by Anna Michels
Mel glances at me. “Didn’t you feel awesome last night when Adam kissed you? Like you were maybe ready to start thinking about moving on?”
“Yes,” I admit. “But I don’t feel ready now. I feel pathetic. And desperate.”
“Vee.” Mel pounds the steering wheel in exasperation. “Desperate is sitting at home for the next three months, regretting the past three years of your life. Desperate is stalking Mark’s social media and obsessing over what he’s doing right this minute. Desperate is clinging to the idea he might someday want to get back together with you, and putting everything on hold until that day arrives, except it probably never will, and then you will die alone and unloved.” She pauses. “Except for me, of course. I’ll still love you.”
“You know,” I say slowly, “someone else actually has kissed me since Adam did last night.”
Mel gasps. “What? Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” I grin. “You missed it, but my dad gathered up the courage to actually touch me, and I think his lips may have made contact with my head.”
“Oh, come on,” Mel says. “That doesn’t count.” She goes quiet for a moment. “But actually . . .”
“What?” I ask.
“Shut up for a minute. I think I have an idea.” She turns up the radio and refuses to say anything more, a mischievous smile on her face.
It’s not a long drive to Mel’s house, but our neighborhoods are so different, we might as well live twenty miles apart. My subdivision is newish, cheap, and cookie-cutter. Hers is old, picturesque, and quirky. Just a few blocks from downtown Butterfield, the Flaherty home is a small cottage with a peaked roof and a yard that’s almost entirely filled up with Manuela’s vegetable garden. Beans, peas, and even cucumbers grow up giant trellises nailed to the wooden siding, zucchini and squash plants flop their giant leaves over the ground, and lettuce, carrots, and radishes fill the spaces in between.
“Pepper?” Mel grabs a tiny jalapeño off a plant near the front door and holds it out to me, then crushes it between her teeth when I shake my head. I love her mom’s food, but I don’t have the same kind of heat tolerance Mel’s Mexican side has built into her.
“So tell me your big idea.” I cross my arms over my chest.
Mel takes another exaggerated bite of jalapeño, grinning. “Actually, I think I’ll just keep you in suspense for a while.”
I swear she enjoys torturing me. “Mel—”
“Mija! And Veda!” Manuela pops out from behind a tall bush, watering can in hand. Dirt is streaked across the front of her white T-shirt, which pulls tight across her chest and stomach, and her smile grows even wider when she sees Mel chomping on the pepper.
“Tienen hambre? Do you want something to eat?”
“No, Mamá.” Mel pushes open the front door and motions me inside. “We’ll eat later, at lunch.”
“You sure?” Manuela’s eyebrows dip, unwilling to believe we’re not starving to death and in desperate need of a full meal at ten thirty in the morning.
“I’m fine, thanks.” I wave as Mel yanks my arm and pulls me through the door and into the riot of color that is her living room. Bright yellow walls, a tufted turquoise sofa, and a green-tiled fireplace fill the space, and about a dozen mirrors bounce the color and light streaming in from the giant windows around in a million different ways.
“Come on,” I say, hands on my hips. “Spit it out. You’ve built up the suspense long enough.”
Mel shakes her head. “Hang on. First you have to listen to this,” she says, pushing me back against the sofa so my knees give way and I fall onto the squashy cushions. “I think it’s really good. Like, really.” She drops her guitar strap over one shoulder and sneaks a glance at me, her hair falling over one eye. “Ready?”
I sigh. “Ready.”
She hesitates for a moment, her fingers poised over the strings. “I need you to tell me the truth, okay? Don’t be afraid to say if it sucks.”
“It won’t suck,” I say automatically, which earns me another long look. “Okay,” I finally say, pulling my knees up and tucking my feet under me. “I promise to tell you if it sucks. Even though it won’t.”
Mel nods and hunches over the guitar, avoiding my eyes as she picks out the first chords. It sounds like the same song she was playing at my house this morning when I woke up, but rounded out and filled in. My annoyance melts away as her fingers fly over the strings. Her head drops lower as she strums, humming a melody over the top of the chords that reminds me of the way sunlight sparkles on Lake Michigan on a perfectly cloudless day, or the sound of Kaylee laughing as I tickle her. Or the way I felt when Mark first held my hand.
