, I just stood there gaping up at that...voice.

  It was a short song, over way before I wanted it to be. So I hurried up to the counter and asked Izzy, "Who was that?"

  He looked up from his guitar surgery. "Grace Slick. Jefferson Airplane."

  The next song had started, but it wasn't anything like the other one. "Can you play that first song again?"

  "Sure," he said, pushing back his glasses. "Your old man never played Jefferson Airplane for you?"

  I shook my head.

  "I can't believe that." He picked up the needle and carefully placed it back on the LP. "They wimped out when they became Jefferson Starship, but this is untouchable sixties gold."

  There was a moment of silence and then that voice. No introduction, no warning, just that voice.

  "Wow," I said when it was over. "Is it called 'Somebody to Love'?"

  Izzy nodded as he pulled the needle up again. "You'll like this one, too," he said, then grinned at me. "'White Rabbit.'"

  "'White Rabbit'? No! Don't play anything about rabbits!"

  He gave me a funny look. "You've got something against rabbits?"

  "Uh...can you just play 'Somebody to Love' again?"

  So he did, and when it was over, I asked, "Do you have that on CD?"

  "I think I might," he said, and led me over to the used CD section.

  It took a while, but eventually he handed over a jewel box. "Surrealistic Pillow?" I asked, blinking at the five guys and one girl on the cover.

  He nodded and grinned. "Gotta love the sixties."

  I followed him back to the register. I didn't care when it was made. I just wanted, no, I needed that song.

  28

  Reflections

  THE NEXT DAY AT SCHOOL I started lying low, meeting up with Adrienne wherever her commitments required her to be. It felt safe, but after a day and a half I began hating it. Adrienne was so busy, so involved. Obsessing over 'Somebody to Love' and A Crimson Kiss did not qualify as having a life!

  And even though the three kisses I'd gotten hadn't been anywhere near crimson, at least I'd felt something in their pursuit. I'd looked forward to school. I'd looked forward to sparks flying. I'd looked forward to the possibility.

  Following Adrienne around everywhere made me feel like I was backsliding. This was her life I was living, not mine. It was a different jacket on the same sad story!

  So at lunch while she was typing like mad at the computer to finish a newspaper article, I collected my things and snuck out without her even noticing.

  I meandered away from the classrooms toward the quiet outskirts of campus, and when I found a little patch of grass in a remote corner near the 300 wing, I sat down, took a deep breath, then opened my book bag and pulled out A Crimson Kiss.

  I read through some of my favorite passages, but it didn't take long for me to see that Grace Slick was right--I did need somebody to love!

  But...how was I going to "find somebody to love"?

  Reading a romance novel on the outskirts of campus was sure not doing the trick! And after giving it some thought, I realized that the cure was actually obvious:

  I needed to pull myself up by the bootstraps.

  I needed to get back on that horse!

  I needed to try again.

  After all, this was a big school. How could I have given up so easily?

  It was time to lube my lips and get back out there!

  Crimson kissing might be right around the corner.

  29

  Chemistry Lesson

  I WAS TARDY TO CHEMISTRY. I guess the bells don't ring very loudly in remote corners of the 300 wing.

  Who knew?

  But I didn't care. I was preoccupied with my renewed quest and my lunchtime reading. Like a backdrop to my thoughts, one particular passage from A Crimson Kiss looped through my mind:

  "Delilah." Now that he had found her, the words he'd so painstakingly planned eluded him. And then, like a knife through his heart, Grayson saw that she had been crying. "Delilah...," he whispered again, this time reaching out to trace the path of a remnant tear.

  Where were the Graysons of Larkmont High?

  Where were the tender lips and fervid hearts?

  They had to be somewhere!

  "Evangeline," Mr. Kiraly said in his heavy Hungarian accent, "you're tardy." He put a black mark in his grade book. "That's one of three allotted tardies for the semester."

  I nodded an acknowledgment.

  After he'd finished documenting my infraction, he lifted his dandruff-heavy buzz cut and leveled a gaze at the class. "Clear your desks, people."

