The Last Best Kiss

  “You can expect whatever you want,” I mutter, low enough so he doesn’t actually hear me.

  Once we’re on our way, Ginny chatters away enough for all three of us. She tells us she’s “just incredibly excited” to see this exhibit and that she thought of me immediately when she heard about it. “One of the reviews I read called the artist ‘fearless,’ and I instantly thought, That’s what Anna needs: to expose herself to fearlessness. She needs to touch, feel, see, taste, and experience utter fearlessness.”

  “So we’ll be licking the canvases?” I say, and then flash a huge fake smile at her when she glances back at me.

  “Your daughter has a very strange sense of humor, Mr. Eliot,” she says to my father.

  “Please,” he says. “Call me Richard. Mr. Eliot makes me feel like an old man.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” she cries out. “You must have had your kids incredibly young, because you don’t look any older than most of the guys I date.” She giggles, hand to her mouth. “Oh, wait! That sounded wrong, didn’t it?”

  I pull out my phone—anything to withdraw from the conversation. But Ginny glances back and catches me. “Oh, Anna,” she says reprovingly. “I hope you won’t be staring at your phone all night long. You’ll miss out on so much. Right, Richard?” She turns back to him.

  “Huh?” says my father, who had been taking advantage of a red light to check his texts.

  We hit traffic and by the time Dad parks in the museum lot, he tells us we have ten minutes to see the entire exhibit. “They won’t save our dinner reservation, so we can’t be late.”

  “Look at the brave colors!” Ginny cries out to me as we gallop past a wall of canvases. “Look at the textures! This is what courage looks like!”

  “It’s also what vomit looks like if you mix food dye into it.”

  She raps me on the arm. “This is exactly what I’m talking about, Anna. You’re close-minded.”

  “I am not,” I say. “I just don’t like these.” The paintings are lumpy. And the colors are dreary.

  “He’s challenging our ideas of what’s beautiful and what isn’t. He’s daring you to expand your definition of fine art.”

  “But they’re ugly.”

  “Art isn’t just about what looks pretty,” she says. “Wallpaper is pretty. Art is provocative. Right, Richard?”

  My father looks up from his phone, which his eyes haven’t left since we entered the gallery. “You’re the expert on all of this, Ginny. Anna and I are here to learn from you. But it’s getting late—I think we’d better head out.”

  “Lead the way,” Ginny says. “I’m starving!”

  She couldn’t have said anything to delight him more. He says, “Wonderful! Let’s order everything on the menu and try it all!”

  Once we’re seated at the restaurant, Ginny tries to discuss the artwork, but I’m done with the subject, and even though Dad feigns an interest in what she’s saying, it’s obvious he’s much more invested in studying the menu. “Yes, yes, brilliant work . . . I wonder if we should get four entrées or focus more on the appetizers. . . . The artist was definitely—I can’t remember if I like bacon lardons or not—Anna, do you remember? No, you wouldn’t, but Lizzie would know—you could tell the gallery wanted—definitely four entrées and five or six appetizers. Just to try everything. We can bring the leftovers home. Mail them to Lizzie, maybe, eh, Anna?” He looks up. “Can you picture her opening that care package? A pile of old pasta and bacon?” He chuckles delightedly and plunges back into the menu.

  Ginny laughs. It’s possible she’s forcing it, but I can’t tell for sure.

  I pluck a breadstick out of the basket and settle back in my chair. The restaurant has an industrial look to it—an uneven brick floor and the ceiling opened up so you can see the pipes running along it—but the tables are covered with thick white tablecloths and the utensils are heavy silver. It’s luxurious—but ashamed of itself. And, having seen the menu prices, I kind of agree it should be.

  Dad orders for the table. “You don’t mind, do you?” he says to Ginny, who gives a slightly anxious nod. I see why later, when our first few appetizers arrive and he asks her why she’s not eating anything. She confesses that she’s a vegetarian.

  My father groans. “Please tell me you’re not a vegan.”

  “Oh, no,” she says. “I mean, I try to be when I can, but it’s too hard all the time.”

