17 First Kisses

by Allen, Rachael

  Then he flashes a dimpled smile at Mama and Libby, and they sigh in unison. My dad merely grunts and shovels in another bite of lasagna.

  The rest of the meal passes without incident. We eat some key lime pie. Luke thanks my family for having him. I walk him to the door.

  “I’ll come out and say good-bye; just give me a second,” I tell him.

  I catch my dad picking at the remains of the pie.

  “What was that about?”

  He shrugs.

  “Seriously, Dad! You didn’t do that to Harrison.”

  “I don’t know, Claire. There’s something I don’t trust about that boy.”

  “He didn’t do anything but be nice to everyone.”

  “I know the difference between store-bought manners and being genuine. He says all the right things, but there’s something off about him. Be careful, okay?” My dad is giving me one of his serious, Trust me on this one, Claire-Bear looks, the kind I haven’t seen in ages, and it is so annoying because there were plenty of times when I needed him, and now—now that I don’t need his help and just want him to be nice to my boyfriend—now he’s decided to be Dependable Dad again.

  I roll my eyes. “Noted.”

  I find Luke leaning against his car.

  “Sorry about my dad.”

  “It’s cool. Dads are supposed to be like that.”

  I love how he can take the worst thing that happened tonight and make it feel normal. Even with Dad’s weirdness, tonight went better than I could have hoped for.

  “I’ve never brought a boy home before.”

  “Did I do okay?”

  “You did great.”

  I kiss him lightly on the lips. “I love you.”

  I don’t care that, per girl code, I’m supposed to make him say it first. I don’t care that we haven’t even been together a whole month yet. I know this is right.

  Luke brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “I love you too.”

  Best. Day. Ever.

  The sounds of Gwen Stefani jar me out of a dream about ice-skating sumo wrestlers. I feel around the top of my nightstand for my cell phone. The number isn’t one I recognize.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, this is Karen Banks with Seventeen magazine.”

  I rub my bleary eyes with the back of my hand. “Um, what?”

  “We’re doing an article on backstabbing bitches, and we’d love to interview you.”

  I hear giggles in the background and a whispered “Shhhh!”

  I am wide awake. “Very funny, y’all.”

  “Excuse me? I don’t—”

  “Britney, I know that’s you.” Her attempt to disguise her voice isn’t so good now that I’m coherent.

  “This is Karen Banks with—”

  “Good night.”

  I hang up the phone. The pranking doesn’t hurt nearly as much as the fact that I should be at the sleepover but I’m not.

  To distract myself from the loss of all my best girlfriends, I cling to Luke and throw myself full force into soccer season. I love the soccer girls in a there’s-no-I-in-team way, but being friends with them just isn’t the same.

  At least Luke is amazing. I roll out of bed on a sunny morning in blue pajama pants dotted with fat white clouds and stumble down to breakfast. I almost jump out of my pj’s when I see Luke at our kitchen table. Two plates on two place mats with two sets of utensils sit in front of him. Heart-shaped waffles topped with whipped cream and fresh strawberries. A vase filled with red roses.

  I knew Valentine’s Day was today. I already bought him a present and everything. But I kind of forgot until just now. His surprise is so sweet and unbelievably romantic that I’ll only tease him a minimal amount for bringing over a heart-shaped waffle maker.

  My mom winks at me and wrangles Libby out of the kitchen. After they leave, Luke kisses me on the nose.

  “Hey, beautiful. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

  My hair is a tangled mess, my eyes are bleary and ringed with mascara, and I’m pretty sure my breath could kill an ox, but right now, I feel beautiful.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day to you, too.”

  He tries to kiss me on the mouth, but I playfully push him away.

  “I’ll be right back. I want to get your present.”

  I run upstairs, but instead head directly to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. I almost forget to grab his present on my way back to the kitchen.

  “Here you go.”

  I hand him a featherlight box in glittery packaging. He makes a face and shakes it.

  “Is there anything in here?”

  The paper comes off in two rips.

  “Hawks tickets. Nice! Open yours. Open yours.”

  It’s a gigantic basket of Bath & Body Works stuff.

  “Thanks. I love it.”

  It’s thoughtful of him to exchange gifts with me before school. Carrying Luke’s roses through the hallways would call about as much attention as stapling a red A to the front of my sweater.

  I text Sam that I’ll be getting a ride with Luke this morning. Now that Megan and I aren’t speaking, he’s been chauffeuring me to school whenever I can’t borrow Mama’s car. Luke waits for me in the living room while I get ready for school, this boy who comes to my house at the crack of dawn to make me breakfast. He sits there watching cartoons with Libby while she eats breakfast and I shower and get dressed. Then he drives me to school, holding my hand the whole way. He gives it a squeeze when we pull into the school parking lot.

  “You look so beautiful today.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Maybe it’s the shirt. I love it when you wear blue. Or maybe it’s just you.”

  He leans over the console to kiss me.

  “I love you, Claire.”

  “I love you too.”

