26 Kisses

by Anna Michels

  “Hey,” I say, poking Zane in the side and making him jump about a foot in the air. “Stop that. It’s summer vacation.”

  “Vee!” He turns to me, but his eyes immediately dart over my shoulder. “Your friend didn’t come?”

  I think back to weeks ago when Seth and I ran into Zane on the beach. “Seth? No.”

  “Too bad.” Zane turns back toward the counter and peers up at the giant chalkboard that lists all the flavors. “You know, maybe I will go for cookie dough after all.”

  Tracy gives me a little side hug, giggling when I squeeze her back. “What are you going to get?” she asks.

  “One scoop chocolate, one scoop pistachio,” I say automatically. Classic and delicious—and the Dune Buggy is the only place you can get pistachio ice cream that doesn’t taste like it’s overloaded with artificial flavors and chemicals.

  The Dune Buggy is filling up with families and tourists. After everyone in our group has an ice cream cone in hand, we file outside and grab one of the few shaded picnic tables. I perch on the edge of a bench, pressed shoulder to shoulder between Zane and Becca, and try not to feel left out as the conversation revolves around who will be elected sophomore class president and which semester everyone is taking driver’s ed—everything I was worrying about two years ago. But last week my mom brought home a giant college guide, which I haven’t even opened, and soon I’ll be filling out applications and FAFSA forms and petitioning for scholarships, getting ready to leave Butterfield behind and start my real life. The thought is terrifying.

  I nudge Zane. “One of the guys I’m working with this summer is on the team at Trawley.” Guilt flashes through me as Killian’s face pops into my mind.

  “Oh man.” Jason leans in, his ice-cream cone tipping precariously. “You have to get the scoop from him. If we can take Trawley down, we could make regionals.”

  Callie tosses her hair. “Maybe you could, like, flirt with him? And get some insider information?” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively and blushes.

  My stomach jolts, and I shrug, hoping my face hasn’t given anything away. “Worth a shot.”

  “You have to let us know how it goes.” Callie turns to her best friend, Jenn, and whispers in her ear. They both glance at me and break down in giggles.

  Zane launches into a monologue about the ethics and conference-mandated guidelines of interacting socially with members of other teams outside the official debate season, which sends the group into a heated theoretical discussion about whether twins who had been separated at birth and reunited only after their debate teams competed against each other should be allowed to live together during the season or if they would have to wait until the championships were over to resume normal sibling relationships.

  The sun drops lower and lower over the horizon, and parents start showing up in minivans and SUVs to pick up the kids who can’t drive. Soon it’s just me, Zane, and Jason left at the long picnic table stained with melted ice cream. I gather up crumpled napkins and the bitten-off ends of waffle cones and toss them into the trash.

  “I’m going to take off,” Jason finally says. “But we should totally do this again.”

  “Absolutely,” Zane says, and I nod.

  “Do you need a ride?” I ask him.

  “Nope.” He pulls out his phone and sends a quick text. “I think my mom is going to come get me.” His phone pings almost immediately, and his face falls. “Actually, I guess I could use a ride. I forgot she has yoga class tonight.”

  I laugh and punch Zane lightly on the shoulder. “For someone who is so smart, you do forget things an awful lot.”

  He grins. “Why do you think I carry that planner around all the time? I’m literally useless without it.”

  “I promise never to give you shit about that again. The whole team would fall apart if you started missing practice.” I point across the parking lot. “My car’s over there.”

  Zane stares out the window and hums along to the radio as we drive into downtown Butterfield, and he unselfconsciously drums his hands on his knees.

  “I know you live around here somewhere, but you’ll have to give me directions,” I say as we get close to Mel’s neighborhood.

  “Take a left here,” he says, and I turn onto a wide, tree-lined street that boasts some of Butterfield’s oldest and biggest houses. Zane lives in an enormous brick house with blindingly white trim around the windows and a half-circle driveway.

