by Anna Michels
Peanut butter, chocolate, and bacon wrapped in banana-flavored batter and fried until it’s crispy: that is Fat Elvis on a Stick. We’ve laid out all the food on a picnic table, and Cody insists on documenting each item with a photo before we’re allowed to dig in.
“Oh my God,” I gasp after the first bite.
“We have another convert,” Nick says.
“It’s just . . . exactly what you want food to taste like,” I say. “All food should taste like this. Try it.” I hold the stick out to Mel.
“No way,” she says, batting the fried concoction away. “I’m sticking to cheese curds.” But I see her gazing longingly at the mini doughnuts, even though she’s too committed to her recent anti-sugar crusade to take even one bite.
After the food come the rides. The guys are buzzing on sugar, darting through the crowd, punching one another, fake-wrestling on the grass. And they want to ride everything—the Scrambler, Zero Gravity, the Tilt-a-Whirl, and every other bouncing, spinning, vibrating contraption that makes me dizzy just thinking about getting on it.
While the guys are swinging forty feet above the ground on the Fire Ball, Mel and I buy a couple of bottles of water and collapse onto a bench. I glance at my phone—it’s nearly ten o’clock.
“Vee, this is seriously one of the best nights ever,” Mel says, holding her water bottle against her forehead. “This is a night we’re going to reminisce about when we’re old and can’t stay awake past nine o’clock. And,” she says with a wicked smile, “I have a feeling you’re going to end the evening with a bang.”
I tip my head back, squinting into the dark sky, but it’s impossible to see any stars past the blazing carnival lights. “We’ll see.”
She turns to me, pouting a little. “Aren’t you having fun?”
“Yes,” I admit. “Although if you had told me this morning I would be having a great time at the carnival with a bunch of guys I’d never met before, I would have sent you to the crazy house.”
“You can’t plan a night like this,” Mel says solemnly. “It just has to happen.”
We watch the crowd go by—families, couples, groups of friends, and some adorable grandparents who are even more excited about playing Skee-Ball and Bozo Buckets than their grandkids are.
The Fire Ball does one last gut-wrenching revolution and returns to the ground. Carson, Cody, and Nick are the first ones off the ride, shoving one another good-naturedly and laughing as they come down the ramp.
“That. Was. Amazing,” Nick says, leaning over to catch his breath. “Are you sure you guys don’t want to go? We all have enough ride tickets for one more.”
“Oh no,” I say, pulling my own tickets out of my pocket. “I’ve been saving these for the Ferris wheel, and I think it’s time to cash in.”
Cody groans. “I can’t even remember the last time I went on a Ferris wheel. Maybe when I was three.”
“Oh, come on.” Mel hops up and tosses her water bottle into a recycling bin. “It’ll be good for you. You’re probably getting brain damage from bouncing around on all those fast rides.”
Carson holds out his hand and tugs me up from the bench. I try to pull away as soon as I’m on my feet, but he tightens his grip and laces his fingers through mine, flashing a smile that sends unexpected butterflies swirling through my stomach. “Tell Mel I owe her one. I don’t think I could handle another ride that goes more than five miles an hour,” he whispers.
“Too much Fat Elvis?” After a second of hesitation I squeeze his hand and he squeezes back, our fingers engaged in a complex conversation that has nothing to do with what we’re actually talking about. I had forgotten this—the thrill of touching someone new, trying to decipher the meaning of each tiny movement. And with no alcohol involved, I’m even more hyperaware of how strange it feels to be with someone who isn’t Mark.
Carson groans. “Way too much.” His thumb traces slow circles in my palm.
The Ferris wheel is nearly deserted, the ride operator watching a video on his phone as we walk up. He waves our tickets away as he opens the gate and lets us board the first two cars. “Save ’em for something better, guys.”
Mel squishes between Cody and Nick while Carson and I sit in the car behind them.
“Behave yourselves back there,” Mel calls, turning and giving me a quick thumbs-up. The Ferris wheel lurches to life, and she squeals, their car swinging as Cody and Nick rock it from side to side.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, pulling away from Carson, my face burning. “She doesn’t have a filter.”
