Much Ado About a Boy

by Jeanette Lewis

  My hands shook as I took a picture of the blue ribbon I’d won in a grade school talent contest. Okay.

  Chapter Eight

  The Burger Bar was a typical small-town hangout spot—windows for ordering, a parking lot where everyone ate in their cars, and a few big trees behind the place. My heart was fluttering like crazy as I pulled in and scanned the lot to see if Bentley was here yet. I knew he drove a beat-up Toyota, because what girl doesn’t scout out what kind of car her crush drives? Summer and I had spent an entire evening hunched in my car in the parking lot at the baseball field, just waiting for Gabe to finish practice so we could discover what he drove.

  Bentley’s car was parked at the far end of the lot, under the shade of a tall oak tree. I treaded my way down the narrow gravel lot and parked in the empty spot near his Toyota. He was already staked out on the table under the tree, the breeze blowing his brown curls. Well, more like wafting. The boy had curls that wafted in the wind like some kind of perfect teen heartthrob on a magazine photoshoot.

  “Hey!” His face lit up as I climbed out of my car and he jerked his head toward the table. “This okay?”

  “It’s perfect.” My lips felt numb and my brain was in second gear. I slammed my car door and joined him at the table. “Breezy,” I mumbled. Hi, I’m Bailey, and I have the vocabulary of a two-year-old.

  He grinned and shot a glance toward the Burger Bar, where people were lined up three deep. “What do you want to eat?”

  “Um … I don’t care,” I stammered. No improvement on the language skills.

  “Burger and fries?”

  “Sure,” I managed, sure my face would be on fire any moment.

  Bentley nodded toward the line. “Be right back. Can you save our place?”

  I nodded and dug my fingernails into my palms as I watched him jog across the parking lot. I grabbed my script from my car and threw myself on to the bench at the table. I had to get it together.

  He was back ten minutes later with a tray of food. “Hope you’re hungry,” he said as he set everything on the table.

  I wasn’t that hungry, but the sight of the enormous burgers and crispy fries made my mouth water. Digging into the food gave me something to do with my hands, and I felt myself relax as we worked our way through the fries.

  “How was your Frankenstein mac and cheese and mayo abomination?” I asked.

  Bentley assumed a lofty expression. “Firstly, it was delicious,” he said. “Secondly, it’s Frankenstein’s monster. Frankenstein is the doctor.”

  “I know that,” I said. “You’re the one who made the monster, just like him.”

  He laughed and leaned in to bump me with his arm. My stomach bubbled like a freshly opened soda.

  “So, memorizing these lines,” Bentley said. “Any tips?”

  “What? Still?” I nudged him back. “I thought you’d have it all worked out by now.”

  “I didn’t think it’d be this hard,” he admitted with a sheepish grin. “By the time I’ve untangled the sentence, I’ve forgotten what I’m trying to say.”

  I told him about recording the lines. “I memorize them all in a row, then memorize my cues.”

  “So what if someone drops a cue?”

  “It’s happened.” I shuddered. “When I was a sophomore, I played Annie Sullivan in The Miracle Worker. The girl playing Helen Keller’s mom had forgotten her line, and we all stood there looking like idiots while we tried to get back on track.”

  “The Miracle Worker,” Bentley said. “Why don’t I remember that?”

  “It was for drama class,” I said. “Just a showcase for parents; we didn’t perform it for the whole school. Usually by the time we’re ready to do an actual performance, we all have everyone’s lines memorized, so if someone forgets, someone else steps right in and no one knows the difference.”

  “Sounds like a lot of stress,” he said.

  I shrugged. “I guess. But it’s fun.” I nibbled on a French fry. “But why did you take drama last year if you think memorizing lines is stressful?”

  “I did a bunch of concurrent enrollment classes my Junior year, so I ran out of core classes and had to pick a bunch of electives. Drama sounded different, kind of fun.” He paused and cleared his throat. “And I thought it’d be a good way to get to know you.”

  I sat back, stunned. “Me? Why?” I finally managed to ask.