I don’t realize my eyes are closed until the music stops.
“Well?” Mel’s voice is soft.
I open my eyes, and she fixes her gaze on the wall behind me.
“You can tell me if it’s terrible. Please tell me.”
“Have you played it for Seth?”
Mel’s shoulders jerk, and she sets the guitar down quickly. “Why would I play it for Seth?”
I narrow my eyes. “Um, because you and Seth play all your songs for each other.”
“And for you,” she says.
“I guess.”
There’s an awkward pause, and Mel stands up, brushing her hands off on her shorts. “Whatever. It’s terrible. Just forget about it.”
“Hey.” I reach over and grab her hand. “It’s not terrible. And you should play it for him.”
She hesitates for a moment, then shrugs and pulls away. “I actually am kind of hungry. You want something to eat?”
As soon as Mel opens the refrigerator, Manuela’s sixth sense kicks in, and she comes bustling in from the yard, wiping her dirty hands on her shorts. “No, no, no, mija, let me get it for you.” She nudges Mel away from the fridge and begins pulling out plates of food and jars of condiments.
We eat chips and salsa, and then some fruit salad, and Manuela is about to force a plate of homemade cherry bars on us when Bob comes rushing into the kitchen, his arms full of clipboards and folders bursting with paper.
“Here’s my favorite one.” Manuela plants a kiss on his cheek. “What’s going on?”
Bob tosses the papers onto the counter, nearly knocking over a jar of extra hot salsa. “Heather quit.” He shoots a look at Mel, who shrugs.
“Told you she would.” She picks up a chip and takes an exaggerated bite. “You should have listened to me.”
Bob slumps against the counter. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I need someone else out there.”
Mel glances at me and opens her mouth, but I kick her leg, and all that comes out is a little yelp.
He rubs his eyes. “You girls don’t happen to know anyone looking for work, do you?”
“No,” I say firmly, just as Mel says, “Yes.”
I glare at her as Bob looks back and forth between us.
“Vee needs a job,” Mel says finally.
“Weren’t you working at the movie theater?” Manuela asks.
“I quit,” I say, pushing my crumb-strewn plate away. “Long story.”
“Well . . .” Bob bows his head and laces his fingers together in mock prayer. “If you wanted to, Veda, it would be a huge help. You know the job—driving the canoes back up the river, hauling inner tubes. Killian would be working with you, so he can do the heavy lifting. Nine dollars and fifty cents an hour.”
Mel wiggles her eyebrows and mouths, Killian, at me. I try to ignore her but feel my cheeks heating up.
“Take a couple of days to think about it,” Bob finally says, although I can tell it’s costing him everything he has not to keep pressing me to accept then and there.
Mel leans over and gives me a light punch on the shoulder. I shift away from her and rest my chin on my hands. “No, I don’t need to think about it. Of course I’ll do it, Bob. Thanks so much for the offer.”
His whole body deflates as he lets out a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Vee. It’ll be gr
eat. We owe you one.” He slings an arm around Manuela’s shoulders, and she gazes up at him. “Consider yourself set up with free tamales for life.”
“Hey!” Manuela pulls away and swats his backside with a dish towel. “Beautiful Veda already knows she has free tamales for life.”
Bob grins and chases her around the kitchen, finally pressing her up against the counter.
“Okay, gross, we’re going to my room now,” Mel announces. “See you later.” She drags me off my chair and down the hallway. Slamming the door behind her, she turns to me and taps her fingers together, a devious grin spreading over her face. “This is perfect,” she says. “We’re going to get to work together and hang out all summer, and I’ve thought of the perfect plan to get you plenty of boy action.”
“Oh God,” I say, walking across the room and slumping onto her window seat, which overlooks the backyard garden. “I’m scared.”
Mel hops up next to me and wraps her arms around her knees. “It just came to me when you said your dad kissed you. First it was Adam, then your dad, who I admit is not exactly hot stuff, but I believe his name is Barry. . . .” She looks at me expectantly, eyebrows raised.