“Hey.” He drapes his arm loosely over my shoulders. “It’s cool. This is fun. Right?” He tilts my face toward him, fingers light on my chin.
“Right,” I whisper. We climb higher and higher, the swirling lights falling away. Carson’s hand is warm against my skin, and my shoulder fits perfectly in the space under his arm. C is going to be a good kiss. No gross, watery beer; no Seth watching me with judge-y eyes; no strings attached. Just a fun night, a nice guy, a Ferris wheel ride to the stars. All I have to do is close my eyes.
CHAPTER TEN
The next day, I take down all my pictures of Mark and put them away. I fish the Twenty-Six Kisses rules out from under my bed and tack them to the middle of my bulletin board. And I accept Killian’s Facebook friend request. It’s not much, I think as I shove the cardboard box full of two and a half years’ worth of memories with my ex-boyfriend onto the top shelf of my closet, but at least it’s something. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and can’t stop a smile from spreading over my face, wondering what Carson is thinking about right now on his drive back to Ann Arbor.
Jeffrey walks by my room and sticks his head in. “Why are you cleaning?” he asks, his face scrunched up in confusion.
I sigh. We’ve never been the kind of family that does the dishes immediately after dinner—much to my dad’s chagrin—but it’s sad that my twelve-year-old brother literally doesn’t understand the concept of cleaning or why it might be necessary.
“I’m turning over a new leaf,” I tell him.
“Okay, whatever.” He taps his fingers on the doorjamb. “Don’t forget Dad and Lila’s party is this weekend.”
“Ugh.” I had forgotten. “You don’t want to go, right? We can make up an excuse and skip together.”
Jeffrey shrugs. “I have to babysit Kaylee. They’re going to pay me forty bucks.”
“Forty bucks to watch your own sister?” I raise my eyebrows.
He rolls his eyes and pushes away from the doorframe, backing into the hallway. “Just saying, Dad will be pissed if you don’t show up.”
I swing my door shut without pointing out the obvious: that I don’t really care if Dad gets mad at me. My room looks better than it has in months—maybe years—although there are still dirty clothes on the floor and books and papers I’ll have to deal with later heaped on top of the desk. I open the curtains to let more sunlight in and I take a quick picture to send to Mel with the text new start.
My phone rings a few seconds later.
“So this means you’re officially in, right? I saw the Twenty-Six Kisses rules on your bulletin board.”
At that moment, with a half-cleaned room, no Mark pictures in sight, and A through C crossed off the alphabet, anything seems possible. I grin. “I guess I’m in.”
Once she has gotten her earsplitting shriek of delight out of the way, Mel launches into a detailed analysis of which guys from Butterfield would be the best candidates for each letter. She has obviously put some thought into the matter.
“But wait!” She interrupts her own monologue. “You should write down everyone you kiss, and, like, details about what happened so we can remember.”
It seems ridiculous to think I might ever forget the circumstances around kissing someone, but I can see how once you get past the fifteen mark or so, some of the less memorable ones could start to blend together.
“Okay, hang on.” I put the phone on speaker and rifle through my desk
drawers, looking for a notebook that isn’t already filled with scribbly class notes. I find one with a few blank pages near the end and grab a pen. “What should I write?”
“Name,” Mel says. “Duh. And where you kissed him.”
Adam.
“What’s Adam’s last name?”
Mel sighs. “Wow, Vee, you really are oblivious. It’s Cook.”
Adam Cook
On the dock at Flaherty’s Float & Boat
“Okay, what else?”
“I don’t know. What else do you want to remember?”
I tap my pen on the paper. “This might be too mean, but we could, like, rank the kisses?”
“Yes!” The phone crackles. “That’s perfect. Score them out of ten, and then at the end of the summer you’ll have to pick which one wins Best Overall Kiss.”
“Adam gets a six,” I say, writing it down with a flourish.
“Ouch, only six out of ten?”
“It probably would have been a seven if he had called me like he said he would,” I admit. I wrinkle my nose, trying to figure out how to score Dad’s kiss. It barely even counts.
