17 First Kisses Read online

  Jimmy runs toward us, leading the insult parade with Glenn at his side. Sam trails behind, huffing and wheezing but not yelling anything. The full weight of what he did seems to sink into Buck’s brain all at once. The look of glowing admiration on his face twists into one of discomfort, and then anger.

  “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s just a stupid girl.”

  He grabs me by the shoulders and pushes me. Hard. I stagger backward, the heel of one sneaker catching in the spokes of my bike, which is lying on the ground behind me. My butt hits the road with a thunk, and the asphalt scrapes all the skin off my elbows.

  “You’re not supposed to push girls, doofus,” says Sam, his chubby face red from the run down the Hill.

  “What are you gonna do about it, lardo?”

  Sam shakes his head, then helps me up and pushes my bike back to my house while I walk alongside him with tears welling in my eyes.

  “I hate Buck,” he says.

  I can’t even answer. The mortification of being kissed, teased, and knocked down in a span of two minutes is just too much for my seven-year-old psyche to handle. Sam and I clatter downstairs to Mama’s basement studio, where she photographs other people’s babies for them. She has a knack for making even the ugly ones look cute.

  Later, while my mom applies Neosporin, she explains that sometimes boys are mean to you because they like you. If I knew then what I know now, I would have called BS.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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  Chapter

  2

  All day at school I think about the pact I made with Megan, right up until the last bell rings and it’s time to go to soccer scrimmage. I weave through packed halls, past Buck Bronson (Kiss #1), who is shoving some scrawny freshman boy into the girls’ bathroom, and Steven Lippert (Kiss #7), who is picking his nose and wiping it on the bottom of his tuba case. He’s a complete tool, and I never would have let him kiss me had I not been under extreme emotional duress at the time of said kiss.

  I change clothes at warp speed because I like being first to the park and having extra warm-up time. I’ve vowed to make this year different, to make my next kiss count. But seeing Steven and Buck just reinforces how desperate and impossible my situation is. I shake my head as I walk through the entrance to Salt Lick Park, a Christmas tree farm on my right, acres and acres of unused fields on my left. I have no idea how I’m going to pull off my end of the pact.

  And that’s when I see him.

  Bouncing a soccer ball from foot to foot and looking so perfectly gorgeous, I half expect to see a halo of light descending over midfield. What can I say? Nothing is hotter than a boy in soccer gear. I think it’s the shin guards that do it for me.

  He’s wearing this black, vintage Felix the Cat tee, totally different from the redneck-prepster look most of the guys at school have. In fact, he doesn’t look like he’s from around here at all. I start to wonder if I’ve wished him into existence. Then I realize that (a) I’ve stopped walking, and (b) I’m staring (in what is probably a really dorky and obvious way), so I jog over and say hi.

  “I’m Claire.”

  The boy kicks his ball into the air and catches it with one arm. “I’m Luke, uh, Dawson.”

  He smiles and holds out his hand. I try to ignore the giddy feeling I get when our palms touch.

  “Are you here for the scrimmage?” I ask. Maybe he goes to school in the next town over.

  “Nope, just messing around.” He shifts from foot to foot and flicks his strawberry-blond hair out of his eyes. “Is there a game starting soon? Do I need to clear out?”

  “No! I mean, it’s fine. It’s not an official game or anything. The high school girls’ and guys’ teams get together and play pickup games during the off-season so we don’t get rusty.”

  “You mean Rutherford High School?”

  “Uh-huh. There’s just the one.”

  “Cool. I’m starting at Rutherford tomorrow.” He tosses the ball into the air and maneuvers under it so it bounces off his forehead.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. Just transferred in from Miami,” he says, still heading the ball.

  Score. A new student means he’s never dated, crushed on, or stalked my best friend. If you made a Venn diagram of all the hot guys at school and all the guys Megan has dated, you’d have about three guys left. And speaking of hot-guy Venn diagrams, if you made one with all the hot guys at school and all the guys who are smart, there’d be, like, four guys who are in that middle overlapping section, two of whom I already kissed in a debacle that earned me the Yoko Ono nickname.