  “I saw you in Urinetown last year,” Bentley said. He fiddled with the straw in his drink, making it sing like a violin. “You were great. So confident and you looked so happy. I thought it looked like fun.”

  “But now you’re not sure?” I guessed. A small voice in my head fought back panic. We only had a few weeks. If Bentley couldn’t memorize his lines, then what? “Why did Meadows ask you to do this scene, anyway?”

  The wind stirred the curls at his forehead, and he wouldn’t look at me. “I dunno,” he finally said. “I guess he thought I could do it.”

  He sounded so sincere, but also so unsure. My heart flipped. “I know you can do it,” I said firmly. “I’ll help you.”

  His face lit up with his crooked grin, and he reached for his script. “Let’s get busy then.”

  We spent the next hour going over lines, reciting them back and forth and trying to get a feel for them. Having the scenes jump around made it harder, and I found myself wishing Mr. Meadows had given us an easier script. At the same time, the thought helped my wounded pride. He wouldn’t have given us such a challenging sequence if he thought we’d bomb it.

  As we reached the end of the script, my heart pounded. I knew what was coming, but did Bentley?

  The final lines were his. “Peace! I will stop your mouth.” Bentley read, then looked at me. “What does that mean?”

  “Mr. Meadows left out the stage instructions, but in the play…” I felt my face go hot. Oh my goodness, Bailey, keep it together. It was just a kiss. It was just acting.

  “What?” Bentley demanded.

  “They … they kiss,” I managed to say.

  His voice dropped to a chuckle. “I figured.”

  I smacked him lightly on the arm. “Then why’d you make me say it?”

  “Because I like seeing you blush.”

  “Not fair.” I shook my head as I pressed the back of my hand to my overly heated cheek. “Gingers do not blush pretty.” My face was on fire right now, probably matching my hair and making the freckles on my nose stand out. Not a good look.

  Bentley reached out and pulled my hand away from my face. “I like it,” he said softly. “You’re cute when you’re all riled up.”

  “I’m not riled up,” I protested.

  “Sure.” He grinned. “So do I take this to mean you don’t want to kiss me?” He leaned close enough that I could smell the onions from his burger on his breath. “Or that you do?” he said softly.

  The butterflies in my stomach were no longer just fluttering, or even dancing. They were doing some full-on crazy dance, like one of those viral Fortnite dances where you think there’s no possible way anyone could move that fast. But they could. And so could my butterflies.

  I bit my bottom lip, trying to keep some semblance of control. “I think we should do what’s best for the scene.”

  He chuckled and dropped his eyes to the script again. “Looks like Mr. Meadows is going to let us decide this one for ourselves.”

  “I guess. I mean, usually the stage instructions are pretty clear, but this could end without a kiss. It could be ambiguous, you know?”

  Bentley’s brown eyes gleamed. “We should definitely do what’s best for the scene.”

  “I’m not kissing you,” I protested.

  “Don’t you want to win?” he asked.

  Yes, but … this was spiraling out of control. But I wanted to. Here in the shade of the tree with the scent of burgers and fries and the salty, beachy air all around us, I wanted to kiss him. I wanted to see what his lips felt like on mine.

  Bentley pasted an innocent smile on his f
ace. “Didn’t you just say that if we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right?”

  “That doesn’t include kissing.”

  “Why not? It’d be fun.”

  “I don’t just go around kissing anyone,” I said. “I think kisses should mean something.”

  “Absolutely,” he said seriously. “So what does Beatrice and Benedick’s kiss mean?”

  His words pulled me out of my own head and into the acting. It was a scene, nothing more. I’d kissed boys onstage before because the script called for it. Just acting.

  “Okay, fine. It’s for the scene,” I mumbled.

  Bentley’s brown eyes lit up, sending the butterflies in my stomach into a full-on frenzy. “I will stop your mouth,” he said, picking up the last line again.

  He slid closer on the bench, and I took a shaky breath. The first kiss was always awkward. After that, it got easier, became part of the scene, and by the time the show was in performance, I barely thought of it as a kiss. But right now that possibility seemed a long way off. There was no way Bentley Nielsen’s kiss could be routine.