Barry (Dad)
An awkward dad kiss—duh! At his house.
l/l0
“My dad gets a one. Just . . . because.”
“Fair enough. And Carson?”
Carson from Ann Arbor
Dune Days carnival Ferris wheel
8.5/l0
I lean back, letting myself relive a little bit of last night—the taste of cotton candy on my tongue, the feeling of Carson’s warm hand closing around mine, the last revolution of the Ferris wheel, and the feeling of being suspended in space at the top. “Eight and a half.”
“Eight and a half?” Mel sighs. “It looked like a pretty freakin’ perfect-ten kiss to me.”
I push the notebook aside. “Mel, I’ve experienced a perfectten kiss. And, as cool as Carson was, that wasn’t it.”
She snorts. “Must be nice.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” She clears her throat. “Never mind. But we need to strategize about your next letters. Do you want to go out for breakfast?”
Fat Snacks leaps onto my bed and snuggles into my side, purring loudly. “Maybe lunch?” I say, stroking his soft fur and hating the idea of getting up again.
“Okay, I’ll come get you in a couple of hours,” Mel says. “In the meantime, do some research. D through Z.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, and end the call. I lie there, intending to get up and keep cleaning my room but instead getting more drowsy with each passing minute, as I tend to do whenever Fat Snacks graces me with his presence. He’s like a warm, furry sleeping pill.
“You’re the best boyfriend I’ve ever had, Fatty,” I say, and close my eyes.
“So let’s hear it,” Mel says, picking at her club sandwich. We’re sitting at an outdoor table at our favorite café on Main Street, watching the tourists flock past. “Who’s on your To Kiss list?”
“Shhh,” I say, glancing around. “Don’t tell all of Butterfield what I’m up to.”
Mel waves her hand dismissively. “They’re too busy buying souvenirs to pay attention to what a couple of townies are talking about.”
I eat a few cucumbers out of my salad. “Am I really going to do this? Pick a guy and go after him just because of the first letter of his name?”
“Yes,” Mel says, in her no-nonsense voice. “And it will be totally worth it in the end.” She tips an ice cube into her mouth and crunches down on it loudly, making me wince. “There are going to be bonfires and beach parties all summer, plus the usual Butterfield tourist trap festivals, so getting out and seeing guys won’t be a problem. And you have K all lined up, obviously.” She smiles suggestively.
I shake my head, even though something tells me I wouldn’t have much trouble getting Killian to kiss me if I wanted him to—but there’s no point in obsessing over that right now. “I think I have J figured out too.” I bat my eyelashes as Mel leans in eagerly. “Jeffrey.”
“Ugh, gross, Vee.” She wads up her napkin and throws it at me. “That doesn’t count.”
“My dad counted for B. And F can be Fat Snacks. . . .”
“No!” She laughs. “You’re not allowed to just kiss all the male members of your family.”
“Well, what about—” I’m about to bring up Seth for letter S, but I catch myself just in time.
“What about what?” Mel narrows her eyes at me, almost as if she knows what I was about to say.
“Um, what about my stepmom’s big party my dad told us about? It’s this weekend. Maybe I can get a kiss or two there.” The transition is pretty seamless.
Her expression clears. “That’s a great idea. I’ll ask around and see if anyone we know has been invited. It’s supposed to be for her work friends, right?”
“Yeah, and I think they mostly live in Grand Rapids.”
Mel shrugs. “Someone we know has to be there. And if not . . . you’re getting good at making new friends.”
“Why does Vee need new friends?” Seth appears from nowhere, a black shadow against the colorful small-town backdrop. He leans over the railing separating the café patio from the sidewalk and grabs a fry from Mel’s plate.
“I don’t,” I say, giving Mel a warning look. There is absolutely no reason Seth needs to know about the Twenty-Six Kisses thing.
“What are you doing down here?” Mel asks, guarding her remaining fries with her hand.
“Lesson.” Seth pulls out his phone. “I’m late. But do you want to work on the album later?”
