So Over You

by Gwen Hayes

  I’d never kissed anyone I despised before. Madness. Nothing else could describe it. Neither one of us wanted to be kissing the other, yet I don’t think any amount of force on Earth could have pulled me away from him just then.

  I hated him for making me want to kiss him. If we had been any two other people, the kissing might have put a cease-fire on the war. Instead, our lip lock incensed us further. Four years of hurt feelings and bruised egos met with a longing we’d both done our best to deny. It wasn’t pretty. Movie kisses never looked like this felt.

  He rubbed my heart raw.

  The bell rang, and we stumbled away from each other, reeling as if we’d just gotten off a carnival ride. I resisted the urge to touch my mouth, though it felt bruised and swollen. I blinked several times, but the room seemed slow to right itself.

  Foster cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck absently. “I guess we’ll figure out a different venue for tonight’s date, and I’ll get back to you. I know you’re scared of singing in public.”

  Wait a minute. “I’m not scared. I just don’t like to.” With ever fiber of my being.

  “Right.”

  “I’m not scared.”

  “I just agreed with you.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I said ‘right.’”

  “But you didn’t mean ‘right.’ You meant ‘sure’ in a patronizing way.”

  “This is the most ridiculous argument ever.”

  “We aren’t arguing,” I said, even though it sounded ridiculous to me too.

  “For Christ’s sake. I’ll fix it so you don’t have to sing karaoke, okay?”

  “Don’t do me any favors, Foster. I’ll do the stupid karaoke date. I’m not scared of singing or dating.” As I turned heel and fled the room, I realized I was pretty much my own worst enemy.

  * * *

  I really hated Foster.

  Wanting to crawl out of my skin, I clutched my microphone in a death grip. He was out there somewhere, watching. I just couldn’t see him. Thankfully, I couldn’t see anyone. A sea of black—either that or I was unconscious. Which was preferable to standing on stage waiting to humiliate myself.

  Interspersed with the nausea and feelings of rage, there was also an aberrant thought tickling my mind. All evening, when I least expected to, bam! I kissed Foster today. Okay, at first it was Foster kissed me today. But I participated in the kissing, and what’s more, it was good kissing, in an oddly ugly way. I simultaneously wanted to do it again and wash my mouth out with soap.

  Of course, if I killed him, I could just choose the soap and get over it.

  Mr. July stood next to me. Ben Something-or-Other. I know, bad reporter. I just couldn’t be bothered with facts just then. He was nice, I think. Polite anyway, but the night had been out of control for me since before I got there. I tried to respond to his small talk, but knowing I had to sing before the hour was done wigged me out. He probably thought I had a problem with crack. I emptied all the sugars into my water glass so I could make a chain with the empty wrappers. I picked at invisible fuzz on my shirt. I rambled about how much I love journalism. Basically, I was a big, fat mess.

  Which lead to the magic moment—sharing the stage with my new guy, getting ready to sing “Can You Feel the Love Tonight?” Except that the DJ dude put “Hakuna Matata” on by accident, so we had to wait for a minute while he figured out which track our song was. I actually would have preferred to sing the mistake just to get off the stage faster.

  I hate Foster.

  “Yeah, you’ve said that a couple times already,” Ben said.

  I didn’t realize I had said it out loud. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I have a surprise for you after we’re done.”

  I couldn’t get a question off before the music started. If anything good could be said about the song it would be that I knew all the words. I’d watched the movie a bajillion and seven times. And then Ben surprised me by turning into a complete cornball.

  He was magnificent. I tried to keep up, but it was hard over the giggling. Right before my eyes, Ben Something-or-Other turned into an aging Vegas act. Winking at the ladies, hamming up the lyrics—all he needed was a powder blue leisure suit. All the pressure was taken off me and I actually enjoyed myself. I sang along, though not loudly, whenever I was able to get my laughter under control.

  The audience ate him up like ice cream. He swaggered and waggled his eyebrows. He pulled out a bunch of American Idol moves, closing his eyes, reaching for the sky. The girls all played along, wolf whistling and blowing kisses. At one point, they were all standing, waving their arms above their heads to the music.

  Near the end of the song, he reached for my hand and placed it on his heart, serenading me. He even winked at me right before the crowd went crazy with the hooting and hollering.

  I thought that was my surprise. That he threw himself under the bus to save my dignity. It would have been enough, Lord knew. I owed him my firstborn already. But no, Ben S. had something else up his sleeve. Something so potent that if he ever decided to use his powers for evil, we were all doomed.

  Ben slipped the DJ a bill—I couldn’t see the denomination. As we exited the stage, the DJ called out the next act, “Is there a Jimmy Foster in the house? Jimmy, we’re ready for your number.”

  Foster poked his head out of the swinging door to the kitchen and then tried to duck back inside.

  “There he is,” said Ben, pointing so that all eyes in “the house” turned his way.

  All we could see were his shoes. They turned slowly and a hand clasped the top of the door and pushed it open agonizingly slow. He stood for a second, looking to me like he might bolt, but then a spotlight found him and he surrendered. Foster walked his green mile to the stage, questioning me as he passed us.

