How to Make Out

by Brianna Shrum

  I need to talk to you.

  He doesn’t respond for a few minutes, but I get dressed anyway, pulling a light sweater over my head and running a brush through my hair. Then the phone vibrates.

  Come over.

  I pad down the stairs in my socks, but freeze at the door when I hear, “Leelee?”

  “Yeah?”

  My dad is sitting at the kitchen table in a robe, eating a bowl of cereal. He pushes his glasses up his nose and stares at me, then at the clock. “Where you going?”

  I shrug. “Drew’s.”

  He stares down at his cereal and scratches his head awkwardly. His voice is quieter when he speaks next. “It’s ten-thirty at night, honey.”

  I glance at the clock. “Yup.”

  “Do you think … do you think going to a boy’s house after dark, especially a boy like that, is great judgment on your part?”

  I roll my eyes. “Dad, come on. Are we going to pretend now that I don’t go over there every night after ten-thirty?”

  He shifts back in his seat and stares up at me, fiddling with the spoon between his fingers.

  “Leelee, I’m not happy about this. I don’t want to say you can’t go, but—”

  “Okay, then. Good talk.” I turn around to face the door.

  He slams his spoon down and milk sloshes over the side of his bowl. “Are you not even giving me the courtesy of lying anymore when you sneak out to go screw someone?”

  I blink several times. I’ve never heard my dad talk like this, but the shock wears off about as quickly as it came, and I lower my voice. “I learned from the best, Dad.”

  He drops his spoon and his mouth hangs open. He doesn’t even blink for several seconds. I open the door and shut it quietly behind me. He doesn’t follow, not that that’s surprising. And when I’m outside in the cold dark, I run my hands over my eyes and wipe away the few tears burning at the corners of them.

  Drew is waiting on the front porch of his house, and I’m glad for the dark. Not that I’m embarrassed to cry in front of him, but I don’t want to talk about this right now. Maybe ever. To anyone. I’d rather just be pissed off at Drew and talk about that.

  He stands when he sees me coming toward him and makes like he’s going to give me a hug, something else I don’t want right now. I stop just short of his arms and he drops them.

  “Keys?”

  “What?” he says, visibly annoyed.

  “Do you have the keys? To your car?”

  “Yeah, sure. You need them?”

  “I want to go somewhere.”

  “It’s cold out.”

  “Not that cold,” I say, and he tosses me the keys. “Come on, wuss.”

  He hesitates on his porch for a minute, then sighs loudly and follows me to his car.

  I hop in the driver’s seat and he slowly gets in to the passenger’s. Once he clicks his seatbelt into place, I start (or attempt to start) the engine. It takes me several tries.

  “You have to hold down the—”

  “I know. I’ve driven a stick before,” I snap. He leans back in his seat and stares straight ahead. I don’t even know why I’m so pissed now. I thought I came over because I missed him.

  Once I finally get the car to start and we’re rattling down the road, he rolls his head over to look at me. “So, did you text me just to yell and be mad at me all night? Cause I’d rather just go home if that’s your plan.”

  I don’t answer. I don’t even know.

  “Where are we going anyway?” he asks.

  “Where do you think?”

  He laughs, but it’s devoid of the humor one usually expects from a laugh. “Oh great. Alone in the woods at night with a pissed off woman. Please don’t murder me.”

  This actually does make me smile. “It’s not really the woods. Not deep in them, anyway.”

  Drew’s radio doesn’t work, and neither of us feels like talking yet, so the rest of the drive is pretty quiet. Luckily, it’s a spot just a few minutes outside of town.

  The car sputters to a halt and we both just sit there for a couple minutes, neither of us saying anything. We’ve never really fought—over anything—so this feels strange. Threatening. Like we’ll get out of the car and talk about everything, and then the whole relationship will change. Break.

  He looks over at me once the silence has thickened and pops the headlights on so we can see, pushes open his door, then closes it behind him. I have no choice but to follow.