  “I don’t understand why people feel they need to take these stands,” my father says. “We evolved to be omnivores. I would never allow my daughters to be vegetarians.”

  That would be news to Molly—she’s been a vegetarian since eighth grade. Dad just never noticed. She doesn’t make a big deal out of it.

  Ginny murmurs something about the environment and the healthfulness of whole grains and plants.

  My father waves all that away. “The restaurants I frequent all use high-quality meats—grass-fed beef and free-range chicken. And don’t tell me that a vegetarian diet is healthy. The fattest people I know are vegetarians. All that pasta and bread.”

  “I hope you’re not including me on that list!”

  “Of course not.” My father smiles at her reassuringly and takes a sip from his cocktail—a house specialty, with cucumber, basil, and some other garbage floating around in it.

  My father offers to order Ginny whatever she’d like, but she insists there’ll be plenty for her to eat. There really isn’t, though—even the vegetables he’s ordered are laced with prosciutto. Ginny eats bread from the bread basket and smiles valiantly as she watches us stuff ourselves. I have to admit that the food is good.

  “I’ll have to do a double workout tomorrow,” Dad says as we walk out of the restaurant with several take-out boxes. Ginny laughs like he’s made a joke, but he means it. Working out is his trade-off for eating like this.

  Back home she gets into her own car and leaves, and Dad and I walk into the kitchen together. “Nice girl,” he says vaguely. “Too bad she feels she has to do that ridiculous vegetarian thing. But so many do these days. I’m sure she’ll outgrow it.” He glances sideways, and I follow his gaze. He’s looking at his reflection in the window. He straightens up a bit, shoulders back, stomach in. “I’m not an old man yet,” he says. “When I tell people I have two daughters in college, they think I’m joking.”

  “You look good for your age,” I say, which is true and seems to satisfy him.

  He gives our reflections a brisk nod and heads down the hallway. “Go write your paper,” he says before disappearing.

  Up in my room, I text Lizzie a photo of Ginny and Dad sitting next to each other at the restaurant.

  Pretty soon I get a text back.

  What was Ginny doing at Jersey with Dad?

  He took us both there.

  What? I can’t believe he went to Jersey without me. He knows how much I want to try it.

  That’s the part that bothers her?

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  five

  On Tuesday, Lily and I walk out of our last class and down the hallway to the courtyard behind the school. Lucy and Hilary are supposed to meet us here, but they have Mr. Flood for history during this period and he always keeps his students late. Whereas our math teacher, Mrs. Doninger, is of the It’s a beautiful day—go enjoy it! school of teaching.

  “Another sunny day,” Lily says with a sigh as we drop our books and bags on the grass near our favorite tree.

  “What have you got against the sunshine?” I ask, plopping down on the ground and leaning back against the rough tree bark.

  “Just that it’s always the same here, and it’s boring. I’d kill for a thunderstorm. Or a tornado. I’ve never seen a tornado.” Lily stretches out next to me. She’s wearing thigh-high boots over a pair of leggings today and a purple-and-yellow-striped tunic. She looks like one of those French dolls wi
th the porcelain heads and stuffed bodies, and she’s heightened the effect by making her skin look extra pale, except on her cheekbones, where she’s wearing a lot of blush. She rests her head on my thigh. “You mind?”

  “No.” I absently brush my fingers through her hair. It’s blown straight today, very simple. “I like your hair like this.”

  “I’m thinking of shaving this part.” She raises her hand and lifts the hair at her temple. “You wouldn’t notice it when I wore it down, but if I wanted to pin it back, you’d see the shaved part.”

  “How would your parents feel about that?”

  “Dad wouldn’t notice; Mom would hate it; Hilary would hate it even more.”

  “And that’s why you want to do it.”

  “No, it’s not! I’m not like that.”

  “Come on, Lil. You like shocking people.”

  “I just want to do my own thing, that’s all.” She rolls onto her back, her head still resting on my thigh. “Anna?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Do you think Finn likes me?”

  I hope she can’t feel the muscles in my leg tense up. I force myself to be honest. “Yes,” I say. “I do.”