  I shrugged. I really didn’t know.

  The DJ handed him a mic, pointed to the screen, and started the music. Foster glared at me, but not a thing in the world could have wiped the smile off my face.

  Because few things were funnier than watching James Theodore Foster sing “Like a Virgin” at Shel’s Coffee and Karaoke Klatch.

  Chapter Nine

  Mr. August

  Looking back, I didn’t know what “lily-livered” meant, exactly, but I heard it in a cartoon once, and that was exactly what I was. As in lily-livered, spineless coward hiding behind the door of the girls’ room because I knew Foster was standing outside of it. I hadn’t been alone with him in two days. Since all the kissing.

  I checked my watch. Shit, I was going to be late for class. What was he doing out there? I cracked the door again. He was still standing with his back against the lockers. The hall emptied of all but a few students. Shit, shit, shit.

  I paced the worn linoleum. The windows were specifically designed to keep students in, so there was no help there. Not that I was desperate. Who was I kidding? I would gladly have jumped out a window to avoid being alone with Foster right then. Even if the windows were on the second floor.

  The door opened so I ducked into a stall. My jittery fingers had trouble with the lock, and the door pushed against me.

  I pushed back. “Occupied.” God, it wasn’t like there weren’t three other stalls.

  “Then unoccupy it or I’m coming in with you.”

  “Foster?” You have got to be kidding me. “This is the girls’ room. You can’t be in here.”

  “You haven’t given me much choice, Logan.”

  “Go away.”

  “No. Come out.”

  “No.”

  He gave a big shove just as I was letting go, and the door smacked me in the nose.

  “Crap!”

  He barged in behind the door. “Oh God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t do that on purpose. You know that, right? Are you okay?” His voice sounded tinny and far away. And getting further.

  No words would form. All I could do was moan and hold my face as I leaned against the stall. I squinted against the flashing lights
that were probably only in my head but hurt my eyes just the same. I was afraid I was going to throw up, and I wasn’t sure, exactly, which direction the toilet was.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  Foster steadied me and then pulled me out of the stall and to the sinks. He plopped me up onto the counter like I weighed nothing. Which would have seemed kind of manly if I hadn’t already been on the receiving end of his testosterone driven door push. And if the counter hadn’t been full of standing water and soggy paper towels.

  I wouldn’t let him pull my hands away from my nose. “It hurts,” I whined.

  “I know, I know. I’m so sorry. I just want to see it.”

  I dropped my hands, and he tipped my head back. “Crap.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’re a mess.” He wet some fresh paper towels and held them directly on my nose. “Seriously. You are a mess.”

  “It’s your fault. You did this to me.”

  His eyes widened, and I felt like I should say something more to clarify. Because all of the sudden, it wasn’t just my bloody nose that we were talking—or not talking—about. And while I’d justifiably blamed him for everything all those years, it felt kind of shitty to tell him that while he was trying to be nice.

  “I never wanted you to get hurt.”

  “I know.”

  He pulled away the towel, grimaced, and promptly put it back. “I think we need to get the nurse.”

  “She’s only here on Wednesdays.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Budget cutbacks.”

  “But people don’t only get hurt on Wednesdays. That’s so stupid.”

  I shrugged. “You wouldn’t believe how many girls get cramps only on Wednesdays now, though.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “So they can go home early.” His expression didn’t change. “Never mind.”

  “Keep you chin tilted up.” He started wiping up my face. “Why have you been avoiding me?”

  “I haven’t.”

  He stopped wiping and shot me a look of disbelief.

  “Okay. Maybe I’ve been a little unavailable. I just…” What? What was I just? “I guess I just didn’t want to talk about…you know.”

  “Well we can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it did happen. And it could happen again.”

  “It could?”

  “Sure. And we’ll never know when. We’ll be going about our business and all of the sudden we’ll be kissing.”

  “We will?”

  “And all because we never talked about it.”

  “So you are trying to tell me that if we don’t talk about it, then it will happen again.” Maybe I could just transfer schools instead.

  “Yeah. Except it will probably happen again even if we do talk about it.”

  “But why?”

  He stopped mopping my face and leaned in very close. “Because it didn’t suck. If it had sucked, we could have the ‘let’s never talk about that again’ conversation and be done with it. You stopped bleeding, by the way.”

  Why do people always think talking about things makes them better? I didn’t subscribe to that channel. “Why do we have to have any conversation about it at all?”

  “We don’t. But be prepared for the consequences.”

  “But you said that we’d kiss again either way, so why do we have to talk about it?”

  “You’re right. We don’t. We can just get straight to the action if you want.”

  I never felt less like kissing anyone than I did as I sat there on a counter in the girls’ bathroom surrounded by bloody paper towels, my nose throbbing, and my ass in a puddle of what I hoped was water.

  And then he kissed me.

  His mouth slanted over mine and I wrapped my arms around his neck. Some protest, huh? Foster splayed his hands on my hips, and my knees made room for him to lean in closer, and he couldn’t get close enough if you had asked me.

  The anger was missing this time. The change was subtle because we still weren’t kissing in the Hilary Duff/Chad Michael Murray at the end of a Disney movie kind of way. The intensity hadn’t lessened, just the fury.