  “It’s cold,” I say, hugging the light sweater around my body, wishing I’d brought something heavier.

  “I told you,” he replies. Then he opens up his back door and rummages through the backseat for something. It doesn’t take long; he likes to keep his backseat empty, for obvious reasons.

  He emerges with a blanket and hands it to me.

  “Not gonna offer me your jacket?” I ask him, teasing.

  “I don’t see why I should freeze just ’cause you didn’t think to bring a coat.” He smiles, teasing back, and tosses me the blanket. I immediately start to relax. This feels normal.

  “So you’re giving me a blanket instead. Trying to seduce me, obviously.”

  “Obviously.”

  He climbs up on the hood of his car and reaches down to help me up. The hood pops and settles beneath our weight, but it’s so dented and we’ve done this so many times by now, he doesn’t care.

  I wrap the blanket around me. It’s fuzzy and smells clean, which is a relief.

  “Hey,” I say, a small laugh in my voice, “you remember when we were little kids and we tried to cross the creek behind our yards?”

  He laughs. “On that little log? We were what, like, five and six? How do you even remember that?”

  “My mom freaked out and tried to help us cross and you got pissed and then we all ended up falling in that briar patch across the creek,” I say.

  “Didn’t you end up going to the hospital?”

  “Six stitches,” I say, and I roll up my pant leg. “Still have a scar.”

  He reaches across me to the little white line on my calf and runs his thumb across it.

  “When did everything change?” I whisper, and he doesn’t answer.

  He takes a deep breath and exhales, and we both stall for a little while again, staring out over the city. From here, you can see it all. Twinkling lights like little stars that have fallen from the sky. Trees behind, the city ahead. It’s the perfect spot—away from school, the house, Dad … the perfect spot.

  I wonder fleetingly how many girls Drew has deflowered here. That brings everything back to the present.

  “How many …” I stop, feeling strange.

  He looks at me. “How many what?”

  “How many other girls have you brought here? Besides me?”

  “Now that you mention it, this would be the ideal place. It’s totally romantic.” He’s being playful, which is normal, but I’m just not in the mood. He senses it immediately and the glint in his eye disappears. “None. No one’s been here with me but you. This is our spot.”

  That makes me feel good, then guilty for feeling good about it.

  Drew lies back on the hood of the car, arm open, and I lie back with him, head nestled in the crook of his arm. I can feel his pulse speeding. We are not five and six anymore, and our biggest issues do not revolve around briar patches in a creek. So whatever it is that he wants to say is stressing him out.

  “Just say it, Drew.”

  He breathes deeply in and out several times. Then, “You know, it’s not really fair of you.”

  I go hot everywhere. “What’s not fair?”

  “You know I’d be with you in a second. You say the word, and I’m in, completely. But I know you don’t want that. You’ve made it perfectly clear. And that’s fine. And I’m not gonna say, ‘Quit leading me on,’ because I know that when you stay over at my house and lay your head on my chest, you’re not saying you want to be with me.” He shifts, and I can feel the sudden tension in his arm, the
light quickening of his pulse. I’m sure mine rises to the occasion. His fingers tighten nervously on my shoulder and he takes a deep breath. “But I call bullshit on you getting pissed off at who I sleep with.”

  I just lie there, face going from hot to on fire. “I know. And I don’t even, I don’t even know why I got so crazy over that. But that’s not why I’m mad at you, anyway. You didn’t even talk to me for four days. Not a text.”

  He looks over at me and narrows his eyes, then back up at the sparkling sky. He’s not going to let the change of subject go completely, but he plays along. “You’re right. I was kind of a dick about the whole thing. I’ll go with that. I should have texted or called you.”

  “Yeah.” I’m shaking everywhere. He runs his fingers up and down my arm, probably trying to calm me even though he’s pissed. I hate confrontation more than anything, especially when it seems pretty clear that I’m wrong.

  “But my phone wasn’t exactly buzzing all week either,” he says.

