Confessions of a Serial Kisser

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  Or...

  Was this about...

  Kissing?

  My blood pressure went up fast. My head started swimming with the sudden realization that my summons to the counselor's office might be for actual counseling.

  But...did they really think I'd talk to Mr. Hikks?

  That I'd be able to explain anything during a twenty-minute nutrition break?

  Who were these people, and what had they done with reality?

  Mr. Hikks's door opened. A purple-mohawked Ryce Tibbins strode out sporting ripped black cotton, multiple piercings, and military boots.

  We exchanged nods, and at the last minute he tagged on a knowing sneer.

  Why the sneer? I asked myself as he bashed through the reception-area door. Had he seen my graceful dive into garbage the other day?

  Had he heard about my...

  Kissing?

  "Evangeline?" Mr. Hikks said with an artificial smile. "Come in."

  So into his cubby of clutter I went.

  "How are you?"

  "Fine," I said, standing in front of his desk. There were stacks of papers, transcripts, college catalogs, newspapers, file folders...the place was a disaster.

  He swigged back some coffee and grimaced like it was bitter or cold, or maybe both. "Have a seat."

  "What's this about?" I asked, not sitting. "I really don't want to be late to Spanish."

  He flipped open a manila folder with my name on it. "I'll write you a note. Have a seat."

  My knees wimped out on me.

  I sat.

  "We've sent three letters home about this," he began, then took another swig of the sludge in his coffee mug.

  My mind raced. Three letters home? Already? Why hadn't I seen them? And what about the flunkies? What about all the seniors in danger of not graduating? What about the bathroom smokers, for that matter! The drug dealers! The people who scrawl obscene messages inside bathroom stalls? What about them? So I'd kissed a couple of guys. So I'd bombed a test. So I'd been a little distracted.

  So what?

  Mr. Hikks thumped his coffee mug on his desk, looked me directly in the eye, and said, "You need to do your community-service hours, Evangeline. We will not advance you to senior status if you haven't completed your community-service hours." He frowned at me. "Even if you do have nearly a four point oh." He shoved a paper in front of me. "Here's a copy of the list we've mailed to you three times."

  I picked up the paper and looked it over. I could feel myself flush with a strange, almost uncontrollable anger. I'd been totally stressing out in the waiting area for this?

  "Just choose an organization and get your hours done," he snapped.

  I leveled a look at him. "Mr. Hikks, I never got this paper in the mail."

  "Well, now you have it, don't you?"

  His sarcastic tone ticked me off even more. Why was he treating me like a delinquent? Didn't my hard-earned GPA entitle me to a little respect? Couldn't he at least be a little more...pleasant?

  My whole body felt flushed, but I tried to stay calm. "Mr. Hikks, my point is, where did you mail it?"

  He swiveled in his chair and rattled away at his keyboard, then pointed to an entry on his computer monitor. "Seven sixty-eight Sycamore Drive."

  "Well," I said, trembling now with anger, "I don't happen to live there anymore."

  He rolled his eyes. "Well," he said back, "it would help if you would inform the school of these things!"

  My head felt strangely light. My whole body felt like it might just float away. "It would help more," I said as I shoved out of my chair, "if you would go to hell!"

  Then I stormed out of his office and burst into tears.

  35

  The Tune of a Hickory Stick

  BEING OUT IN THE FRESH AIR helped me get a grip.

  Mr. Hikks was certainly not worth runny mascara!

  I took a deep breath, wiped away the tears, and ran to Spanish.

  The running was a waste, as I was tardy anyway. And then midway through class a pink note arrived, instructing me to report to Ms. Hershey's office at once.

  Ms. Hershey is not sweet, as her name might imply. She has a reputation for being severe and decisive, traits I always thought were necessary (if not commendable) in a vice principal. Miss Ryder calls her the hickory stick of Larkmont High, which, coming from an English teacher, would seem like an innocent enough metaphor, except she always does it with an evil glint in her eye.

  So I was definitely not looking forward to meeting Ms. Hershey. How had this happened? How could I, Evangeline Nearly-4.0 Logan, be facing off with the Hickory Stick?