  “Thanks for the ride, Vee,” he says, his hand on the door handle. “See you around.”

  My mind goes blank. I have no idea how to make this happen naturally. I assumed Zane wanted to invite me to a mini-reunion because he had a crush on me, but right now he’s acting pretty much the way Jeffrey would if I gave him a ride somewhere. “Zane, wait,” I blurt.

  He turns toward me, the passenger-side door half open. Zane’s eyes are a muddy brown-hazel combination, and I notice he has a smudge of chocolate on his shirt.

  “Yes?” he says. He looks so young, and doubt flickers through me for just a second before I lean over and press my mouth to his.

  I’ve kissed a fair number of guys by now, and usually when you kiss someone, you get some kind of response. They lean in, they stiffen up, they move away. Something. But Zane stays perfectly still, like he’s been frozen. I panic, totally unsure of what to do next. Rather than pulling away, I move my lips a little, desperately hoping he’ll get the idea and kiss me back so I can save face at least a little bit, but nothing happens. After a few excruciatingly awkward seconds I wrench my face away from his and drop my hands on top of the steering wheel.

  “Well, I’ll see you around.” My voice is high-pitched and breathless, barely squeezing out of my throat as embarrassment closes itself around my vocal cords.

  Zane clears his throat, settles back into his seat, and closes the car door.

  No, I think. What are you doing? Get out of the car. Get away from the weird older girl who just assaulted you with her face.

  “Vee . . .” Zane’s voice breaks, and he clears his throat again. “I really like you, you know, as a friend . . .”

  “Oh God.” I drop my forehead onto the steering wheel. I’m about to get a patronizing let’s-just-be-friends talk from a fifteen-year-old debate team nerd. “Zane,” I say. “That kiss did not mean what you thought it did. Let’s just forget this ever happened, and move on with our lives.”

  He sighs, and I glance over at him. He’s leaning back against the seat, eyes closed, face pale. A thought strikes me—has Zane ever kissed anyone before? Did I just steal his first kiss for my own nefarious purposes? I press my forehead harder into the steering wheel. This was such a terrible, terrible idea. Stupid Twenty-Six Kisses. Stupid alphabet.

  Zane takes a deep breath. “The thing is,” he says quietly, “I’ve never kissed a girl before.”

  “Shit.” I sit back against the seat with a thump. “Zane, I am so, so sorry. I can’t even—”

  “It’s okay,” he interrupts. “I’ve never kissed a girl before because I’m gay.”

  I stop breathing. How did I not know this? Have I really been so preoccupied with my own life and with Mark that I missed the fact that one of the guys I strategized, practiced, and competed with all of last year is gay?

  Zane must see the panic on my face because he says quickly, “No one really knows. Except my parents.”

  I feel my face turning red. Even worse than stealing someone’s first kiss is forcing them to come out before they’re ready. “Zane, I am so sorry. I promise I won’t tell anyone—”

  “Thanks.” He glances over at me and smiles. “I’m going to come out at school this year, but until then . . .”

  “My lips are sealed.” I do the lock-my-lips-and-throw-away-the-key move and immediately feel like an idiot. I am handling this whole thing like a second grader.

  “But if I were into girls, I would totally go out with you,” he offers, laying a consoling hand on my arm. “I hope we can still be friends.”
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  “Absolutely,” I say, trying to fight off the wild laughter that threatens to consume me as Zane pats my arm. “Thanks, Zane.”

  He gives me a knowing look and slides out of the car, and I pull away practically before the passenger door slams shut, only making it around the corner before I park the car at the curb and lay my head on the steering wheel again. I have no idea what I’m doing.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Zane Haywood

  In my car. But turns out he’s gay!

  5/l0 (the kiss was a 2. But he gets 3 extra points for being honest—and brave)

  “So Killian is okay with you finishing Twenty-Six Kisses?” Mel leans over and pulls a weed from between two tomato plants, tossing it onto the pile of greenery slowly turning brown in the sun.