  Being with Luke is like living in a fairy tale. And it stays like that for a while.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  Chapter

  15

  We’re fooling around on the couch in Luke’s basement the day things get weird. His parents are away at a dinner party, and we just got back from our own dinner to celebrate our two-month anniversary. It’s February twenty-seventh. We count that day we kissed in the snow as the start of our relationship, even though he didn’t officially ask me to be his girlfriend till later.

  We’re naked from the waist up doing everything we usually do, and today I decide I’m ready for us to be naked from the waist down too. When I unbutton his pants, his face lights up like a firework. I fumble with the waistband of his jeans, tugging it from side to side so they’ll slide over his butt. How come stuff like this never looks awkward on TV? He pulls his jeans off the rest of the way by himself. They join our shirts in a pile on the floor. My jeans are next, and then our underwear, and then I am full-on naked in front of a boy for the first time.

  “You look beautiful,” he whispers.

  “Thanks.” I wish I could say the same for him, but penises look SO WEIRD.

  “I have protection. We can—”

  I freeze. “I’m not ready. Yet.” I hope I wasn’t sending signals that I was.

  “Oh. Well, that’s okay,” he says. “Is there a reason?”

  “Yeah. Um . . .”

  I’m not ready because the last time I thought about being ready, my boyfriend was cheating on me. Because I’m scared it will hurt. Because I don’t know how many girls you’ve slept with and you could be carrying chlamydia. Because I love you but I still haven’t decided if you’re the One.

  “You don’t have to explain right now. I don’t mind or anything. I was just curious,” he says. And then, after a pause: “Are you a virgin?”

  My cheeks turn pink. “Yeah. Are you?”

  “No.”

  “Do you mind if I ask how many?”

  “Three.”

  I want to
know if Megan is one of them, but I can’t bring myself to ask. So we do stuff besides it and then watch SNL reruns for the next two hours, and I’m mostly just happy he doesn’t care that I’m not ready to have sex yet. But then in his car on the way home, he says, “It’s funny you just now gave me a bj tonight.”

  “Why is that funny?” I ask, because I can’t think of any other way to respond.

  “Nothing. It’s just Megan and I had already had sex by now.”

  He says it so casually, like he’s making an observation about the weather. So many questions ping around in my head.

  What does sex with me have to do with sex with Megan?

  Does he compare me to her?

  What if I’m not as good as her?

  What if he compares how we look naked? Good Lord, I hope not.

  I wonder if he ever thinks about her when he’s doing stuff with me.

  And why is he telling me this anyway? Is he trying to make me jealous?

  Does he think it’ll make me want to have sex with him sooner? He seemed so okay with waiting before.

  “Well, I’m not Megan. And anyway, the last time I thought about losing my virginity, things went really badly, so I’m not wanting to rush into it again.”

  “Hey, it’s okay.” He reaches for my hand across the console. “I’m glad you’re not her. I could never talk to her the way I talk to you.”

  Hearing him say that makes me feel warm all over.

  “All we ever did was hook up.”

  And the warm feelings die.

  I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”

  “Why are you being like this? I said I’m glad you’re not her. You don’t have to be jealous. I love you now.”

  “I know. I’m sorry,” I say.

  But the thing is, I’m not.

  When I come downstairs on the morning of my birthday, I half expect to find Luke in my kitchen. He’s not there, though. Of course he’s not. He wouldn’t do the same thing again. But after Valentine’s Day, I can’t wait to see what he’ll do for my birthday.

  A horn beep means Sam is in my driveway, so I grab my stuff and run outside. A monstrous caramel latte and a cranberry-walnut muffin are waiting for me in my seat.

  “Happy birthday!” says Sam.

  “Aw, thanks.”

  Since I didn’t have time for breakfast, I begin unceremoniously stuffing my face before he leaves the driveway.

  “So, I was watching Napoleon Dynamite last night—”

  “You know, I don’t think I’ve seen that.”

  Sam practically veers off the road. “Wait. What?!”

  “I’ve never seen it?”

  “How have you never seen Napoleon Dynamite? It’s only the funniest movie ever.” For the remainder of our drive, Sam lectures me about how culturally illiterate I am. He keeps going even after he parks, and we stand in an empty space while I feebly defend myself.

  “I can’t believe I’ve never made you watch it before. You’re coming over this Saturday. Bring kettle corn.”

  I see Amanda waiting for him by the back entrance. Her arms are crossed. She won’t approach Sam while I’m talking to him because Megan or someone might see her and think she’s talking to me.

  “You better get over there or you’re going to be in trouble.”

  Man, that girl keeps him on a short leash. I’m tempted to say something more, but I don’t want to bash his first real girlfriend.

  He sneaks a glance at Amanda. “Yeah, I’ll see you later.”

  I find Luke in the hallway on my way to class.

  “Hey.” I give him a hug.

  “Hey. Happy birthday.”

  “Thanks. So, are we doing something after school today? Any special plans?”

  “It’s a school night.”

  “Oh.”

  My disappointment must be obvious because Luke quickly says, “Yeah, I guess we can do something. Want to meet me at my car after school? We could go get some ice cream or something?”

  I plant a kiss on his cheek. “Ice cream or something sounds perfect. I have to be home in time for dinner with the family anyway.”

