17 First Kisses Page 4

  “How come you’re sitting out here by yourself?”

  She shrugs. “I just felt like it, all right?”

  I sit down beside her.

  “You look kind of sad. Are you sure everything’s okay?”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “My parents have friends over for brunch, and they brought their obnoxious smart kid, and they’re all talking about science and art and politics, and there’s so much witty banter it makes me want to throw something. They were talking about the possibility of an HIV vaccine, and I was sick of just sitting there like a slug, so I said I’d be scared to get the AIDS vaccine because I heard it had weak versions of the AIDS virus in it and I’d be worried about getting AIDS. And everyone stopped talking and they all looked at me funny like they were trying not to laugh, and finally my brother was like, ‘Megan, you know all vaccines have weak and dead versions of viruses in them, right? That’s how vaccines work.’” Her eyes tear up and she presses the heels of her hands against them. “I’m not stupid. I just don’t know everything about everything the way they do. I’m not going back in there.”

  I’m trying to decide whether to pat her on the back when there’s a faint beeping from inside the house.

  “Crap. My soufflé!” She grimaces. “I guess I am going back in there.”

  She darts into the kitchen, not even bothering to close the door behind her. A minute later she’s back with two spoons, a tiny pitcher, and a round white dish bulging with what looks like a very puffy chocolate cake sprinkled with powdered sugar.

  “It’s my best soufflé yet,” she says. Her eyes are still red, but at least she’s smiling now.

  She sits back down beside me and places the dish between us on a pot holder. Handing one spoon to me, she breaks the top of the soufflé with another and pours on a chocolaty-looking sauce.

  “Well, go on. Try it.”

  I start to dip my spoon in, but hesitate. “Isn’t this the dessert for your parents’ brunch?”

  “It’s okay. There are three more inside. They’ll only stay puffy like that for a few more minutes, and after they fall, they don’t look as cool, but people who think I’m dumb don’t deserve the splendor of a perfect soufflé.”

  I spoon up a bite. Holy unbelievable goodness. If clouds were made out of chocolate, this is what they would taste like.

  “Oh my gosh. It’s amazing. Did you really make this?”

  She grins. “Yep.”

  “Wow. I had no idea you did stuff like that.” Oops. That came out harsher than it was supposed to.

  “You mean stuff that’s not cheerleading?”

  I nod.

  “It’s okay. Most people don’t.”

  Megan digs in too, and we eat until we’re scraping the bottom of the ramekin.

  “So, we should do stuff like this more often.”

  “Steal food from your parents’ social events?”

  “Ha-ha. I mean, hang out.”

  Before today, if you had told me Megan McQueen would want to hang out with me and I would want to say yes, I’d have said you were crazy. But to my surprise, I actually find myself saying, “I’d like that.”

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  Chapter

  4

  An image of Megan inviting Luke to the football game flickers in my head as I run at a soccer ball. Thwack! My foot connects with the ball, and it veers wildly toward the left, completely outside the goal. Sam watches it sail by from where he’s playing goalie.

  “I can’t believe this is happening again. We always end up liking the same guy,” I say, as I line up to kick the next ball.

  Four soccer balls span out in a row across the happy green grass in front of me.

  “What are the odds?!”

  Thwack! This time the ball pings against the goalpost and bounces away. I’m not giving Sam much to do besides talk to me. He’s pretty great at it, though, because he doesn’t freak out over feelings like most boys do (i.e., he doesn’t back away in fear like you’re carrying the Ebola virus). And he never tries to tell you solutions to your problems when all you want to do is vent. It probably comes from growing up with a single mom and two sisters.

  Sam shakes his head at me from inside the goal. “This is Megan McQueen we’re talking about. Did you really expect anything less than drama? Oh, and you’re a really bad shot when you’re pissed off.”

  “Thanks.” I glare at him and kick another ball.

  This one goes right to him, and he catches it easily and tosses it away from the goal. Usually we’re pretty evenly matched, but he’s right: my mood totally affects my game.