  As his lips brushed gently against mine, I let my eyes drift shut, allowed my other senses to take over. The wind whispered against my cheek, almost as soft as Bentley’s breath against my mouth. His lips were warm and gentle and he moved slowly, taking his time and letting his mouth linger on mine. Heat spread through my limbs and I was sinking into the kiss, into his arms, into another world where nothing mattered but the two of us.

  Then he drew back, taking the warmth with him.

  I opened my eyes. Our faces were inches apart. The fluttering in my stomach had become more of a volcanic eruption of heat and lava and want and desire and confusion. I wanted to launch myself at him, thread my fingers into his hair, and let our mouths speak in a different way, communicate without words.

  Bentley sat back, a grin covering his face. “I think it needs the kiss,” he said softly.

  “Yeah,” I breathed. “For sure.”

  His eyes delved into mine. “We should be sure it’s perfect,” he whispered.

  I could barely breathe. “It’s already perfect,” I heard myself say.

  Bentley leaned forward again. This time I let my fingers wander up his arms, over the rounded biceps and hardened muscles of his shoulders, and into the soft curls at the back of his neck, teasing the strands between my fingers as the kiss took over and I forgot everything else.

  Summer tore off her sunglasses. “Oh my gosh, he kissed you?”

  “What?” Harper leaned up from the back seat of my car. We were on our way to school Monday morning and I’d stopped to give them a ride, unable to keep my excitement in check any longer.

  Harper poked me in the arm. “Details, girl. Give!”

  “It’s for the scene,” I managed to say. But it wasn’t. At all. It was slow and yet made my heart sprint. Warm, yet gave me goosebumps. So many things, all at the same time. How could anyone else ever match that kiss?

  “Sure, for the scene,” Harper said. “That’s why you’re practically glowing.”

  Glowing? I’d been glowing so hard since Saturday night that I was nearly radioactive at this point. Sleep had been impossible; I had lain awake letting the thrill of the kiss wash over me again and again, bringing a new wave of butterflies with each memory.

  “So, how was it?” Summer demanded.

  I let myself sink into the giddy happiness that flooded through me. “So good!” I squealed.

  My friends responded with cheers. That was one of the things I loved about them. We shared each other’s ups and downs, victories and disappointments, as fully as if it’d been happening to us. When Harper was heartbroken over Jett, Summer and I had assured her it would work out. When Summer was mad that Gabe was making her clean bathrooms in exchange for his help, we’d commiserated and sympathized, but urged her to keep going. When they’d finally come together, we’d celebrated.

  And now it was my turn. Did that mean Bentley and I were coming together? I wasn’t sure. Everything felt so new and fragile. I hadn’t even dared text him yet, though I wanted to. So many questions.

  “It’s for the scene,” I insisted, like a broken record. But as I pulled into the school parking lot, my eyes were already searching the rows of cars, looking for Bentley’s. My heart flipped when I saw it parked at the back of the lot, near the tennis courts.

  “Right,” Harper said. “Just like kissing Cory Eggbert in Cinderella was for the scene.”

  I grimaced. “Thanks a lot. I’ve been trying to forget about that.”

  I’d been in the ensemble in Cinderella two summers ago at the community college theater. In the ballroom scene, I was assigned to dance with Cory Eggbert, a tall, lanky guy with body odor problems and in obvious need of a toothbrush. It was gross, but I considered it a professional challenge. Until he kissed me. We were only supposed to gaze at each other lovingly in the way the ensemble does when the lead actors are onstage. Never bring too much attention to yourselves, but paint a believable picture. We’d done just that all through rehearsal and most of the performances, and I’d learned to stay still and keep smiling, even with Cory’s gross pepperoni breath making my eyes water.

  Then on closing night, instead of keeping the gap between us, Cory moved closer. I didn’t even have time to react before he smashed his lips against mine. And of course, the scene was going on in front of us while the Prince and Cinderella danced, so I couldn’t jerk away and pull focus. I did the only thing I could do: I sighed dreamily and rested my head on his shoulder, then wrapped my arms around him. He thought it was because I was in love with him, but in reality, I’d figured if I kept my cheek against his shoulder, he couldn’t reach me with those lips of death.

