Things Jolie Needs to Do Before She Bites It

by Kerry Winfrey

  “I mean,” Abbi says, giving me the tiniest of smiles, “I’m fairly certain no one’s eyeballs are going to pop out, but I can manage.”

  I settle in, and we watch a few episodes. So, maybe Abbi won’t be honest with me, but she’s still my sister. That still means something.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Johnny McElroy isn’t at our next practice, thank God, so there’s no one to point out the fact that I’m not Meryl Streep. When Mrs. Mulaney sees me walk in, she gives me a wink before going back to talking to Peter.

  So, I guess I’m doing this for real.

  And now that I’ve sort of become used to the idea that I’m going to be in the musical, I have to face the fact that I’ll be kissing Noah in front of everyone.

  Okay, so it’s not a real kiss. Not a passionate, steamy, private kiss. No, this will be the most public kiss ever, because it’s in the script.

  I quickly decide that this doesn’t count. A kiss isn’t a kiss if it’s onstage, if it’s in front of an audience, and if one of the kissers is wearing a space suit and there’s a live cow on the stage (oh yeah, have I mentioned that there’s a live cow?).

  No, kissing Noah onstage doesn’t count as fulfilling my goal. My first real kiss has to be unscripted. However, that doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to have to figure out how to press my face against his under the harsh glare of the lights without passing out from shock.

  Evelyn’s here working on costume stuff, and I’d love to ask her what the big kiss was like in last year’s musical, but she’s running around trying to get everyone’s measurements. Talking to Evelyn when she’s in the zone is basically pointless, and I don’t want to come between her and her tape measure. I decide to ask Peter because, well, desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Once Peter is finished talking to Mrs. Mulaney, I get his attention.

  “Yes, m’lady?” he asks.

  “We’re not doing a Shakespeare play, Peter,” I say. “Also, you’re not even acting.”

  “I may not be in the musical,” Peter corrects me, “but a true actor is always performing.”

  I shake my head. “Okay. Listen, I need to ask you something. That kiss on the last page, between Bobby and Prudie?”

  Peter holds up his hands. “I know what you’re asking.”

  “You do?” Is it possible that Peter actually understands my feelings? Have I been too hard on him this entire time?

  “I will not help you practice, as much as I would love to. I fear it would be crossing too many important theater boundaries.”

  My shoulders slump as I let out a sigh. “That’s not what I was—never mind. I just wondered what stage kisses are like. I mean, are they … real kisses?”

  Peter furrows his brow. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking me.”

  I frown and start again. “I mean … like, do Noah and I actually kiss, or do we just make it look like we kiss? And if we do kiss, how realistic are we supposed to get? Am I supposed to use tongue? Put my hands on him? Don’t you have some sort of insight from Mrs. Mulaney?”

  “Mrs. Mulaney and I haven’t yet discussed kissing techniques in depth,” Peter says, “but I’ll ask her.”

  He looks over his shoulder and shouts, “Mrs. Mulaney!”

  The full realization of what’s happening dawns on me. “Peter, no!” I hiss, ducking to the floor as if that will shield me from everyone’s view.

  Mrs. Mulaney is way on the other side of the stage talking to one of the crew members. She looks up.

  “JOLIE WANTS TO KNOW MORE ABOUT THE SCENE WHERE SHE KISSES NOAH!” he shouts.

  Now I’m certain that everyone onstage is looking at us. There are a few scattered giggles. My eyes frantically scan the crowd, hoping Noah picked this exact moment to go to the bathroom and he missed this entire scene. But no, there he is, talking to—Marla. Of course. She gives me a smug smile, and I look at my shoes. I can’t even bring myself to look at Noah’s face.

  Mrs. Mulaney, at least, understands that this is majorly embarrassing. “We’ll talk about it later, Peter,” she says before going back to her conversation.

  “Daaaaaamn, Jolie,” Toby says from behind me. “Lookin’ to get a little lip friction. Ready for some tongue wrestling. Jonesing for some—”

  “Shut up, Toby,” I growl.

  “Well, I tried,” Peter says to me with a shrug.