  He chuckles. “You know how I feel about the evil one.” Sam has never been able to get over Megan calling him Spamlet for all of fourth grade. And I’m not saying she’s all sunshine and unicorns, but she’s the closest girlfriend I’ve ever had and probably will ever have. She’s kind of like a finicky cat. Once she decides she likes you, you’re in. And if she doesn’t, watch out for her claws.

  “I know. I know.” Thwack! “But she’s a really good friend. At least, she is when it doesn’t involve a boy. Plus, she’s the only girl I know who wants to get out of this miserable, little town as much as I do.”

  “I want to get out of Pine Bluff.”

  “I know. But still. It’s good to have a girl I can count on too.”

  “But you don’t trust her to stay away from Luke?”

  “Hell, no. He’s coming to the game tonight, and we’re both going to be there. Something is going to happen. But I agreed to back off, so I guess I have to.”

  “Why can’t you both just go for him?”

  “It’ll put her in crazy competitive mode. I don’t need any more guy drama. I don’t want a repeat of sophomore year.”

  “True,” says Sam. “Anyway, if you really think it’s going to get that crazy with Megan, you could let her have him. You just met him. He’s probably not even worth all this trouble.”

  “I know. But I haven’t liked a boy in so long.” I’m whining now, but I can’t help it. “I haven’t even kissed anyone since tenth grade. I’ve been keeping a low profile because I can’t deal with another Screaming Lemurs debacle. Do you know how hard it is to convince people you aren’t a slut?”

  “Um, no. Not really.”

  Thwack! The last ball veers left too.

  “Let’s quit for today.” I head over to the sideline and pick up a mesh bag for the balls. “I still have to go home and get ready for tonight.”

  “You really want to go watch Buck slap other guys on the ass?”

  “Ew. No.” I shudder. “But do you really have better plans?”

  There are only four things to do in Pine Bluff on a Friday night: catch a movie at the Cineplex, go to a party at someone’s house or field, hang out in the Walmart parking lot, or watch the high school football game. Sam dribbles over to me with the last ball, kicks it up to his knees, where he bounces it back and forth effortlessly, then pops it into the bag with his head.

  “Show-off,” I mutter.

  He grins. Sam always got stuck playing goalie growing up because overweight kids can’t run fast. But when you play a position for that long, you can’t help but get good at it, so now he plays varsity.

  On our way home, we take the shortcut, a dirt road lined with muscadines growing wild.

  muscadine (noun)

  A southeastern fruit that is kind of like a grape. Only fatter. And more tart. And with a really thick skin.

  We pop them in our mouths fresh off the vine—because nobody uses pesticides out here—suck out the juice, and spit out the skin and seeds.

  “I guess I’ll go to the game tonight,” says Sam. “There are a couple of ladies I need to impress.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “I need your advice,” he says after a minute.

  “On what? The ladies?”

&
nbsp; “Kind of.”

  I’m surprised, but I make myself keep walking at a normal pace.

  “What’s up?”

  He hesitates. “I need to know how to get girls to see the new me. I’ve lost all this weight, but it’s like no one’s noticed. And this girl I like, she was going on and on about Buck’s abs and how abs are the hottest thing in the universe, and I’m like, ‘I have abs too.’”

  “Yeah, right.” I know it’s mean, but it slips out before I can help myself.

  Sam lifts up his shirt. The Buddha belly I know has been replaced with a washboard.

  “Ohmygosh. You do. I mean, I knew you lost weight, but when did that happen?”

  I feel a fluttery feeling low in my tummy, even though it’s Sam. I write it off as temporary ab-induced insanity.

  He shrugs. “Sometime this summer. I’ve been working out like crazy and eating things like tilapia and lentils. So, what should I do?”

  “You should show her those abs,” I say. “Hey, we could paint you for tonight’s football game. It’s the perfect excuse to be shirtless.”

