Confessions of a Serial Kisser

  Between the house and the condo there's a small graveyard. It's off the main road, through a little wooded area, and it's very old timey. The statues are crooked and mossy, the surrounding trees have large, knotty branches dragged low by ivy, and the grounds are completely overgrown. I'm sure no one new has been buried there for at least a hundred years.

  It's the classic scream-inducing graveyard, and Adrienne and I used to go by it on our way home from school for a rush. At first it was just "Climb the fence--I dare you!" Then it was "Touch the headstone--I dare you!" Gradually we got deeper and deeper into the graveyard, and finally (on the first of October in our fifth-grade year), we made it all the way to the four-casket crypt in the middle of spooksville.

  We were gutsy girls!

  I hadn't been there in years, but somehow I wound up there now.

  I didn't throw myself on any graves and cry. I didn't cry at all. Why would I? No one I knew was dead. No, I just walked, which was actually very pleasant, very serene. I could hear cars in the distance, but barely. Birds twittered, butterflies fluttered, and there was a soothing rustle of leaves in the early-evening breeze. I was actually enjoying myself until I realized that I was doing something I'd never done before:

  I was reading the names on the tombstones.

  It was eerie and unnerving, not because these people were once alive and were now dead, but because I was searching for a particular name.

  Elise.

  "Why are you doing this?" I muttered to myself, but I couldn't seem to stop. "You're insane!" I said between clenched teeth. "She's not real. She's not real."

  The growing darkness was what finally sent me home. The darkness and the chill and the uneasy feeling that none of it was real. Maybe the story and the passion were all just fantasy.

  Maybe there was no such thing as a crimson kiss.

  I looked behind me several times as I hurried out of the graveyard, and after I was through the gate, I ran. Arms pumping, lungs burning, feet flying, I ran.

  When I reached the condo, I tried to compose myself, but my heart was still pounding madly as I stepped through the door.

  "There you are!" my mom cried. "I was worried. Adrienne said you left her house hours ago!"

  Had it been hours?

  I stopped trying to restrain my panting. "I needed some exercise."

  "Some exercise? For hours? In blue jeans and a knit top?"

  I gave what I hoped was a disarming laugh. "It was so nice out. I walked for miles!"

  How could I tell her I'd spent the evening walking through a cemetery alone, searching for something that didn't exist?

  I couldn't even explain it to myself.

  46

  Heavy-Metal Kissing

  APPARENTLY ROBBIE MARSHALL GETS ANNOYED when he's ignored. He was already lurking in the vicinity of math class when I arrived on campus Monday morning, and before I could slip by him, he grabbed me by the arm and said, "Why didn't you call me back?"

  I pulled a face. "Is there a law that says I have to?"

  "When someone calls you four times, yeah. There's a law."

  I yanked my arm free. "There should be a law against calling someone four times!"

  Hurt crinkled his eyes. "Am I really that bad a kisser?"

  In an instant, my brain mapped out the delivery route of this news: I'd made a snotty remark to Sunshine at the dance, Stu had heard; one of the two of them had delivered it back to Robbie.

  Probably Sunshine.

  Was there no honor among jilted lovers?

  Aw, who was I fooling? I was an idiot to have ever made the remark. It was catty, and I should have known it would get back to Robbie.

  I let out a sigh. "Look, I'm sorry. Obviously lots of girls think you're a great kisser."

  "But you don't," he said, still crinkly-eyed.

  "Forget me. What do I know? Think of Sunshine or Jasmine or Nicole." I swept my hands upward. "Anyone, really." I laughed. "I'm sure you have no problem finding compatible kissers."

  "But I thought we were compatible." His head bobbed. "I thought we were really compatible!"

  "Hmm." I screwed my mouth to the side, wondering how best to explain this. "I think I'm a classical or blues kisser, whereas you are definitely heavy metal."

  He stared at me, his eyebrows knitting. "So you're what? A Mozart kisser? And I'm, like, Metallica?"

  I laughed, "You're more like Slipknot." I started toward the classroom, saying, "There are plenty of heavy-metal chicks out there, Robbie. I'm just not one of them."

  "Wait!" he said, catching up to me. "So what's a Mozart kiss like?"