  I spend most of school daydreaming about how this is the best birthday I’ve had in years, and before I know it, the last bell is ringing and I’m winding through the halls to the back parking lot. Luke sits in his car with the windows rolled down. I wave, but he doesn’t see me. I wave again. It’s like he’s in a trance or something. I reach my arms through the window and wrap them around his neck, giggling.

  “You okay? You look kind of out of it.”

  He jumps. “Hey, I didn’t see you.”

  He pulls my face toward his and kisses me until the parking lot disappears beneath my feet. His fingers brush through my hair, tracing patterns across my scalp. I come up for air, a light sigh escaping my lips, and through my half-shut eyes I see what Luke was looking at before I interrupted him.

  Megan.

  Perched on the back of her car and reapplying her lip gloss while she waits for Britney or Amberly or whoever, the afternoon sun glittering against her hair and the hood of the car. She’s the only possible person you’d see if you were sitting in Luke’s driver’s seat and looking in that direction. I’m tempted to ask him about it directly, but I don’t have the guts. He pulls out of the parking lot, slouching low in his seat with one lazy arm resting on the steering wheel, and I watch him to see if he’ll look at her again, but he doesn’t.

  “So, have you talked to Megan recently?” I ask.

  I scrutinize his face. Is he nervous or just surprised?

  “No. Why?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “Hey, I need to get gas before we go get ice cream.” Luke pulls into Pete’s, the combination gas station/convenience store/live bait shop, but doesn’t get out of the car. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing, though, would it? Us talking again? It would be good to smooth things over. For all of us, I mean—for you guys too.” He sure is sweating a lot for someone who isn’t talking to his ex-girlfriend.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I guess so.”

  Something about this whole situation doesn’t feel right. So when he goes inside to pay for the gas, I do something I never thought I’d do. I see his cell phone, sitting in the console whispering my name. And I pick it up.

  There’s a text from Megan in his messages. That bastard! I can’t open it because it’s new and he’d know I did it, but the fact that it’s there at all proves . . . something. When I replace the phone, taking care to make sure it’s positioned exactly as it was before, I get a queasy sensation in my stomach. I’m one of those girls now. We have that kind of relationship.

  But there was a text. From Megan. So obviously I was right to look. I shake my head. I can’t even convince myself with that kind of logic. I know it wasn’t right. But I also know this won’t be the last time I check Luke’s phone.

  We get ice cream and everything is fine (well, as fine as it can be considering that text is all I can think about). Then he drops me off at my house and kisses me on my front porch and I try to find some sort of answer in the kissing, but it feels like . . . a kiss. A good kiss. A fun kiss. But it doesn’t reveal the mysteries of the ages and it doesn’t tell me why my best friend is texting my boyfriend or if he still has feelings for her.

  I close the front door behind me and am immediately tackled by Libby.

  “Open it! Open it!” she squeals.

  She waves a letter over her head—it’s from Georgia Tech. Holy crap, it’s from Georgia Tech! I run my fingers along the seal but they’re shaking and I’m clumsy and I practically rip the envelope in half trying to get at the letter inside. I gloss over the pleasantries and scan for the important part. “We are pleased to inform you . . .” I’m in!

  “Libs! I’m in! I’m in!” I pick her up and twirl her around and then read over the letter again, savoring it this time.

  This is more than just an acceptance letter. This is a ticket to a different lif
e and a validation that everything I worked for was worth it and the beginning of a fulfillment of a pact I made two years ago. Something like longing clenches like a fist around my insides.

  I wish I could call Megan and tell her.

  “Claire,” Mama calls from behind a rack of dresses. “What do you think of this one?”

  The dress she’s holding is fugly (periwinkle, huge crinoline skirt), but I’m so happy to have my mom take me prom-dress shopping I smile anyway.

  “It’s not really my style. I like dresses that are more straight and fitted.”

  She nods seriously and dives back into the racks. I keep going with the rack I’m working on, and a few minutes later she pops back out.

  “What about this one?” “Oh.”

  The dress is every shade of blue—it fades from a sky color at the top to a deep indigo at the hemline. The skirt is layers of sheer fabric that fall just above the knee, and the bodice is fitted through the waist with a slight flare at the hips. Wow. My mom can take direction.

  “‘Oh’ good? Or ‘oh’ bad?”

  “Definitely ‘oh’ good.”

  We add it to the pile of other potentials that is quickly taking over one of the dressing rooms. I rush to try on the other dresses first, saving it for last. The dress swooshes over my head. I zip it up and turn to look at myself in the mirror. It’s perfect. It shows off my legs and how tiny my waist is, but it has this ruching across the chest that makes my boobs look huge (for me). I have never felt so beautiful in a dress before. It’s like it was made just for me. I run outside to look in the three-panel mirror, and Mama agrees.

  We’re waiting to buy the magical dress when I realize the blond girl in front of me sliding a credit card across the counter is Megan. And she realizes it’s me at exactly the same time, so neither of us can pretend to look away.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” she replies. “So, you’re here with your mom?”

  I glance over my shoulder, but Mama is busy texting.

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s great.” Megan smiles a sad smile at me.

  I’m sad too, because I can remember a time when we would have been happy over it together.