  “Yeah, okay, I’m gonna go curl up under a rock somewhere,” I say, heading backstage.

  “The set designers haven’t made the fake rocks yet!” Peter calls, but I ignore him and keep walking.

  I find a closet and slip inside, where I sit down on the floor next to some art supplies. It’s nothing like my fantasy where Noah Reed and I make out in here. For one thing, I didn’t imagine that the smell of paint fumes would be overwhelming. Plus, Noah would actually, you know, be here, instead of onstage wondering why I’m some hormonally crazed weirdo.

  There’s a knock on the door and, startled, I look up. Noah pokes his head in. “Can I come in?” he asks.

  “Uh—yeah—sure,” I stammer, quickly adjusting my bangs. “How did you find me back here?”

  Noah sits down beside me, leaning up against the shelf. “Toby told me you came in here. Actually, he was like, ‘Jolie looked hella upset and she bounced.’”

  I fight the urge to cry at how embarrassing this entire situation is. Here I am in the supply closet with Noah, and I can’t even appreciate it because all we’re talking about is how even Toby thinks I’m pathetic.

  “It’s not a big deal, you know,” Noah says. “The kiss.”

  I meet his eyes. “It’s not?”

  He shakes his head. “I had to do one with Marla last year. We didn’t even actually kiss. I put my hands on her face, and the audience is so far away that they couldn’t tell I was just kissing my thumb.”

  He puts his hand on my face to demonstrate and I think I might actually faint, and not even because of the paint fumes.

  “Just like that,” he says, pulling his hand back.

  I nod, knowing that I should be saying something but not able to form words. “That sounds … okay,” I say.

  Noah smiles, and I can’t help but notice how kind his eyes are. He has the eyes of someone who helps old ladies cross the street, who spends Thanksgiving morning serving food at a soup kitchen, who walks shelter dogs in his spare time.

  “I peed my pants once onstage,” he says, and my head jerks up at this non sequitur.

  “Yep.” He nods, taking in my shocked expression. “I mean, it was when I was ten years old, so … not exactly last week or anything. But do you remember when we did that Disney medley concert in elementary school?”

  I nod. “I was a mop.”

  “And I’m sure you were the best mop Brentley has ever seen. I was one of the dwarves from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs; I don’t even remember which one. Anyway, I was so excited about singing ‘Heigh-Ho’ that I sang it constantly for weeks. But then when I got up in front of everyone … I blanked. I just freaked out. And then—”

  “You peed,” I say slowly. “Wait, I kind of remember this. But I didn’t know that was you!”

  “Well, since then I’ve managed to stop peeing on stage. Hold your applause,” he says with a smile. “But my parents were recording the whole show, and they thought it was so funny that they make us all watch it every year at Christmas.”

  “Oh, geez,” I say, trying not to laugh.

  “Yeah, I need a new family. But that’s not the point. All I’m saying is, you’ve got this. I know you’re nervous, but no matter what you do, it can’t possibly be as bad as peeing onstage while dressed as one of Snow White’s dwarfs.”

  I laugh. “No promises. Johnny McElroy might do some rewrites.”

  “We’ll handle the kiss, and it won’t be weird,” he says, standing up. “Or maybe it’ll be a little weird. It’s always sort of strange kissing someone when you don’t really want to kiss them, but we’ll
make it as bearable as possible.”

  Wait. He thinks I’m so upset because I don’t want to kiss him? That couldn’t be further from the truth. But I can’t exactly tell him that—what would I say? I’m actually so concerned because I want to kiss you for real, in private, not onstage. Maybe somewhere like in this supply closet.

  Instead I just say, “Thanks, Noah,” with a closed-lips smile as he leaves.

  I lean my head back against the shelf. Ugh. Honestly, it was sweet of Noah to tell me that story about peeing onstage (now there’s a sentence I never thought I’d say), but it wasn’t exactly the precursor to a steamy make-out. I mean, my knowledge of these things is limited, but I’m assuming most kisses don’t begin with discussions about bodily functions.

  The door creaks open, and I look up eagerly, thinking Noah might have come back. Maybe he was like, Whoa, that sexual tension was through the roof … I definitely need to go back in there and kiss her right now.