  I hesitated, because for some reason this impressed me. Why'd he even care? If there was one thing I was certain of, it was that Robbie Marshall had no interest in classical music. And to be fair, my education in classical music is pretty limited, too. So I said, "Actually, I'm more Stevie Ray Vaughn than Mozart."

  "Who?"

  "Blues guitarist? Wrote 'Crossfire,' 'Texas Flood,' 'Life Without You'? Died tragically in a plane crash in the prime of his life?"

  "Oh, oh, yeah, right," he said, obviously clueless about Stevie Rayor his music. But why would he know about some blues guitarist who died before we were even born?

  Why did I?

  Again my brain mapped out the routing, and it sent a painful jolt through me when I found myself face to face with my dad. Him and the worn acoustic guitar he kept in the living room. Him strumming, picking, playing Eric Clapton, Bruce Springsteen, and Stevie Ray Vaughn, singing softly, hoarsely, behind the quivering strings.

  "What's that?" I'd asked him the first time he'd played "Life Without You," when I was about nine.

  "A little number by Stevie Ray," he'd told me. Then he'd sung it for me from the beginning.

  When he was done, I clapped like I always did. He gave a grand bow with his guitar like he always did, and then I said what I'd been thinking: "It sounds like that 'Little Wing' song you play. By that Jimi guy?"

  He stared at me a moment, then swept the guitar off over his head and scooped me up in his arms. "You're a genius, angel! An absolute genius!"

  "I am?" I giggled.

  "Stevie Ray Vaughn was really influenced by Jimi Hendrix. The song I just played is a great example of that!" He turned and called, "Lorena! Honey! Our angel is a musical genius!"

  At that moment the world was a happy, perfect place.

  "So what's a Stevie Ray...Von kiss like?" Robbie was asking.

  I shook my head and walked past him. "Forget Stevie Ray," I choked out. "Stevie Ray is dead."

  47

  Studly

  THE INTENSIVE ACADEMIC RETRACKING I'D DONE over the weekend didn't do me a bit of good. I was a basket case through math, a space case through history, I couldn't find Adrienne at break, and afterward Spanish and American lit were just a blur. By lunchtime I didn't even want to find Adrienne. I just wanted to be left alone.

  Unfortunately, Stu Dillard had other plans. "Hey, gorgeous, hold up!" he called as I meandered toward the outskirts of campus.

  I scowled at him. "Since when am I 'gorgeous,' huh, Studly?"

  He draped an arm over my shoulders and gave me a very disarming smile. "I think you've probably always been. I was just too dumb to notice."

  "Nice," I said, giving him a little smile back. It was the first time I'd smiled all day, but this was Studly I was dealing with, so I didn't let myself feel too amused by his comment. Instead, I changed the subject. "So where's Sunshine?"

  "Sunshine?" He nodded thoughtfully. "The Dark Cloud of Larkmont High has her covered."

  I squinted at him. "Huh?"

  He laughed. "Hey, come on. I'm trying to be clever and literary here to appeal to your intellect."

  I squinted even harder. Studly trying to be clever and literary was quite a stretch, never mind his wanting to appeal to someone's intellect.

  And yet...he'd said it with such off-the-cuff ease that it seemed almost possible.

  He snorted. "Look. All she does is cry
about Robbie. I'm not into mopping up someone else's mess."

  As we walked along, his arm moved with a sweeping confidence from my shoulders to my waist. I shook my head. "You can just forget it, Studly. You have hippity-hopped yourself right out of my affections."

  One dark eyebrow arched high. "You're referring to the amusing comment I tossed your way?"

  "You didn't 'toss' it, you shouted it. And quit trying to sound smart! I'm beginning to feel like you're mocking me."

  He swept me around to face him. "I'm not stupid, Evangeline, and I'm just trying to figure you out."

  "Figure me out? Why?"

  He gave me a coy smile. "I find the change in you intriguing."

  I slapped his chest. "Stop talking like that!"

  "Does it make you trepidatious?"

  "Trepidatious? Stop it!" I squinted at him. "Is that even a word?"

  He laughed, then said, "I have a theory about you."

  "A theory about me? I don't want you to have a theory about me! Just ignore me, okay? Forget I exist. Treat me like you did a month ago!"