  “Ha. No. Okay is not the word I would use.”

  “But you’re doing it anyway.”

  I nod.

  “Why?”

  I look up at her. “I started it. I feel like I should finish.”

  She sighs and turns her attention back to the garden, obviously baffled by my commitment to what she sees as just a tool to get over a breakup. But it’s become more than that to me.

  “And the kiss with Zane was . . . ?”

  “Fine.” I reach down to retie my shoelace, careful not to meet Mel’s gaze. I know Mel wouldn’t spread Zane’s secret around, but he asked me to keep it to myself, so that’s what I’m going to do.

  “Hmmm.” She eyes me suspiciously. “I feel like you’re not telling me something. But you’ve gotten a lot of kisses. You’re doing so good, Vee.”

  I shrug. “Thirteen if you count both Es.”

  “And you also have Z?”

  “And P.”

  Mel shakes her head. “It’s a lot more complicated when you go out of order. Are you going to be able to finish before school starts?”

  “I’m only halfway. What do we have, three weeks left?”

  “Ugh.” Mel yanks a weed out of the ground and shakes it viciously, sending a shower of dirt onto my legs. “Don’t remind me.”

  I rest my chin on my knee. “I could just keep going through the school year.” My voice is light, but my heart sinks at the thought of walking through the halls at school on the prowl for more kisses.

  “You know,” Mel says, eyeing me. “I never actually thought you would finish.”

  I raise one eyebrow. “Why?”

  “Finishing was never the point,” she says, stuffing the pile of weeds she has collected into a brown paper yard bag. “Starting was.”

  “We’re hanging out tonight,” Killian informs me when I get to work the next morning. He looks younger, somehow, and more vulnerable than usual. “I don’t care if you have other plans or feel awkward, or even if you just plain don’t want to. We’re hanging out anyway.”

  “Okay.” I search his face for a clue to what he’s feeling, but he has me completely closed off. “But you’re being really bossy.” Honestly, I’m so relieved to see Killian back at work and acting like his normal self, I would agree to pretty much anything.

  “I think I have to be if I want to get anywhere with you,” Killian says, a sharp edge in his voice. “Do you disagree?”

  I shrug and pretend to study the clipboard holding today’s reservation list, letting a few seconds of silence hang between us.

  “You’re right.” Killian nods seriously and clears his throat. “This is not a very professional conversation we’re having. Let’s stick to work-related topics, and then we can get into the personal stuff later tonight when we’re off the clock.”

  Killian chatters on for the rest of the day, posing questions and theories about the intricacies of the canoe-manufacturing industry, river ecosystems, and why The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn is the best example of the great American novel (only tangentially related to work, but still interesting). He only shuts up during our brief lunch break with Mel—who takes over for him and dominates the conversation with speculation about how awesome our senior year is going to be—and when we’re driving up and down the river in the bus, where he cranks up the radio and lets the music do the talking.

  After we finish cleaning up at the end of the day, Killian grabs my hand and pulls me to the Jeep. “I don’t want you to try to sneak off,” he says, opening the passenger-side door and helping me up. Mel appears in the door of the office, hands on her hips, and I mime putting a phone to my ear—I’ll call you later.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, helping Killian clear the tarp off the dashboard. I suck in my breath as the sunlight hits the song lyrics, making them shine.

  “This is a strategy session,” Killian says. “So we’re going to get food, because I can’t think when I’m hungry, and then we’re going to go to my house and talk through our plan of attack.”

  “Our plan of attack for . . . ?”

  “Finishing out your summer kissing challenge as quickly as possible,” Killian says matter-of-factly.

  I look at him, stunned, but he just starts the Jeep and pulls out of the parking lot, one hand casually gripping the steering wheel, the other resting on the driver’s-side door.

  We drive all the way to Trawley without speaking. I read the dashboard lyrics over and over. There’s a new one, written in big block letters right in front of my seat: Maybe you would have been something I’d be good at

  I wonder if it means that Killian has given up on me.