  “Me too.” She swings herself up to a sitting position and, with some effort, pushes off her boots, then crosses her legs like a little kid. “So why doesn’t he do anything about it?”

  “You mean like ask you out?”

  “Yeah, or try to get me alone or tell me he likes me or anything.”

  “Maybe he just hasn’t had a chance. We’re always in a group—”

  “Oh, please.” She waves her hand. “I’ve given him opportunities. Believe me. Do you think it’s because of Hilary?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She plucks a blade of grass and twirls it between her fingers. “She obviously likes him too. It makes it awkward. For all of us.”

  “But he likes you better?”

  “Are you asking or saying?”

  “I don’t know. But—” I stop.

  “What?” She turns to look at me, her eyes eager.

  I’m struggling to figure out what to say. I want to tell her not to rush anything, but not because I think it’s good advice. Because I don’t want Finn to be going out with anyone who isn’t me. And that’s not fair. So I don’t say that. Instead, even though it’s painful, I finally say, “I think he does like you better. I mean, maybe he doesn’t want to hurt Hilary’s feelings, and it’s probably weird that you’re sisters. But it’s not like you two are interchangeable. He’s got a right to choose you over her, and you have a right to choose him back.”

  Lily slides over so she’s next to me. She rubs her cheek against mine. “How are you so wise?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Could have fooled me.” She glances over her shoulder. “Oh, there they are.” She jumps to her feet and waves her arms in huge sweeps.

  Hilary and Finn and Oscar descend on us. Oscar takes the spot next to me, and Finn sits across from us, leaning back on his elbows, with a twin on either side of him. Hilary’s hair is braided down her back and she’s wearing jeans and a very tight short-sleeved sweater and looks really pretty. Today she kind of blows Lily out of the water: Lily’s too cutesy with her pink cheeks and garish tunic.

  I wonder if Finn thinks so too.

  He happens to glance up while I’m staring at him, and I drop my gaze, embarrassed. “Where’s Lucy?” I ask, as if that’s all I’ve been thinking about—why Lucy isn’t here right now.

  “She wanted to ask Flood about our big research paper,” says Hilary. “You know the way she is about this stuff.”

  I do. Lucy’s so neurotic about papers and tests that she’ll grab teachers whenever and wherever she can—right after class, before review sessions, if she sees them in the hallways—just to make sure she’s studying or writing the right things. Most of the teachers are thrilled she’s such a dedicated student, but I swear I once saw a history teacher make a sudden U-turn in the corridor when he saw her coming.

  “Hilary and I have something we want to talk to everyone about,” Lily announces, shifting to her knees. “But we’ll wait until Lucy’s here.”

  “Are we in trouble?” Oscar says. “Because if we are, it’s all Anna’s fault.”

  “Don’t throw me under the bus,” I say with mock indignation.

  “What exactly did you two do?” Hilary asks.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Oscar says. “That’s my point.”

  “We’re not going to yell at you,” Lily says. “This is a good kind of conversation. It involves an invitation.”

  “Cool,” says Oscar. “And, now that I know we’re not being yelled at, I can admit that Anna is totally blameless. Mostly totally blameless.”

  “Remind me never to murder anyone with you,” I tell him.

  Lucy emerges a few minutes later, her forehead puckered with concern because, she tells us, “Mr. Flood didn’t seem all that enthusiastic about my topic.”

  She slumps down forlornly next to Hilary, who says, “I was there when you first described it to him, and he said it was great.”

  “I know, but today he was all ‘I just want to make sure you’re not trying to do too much.’” You can tell when Lucy’s especially on edge, because she starts twirling her hair around her index finger. Right now she’s twirling a strand from her ponytail like crazy.

  “I may be going out on a limb here,” Finn says, “but is it possible he just wants to make sure you’re not trying to do too much?”

  She shakes her head. “It’s obviously code for ‘I hate this topic now that I’ve had time to think about it.’”