“And?” I struggle to find the connection between my dad and Slobbery-Kissing, Non-Texting Adam.
“If you could find a guy named Chris and kiss him next, then it would be A, B, C. You could get the whole alphabet, Vee!”
The wave of anxiety I woke up to this morning washes over me again, stronger than before. “Right. Very funny.”
“I’m not kidding. You’ll get to meet a bunch of guys and see that your dating life doesn’t have to begin and end with Mark.” She crosses her arms and looks at me expectantly. “So?”
I lean back against the window, the heat from outside leaching through the glass. “I don’t know.”
“Just try it,” Mel pleads. “Try to find a C kiss and see how it goes. You can always quit if you want to.”
My mind automatically starts scanning through my social media accounts, noting all the guys I know whose names begin with C. I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts. “What if Mark finds out?” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I cringe as Mel’s eyes widen.
“Vee! Who cares if Mark finds out? He broke up with you, remember?”
“I know, I know.” I look away and fiddle with the hem of my shorts, unable to squash the shrill voice in my head screaming that I would be betraying Mark—and that I have, in fact, already effectively cheated on him by kissing Adam.
“You need to do this,” Mel says, sliding off the window seat and grabbing a notebook and pen from her desk. “It’s nonnegotiable, Vee. Consider this a love life intervention.”
I close my eyes as Mel scribbles in the notebook, letting myself imagine what it might feel like if Mark found out I was with someone else. He might be jealous, which, I admit, would be gratifying, but would probably just make me feel awful in the end. Or he might not care, which would be even worse. Two weeks ago I could have predicted exactly how Mark would react to any given situation, and the fact that I feel like I don’t even know him anymore is its own kind of pain.
“Here.” Mel interrupts my reverie and pushes the notebook into my hands. “Read it.”
Unbreakable Rules for Vee’s
Summer Kissing Extravaganza
Must kiss (or be kissed by) twenty-six guys, one for each letter of the alphabet, by the end of the summer.
Kisses can be on the lips, cheek, hand, and anywhere else you might want to be kissed.
You can’t kiss a guy more than once. No forming attachments or relationships!
You CAN do more than kissing if you want.
Tell Mel every single detail of every single kiss so she can live vicariously through your hot, sexy summer.
Don’t think about Mark.
Don’t tell anyone (especially the guys you’re kissing) about the Top Secret Twenty-Six Kisses Challenge.
LIVE IT UP, LIFE IS SHORT—IF IT FEELS RIGHT, YOU CAN’T GO WRONG.
I scan the list and then stuff the notebook under a pillow. Seeing it written down makes it too real—like something that might actually happen.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, just to get her off my back. “I probably don’t even know a guy for each letter of the alphabet, though. Like, whose name begins with an X?”
Mel waves my words away like a cloud of secondhand smoke. “Enough tourists come through Butterfield for us to find any letter we want. There has to be an Xavier around here somewhere. I’ll start paying attention to the reservation sheet at the Float & Boat.”
“Ugh, Mel. That’s creepy.”
She shrugs. “Trust me, there’s not much to keep my mind occupied when I’m working in the office with my dad. He won’t even let me check my phone.” She sighs dramatically. “You, on the other hand, will be out getting tan with the beautiful Killian.”
I frown—if by “getting tan” she means getting a farmer’s tan.
“Killian friended me on Facebook,” I say. “Or he tried. I haven’t accepted yet.”
Mel claps her hands. “Well, what are you waiting for? I’ve been friends with him for, like, a week. And I saw you two talking at the Big Float.” She bats her eyelashes. “Looks like a slam dunk to me, since Adam’s out of the picture.”
My face immediately heats up. “Hey,” I say, pulling the notebook out and tossing it back at her. “What about this whole alphabet plan you just concocted? It’s supposed to be twenty-six kisses with different boys—not twenty-six kisses with Killian.”
“Oh, I know,” Mel says, rolling over and propping her head up on her arm. “But having him around sure will be convenient when you get to the letter K.”