  “Okay. Let’s do it. Can I come over in an hour and get your help with the paint? I’ll drive you to the game.”

  “That would be great. Not having a car sucks so hard.”

  We get to the corner where we have to go in opposite directions.

  “Later, Sam.”

  “Later, CJ.”

  He’s the only one who still calls me CJ. Even my sisters call me Claire now. Sam refuses.

  My little sister, Libby, is sitting in front of cartoons when I open the door.

  “Hey, Libs, wanna help me order Chinese food?”

  Friday is takeout night at the Jenkins house.

  “I guess,” she says quietly even though she usually loves picking out food.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She turns off the TV but doesn’t look at me. “I got in another fight today.”

  “You can’t keep doing this.” I rake my hands through my hair and try to remain calm. “What happened?”

  “Mama said she would make cupcakes for the bake sale, but she was having a bad day. And this girl said everyone’s mom baked cupcakes except mine. And then she said, ‘You probably don’t even have a mom.’”

  “Oh, no.” How can I stay mad after she tells me something like that? I pull her onto my lap. “Then what happened?”

  “I poured a can of paint on her head,” Libby mumbles.

  I try not to giggle. “I’m sorry she said that to you. But you can’t fight people every time you get angry. Try counting to ten or something.”

  “Okay.” Libby hangs her head. “Can you sign my form for in-school suspension? I don’t want Daddy to get mad again.”

  She pulls a crumpled piece of paper from her backpack and gives me puppy-dog eyes.

  “Sure.” I forge my mom’s signature on the form. “But next time you have a bake sale or something, tell me. Megan and I can make you the most awesome cupcakes ever.”

  “I know. I just wish Mama could make them.”

  I know exactly how she feels. I wish I could ask Mama for advice about the Luke thing. I know none of my friends talk to their parents about stuff like that, so if Mama were more involved in my life, I probably wouldn’t want to talk to her either, but I want it to be my decision. I want the option of giving her one-word answers while she racks her brain trying to figure out what’s wrong with me.

  I rest my chin on top of Libby’s curly brown hair and squeeze her extra tight. “Me too, sweetie. Me too.”

  I sit at my desk, nibbling on an egg roll. I’ll probably go out to dinner after the game, but I needed something to tide me over. Sam should be here any minute. Maybe he’s right. What do I really know about Luke anyway? I pull out a piece of notebook paper and make a list.

  He’s hot.

  He plays soccer.

  He’s taller than me. (Which is rare when you’re a five-foot-ten athlete!)

  He’s in AP English, so he’s probably smart.

  He has dimples.

  He’s REALLY HOT.

  He’s the most interesting person I’ve met in as long as I can remember, and for a fleeting moment in front of his house I didn’t feel so alone living in our town with my messed-up family.

  I look over the list one more time and then I shred it into tiny pieces, because there isn’t enough candy in the world to bribe Libby with if she found it.

  While this is an impressive array of qualities to observe in a single specimen of boy, I’m going to back off and let Megan have him. Even though I saw him first. Even though it’s obvious we have way more in common. Even though I’m bored out of my cotton-picking mind. Because my best friend likes him a lot, and I’m not sure I like him enough.

  Kiss #4 xoxo

  Seventh Grade

  Absolutely ridiculous. That’s how I look in this dress. I pull it over my head and add it to the ever-growing pile of silver, magenta, and lavender on my floor.

  I grab another dress, a knee-length blue one Sarah swore would “make my eyes pop.” It’s no use. I look like a phony. Like when I was little and I stomped around the house in my mama’s high heels. It’s not that the dresses don’t fit me. They’re my size and everything. Maybe it’s because I don’t have boobs yet. I look from my ponytail to my unpainted toenails in disgust. How am I ever going to find something to wear to the Winter Wonderland Dance?