  Killian’s house is disappointingly normal, in a neighborhood that looks a lot like mine. He swings open the front door and leads me inside, slipping his shoes off as he goes. To the left is the living room, filled with comfortable-looking furniture, and to the right is a formal dining room that looks like it is probably only used twice a year.

  I follow him past a wall of family photos, and down the hallway to a closed door. Then he turns around, hand on the doorknob, and looks at me very seriously. “Are you ready for this?”

  I glance around, wondering if I’ve missed some giant clue about what is about to happen. But the hallway is totally normal—gray carpet, off-white walls. “Sure.”

  I follow Killian into a large room that, at first glance, looks like a conference room you might find in an office. There’s a table with four chairs gathered around it, a whiteboard taking up half of one wall, and shelves packed with hundreds of books. Then I spot the unmade bed in the corner and realize this is Killian’s room.

  “Have a seat,” he says, ushering me over to the table and pulling out a chair. “I should have asked while we were downstairs. Are you thirsty? Can I get you some water?”

  I shake my head, my eyes roaming around the room, taking it all in. Now that I’m taking a closer look, the room seems slightly less corporate. Band posters cover the walls, and there’s a mountain of dirty laundry spilling out of the closet. In fact, overall the room is pretty messy, just like you’d expect for a teenage boy. But the corner housing the table and whiteboard is spotless, everything in its place.

  “This is not what I was expecting your room to look like,” I say. “Well, I expected the posters. But not the office furniture.” I point at the whiteboard. “Was Office Depot having a clearance sale or something?”

  “Our school library kicks everybody out at six o’clock,” Killian says. “The public library, which is barely bigger than this room anyway, closes at eight. Sometimes when we’re preparing for a competition, we’re up until midnight. This keeps us focused a lot better than trying to work while sitting on the couch in someone’s living room with the TV blaring in the background.” He pulls out a yellow notepad and sits down across me. “So,” he says. “Let’s strategize.”

  “Um,” I say, tapping my fingers nervously on the table. “Let me just make sure I understand what’s happening here. You want to strategize with me about how I can finish my summer kissing challenge?”

  He nods and twirls a pen in his fingers.

  “The summer kissing challenge you’re pissed off that I’m doing?”
r />   He nods again.

  “Why?”

  Killian sits back in his chair and crosses his legs. He thinks for a moment and then takes a deep, theatrical breath. “Because I like you, Vee. You’re smart and funny and exactly the type of girl I’ve been hoping to meet but never thought I actually would. Because you let me talk to you about things that don’t matter, and you understand it’s not what we’re talking about that’s important, but how we’re talking about it, and why. Because you can be sweaty and covered in river mud, and I still think you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

  Wow. I sit there, stunned into silence. He clearly prepared a speech, ran through it in front of the bathroom mirror, rehearsed the pauses and the emphasis. As if he thought I wouldn’t see right through all that. This is the first time Killian hasn’t been totally real with me. He’s putting on a show, trying to make me go along with his plan. But he’s not in charge here. I am.

  I roll my eyes. “Right. And so you want to help me figure out how to kiss other guys. That makes total sense. Thanks for clearing it up for me, Killian.” I cross my arms over my chest. “You think you can compliment me and use emphasis through repetition to make what you’re saying sound more powerful than it actually is, and I’ll just fall over and go along with it?” I shake my head. “News flash: I won’t.”

  We stare at each other for a few moments, tension strung like a wire between us. I can practically see his brain whirring behind his eyes, trying to come up with a counterargument that will convince me everything he just said wasn’t a total load of bullshit.

  Finally he sighs. “Okay. I’m sorry.” He tosses the notepad onto the floor, and his pen bounces across the carpet. “No more rhetoric crap.” He pauses, and I nod for him to continue. “Look, I do like you, Vee. That should be obvious.”