  I have nothing to say to that. So I don’t.

  “And you’re not getting out of everything that easy. I’m mad at you, R.”

  “You are?”

  I roll away from him when he props himself up on an elbow and looks down at me. “Yeah. I am. You don’t get to decide who I can and can’t make out with, or sleep with, or do anything I want with. Because we’re not together. And I’m not going to worry about your feelings every time I invite a girl over, because you have no idea what those feelings even are.”

  “And you do?”

  “I do.”

  I stretch my arms behind my head, trying to seem more confident than I am. Like I know what’s going on here, like I’m totally sure it’s going to be fine. My top inches up just a little. He reaches out and pulls down the hem, but leaves his fingers there, brushing just above my hipbones, running them back and forth.

  “Enlighten me.”

  “A part of you wants me.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m serious, Drew.”

  “So am I. A part of you, a small part, or maybe a huge one, wants to be with me. But your Daddy issues are making it impossible, so you stay away and then don’t understand when you can’t handle a girl spending the night with me.”

  “That is so not true, you narcissist.”

  His fingers stop moving and rest there on my hip, and he just stares down at me. My heart is pounding faster and harder than it’s ever pounded. With his other hand, he brushes a stray hair from my face behind my ear. I’ve always wanted a guy to do that. Wherever his fingers touch, my skin buzzes.

  He lowers his face several inches, until I can feel the warmth of his face, see the moisture on his lips. I should want to leave. I don’t like him, I don’t. Not like that. But in this moment, the last thing I want to do is move away.

  Then he looks me in the eye and whispers, his mouth so close I can feel the words on mine, “You’re dying for me to kiss you.”

  I swallow hard and look away. Because if I keep staring at him and he doesn’t kiss me, I think I will die.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, still playing with my hair. “You don’t need to worry around me. I won’t kiss you. I’ll never kiss you. Not until you ask me to.”

  The fact that he chose the word until rather than unless is glaring. And I can’t say anything to combat it. I can barely breathe with him so close. He rolls off me and back onto the hood. After a few minutes with my vital signs, forcing them to calm down, I look over at him.

  “I’m sorry. About being jealous. And about … everything else.”

  “It’s okay.” He slips an arm under my shoulders. “It’s just complicated with you now.”

  “It never used to be complicated.”

  “Yeah, well, you never used to have boobs.”

  “Drew,” I yell, and I hit him in the chest. He laughs hard and clutches the spot where I hit him.

  “You gonna blog about that tomorrow? How to throw a mean right hook?”

  I shake my head and lie there with him, as confused as I ever was, staring up at the stars. And he stares with me until we’re ready to go home. I sleep over again. Because why not?

  11. How to Bake Stuffed Mushrooms

  I wake up the next morning, tiptoe out of Drew’s room over to my house, and climb in my own window. Dad knows where I’ve been, but sometimes I still feel weird being brazen about it. Like I’m actively trying to piss him off, which I’m not, not really. Not always, at least.

  So sneak I do. Minutes after I jump into my own bed, I get a text. It’s from Seth. Even in my groggy, half-conscious state, I know to be excited about that. Seth Levine has my number.

  Before opening the message, I fantasize that he’s asking me out for a romantic evening, moonlit walk on the beach or something. It’s probably just about the math tutoring. Failed another exam, most likely.

  You want to come over tonight?

  I pause and stare at the screen. That could mean just about anything. Do you want to come over tonight and talk about triangles? Do you want to come over tonight and get it on? Do you want to come over tonight and bake homemade cookies and sing “Kumbaya” and braid each other’s hair? The phone buzzes again.

  For cooking lessons. I owe you one.

  Okay, so it’s an Option 1/Option 3 hybrid. I can live with that.

  Sure. It’s a date.

  Oh, eff. Why did I just send that? Is there such a thing as a Freudian text slip?

  Cool. Pick you up around 6?

  I feel the hypertension drain from my shoulders when he doesn’t acknowledge my idiocy, and I breathe a huge sigh of relief.