  He ignored me, all right. "My theory is that you, Evangeline Bianca Logan, are looking for a perfect kiss."

  I froze. How did he know my middle name?

  How had he figured this out?

  He pulled me closer, his grasp firm but not forceful. "Robbie, Justin, Andrew, Blake, Eddie, plus some random dude at Starbucks, and probably a few more that I haven't heard about...You're looking for something, Evangeline, and I think I might have it."

  His breath was warm and laced with spearmint. I'd never noticed his lips before, but now that's all I saw. "I didn't kiss Blake," I protested. "He licked my ear. That doesn't count...."

  His mouth was against mine now, brushing softly, with gentle almost-kisses. "You're right," he whispered. "That's no way to kiss a goddess."

  A goddess?

  I felt myself melting in his arms as he pulled me closer to show me how it was done.

  It was, without a doubt, a wonderfully executed kiss. And as it grew deeper, I couldn't help kissing him back, waiting to be filled with the transcendent magic of a crimson kiss.

  I waited...

  And waited...

  But nothing happened.

  Nothing.

  48

  Quarterback Sneak

  IT DIDN'T HELP THAT STU WANTED A KISS ANALYSIS.

  "On a scale of one to ten, what would you give it?"

  "Oh, please!"

  "Aw, come on. Admit it--it was a ten!"

  I shook my head. "I'm not doing that, Stu." Then I added, "But I will say you have lovely execution and style."

  "Aha!" he cawed. "Better than Robbie, right?"

  That was a no-brainer, but I said, "It's not a competition."

  And that's when I realized that yes, of course it was. Stu was a tier beneath Robbie on the hotness scale, a tier beneath him on the jock scale, and, consequently, a tier beneath him on the babe-magnet scale. Beating him at something, anything (besides academics, of course), was the key to the happiness of his male ego.

  Still, I didn't feel right turning over that key. He'd called me a goddess, but he was treating me like a scorekeeper! So I said, "Sorry to break it to you, Stu, but kissing is not a sport."

  "Sure it is," he said with a grin. "It's a contact sport!"

  I laughed, because on the scale of witty remarks he had it all over Robbie.

  "So where are we in the game?" he asked as he grabbed my hand and pulled me in. "It's at least first down, right? I think it's time to make another pass."

  I wrestled free from him. "Sorry, Stu, but I'm going to blow the whistle right here."

  "You're benching me?"

  He was giving me an exaggerated pout, which was somehow very...disarming, but then I noticed that we were being watched. "We've got company," I said, nodding in Sunshine's direction.

  "Aw, maaaaan," he groaned when he saw her.

  Those two words did not translate to, Oh, bother, we broke up and she's stalking me. No, he'd pulled a sneak play! Sunshine obviously had no idea that Stu resented mopping up Robbie's mess, or that he saw himself as a free agent, able to play ball wherever he wanted. Sunshine thought she had an exclusive contract, and she was not planning to release Stu anytime soon.

  "You are so bad," I said with a snort. "Try to remember whose team you're on, will you?" Then, to save him further awkwardness or embarrassment, I gave him a friendly punch in the arm and walked off.

  During chemistry I tried not to think about Stu or his unsettling knowledge of my kissing history. I also tried not to think about how his beautifully executed kiss had left me cold. I tried really hard not to ask, What is wrong with me?

  Instead, I focused on Mr. Kiraly. And although it's easy to lose the content of the lesson while watching Mr. Kiraly's middle fingers do their thing, I did not let my mind drift. I focused on his words. Electrolysis of water, hydrogen forming at the cathode, oxygen forming at the anode...now that made sense.

  Then I went to psychology, and as I sat down, it struck me that I'd kissed two sets of lips in this class. Andrew "Let Me Say You're Welcome" Prescott and Eddie "It's Not Your Ears That Interest Me" Pasco.

  Two out of...twelve (counting guys only, of course).

  That was one-sixth of the class kissed.

  Point one-six-six-six-six-six of the class kissed.

  Three would make it a quarter!

  Four would make it a third!

  At six I'd be up to half!

  I looked around at the ten other kissing prospects and accidentally caught Andrew's eye.