  And passion filled the vacuum the anger had created. The bitterness I knew a thing or two about. This passion stuff sneaked up on me. It was as if I wanted to take from him and give to him at the same time—and like my body was so happy to finally circumvent my brain that it unleashed all the hormones I’d kept at bay all these teen years.

  My legs crossed behind him, pulling him toward me, and he groaned, a sound that reverberated in my veins like a choir during a crescendo. Shamelessly, I tugged and pulled at him, forcing his fingers to dig into my hips harder and mercilessly.

  I angled to the right at the same time he angled to his left, and we bumped noses, setting fire to my sore one. I gasped and pulled back.

  “Shit!” Stars, stars, everywhere I looked, stars. I covered my poor schnoz with my hands.

  “Oh God, not again. I’m really sorry, Layney.”

  “It’s okay.” I said through my hands. “I probably deserve to get smacked in the face every time I kiss you.”

  He pried my fingers away from my nose. “Oh jeez. I think we really should go find out where the nurse is the other four days of the week.”

  “Is it bleeding again?”

  “A little. And, um, your eyes are looking a little…swollen. And somewhat discolored.”

  “Are you freaking kidding me? You gave me a black eye?”

  “No…I think I gave you two black eyes. I’m really, really sorry.”

  An errant, vain thought flitted through my head—I didn’t want him to see me with two black eyes. I wanted him to see me…pretty.

  Stop it, Layney.

  I tentatively touched my nose. What if it was broken? “I knew you were evil. I didn’t realize you were physically dangerous too.”

  He winced. “Seriously. We should go get you checked out.”

  “Nobody is going to believe I got hit with a door. I don’t even want to know what the rumor mill is going to churn out.”

  “Layney, I’m not kidding. That color under your eyes isn’t one you see in a rainbow. It’s not natural.”

  He took a step back and I slid off my perch. Only the rest of the room kind of slid with me, and I slumped against Foster.

  “God. I am the worst kind of ass,” he said as he picked me up and carried me toward the door. “Your butt is wet.”

  “I know. You sat me down in a puddle. Foster, don’t I have a date tonight?”

  * * *

  I did have a date that night.

  And the preparations were not going well at all.

  “Can’t you do your own makeup?” Tyler asked me with a makeup sponge in one hand and a jar of cover-up in the other.

  “You’re supposed to be my best friend.”

  “Yeah, sure. But I don’t know how to do this stuff.”

  “The makeup was your idea.”

  “All I said was that they used stage makeup when I was in the all-school play last year, and that it covered Tommy’s black eye. I didn’t say I knew how to apply it.”

  I suppose we looked ridiculous. I’ll give my mom credit—she didn’t bat an eye when she found me and the Hawaiian in her bedroom using her vanity table. I think she was just glad I had a friend finally. She worried.

  Tyler set the jar down. “I need to watch ESPN or something. I’m feeling all weird.”

  “I promise you won’t turn into a girl by holding a makeup sponge for too long.”

  Ty didn’t answer and instead he sat on my parents’ bed behind me. “Are you sure it was just a door, Layney?”

  Our eyes met in the mirror. “I promise it was just a door.”

  “You know if anyone ever tries to hurt you, I’m your guy, right?”

  A smile stretched across my face and my heart swelled with genuine love for my BFF. “I know.”

  And I did know. Okay, so he
wasn’t so good at shopping or date preparation. And yeah, he actually thought a French manicure had something to do with tongue. But he was mine. I trusted Tyler the instant I met him. We were meant to be friends.

  So it sort of slipped out, “I made out with Logan after he beamed me with the door in the girls’ bathroom today.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  I shook my head.

  “What happened to ‘Jimmy Foster is the spawn of Satan’?”

  I shrugged. “I think it’s a hex. Someone in our school has been practicing the dark arts or something.”

  Tyler scratched his head. He was either wondering what was wrong with me or how he ended up with the dubious position of riding shotgun in my life. “What did Jimmy say?”

  “About what?”

  “About making out.”

  “He didn’t say anything. So this makeup is making me look kind of orange. Kind of like a bruised orange, actually.”

  “Am I hearing this right? You guys kissed in the girls’ bathroom for the first time since middle school and neither of you said anything?”

  I spun the stool slowly to face him, shooting him really big, really fake smile. “It was sort of the second time since middle school. We might have kissed for a minute the other day before the karaoke date.”

  “Oh you might have, huh?”

  “It happened very fast, but that was the impression that I got.”

  “Layney, I love you, kiddo. But you are one messed-up little girl.”

  “I know. I don’t even like him.”

  “So you kissed him because…”

  “I was hoping you would be smarter about this kind of stuff and maybe you could tell me.”

  “I am smarter than you, that’s true. And the reason you kissed him is because you still have feelings for him.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  Tyler tossed one of my mother’s pillows at me. “You look like you spend every day fake-n-baking at the tanning salon. Who is your date tonight?”

  “I don’t know yet. I don’t have feelings for Foster, either. Other than feelings of revulsion and repulsion.”

  “What about Micah?”