  “What year are you?” With my luck, he’ll be a really tall freshman.

  “I’m a senior.”

  “Me too. Wow, you had to switch schools in the middle of your senior year?” We only started a few weeks ago, but still.

  He nods, and the ball bounces off his head at a funny angle. He starts passing it from hand to hand in circles around his waist, and I can’t help but smile at his inability to hold still.

  “Yeah, it kind of sucks, but my dad’s in the military, so I’m used to making friends fast.” He shrugs. “At least I got to spend middle school in Germany.”

  “You did? That’s awesome.”

  I am genuinely impressed. Our eight-stoplight town is halfway between Atlanta and Alabama and all the way redneck. Most of the kids at school have all the culture and ambition of sea monkeys, so it’s nice to meet someone else who realizes there’s a whole world out there.

  “So, do you think it’s cool if I stay for the scrimmage?”

  “Definitely. It’s not for another twenty minutes, though. We could play one-on-one while we wait? First to five wins?” This guy may be cute, but the true test is how he performs in this soccer game.

  He gives me a confident shrug and tosses me the ball. “Sure. Ladies first.”

  I don’t like the way he’s standing there, all cocky and sure of himself, so I set the ball down and give it a few dainty taps. His stance relaxes, the way it would if you suddenly realized your opponent was five years old.

  This is going to be too easy.

  I cut to the left, and before he has time to think I just got beat by a girl, I’m past him and I kick a straight shot to the back of the goal. Too. Easy. His eyebrows rise into his hairline. I know that look. It’s the face people make when they realize how good I am. I live for that look.

  “Ohhh . . . ,” says Luke as I run to retrieve the ball. “I didn’t realize I was playing with a shark.”

  I hand him the ball with a smirk. “Maybe.”

  “It’s cool. I like a girl who can play.” He winks at me, and I’m momentarily startled by his eyes. They’re blue and dreamy and everything, but there’s something else, something shuttered, and that’s the part I find myself strangely drawn to. If my life were one of those paranormal romances, he would be the guy that turns out to be a were-manatee or whatever.

  And because I’m so busy mooning over said manatee eyes, Luke gains the split-second advantage he needs to get around me and score. Oh, it is on.

  I have to earn my next point, with fakes and spin moves and every trick in my arsenal. Luke isn’t cutting me any slack, and I’m glad. I could never respect a guy who did. Plus, I kind of like the way he’s all up in my personal space. I finally psych him out with a quick Cruyff turn, and my shot just makes it.

  Then it’s Luke’s turn. He manages to maneuver around me and, not to be outdone, crosses one leg behind the other when he kicks the ball into the goal. It is a showy, showy move.

  My mouth hangs open. “Seriously? Did you just Rabona me?”

  He fixes me with a charming smile, dimples included. Whew. Any second now his new-guy glow will wear off, and I’ll realize he has poor dental hygiene and a hunchback, but I’m swooning over those dimples until then.

  I fake glare at him. “You just wait.”<
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  I drop the ball and take off, juking from left to right, racking my brain for a move that will top his. Luke’s on me in a second, stealing the ball away. Crap. I should have been more worried about winning than getting fancy. Crap, crap, crap. I mark him with my hand against his shoulder, determined to steal the ball back. He makes a tiny mistake, and I lash out, kicking it away from him. He’ll be on me again, so I have to hurry. I turn, putting on a burst of speed, my arm flailing behind me . . . and I feel something crunch against my elbow.

  I turn to see that the something was Luke’s nose. It’s bleeding. Like a faucet.

  “Ohmygosh, I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” he says with his hand cupped over his face.

  I run over to my bag, scrambling for something, anything, to stop the bleeding.

  A crumpled receipt, some gum wrappers, a couple of movie tickets. Useless. My hand brushes against something in the side pocket, but I can’t use that. It would be mortifying. I give my bag a second sweep, hoping a Kleenex or something will magically appear, but there’s nothing. I know what I have to do.