  I pulled into an empty parking space and killed the engine. “Neither of you are to speak of Cory Eggbert again,” I ordered.

  Summer giggled. “Well, how do we know this isn’t just for the scene?” she teased.

  Because one kiss would have been for the scene, but it hadn’t stopped there. I don’t even know how long we’d sat on the bench at Burger Bar kissing; I’d lost track of time, space, everything. The only thing I’d known was the texture of Bentley’s lips against mine.

  “She’s doing it again,” Harper said.

  “Doing what?” I asked.

  Summer wiggled her fingers in front of my face. “Zoning out. Daydreaming. Glowing.”

  “Yeah, well, so are you,” I countered. “I only have to say the name Gabe and you turn all mushy.”

  Summer’s eyes went soft and she shrugged. “No argument here. I’m smitten.”

  We climbed out of the car laughing, and I couldn’t help but dart a look toward Bentley’s car. Smitten was a pretty good word to describe my state of mind these days too.

  I only caught a few glimpses of Bentley in the hallways that morning, though my eyes felt like they were about to pop out of my head looking for him. Summer liked to talk about her Gabe-dar, like a radar that told her if Gabe was near. Now I understood. It’s like I had a Bentley sensor and the minute it went off, I forgot everything except for him.

  It was disappointing not to see him, but I got it. We had different classes; we were both busy with the end of school and graduation requirements. But that didn’t stop me from looking around for him when I took my usual seat in the lunchroom across from Summer and Harper. Bentley usually sat with his friends at a table by the window, but he wasn’t there yet.

  “You’re going to break your neck if you keep whipping your head around like that,” Summer scolded. “Why don’t you just text him and ask him to come over here?”

  “Because we’re not really dating,” I mumbled. One kiss did not a relationship make, no matter how great that kiss was. “What if he thinks it was just rehearsing?”

  “He’s not going to think that.” Harper smiled. “Not the way you described it.”

  “You’re right.” I got a fresh tingle of butterflies at the memory. There’s no way a
nyone could mistake that kind of kissing for rehearsal, right? I grabbed my phone from my pocket and pulled up Bentley’s number. The voodoo curse had long since evaporated, and now just looking at his phone number gave me a thrill. But it was more than a set of numbers. It was a connection to him, a direct line that seemed to flow between us, linking us.

  I sent him a quick text inviting him to sit with us, then pulled my focus back to the table and my lunch. I didn’t like cafeteria lunch, but after the choking incident, I’d given up on bringing fruit snacks too. Today I had a peanut butter sandwich, a Bartlett pear, and a bag of goldfish crackers. Not exactly inspiring, but hopefully safe.

  I was two bites into my sandwich when Summer gestured. “Oh, hey,” she said with a smile. “Come sit with us.”

  My heart pounded and I whipped around, expecting to see Bentley standing there. But it was Krista, holding her lunch tray. Her eyes were red-rimmed and her cheeks were puffy, like she’d been crying.

  “What’s wrong?” I demanded as she set her tray on the table and dropped into the chair at my side.

  Krista bit her lip. “Nothing. Just being emotional.”

  “What’s up?” Harper asked.

  Krista’s eyes darted between my two besties. Harper, Summer, and I had been friends our whole lives, but Krista wasn’t really part of our group. She was a drama friend, but I didn’t know much about her other than that she had a terrific singing voice and was scared of the ghost that was rumored to haunt the area beneath the stage.

  And she’d beaten me in the monologue competition. But that didn’t matter anymore, because if she hadn’t, I never would have been able to do a scene with Bentley, never would have kissed him.

  The silence stretched out among us until it got awkward. Harper and Summer were looking at Krista with sympathetic interest, but she was obviously uncomfortable confiding in all of us at once.

  “Have you been crying?” I finally asked.

  “Been one of those days,” she sighed.

  Beneath the table, Summer nudged me with her foot. “Harper and I are going to take off,” she said, clearly dropping hints. “We’ll catch up to you later, Bailey.”