  There is nothing like standing in front of a floor-length mirror and trying on dresses to make you scrutinize everything you like or don’t like about yourself. I’m tall—way taller than most of the boys in seventh grade—so dances are pretty stressful for me, or would be if I actually slow-danced with boys. I have long, dark brown hair with natural auburn highlights that my sister Sarah says she would kill for and a tiny sprinkling of freckles across my nose and cheeks. I love my freckles. They’re the cute, tiny, tan-colored kind. Cinnamon-sprinkle freckles. The freckles combined with my round blue eyes give me a wholesome, all-American look, like I should be in soap commercials or something.

  But don’t get me wrong: I’m no knockout. I have all the curves of a celery stick. That means no boobs. None. My feet are too big, and my eyebrows are like two woolly bear caterpillars, but I’m scared to do anything about it lest I end up like Amanda Bell, who showed up to school with half an eyebrow after an unfortunate experiment with her mom’s waxing kit.

  But the worst thing about my looks, the thing that just kills me, is that I look like a boy. I’m serious. I have entirely too many muscles for a girl. It’s probably why all these dresses look awful on me. I’m just about to take off the stupid blue dress in defeat when the doorbell rings.

  “Hey, girls. Megan, it’s so good to see you,” I hear my mother say.

  Why is Megan McQueen at my house? Did she finally decide it’s time to hang out? It’s been a few weeks. I run downstairs. It isn’t just Megan. Amberly and Britney are with her too. The entire Crown Society crew, minus Chessa. They’re decked out in their dresses already with matching crown necklace charms that signify their supposed superiority over the rest of us.

  “CJ, look who’s here!” Lord, she’s fawning all over Megan like she’s the queen of England instead of the queen of seventh grade. “Can I get y’all a glass of sweet tea? Or maybe some lemonade?”

  “That is so sweet of you, Miss Lily, but we really need to ask CJ about something,” says Megan.

  “Okay, I’ll let you girls talk.” She flashes one last smile over her shoulder before she manages to pull herself away from the abundance of tween-age popularity in our doorway.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  I narrow my eyes. The three of them are smiling at me like they’re going to eat me or something.

  “Can we go up to your room?” asks Megan.

  “Sure.” I turn, puzzled, and lead them upstairs.

  They take in the kiwi-colored walls and sports paraphernalia with something between curiosity and disdain. Amberly and Britney si
t on the star-patterned quilt my mom made and look at Megan like they’re waiting for something. She prances over and stands in front of my desk like she’s about to give a presentation at school.

  “As we all know, Chessa moved away last month. It’s been tough, but we’ve been looking for a replacement. And today we finally decided.” She clasps her hands in front of her and smiles. “CJ, we want you to be a member of the Crown Society.”

  “What?” I fall out of my chair, I’m laughing so hard. “You’re kidding. This is a joke, right?”

  Britney crosses her arms over her chest. “I told you we should have picked Amanda Bell.”

  “Why do you have to have a fourth person anyway?” I ask. “Why can’t it be just the three of you?”

  “Because four is the magical number of girlfriendship,” says Megan, like I was supposed to have learned this in Friendship 101.

  Amberly nods fervently. “It’s the trifecta.”

  I refrain from pointing out what trifecta means.

  “It’s like Sex and the City,” explains Megan.

  My mama would skin me alive if she caught me watching Sex and the City, so I’ve never seen it, but I nod like I get it anyway. Megan still hasn’t asked me if I want to be one of them. She just assumes I do. Any girl in seventh grade would roll around naked in broken glass for the chance I’ve been given.

  “But, why would you pick me?”

  Megan shrugs. “You’re nice and funny, and you have a good body. Being popular should be no problem for you.”

  “Plus you’ve started dressing way cuter this year. We’ve noticed,” adds Amberly.

  “But there must be dozens of other girls . . .”

  Megan cuts me off with a brisk shake of her head. “Yearbook,” she says, like a doctor asking for a scalpel.

  I find it on my shelf, and they explain how they systematically whittled down the list of girls to me and one or two others.