  Instead, Derek steps in.

  “I’m not hiding!” I say quickly.

  He jumps back, nearly knocking over a shelf. “Good God, Jolie! What are you doing in here?”

  “Taking a breather.”

  “I just came in here to get some paint. Wait.” Derek points at me, like he’s accusing me of something. “Did I just see Noah Reed walk out of here?”

  I nod, then realize what he’s saying. “No! I mean, yes, he was in here. But no, we weren’t making out, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

  “Good,” Derek says, pushing some paint cans around on the shelf.

  “Why is that good?” I ask, watching him.

  “Because I’d be pissed if you accomplished your goal and didn’t even tell me,” he says, grabbing what he needs.

  Right. Because Derek doesn’t care who I kiss. Why would he? He has perfect Melody.

  “I promise to tell you when I kiss Noah Reed,” I say sarcastically.

  “That’s all I ask,” Derek says. “He’s not so bad, you know.”

  I pause. “Wait, could you repeat that?”

  Derek turns around and sighs. “You heard me. Noah. He’s … not awful.”

  I smile. “What brought this on?”

  He shrugs. “I know he’s been helping you out, and … well, he seems nice. Ish. I guess I kind of get why you want to kiss him.”

  “So, I guess I was right,” I say as my smile gets bigger. “And you were wrong. You finally get the Noah Reed appeal.”

  “I wasn’t wrong.” Derek groans. “I was just … looking out for you. And anyway, aren’t you supposed to be onstage?”

  “I’m getting into character.”

  Derek reaches toward me and puts a hand on the side of my face. This is so like what Noah just did, the way he told me that stage kisses happen, that I instinctively lean toward him.

  “You have paint in your hair,” Derek says softly, his fingers brushing my scalp.

  “Oh,” I say, and swallow hard. “I was leaning against the shelf, and I guess there was paint on it, and it was wet?” I clamp my mouth shut to stop babbling. Since when do I have this problem around Derek?

  “Well, get back out there,” he says. “Knock ’em dead.”

  I give him a thumbs-up and watch him leave. Then I lean against the shelf in—what? Relief? Despair? Confusion? My feelings right now are like the knotted pile of necklaces in my jewelry box. I could spend all afternoon trying to untangle them, but I’d just end up more frustrated.

  I can’t totally ignore the way my heart was just racing. Derek said he was looking out for me, which sounds like something a brother would say. And that’s fine, because that’s exactly what he’s like to me. A brother.

  I feel something wet on my back and leap forward. I reach my hand around and realize that I just leaned on more paint and now my black cardigan is streaked with blue. I groan loudly as the door squeaks open again.

  “Hey, are you running some sort of kissing booth?” Evelyn asks. “There’s a steady stream of dudes coming out of here, and Peter keeps telling everyone you’re freaking out over your lack of, and I quote, ‘onstage amorous experience.’”

  I cover my face with my hands. “Can you just go tell him to shut up, please?”

  “Gladly,” Evelyn says with a smile as she shuts the door.

  Great. I embarrassed myself in front of the entire cast and crew, Noah Reed thinks I don’t want to kiss him, I’m covered in paint, and Peter is telling everyone I’m an inexperienced kisser. Could this day get any worse?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Pro tip: Never, ever ask yourself if your day could get any worse, because it always could. Because maybe you’ll get home and realize your pregnant sister expects you to go with her to her breastfeeding class.

  “I thought I only had to go with you to the first class,” I whine as we pull out of the driveway. “How am I supposed to help you with breastfeeding? I barely have breasts, and I’m certainly not using mine to feed any babies.”

  “You don’t have to learn how to breastfeed,” Abbi says. “You’re just moral support. My partner. So that way, all those women and their husbands won’t look at me and say, ‘Oh, poor lady, here all by herself with no one to help her.’”

  “Now they’ll say, ‘Oh, poor lady, clearly here with her teenage sister who doesn’t even know how to change a diaper.’”

  “News flash: I don’t know how to change a diaper, either,” Abbi says. “But there’s no entrance exam for getting pregnant.”