  "Sit," Ms. Hershey commanded after I'd been let into her office.

  I sat.

  "We do not tell our counselors to go to hell," she said, her lips firm, her nostrils slightly flared.

  I simply nodded and said, "I know. I'm sorry."

  This seemed to throw her.

  "Then...why did you do it?"

  I held her gaze. "I...it doesn't matter. I just shouldn't have said it. I'm sorry."

  Ms. Hershey continued to stare at me a moment, then turned to her computer and pulled up my stats. "You're an exemplary student," she said, turning back to me. "Your citizenship and work-habit markings are also outstanding. Is there something going on with you?"

  "Pardon?"

  "Is there some reason you flew off the handle today?"

  I looked at my hands for a moment. How could I talk to someone I didn't know about something I couldn't really explain? I shook my head and looked back at her. "It was just wrong, okay? What do I need to do to atone?"

  An unexpected smile seemed to tickle her face. "To atone?" She thought for a moment, then breathed in deeply and said, "Considering your track record, I think a note of apology will suffice." She passed me a sheet of paper and a pen, adding, "As long as I have your assurance that it won't happen again."

  I nodded.

  "So give me your new contact information, write that note, and let's get this unfortunate incident behind us."

  So I told her the condo's address and phone number, and on the spot I wrote a conciliatory note to Mr. Hikks.

  Inside, though, I felt odd and shaky.

  Inside, I wasn't at all sure it wouldn't happen again.

  36

  News Flash

  "PAXTON SAID HE SAW YOU with a pink slip!" Adrienne said as she joined me in the quad at lunch. "I told him he was delusional." She hesitated. "He was delusional, right?"

  I dug the summons out of my jeans and handed it over.

  "To Ms. Hershey's?" she gasped. "Why?"

  I peeled back the wrapper of my lovely Snack Shack burrito. "Because I told Mr. Hikks to go to hell."

  "No!" she gasped. "Why?"

  "He wasted my whole break over community-service hours. He was so condescending, and it was so hot in there. I felt trapped and...I don't know...I just lost it."

  "Wow..."

  There was nothing remotely squintlike about Adrienne's expression. Instead, her face seemed to be stretched out in all directions, which was strange. "Look. It's all settled," I said, picking at the disgusting crust of my burrito. "I wrote Mr. Hikks a note and said I was sorry.... It's over." I tried a bite of the burrito, chewing on cold beans as I asked, "Do you have any plans for community-service hours?"

  "Oh, the Elf Extravaganza took care of that."

  "It did?" I squinted at her. "How is dressing up like elves and singing Christmas songs serving the community?"

  "We did performances for the children's hospital, remember?" She heaved a sigh. "Those poor kids. I'd sing for them every day if I could." Then she looked at me and said, "Community hours are easy, Evangeline. Just pick an organization and do it."

  "You sound like Mr. Hikks," I grumbled.

  She shrugged. "You could also tutor right here at school. That's what Paxton's doing."

  "Where?"

  "I'll ask him. It's on Tuesdays or Wednesdays, or maybe both. I'll get details." She gave me a mischi
evous look. "Or you could just ask Mr. Hikks."

  "Oh, right," I laughed.

  "Hey," she asked, suddenly bubbling with excitement, "how'd you like the newspaper?"

  "Great issue," I said, although I'd barely had a chance to leaf through it.

  Adrienne pulled out her copy of the Larkmont Times and held it open, nodding at page three. "You have no idea how hard it was to balance the text and the graphics here. I had this text overflow problem that was just driving me bonkers! And this picture here of Lloyd Morro? It kept disappearing! I'd paste it in, move it to front, save it, but poof! The next time I'd open the file, it would be gone." She nodded at page two. "We got so many paid personals this time! Did you read them? We made a mint on them. I think it's because the Spring Fling is tonight and people are after a last-minute date. Or maybe people just know each other better now. Do you remember how we had, like, two at the beginning of the year, and how we had to make some up, just to keep it from being so embarrassing?" She looked at me, her face glowing. "Hey! You should put an ad in--'Wanted: A crimson kiss.'"