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s it,” Lily says. “Now shut up about school, Lucy, because Hilary and I have this unbelievable invitation for you all, and we’ve already waited for you for forever—”

  “More like three minutes,” Hilary puts in. “Lily’s not good at waiting.”

  “No, although while we were sitting here I found a four-leaf clover.” She holds it up for us all to see.

  “That’s not really four leaves,” Finn says, leaning over to peer at it. “It’s three, but one of them has a little extra piece on it.” His voice speeds up a little. “Do you know that there are approximately ten thousand three-leaf clovers to every four-leaf one? In nature, I mean. People have actually figured out how to breed for them.” For a moment I hear the old Finn in his voice, the one who got excited about gene research and alternative fuels. He gestures at the clover. “But this isn’t one of them.”

  Lily pushes him away. “Just for that, you don’t get to share my good luck.”

  “No one in this group is capable of being quiet for more than two seconds,” Hilary says, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “That’s so unfair,” I say. “I’ve been waiting patiently to hear the news.”

  “Look at Miss Goody Two-Shoes,” Oscar says. “Little Miss Innocent. Miss I-Would-Never-Get-Oscar-in-Trouble-Oh-Wait-Yes-I-Would-and-Do-All-the-Time.”

  “Will you all please shut the frack up?” Finn says.

  “Frack?” Oscar repeats. “Is that how we’re swearing now?”

  “It’s from Battlestar Galactica,” I say. “Finn loves that show.” And then I realize I only know that because he told me so back in ninth grade.

  “I do,” he says quietly.

  “Oh, forget it,” Hilary says, throwing her hands up in the air and letting them fall down. “You guys are too annoying to invite anywhere.”

  “I’m not annoying,” Lucy says. “Invite me.”

  The rest of us beg for her to forgive us, and Hilary relents. “Okay, fine. So you guys know Coachella, right?”

  “A-doy,” Oscar says. “I’ve only gone for the last two years.”

  Coachella’s the best music festival on the West Coast: three days of nonstop outdoor concerts in the California desert, incredible bands, and a lot of weed. So I’ve heard. I’ve never been. It’s super-expensive and you have to buy tickets almost a
year ahead of time, and I’ve never saved up enough money or planned ahead enough to make it happen.

  Hilary goes on: “So that’s huge, but it’s in the spring, and Dad thinks there’s room for something similar in the fall. His company’s lined up all these bands—some really good ones—”

  “—and a few bad ones,” Lily says. Hilary shoots her a look, and she shrugs. “Just keeping it real.”

  “Mostly good ones. Anyway, it’s only two days, and it won’t be as huge as Coachella—at least not this year—but it won’t be as hot either, and the really really amazing thing is that because it’s being run by Dad’s company, he said he could get us and some friends VIP passes, and we can have a van take us there—it’s in the Santa Ynez Valley, a couple of hours away—and he can set us up with hotel rooms and everything.”

  “So what exactly is the question?” Oscar says. “Do we want to go? Because the answer’s sort of obvious.”

  “Wait,” Lucy says. “When is it?”

  “November tenth and eleventh.”

  “But that’s the weekend before early applications are due.”

  “Bring your laptop.”

  “Right,” Lily says. “I’m sure there’ll be lots of time to work . . . when we’re not watching the bands play . . . or partying . . . or eating junk food . . . or doing ten million other incredibly fun things that have nothing to do with college applications.” She leans forward and grabs Lucy by the shoulders. “Come on, Luce! Don’t be such a dud. It’s our last year of high school. Are you really going to spend the whole time worrying about college? Can’t we have fun for one weekend?”

  “We can invite Jackson if you want,” Hilary adds slyly. “Ah, look—that brought a smile to her face.”

  “It did not,” Lucy protests, smiling.

  Hilary glances at me. “We can invite that friend of his too, if you want, Anna—the guy who was draped all over you at the after-party.”

  “He wasn’t draped over me!” I protest, and the others laugh. Except Finn, who’s apparently too busy watching a tiny bug crawl across his hand to be interested in whether or not Wade Porter was draped over me at the after-party. “He wasn’t,” I say again, frustrated. “We’re just friends. Cousins.”