  “I just don’t get why one of your friends couldn’t have come with you.”

  “If you were the one learning how to breastfeed, would you ask Derek to come with you?”

  I think about it for a moment. “Maybe.”

  “You and Derek have a weird, unhealthily close relationship, so I’m not surprised. But who else was I supposed to ask? Dad? He’d be like, ‘Well, Abbi, breastfeeding is just like designing a birdhouse.’”

  It’s true. Dad does have an annoying habit of using woodworking analogies for everything.

  I’m a slow driver, much to Abbi’s chagrin, so when we get to the hospital she practically rolls out of the car before I’ve parked.

  “Like it’s not bad enough that I’m the only one there without a husband,” she huffs, speed walking through the entrance and down the hallway. “Now I also have to walk in late.”

  “So sorry I didn’t want to drive through any red lights,” I say, my shoes squeaking on the tile floor as I jog to keep up with her. Seriously, how is she so fast?

  We burst through the door and into the darkness of the conference room, where a giant nipple on the screen greets us.

  “Whoa,” I say, and everyone’s heads swivel around to stare at us.

  “Thanks, Jolie,” Abbi mutters as we sit down.

  “I’m sorry, I was startled by a nipple bigger than my head,” I whisper, then sit back and cross my arms.

  The video’s supposed to be showing us what breastfeeding looks like, but I’m too distracted by the woman’s tan lines to really pay attention. Also, I think about what it must be like to be the woman who was filmed for this—as she drifts off to sleep at night, does she ever think, I wonder how many classrooms full of people watched me breastfeed my infant today?

  I don’t even bother telling Abbi these observations, because she has her notebook out again and she’s diligently taking notes.

  After we watch the baby on-screen (who’s probably about thirty years old by now) successfully being breastfed for a while, Kathy shuts the video off.

  “Okay, so now that you’ve seen what breastfeeding looks like, let’s practice some of the most common positions.” She pulls a box out from under the table and starts pulling dolls out of it. She hands one to each couple. Abbi takes the baby gingerly, and I can’t help but notice that its face is contorted into a scream.

  “Why did they have to make the baby look so angry?” I twist my head around to check out everyone else’s baby. “Seriously, did they all get a happy
baby? Do we have the only one that looks like a devil child?”

  “That’s not the point,” Abbi reminds me, and I guess she’s right.

  Kathy’s demonstrating the proper way to hold the baby at the breast (I’m not paying super close attention because, as much as I want to help Abbi, it’s pretty clear that I won’t be helping her with this particular part) and walking from couple to couple and adjusting their holds.

  When she gets to Abbi and me, she reaches out and moves Abbi’s arm. “Just a little bit higher, and…”

  But when Abbi moves her arm, the doll slides out and clatters to the floor.

  The woman next to us gasps. We all stare at the baby on the floor.

  “Well, good thing it’s not a real baby!” Kathy says, quickly picking it up and shoving it back into Abbi’s arms, where it looks just as upset as it did before.

  Kathy moves on to the next couple, but Abbi keeps staring at the baby in her arms.

  “It’s just a toy, Abbi,” I remind her. “A weird-looking toy.”

  “Yeah,” Abbi says slowly, not looking at me.

  Kathy claps to get everyone’s attention. “Let’s take a quick break to get snacks and use the restroom, okay? See you all back here in five.”

  “I’ll be right back,” Abbi says, and shoves the baby into my arms.

  I watch her leave, then put the baby on the table. I sit there enjoying the free granola bars and bottled water (I deserve some sort of perk for going through this) until our five-minute break is over. All the other women have come back into the room, and Kathy is pretending like she’s shuffling through her papers while she’s really watching the door for Abbi.

  I’ve had just about enough of everyone repeatedly glancing at me, then at the clock, then at the door, so finally I say, “I’m gonna go check on her.”

  Kathy nods enthusiastically. “Hurry back!”

  Right, because I definitely don’t want to miss any of this extremely-relevant-to-my-current-life info.

  I practically stomp down the hallway toward the restroom.

  “Abs?” I call as I walk into the bathroom. Silence.