I smile blandly, trying to ignore the twinge of jealousy that shows up whenever Mel and Seth talk about “the album.” They’ve been writing and recording songs for a couple of years and will spend hours at a time locked away in Seth’s basement, working on them. If Mark was at a cross-country meet or something, I used to occasionally tag along and pretend to read a magazine or whatever while they talked about chord progressions and fiddled with the temperamental knobs on Seth’s ancient four-track recorder, but there was nothing lonelier than watching the two of them get totally in the zone and forget I was even there.
“Sure.” Mel swirls a fry through the puddle of ketchup on her plate. “I’m not working tomorrow. Text me.”
“See you later.” Seth bops me on the head as he turns to leave.
Mel watches him go and then focuses her eyes on me, the devious look returning to her face.
“You’re not working tomorrow?” I stick out my lower lip. “I thought we were supposed to have all the same days off.”
“Yeah, Dad messed up the schedule. Can you get a ride with your mom?”
“Probably.” I sigh and put on an exaggerated sad face. “But the Float & Boat just won’t be the same without you there.”
Mel laughs. “Stop trying to distract me. Let’s focus on letter D. We have options.” She waves her phone at me and taps the screen, studying what I can only presume is a list of her nine hundred Facebook friends. “Danny Bridges . . . he has a girlfriend. Darren Peters . . . I think he’s working as a camp counselor this summer.” She scrolls, her eyes whipping back and forth as she scans the screen. “Dexter Claybourne?”
“Dexter?” We’ve been going to school together since second grade. He’s nice. The oldest of five siblings. Kind of short. “I don’t know. That would be weird.”
“It will not be weird.” Mel puts her phone down on the table, and to my horror I see she’s calling Dexter.
“No, wait—” I reach for the phone, but it’s too late.
“Hello?” He’s on speakerphone. I look around at the other café patrons, praying no one I know decided to come out for a nice lunch.
“Hey, Dex. It’s Mel Flaherty.”
“Oh. Hey, Mel.” Dexter’s voice is deep and gravelly, and, understandably, he sounds a little confused. “What’s up?”
“What are you doing right now?”
“Uh . . . nothing, reall
y. My cousin and I are watching my little sisters.”
Mel looks at me and grins. “At your house?”
I tip sideways in my chair and put my hands over my face. I can’t believe this is happening—Dexter must think she’s a freak.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, don’t go anywhere. See you in a few minutes.”
“Wait, what—”
Mel ends the call and leaps up, pumping her fist. “Okay, let’s go!”
The only place I want to go is home, so I can disappear inside and never come out. “I hope this is one of those things I’ll be able to look back on someday and laugh,” I say, tossing some money onto the table.
“I love your attitude.” Mel grabs my hand and pulls me to the door. “Poor Dexter’s not going to know what hit him.”
By the time Mel pulls up to the curb in front of Dexter’s house, which is right by our old elementary school, my hands are shaking.
“Okay, quick strategy meeting,” Mel says, turning off the ignition. “I think—”
“No.” I open my door and get out of the car, knowing if I put too much thought into what’s about to happen, I won’t be able to go through with it. “Let’s just do this.”
I stride up the sidewalk, Mel racing along after me, and follow the sound of kids shouting to the backyard. A sprinkler and Slip ’N Slide are set up on the grass, and three little girls prance around in their swimsuits, squealing as they run through the sprays of water.
Dexter’s leaning against the deck, talking to a guy who must be his cousin, and he looks up in surprise as we come around the corner of the house. He’s wearing oversize sunglasses and swim trunks. No shirt. I stop short, and Mel crashes into me, gripping my arms as she struggles to keep her balance.
“Hey,” Dexter says. The other guy turns around, and my heart sinks. I don’t know how I could have forgotten, but Dexter is related to Ryan Kelly, one of the guys on Mark’s cross-country team. “What’s going on?”
I freeze, my mind racing, the sick feeling that washes over me in a debate when I’m getting my ass handed to me now settling in my stomach.
“Go!” Mel whispers in my ear and pushes me forward.