  I froze. We were having a quiz?

  I looked around, but nobody else seemed shocked.

  "Number your answer sheets from one to thirty. Number your work as well. I will give partial credit, but not if I cannot find your work!"

  My jaw dropped as test packets floated toward me along the row. This was no pop quiz, this was a full-on test! How had I missed knowing about this?

  Chemistry is one of my best subjects. Electrons and protons and covalent bonding make total sense to me. I've got Avogadro's number and molar conversions and net ionic equations down.

  But that's because I've studied. That's because I've tried. That's because all year I've actually read the chapters and done the section reviews to prepare for tests. Nobody else I know bothers with the section reviews! Why do them if they're not assigned?

  But I'd barely skimmed this chapter. I hadn't done any section reviews. I didn't even know we'd completed the chapter!

  How could this be?

  I took my test packet and passed the rest of them to Roper Harding behind me. "When did he announce a test?" I whispered.

  Roper gave me a strange look. "Shhh!" he said in a real worried way, and pointed to the front board.

  A banner of yellow chalk stating CHAPTER TEST THURSDAY was clearly visible across the top of the board.

  "When did he put that up there?" I whispered to Roper, because I was still gripped by denial.

  "Shhh!" he answered.

  I took in his oversized glasses, oily hair, and acne, and snorted.

  He wouldn't know a remnant tear if it splashed him in the zit!

  Then I turned around and bombed the test.

  30

  The Psychology of It All

  I SPENT THE LAST PERIOD OF THE DAY stunned over what had happened in chemistry. Concentrating on Mr. Stills's lecture in psychology might have been wiser, but I felt I understood the concepts of "sour grapes" and "displaced aggression" well enough, so I tuned him out and obsessed about chemistry.

  That is, until Andrew Prescott caught my eye.

  "You okay?" he mouthed.

  First Paxton and now him? Since when do guys ask if someone's okay? Guys are usually the cause of girls not feeling okay, which is why it's counter-anthropological and wholly unnatural for them to ask the question.

  Then Andrew Prescott slipped me a note.

  Hello?

  A note?

  Curiosity got the better of me. I unfolded it and read You seem totally bummed.

  I raised an eyebrow in his direction, then scribbled, I bombed a chemistry test, and passed the note back.

  He smirked and wrote, Who didn't? It was tough.

  You have Kiraly? I wrote back. What period?

  He started to scribble a reply, but suddenly Mr. Stills was looming above him with his hand out.

  Without a word, Mr. Stills read the note, pocketed it, then continued his lecture. Andrew and I exchanged looks, and by the end of class I'd convinced myself that that was the end of it--there'd be no repercussions.

  Then the dismissal bell rang.

  "Mr. Prescott, Miss Logan...up here, please," Mr. Stills commanded.

  We shuffled over to the podium, where he looked directly at me and said, "I take it from your l
ack of focus today that chemistry is a more important subject to you than psychology?"

  From his tone, Mr. Stills obviously had some issues regarding psychology's place in the hierarchy of sciences. And the truth is I did think his course was mostly filler, but psych is one of my few easy A's, and I didn't want him to start sabotaging my grade (subconsciously or otherwise) because he resented the hard sciences. And since I don't like to lie, I avoided his question altogether. "I'm sorry, Mr. Stills. I was just really bummed about my chemistry test last period. Andrew noticed and tried to make me feel better. You understand that, right? It doesn't have anything to do with your class."

  He chewed on that a minute, then nodded and said, "School's out--go home. Just don't let it become a habit." But as we were leaving, he chucked the note in the trash and said, "Someday you'll see that all the physics and chemistry and calculus in the world won't serve you as well as an understanding of behavioral psychology."

  "Thanks," I said, not feeling at all grateful.

  "Sorry I got you in trouble," Andrew said once we were outside.

  "Don't sweat it," I said, turning to face him.

  And that's when it struck me--Andrew Prescott has lips!

  Truly outstanding lips.

  Even, full, moist...classic, movie-star lips.

  And through my mind swept the realization that he'd been sensitive.