  I reach into the side pocket, cringing as I unwrap it.

  Luke’s eyes bulge. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “I don’t have anything else!”

  And then I wrap one hand around the neck of the cutest boy I’ve ever met and shove a tampon up his nose.

  “I’m really sorry,” I say for the billionth time as Luke and I shuffle through the tall grass lining the road.

  He lives on the opposite side of the park from me, past the Christmas tree farm, but it’s not that far, and I couldn’t very well let him walk home alone after doing him bodily harm, even if it does mean missing the first part of the scrimmage.

  “It’s okay,” he says, gingerly patting at his swollen face. “I promise. I’ll be fine.”

  So we walk past row after row of Fraser fir and Leyland cypress that seem so out of place in the September sun, me feeling extremely mortified and him plodding along with tampon strings dangling from his nose. Eventually we talk about things other than Luke’s face and my apologies for elbowing it. I’m surprised by how easy it is, talking with him.

  He makes an abrupt stop at one of the first driveways off the main road. I stop too, automatically. Neither of us speaks for a minute, and he looks oddly uncomfortable.

  “So, this is me,” he says, gesturing to a ranch-style brick house with green shutters.

  “Oh. Um—” I take a tentative step into the driveway, and he squares his shoulders.

  “I should go.” He turns toward the house. A house I am apparently not invited into. I thought things were going so well.

  I hear people talking inside.

  “I know I packed it,” says a woman’s voice, sweet and quiet.

  And then a man’s voice, so angry it makes me shiver in the summer heat. “Well, then FUCKING FIND IT. I can’t work without my laptop.”

  My eyes meet Luke’s. The darkness I thought I saw before is back. It all makes sense. Stopping at the driveway. His stiff posture. I act the same way when I’m trying to keep people from meeting my family. I feel a burst of sympathy, but also relief. That I’m not the only one.

  Luke’s shoulders slump. “I better go.”

  I can’t let him leave like that. Before I can even think about what I’m doing, I grab his sleeve.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. It’s just two words, but I’m trying to say so much more. It’s okay that I just heard your dad yell at your mom. It’s okay that your family might be every bit as screwed up as mine. I get you.

  Before he turns back to the house, the right side of his mouth curves into a smile. “Cool.”

  I think he gets me too.

  Kiss #2 xoxo

  Sixth Grade

  I grab another Cherry Coke from the cooler. It’s one of those old-fashioned bottles, the glass frosty and flecked with ice like in the commercials. Sam and I take turns sucking down huge gulps and letting out exaggerated “ahhh” sounds after each one. It is our first girl-boy party, and I’m wearing my best Adidas shorts and matching flip-flops for the occasion.

  I look around the finished basement, at the guys in one corner huddled around the PlayStation like it’s a golden calf, and the girls in another corner huddled around Megan McQueen. At my middle school, there are four girls from each grade who are the appointed royalty over the rest of the school. They’re called the Crown Society, or the Crownies for short, and each class has them. Well, the seventh and eighth graders have them. Sixth graders are too lowly to get royalty. So all year, all the sixth-grade girls (the dumb, superficial ones, at least) spend all their time sucking up to the seventh- and eighth-grade Crownies because, on the last day of sixth grade, they’ll pick the four new Crownies. And then you’re pretty much set for life. Or at least until eighth-grade graduation.

  The picks haven’t gone out yet, but Megan is obviously going to be on the list. She has perfectly long, perfectly straight, perfectly blond hair and huge blue eyes, and she wears the coolest clothes, and sometimes the seventh-grade Crownies even let her sit with them during assembly. The competition is getting desperate now that it’s the final month of sixth grade. Last week Britney even dyed her hair a hideous platinum color—probably in an attempt to look more like Megan.

  So the girls are falling all over themselves trying to see who can scoot her bar stool closest to Megan’s. I know Sam’s cooler than any of them, but sometimes, when they cluster in a circle like that, I kind of wish I weren’t on the outside. I was expecting a lot more from my first boy-girl party. I mean, it’s all people have talked about since the invitations went out. Apparently, Amberly feels the same way, because she struts to the middle of the room with her empty Coke bottle and announces in a loud voice, “Who wants to play spin the bottle?”