  He gave me an awkward wave. A puppy-dog look.

  I waved back and quickly turned away.

  Then Eddie Pasco walked in tardy, and the memory of his kiss sent a hot flush through my body and up to my cheeks.

  With a grin, Eddie and his soccer ball passed by my desk. "Wanna dance?" he murmured, then took his seat in the back of the classroom.

  I sat up stiffly and faced forward, not daring to glance back.

  Mr. Stills took roll, then heaved a heavy sigh and began his last lecture of the day. Sigmund Freud was the subject, the irony being that Mr. Stills's dour delivery made us all long for a couch to lie down on.

  But couches aren't standard issue at Larkmont High, and Eddie had totally broken the concentration I'd mustered in chemistry. My mind instead drifted (as it so often did) to a passage from A Crimson Kiss. I was looking alert, following Mr. Stills as he moved back and forth, but I have very little recollection of what he said. All I heard was the passage, running endlessly through my head.

  She ached for him. It was a new sensation, unbridled now by the sight of him. His dancing eyes, framed by jet-black brows; the lock of hair that fell defiantly over his forehead; the presence of taut, lean muscles, flexing under the crisp lines of his shirt.

  And his voice.

  His husky, lilting voice.

  These things combined and combusted in Delilah's heart, turning to ash the quiet numbness that had engulfed her for so long.

  When the dismissal bell rang, I grabbed my things and bolted for the door without so much as a glance behind me.

  Eddie Pasco was not my Grayson.

  Eddie Pasco was a stoner!

  I needed to find someone else.

  I needed to find a real crimson kiss!

  49

  Tongue-Twisted

  I CAUGHT UP WITH ADRIENNE in the parking lot. "Can I come over?" I asked, panting heavily from having run the obstacle course that is the student parking lot.

  She hesitated as she opened the passenger door of Brody's truck. "I've got exactly an hour and a half before I've got to be back here for choir. And I've got a ton of homework."

  I frowned. "Darn."

  "Something up?" she asked.

  I stepped away from the truck. I needed to talk to her, not rush through telling her about everything that had happened. "You know what? I'll just catch up with you tomorrow."

  Brody called, "He
y, at least let us give you a ride home!"

  So I scooted in and gave him a halfhearted "Hey, Chevy-man!"

  "Cool boots," he said, eyeing my feet as he fired up the truck.

  "My mom's," I answered. Then I exchanged looks with Adrienne and asked Brody, "So...do you like boots on a girl?"

  He shrugged, navigating his way into the lineup of cars waiting to blast their way to freedom. "I don't know. I guess. They look good on you."

  I shrugged in Adrienne's direction and settled in. "Well, thanks."

  "Oh!" Adrienne said, obviously remembering something of extreme importance. "Paxton says tutoring's in Room Two Twelve on Tuesdays and Thursdays. You can start anytime."

  I groaned. "I forgot all about that."

  Brody chuckled, then fired off, "Tutoring's in Two Twelve on Tuesdays and Thursdays," like it was some tongue twister rather than the torture I was going to have to endure for who knew how many afternoons.

  Adrienne leaned forward, facing him as she said it even faster. "Tutoring's in Two Twelve on Tuesdays and Thursdays!"

  "Tutoring's in Two Twelve on Tuesdays and Thursdays!" he countered, his tongue tap-dancing across the syllables.

  "Tutoring's in Two Twelve on Tuesdays and Thursdays!" Adrienne shouted.

  "Tutoring's in Two Twelve on Tuesdays and Thursdays!" Brody fired back.

  "Tutoring's--"

  "Stop!" I cried, covering my ears.

  There was a heartbeat of silence; then Brody murmured, "As you wish," and turned into traffic.

  As I wish? I gave Brody a questioning look, but his focus was on traffic, not me. So I turned to Adrienne to get some reassurance that I hadn't been out of line, but her focus wasn't on me, either. She was staring at her brother, her mouth slightly agape.

  Okay. So I wasn't the only one who thought Brody's comment was odd. But when we got on Larkmont Boulevard, Brody turned on the radio--which has always been my job.

  "Oh, I love this song!" Adrienne said, cranking it up. And that was the end of any conversation. Before I knew it, they were dropping me off.