  And kind.

  And those lips...

  How could I have never noticed those lips?

  Suddenly I couldn't resist the magnetic pull of his magnificent mouth.

  It tugged me in closer.

  And closer.

  Until I just gave in and kissed him.

  31

  Driven

  THE PROBLEM WITH KISSING ANDREW PRESCOTT wasn't that I shocked him. Or that it was obvious after about two seconds that his perfect movie-star lips had probably never kissed a girl before. Or even that once we'd started, he didn't want to stop.

  No, the real problem was that Stu Dillard saw us kissing.

  "Hippity-hop," he whooped from across the way.

  I broke free from Andrew and shouted, "Get a life, Stu!" then took off in the opposite direction.

  Andrew chased after me. "Evangeline, wait! Where're you going?"

  "Sorry," I said, marching along. "I probably shouldn't have done that. I was just trying to say thanks for...I don't know...caring, I guess."

  "But..." He marched along beside me. "At least let me say you're welcome?"

  I stopped and looked at him, because how cute was that? But I shook my head and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it the way you took it. It was a one-kiss deal."

  "But..."

  "I've got to go, Andrew. I'll see you tomorrow."

  I knew Adrienne was staying after school to work on a newspaper deadline, but instead of going over to Ms. Pickney's classroom to tell her what had happened, I just headed for home. I was feeling a little strange about having kissed Andrew, and I was still totally bummed about my chemistry test.

  So I started toward the condo. But after I'd walked about three blocks, a familiar purring motor eased up to the curb beside me.

  Brody rolled down the passenger-side window and called, "You want a ride?"

  I got in. "Just don't ask me how I am, all right? I might puke."

  "Wouldn't want that," he said with a little smile. Then did a textbook Signal-Mirror-Over-Go maneuver back into traffic.

  "You are so law-abiding," I grumbled, turning on the radio.

  He blushed. "And you're not?"

  "No." I slouched. "Well, yeah, I suppose I am." I squirmed. "No, I take that back--I'm not." I squirmed the other way. "Hell, I don't know."

  He chuckled. "Well, put your seat belt on. I don't want a ticket." He glanced at me. "Or for you to get hurt."

  I snorted as I buckled up. "Planning to crash into something?"

  He shrugged. "No, but that doesn't mean I won't."

  I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the seat, letting the backbeat of the White Stripes massage my nerves. "Just drive, Chevy-man. Just drive."

  32

  Cool Compression

  FRIDAY MORNING I WOKE UP LATE and had annoyingly puffy eyes. I hate waking up with puffy eyes. Just seeing myself with pink clouds of skin around my eyes wipes me out.

  Not that I wasn't wiped out already. I just hadn't been able to sleep. Crummy and confusing kissing aside, I was really upset about chemistry. I'd worked so hard to have a solid Ain that class, and now my grade was, without a doubt, in the B zone. And since Mr. Kiraly doesn't give extra credit, it would be a major struggle to earn back my A.

  All those nights studying, all that extra effort, for what?

  A lousy B.

  Anyway, for puffy eyes, I'm a fan of the herbal cold compress. We keep one at the ready in the fridge, so I sat at the kitchen table and strapped it on, then blindly spooned Frosted Mini-Wheats into my mouth.

  This was an easily managed form of before-school multitasking until the phone rang. I jumped, shooting milk and cereal everywhere.

  I cursed, whipped off the compress, located the phone, and jabbed the talk button so the ringing wouldn't wake up my mother. "What's up?" I whispered, thinking it was Adrienne. After all, who else would call at such an ungodly hour?

  "Evangeline?" my dad's voice said in a hesitant, surprised-to-find-you-at-home fashion. "Shouldn't you be on your way to school?"

  "Shouldn't you be minding your own business?" I replied.

  "Look. I just wanted to leave a message. Could you tell your mother that something's come up and I can't meet her for breakfast? And that I'm very sorry?"

  I hesitated. "Wait. Let me get this straight. You called her up to wake her up to stand her up?"