  “Shh!” Britney’s eyes practically pop out of her head.

  She points upstairs, where her mom and dad are drinking margaritas with some of the other parents. Amberly rolls her eyes.

  “Who wants to play spin the bottle?” she whispers.

  The boys are in. Amberly was the first girl in our class to get boobs, so they’ll do anything she says. Someone’s head explodes on screen behind them, and they don’t even notice. They drift toward Amberly like they’re zombies and she’s the only person in the room with a brain.

  “We can’t play if I’m the only girl,” she giggles, even though you know she would. That girl is tra-shy.

  “I’ll play.”

  Megan hops off her bar stool, smooths her pink shorts, and joins the circle. Once she’s decreed that it’s cool to play, the other girls follow. Sam and I look at each other, shrug, and sit down too. Amberly lists off the rules.

  “You have to sit boy/girl. And you have to kiss whichever person of the opposite sex the bottle points closest to. On the lips, obviously.”

  There’s some giggling and whispering and rearranging as per the rules, and I’m relieved to see at least half of the people in the circle look as terrified as I feel.

  Amberly goes first, and the bottle stops on Jimmy Marcus. I think he’s grosser than gross, but I watch her every move anyway because I don’t think my kiss in second grade counts for anything, and Amberly really seems to know what she’s doing. She slinks across the floor like it’s no big deal and plants her lips right on his, their heads tilting in perfect unison. They make it look deceptively easy, but I keep worrying about the most random things. Like how two-thirds of people turn their head to the right, so chances are the guy I kiss will too, but what if he’s one of the 33 percent who turn left? Will our noses hit? Will we do a weird head-bobbing dance while everyone laughs at us?

  The bottle ticks its way around the circle to everyone else. I get more and more nervous the closer it gets to my turn. I haven’t had to kiss anyone yet. The boys’ turns seem to magically land on Megan and Amberly. Then someone places the bottle in front of me, and everyone stares and waits for me to pick it up.

/>   I lean over and put one hand on the neck and one hand on the bottom. Before I spin, I think for a second about who I want it to land on, and Sam’s face pops into my head. I shove the thought away. He’s my best friend.

  Everyone is waiting, so I hurry up and spin. The bottle loops around and around. As on every other turn, the circle collectively sucks in its breath on the last revolution. Anyone but Buck! The opening of the bottle sputters to a stop in front of Glenn Baker’s kneecap. Whew. That’s not so bad. Glenn is half black and half Irish. He has creamy brown skin and eyes so clear and blue you look into them expecting to see a bottom. He’s beautiful even though he’s a boy.

  Glenn nervously licks his lips, but his eyes smile at me. My stomach does a backflip. As I crawl toward him, people lean forward on either side, but I try not to think about that.

  When I kiss him, I don’t feel fireworks or anything, but his lips do feel nice, and at least he isn’t slobbering on me. I’ve never experienced this kind of kiss—a real kiss—and I’m starting to wonder if they all make you feel light-headed like this, when Glenn pulls away, leaving me sucking at the air like a goldfish. Then it’s someone else’s turn.

  I catch Glenn sneaking glances at me for the rest of the game, or at least I hope I do. Now that we’ve kissed, he seems different, taller maybe. After the bottle gets passed around the circle once, people start drifting away from the group. Amberly pulls Buck away by the hand, and they start making out in a corner.

  I could do that, I think as I wash my hands in the bathroom. I could take Glenn’s hand and lead him to a dark corner. The longer I think about the idea, the better it sounds. As I step out of the bathroom, I think about the way his lips felt. I’m wondering how his hand would feel in mine as I turn toward the party and see him sitting on the sofa with Megan in his lap. His fingers twisted into her perfect hair. Locking lips like they are the only people in the room.

  All I can think is: Guys like him kiss girls like her. They don’t kiss girls like me.