  See you then

  I can’t stop smiling as I sit down at my computer to check my blog. I can barely even remember the password, I’m so flustered (in the best of ways).

  On the third attempt, I finally enter the correct log-in and head straight to questions, sorting a few into the MAYBE folder and some straight into the trash. I don’t care how much money it makes me, I have zero interest in learning how to make homemade baby food or how to stash a body. (Though I consider, momentarily, trying to find the IP address of whoever posted that …)

  Tonight, I’ll tackle a cooking question or two, probably. Most of my fans, it seems, are looking for cooking advice, style tips, or various sexual tactics, ranging from the best way to give a memorable hug to, well, things that go in the trash. On that subject, I have to admit, I haven’t written much. I haven’t done much to write about. I’m hoping that will change sometime in the (near) future. Someone has got to want to kiss me eventually.

  It doesn’t take a giant leap from there for me to start daydreaming about Seth. Hands in my hair, lips on my neck or lips or anywhere. I bet he uses the perfect amount of tongue.

  I fall back on my bed like a girl from one of those cheesy old movies Mom used to force me to watch, because sometimes you just have to be that girl. And right now, I am. My blog is going crazy. I’ve gotten hundreds of dollars already (which is insane), people—the right people—are finally starting to realize I exist at school, and I’m going over to cook at Seth’s house. Seth, who I’ve had a distant celebrity-type crush on since I met him. Yeah, when you get to be that girl, even for a minute, you have to savor it.

  So I do. Pretty much all day, I’m Tra La La Renley. Doing dishes without complaint, making sandwiches for everyone for lunch, chattering at Mach-10 about New York and the planetarium, smiling. My dad is thrilled with that, and so is Stacey. She probably takes it as a sign that I’m finally starting to accept her as my replacement mom. Any change of mood, Stacey believes, must have to do with her. Because teenagers live and die based solely on their relationships with their stepmothers. That annoys me enough that I almost want to start scowling again. But I don’t. I’m too busy being that girl, and it’s just too much fun.

  By the time evening rolls around, I’ve changed my outfit six times and redone my makeup twice that. The doorbell rings at 5:59, which is the only thing that keeps me from changing aga
in and redoing my makeup for the thirteenth time.

  I thunder down the stairs before my dad can answer and stop at the door, panting, embarrassingly, from running for ten seconds. I’m a runner, dammit. This is ridiculous. I stand there for several seconds so I can calm down to a reasonable level, then open the door.

  “Ready to go?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  I follow him across the yard and climb into his car for the second time in a week, and we drive off. He flips the radio on, and something cool and old school purrs through the speakers. He looks at me from the corner of his eye and grins. “You cool with this? Or do I need to change it to pop rap dance-house?”

  I give him a look and turn up the volume.

  “Oh good,” he says. “I thought you were cool. That was the test.”

  “Well, I never fail. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be paying for my tutoring in tasty treats.”

  “Never fail, huh? You and Mr. Cole getting along all of a sudden?”

  “Besides cooking. Cooking is the exception to all things with me.”

  He laughs and turns as we near his subdivision. “Well, try not to burn my house down, if you would.”

  “I’ll do what I can. But no promises.”

  “I’ll try not to get us into any math-related emergencies in return.”

  We pull into his driveway and head to the front door. The lights are all off when we go inside.

  “Are we here alone?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Parents are dropping off my little brother at a friend’s. They’ll be back in a few. I wouldn’t want your parents to think I was trying to corrupt their daughter or anything.” He winks at me and heads over to the kitchen.

  “Ha. Trust me when I tell you they wouldn’t care.”

  I follow Seth to the sink and mimic him, dousing my hands with warm water and soap.

  “So,” I say, “what are we making?”

  “I have everything for stuffed mushrooms here.”

  “Fancy.” The thought of making stuffed anything is intimidating, since I have a difficult time reheating chicken nuggets. But I will power through.