  "I'm not standing her up! That's why I'm calling."

  "Whatever." I clicked off the phone, plopped into my chair, and slapped the compress back on my face.

  Stupid, puffy eyes.

  33

  More Notes

  I WAS ACTUALLY NOT LATE TO FIRST PERIOD. Mrs. Fieldman's classroom is on the outskirts of campus nearest the condo, and the school's side gate was open due to the reconstruction they're doing to our crumbling campus. (Bulldozers are the real answer, but nobody's asking me.)

  So I was feeling lucky to have slid into my seat moments before the final bell, but that didn't last long. A note was delivered shortly after class started, and after inspecting it, Mrs. Fieldman said, "Evangeline, for you," and motioned me to her desk.

  It was a small, official-looking blue note, folded neatly in half.

  An image of the not-so-official-looking scrap of paper I'd taped to the toilet lid with The jerk can't meet you for breakfast scrawled on it flashed through my mind as I returned to my seat.

  I sat at my desk, holding the note, staring at the adult script of my name, black ink against blue paper. I finally opened it and discovered that it was just Mr. Hikks, my counselor. He wanted to see me at break.

  But...why? He'd never summoned me before. I was the one who made appointments with him, not the other way around. He was much too busy dealing with flunkies to worry about which colleges I should apply to, or what scholarships I might be eligible for.

  "Pass your homework to the right," Mrs. Fieldman commanded. "Points off on your homework for any missed corrections. There's been a rash of that lately."

  Unfortunately, Sandra Herrera was absent again. "Hey, Robbie," I said, sighing.

  "What's the deal with you?" he whispered hoarsely. "Me, Rodriguez, and Prescott, bam-bam-bam?"

  My first thought was How did he hear about Andrew? My second thought was I hate this school! And my third thought was What do you mean, bam-bam-bam? It had been over a week since his mouth had mangled mine!

  I wanted to correct him, but I turned to his paper and corrected that instead. And as Mrs. Fieldman called out the answers, I noticed that the majority of Robbie's were right, but that his work didn't support his answers. It annoyed me, but really, why should
I care? Everyone knew how the game was played: He'd get into college on an athletic scholarship, he'd major in jockology, and if he played well, he'd graduate and come back to high school to teach P.E., passing on the pressure to let jocks slide. One dummied homework paper was nothing in the scheme of things.

  But the farther down the paper I graded, the more disgusted I felt. Why, oh, why had I ever wanted this moron to kiss me?

  After class I hurried through the door, but Robbie grabbed me by the arm and pulled me aside. "I seriously want to know what your deal is. Why'd you come on to me that day?"

  I twisted free of him. "What's your deal? Just drop it, would you?"

  I escaped to second period, relieved for once to be spending time in the world history boredom tomb.

  34

  Counseling

  "TELL ME," DELILAH WHISPERED. "Tell me where I can go to escape these memories, these ghosts."

  "I'll show you," he told her. And then, with a tenderness that belied his imposing physique, Grayson took her hand.

  Grayson didn't take Delilah to the counselor's office. (Or to bed, like in most of those ridiculous books my mom has.) He took her to a park bench overlooking a serene lake that had swans gliding along it and "graceful weeping willow boughs aching to taste the glistening water."

  I shifted in my oh-so-comfy formed plastic chair as I waited outside Mr. Hikks's closed office door thinking that some lovely swans and glistening water would do wonders for my mood. Actually, at this point some basic air-conditioning would help. Why was it so hot in here? It was beautiful outside...why couldn't we open some windows?

  "Are you sure he's in there?" I asked the counselors' secretary. I knew he was, but I was tired of wasting my break in this stifling place.

  She nodded. "It'll only be another minute, I'm sure. And I know it's important, Evangeline, so just sit tight."

  I went to the Sparkletts dispenser and treated myself to a paper cup of room-temperature water. How did she know it was important? Who had been talking to whom? Was this about the few recent blips on my otherwise shining academic record? Had my teachers alerted Mr. Hikks to my lack of focus? My newfound test-bombing abilities?