  I snorted. "Maybe I should. I sure don't seem to be able to find one on my own."

  "Any new prospects?"

  I shook my head, and I was about to spill what had happened with Andrew, but before I could find the words, she said, "Do you want to meet me at the dance tonight?"

  "You're going to the dance?"

  "I've got to cover it for newspaper. Ms. Pickney insists that it's 'important.'"

  I gave her one of her own trademark squints. "The Spring Fling is just like every other dance here: It's so loud you can't talk, they play awful music, and it's sweltering in the gym."

  "I know. I remember." She shrugged. "But I'm assigned, and that's where I'll be."

  "But...why you? Isn't someone from newspaper going to the dance, anyway? Why couldn't they just cover it?"

  She frowned. "Apparently I'm the only one available." She folded up the Times and rifled through her backpack for her sack lunch and bottle of water, grumbling, "That class is full of loafers."

  "Well, sorry, but I don't want to tag along."

  "I don't blame you." She unwrapped her usual multilayered sandwich, which was half smashed but still delicious-looking. "So what are you going to do?"

  I'd made it to the center of my burrito, which was slightly frozen. "I don't know. This has been one lousy day. I'm just looking forward to it being over."

  Then I tossed the rest of my burrito in the trash.

  37

  Counteracting the Mope Gene

  MOPING IS COUNTERPRODUCTIVE. Once you start, it'll hook you and drag you down until you are full-on depressed. To counteract my mope gene (which clearly comes from my maternal side), I eat ice cream. I read. I hang out at Groove Records. I shop. I blast music. I go to Adrienne's.

  Adrienne was not available, and since there was a note from my mother asking me to wash the dishes and mop the kitchen floor, I settled on the driving, bluesy rock of The Black Crowes and got busy, singing along with "Twice as Hard," "Jealous Again," and "Sister Luck" as I did the dishes. I dried and put away during "Could I've Been So Blind," "Hard to Handle," and "Thick 'n' Thin," mopped the floor through "She Talks to Angels," "Struttin' Blues," and "Stare It Cold," then collected the trash and tidied up until the Crowes were done cawing.

  Chores are no big deal when you're rockin' out.

  I was actually starting to feel good!

  By the time the Spring Fling was scheduled to begin, I'd eaten dinner (a bowl of Cheerios and a big dish of rocky road ice cream), had read from where I'd left off in A Crimson Kiss, and was disciplining myself to tackle the section reviews of the material covered in the chemistry test I'd bombed. After I was done with that, I planned to move on to the next section. I wasn't just going to catch up, I was going to get ahead! This was not, N-O-T, going to happen to me again. I was going to be on top of things! Focused!

  Unfortunately, galvanic cells and standard electrode potential have got nothing on the meandering thoughts of a girl genetically predisposed to moping. My mind started wandering, thinking about Adrienne at the dance.

  About Adrienne having a life.

  Here I was at home on a Friday night, doing chores and studying chemistry?

  Whose fantasy was that?

  Not mine!

  The phone rang, so I abandoned my chemistry book and dashed into the kitchen to answer it.

  "Hi, sweetie!" my mom sang out. "Happy Friday. Just checking in to see what you and Adrienne are up to tonight."

  Her calling was a little odd, but it was nice to hear her sounding cheerful. "Adrienne's covering a school function for newspaper, and I'm catching up on my chemistry."

  "Chemistry?" There was a pause, then, "So you're not...getting together?"

  This was also a little odd. And I suddenly sensed that there was more to this than a maternal concern over my being nearly seventeen years old, studying chemistry alone on a Friday night.

  And then I got it.

  "Let me guess. He stood you up for breakfast, so now you're going to have dinner with him after your shift."

  There was another pause, then very decisively she said, "He didn't stand me up, Evangeline. And it's for dessert. Dessert and coffee. That's all."

  "Mm-hmm."

  "But if you're home alone, I'll just cancel. You and I could go out for a bite, or catch a late movie?"

  "Forget it, Mom. I'm fine."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Yup."