Manuela’s tamales are delicious, but I’m still full from our giant snack and I find myself pushing my food around on my plate as Mel and her parents chatter away about summer plans and the Float & Boat. All I can think about is the impossibility of kissing twenty-six boys in one summer when I’ve only ever kissed two before in my life.
“Everything okay, Vee?” Manuela asks as I help clear the table after lunch.
“Yeah, fine,” I say, mustering up a smile. She tilts her head and gives me a hard look, but I turn away and grab my bag from the back of my chair. “Thanks for lunch. I better get home.”
“Do you want a ride?” Mel grabs her keys from the counter.
“No, that’s okay. I’ll walk.” It’s about a mile and a half to my house, but I’m restless and need to stretch my legs.
Mel walks me out and gives me a quick, fierce hug, shoving a folded piece of paper into my hand. “Think about it,” she whispers.
I tuck the paper into my pocket and pull away. “Pick me up tomorrow?” The dentist office where my mom works as a receptionist isn’t exactly on the way to the Float & Boat, so it will make more sense to ride with Mel.
“Can’t wait!” She disappears inside the house, the front door brushing the bright green leaves of a tomato plant as it closes.
I wander through Mel’s neighborhood, not bothering to take the most direct route home. It feels good to move. Almost every house I pass has a different kind of flower growing in the yard, erupting out of pots on the front porch or hanging heavy from vines wrapped around wooden trellises. The smells wash over me, almost overwhelmingly strong, dragging out unbidden memories of sitting in Mark’s backyard at night, our fingers tangled together as we watched our little brothers kick a soccer ball past his mother’s prize rosebushes.
I pull the piece of paper out of my pocket and smooth out the creases, Mel’s handwriting laying out the rules for how I’m supposed to get over my heartbreak. At this point, I don’t even really know how I feel. Mark and I have only been broken up for a couple of weeks, and already so much has changed—I kissed someone else and got a new job, Mel and Seth seem like they’re right on the verge of getting together, and my dad is suddenly demanding we all hang out as a family. What will it be like when Mark goes off to col
lege in the fall? Things will be changing for both of us every day, and even if we hadn’t broken up, we wouldn’t have been experiencing them together. If we had kept dating, how would I have even known that the person coming home for Thanksgiving break was the same Mark I kissed good-bye at the end of the summer?
I kick at a chunk of concrete that has come loose from the sidewalk. I don’t want to hook up with a bunch of guys just for the sake of some stupid game. But if I don’t get out there and meet people, how am I ever going to find someone new? That’s what I want—to find a guy who makes me feel the way Mark did . . . but who won’t break my heart in the end.
I fold the list back up and put it in my pocket, then sit down on my front step and stretch, letting the tension ease out of my muscles and tilting my face up to the hot summer sun. Maybe Mel’s idea isn’t such a bad one. Maybe all I have to do is take a chance.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next week flies by. Bob has me scheduled at the Float & Boat nearly every day, desperate for the extra help. At first Killian refused to let me lift anything heavy and ran around like a maniac grabbing inner tubes and canoe paddles out of my hands until I told him that he and his oversize muscles could shove it if he kept treating me like an old lady. Now I come home every night sore and exhausted, purple bruises peppering my knees from too many collisions with aluminum canoes, and annoying pop songs stuck in my head, since that’s the only music Killian will consider listening to. The Twenty-Six Kisses resolution lies discarded under my bed, and my running shoes stay buried beneath the pile of laundry I can’t seem to find the time to take care of, even as my legs cramp and twist each night.
I go online every evening and sift through my social media, trying and failing to imagine kissing any of the guys I know whose names start with C. And then I stare at Killian’s unanswered friend request, which he hasn’t said anything at all about at work. He doesn’t seem to be the kind of guy who gets all upset about some perceived social media slight, thank God. I don’t know what’s stopping me from accepting it. Because Killian has never met a moment of silence he didn’t want to fill with good-natured chatter, I already know basically everything I would find out from his Facebook profile (plus other things that are less applicable to social media): he’s hopelessly addicted to music written for teenage girls, he has starred in every play at his high school since he was a freshman, and he’s terrified of outer space and doesn’t like thinking about it because the concept of infinity freaks him out.