  But after we said goodbye, I spent the next ten minutes staring at the wall. I wasn't going to be able to concentrate on galvanic cells and standard electrode potential. That was insane!

  I needed to get out.

  I needed to do something.

  I needed a life!

  Groove Records was closed, and the only place I could think to go was the dance.

  38

  Memories

  AS I WAS GETTING DRESSED to go to the dance, I suddenly realized that my first kiss had happened at a school dance. The Beaumont Middle School parents--including my mom--were very "involved," putting on a dance every month, usually on a Friday right after school. So it was convenient to attend dances, but Adrienne and I never went. The truth is, we were afraid.

  Were we afraid because we'd never danced outside of P.E. class? (Do-si-do-ing does not really count as dancing.)

  Were we afraid we'd be asked to dance by a boy we thought was a total dweeb?

  Were we afraid of being the total dweebs?

  Whatever it was, it wasn't until the eighth-grade promotional dance that our mothers joined forces and said, "You're going. It's not just a dance, it's a party. There'll be plenty of other things to do if you don't want to dance."

  We, of course, were dying to dance; we just had never danced with a boy and were afraid that we didn't really know how. So we agonized over what to wear, how to act, and what to say (especially if dweeby boys asked us to dance). And then the Thursday night before the big event, we finally got serious about the actual dancing. We spent hours in my bedroom with the radio on, trying to figure it out.

  Mom and Dad thought we were hysterical and tried to demonstrate how to dance fast and then slow. "Although you probably won't be doing any slow dancing," my dad said after they'd taken a few swaying turns around the middle of my room. "Take my word for it--eighth-grade boys are terrified of slow dancing."

  This parental coaching may have been well intentioned, but it was more embarrassing than instructive. "My dad doesn't dance," Adrienne whispered into my very receptive ear.

  I gave her a nod and said to my still-swaying parents, "Thanks, guys. We get it. We're going to Adrienne's for a while to figure out what to wear."

  On the walk over to her house, Adrienne had asked me the one thing I'd been trying to not think about: "What if Lucas asks you to dance?"

  I shot back with, "What if Noah asks you?"

  We both laughed and agreed: "They won't!"

  But we were wrong. At least,
we were half wrong. Noah was there, but he spent the whole time playing foosball and table tennis in an area they'd cordoned off for alternate activities.

  Lucas spent the last three songs dancing with me.

  And during the very last seconds of the very last dance, he suddenly moved in and kissed me.

  It was sweaty and zip-lipped, but that kiss had me jumping up and down for the entire final week of school. Right up to the time I found out that Lucas's family was moving to Georgia.

  "Georgia!" I cried. "What's in Georgia?"

  "My dad got a promotion," he said, kicking a rock.

  I gave him my e-mail, my address, my phone number.

  I never heard from him again.

  39

  The Spit Bath

  GRAYSON SWEPT HER GENTLY around the dance floor, his steps confident and light. Soon he was spellbound--her scent, her glow, her delicate touch and crystal-clear eyes--who was this bewitching creature? How had he not noticed her before?

  When the music stopped, he held her gaze and, no longer able to resist the impulse, lifted her satin-smooth hand to his lips.

  Bolstered by the romantic passage from A Crimson Kiss, I reached the school convinced that something wonderful might actually happen. Maybe someone would sweep me off my feet. Maybe even deliver a crimson kiss!

  I knew it would be hot in the gym, so I'd dressed accordingly, borrowing a red keyhole halter from the depths of one of my mom's clothes boxes. I paid my five bucks at the door, then went inside.

  The dance had been under way for over an hour and a half, and the gym was stuffy and dark, lit only by glow sticks and bracelets bobbing to an overdriven beat. I wandered through the crowd looking for Adrienne, and my eyes were still adjusting to the dark when I accidentally thumped into someone.

  "Excuse me!" I said.

  "Bitch!" was the immediate reply.

  Perfect. Hundreds of people in the gym and I manage to hip-check Sunshine Holden.

  Sunshine Holden, who, I now noticed, was holding a hand that was attached to an arm that did not connect to Robbie Marshall.