by Tina Ferraro
also by Tina Ferraro
Top Ten Uses for an Unworn Prom Dress
How to Hook a Hottie
Special thanks to
my incomparable editor, Krista Marino;
my agent, Nadia Cornier, who wouldn't let me quit this book;
author Kelly Parra, for her “cyber fairy dust”;
the Buzz Girls, at www.booksboysbuzz.com;
my daughter, Sarah, for her assurances;
my soccer professionals, Bjorn, Stefan and Ashley;
and friends and family who continue to light my way, including Stacy Gustafson, Paddy Lock, Patricia Mills, Tom, Heather, Billie, Joe, Russ, Mary and Annie, and the guys who keep our home fires burning.
For Terri,
'cause she's cool like that
Adrenaline: Senses become
engaged when kissing takes place—feeling,
seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting. Adrenaline
intensifies it all.
“You're late.”
Luke was right, and I knew I should apologize. But the reason for this meeting was so embarrassing that the only way I could keep what remained of my pride was to look my brother's friend in the eye and give him attitude right back.
“Yeah, well, you try riding in DeGroot traffic on that old thing,” I said, and pointed through the music store's front window at my ten- speed bike on the sidewalk. The tires were low and the seat was mostly duct tape, but Luke lived and worked by the university now, and I'd had to get here somehow.
“Me on that?” he said, and frowned. “Not a chance.”
“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Cool,” I said, but added a smile to soften my words. I was, after all, here to get him to do me a favor.
Luke Anderson, last spring's prom king and still the object of most every girl's desire at DeGroot High School, leaned a hip against a display case and shrugged. I'd practically grown up around him, was used to his shrugs and this brother- sister- type bantering. I was also used to him being fairly obsessed with himself and everything Luke-related, so was pleasantly surprised when he agreed to this meeting today. I was starting to get why Clayton had stayed so tight with him all these years.
“Look, Parker,” he said, then glanced at the store's wall clock, “I don't have much time, so let's get down to business.”
I plunked my scratched- up bike helmet on the counter and ran a hand through my bangs to get them out of my eyes. My hair was so blond that any sweat whatsoever made it look what some called carelessly tousled and what I called an absolute mess. I dug into the pockets of my shorts, came up with a bunch of bills and coins and dumped them unceremoniously into Luke's cupped hands. “Two hundred eighty- six and fourteen cents. It's every penny I have in the world.”
He stared down at the cold, hard cash. “That's a really random number.”
I saw his point. “Okay, keep two hundred and fifty and give me back the rest.”
He frowned, and little lines fanned out from his brown eyes. “I owe your bro some bucks. I'll throw that in and make it an even three hundred. Hartley can't refuse that, can she?”
Hartley was Coach Wanda Hartley, or Heartless, to me, since she'd posted the soccer rosters two weeks ago and moved up every eleventh- grade player—except two. Hard to believe (and even harder to swallow), but my name, Parker Stanhope, had appeared for the third consecutive year on the JV roster. Alongside those of dull-as- dirt junior Lyric Wolensky, freshmen and other soccer newbies.
After remembering how to breathe, I'd tried to talk to Hartley, to reason with her about her obvious slip in judgment. I mean, how could she expect me to wave goodbye to my friends, to my life? Or what was supposed to be my life. But she hadn't budged, had just talked about player limits and told me to report to JV practice following the first day of school.
So for now, I was in limbo—a junior on a JV team. Which horrified and humiliated me. And did strange things to my best friends and former teammates Chrissandra Hickey, Elaine Chu and Mandy Kline, too. While full of hugs and awwws at first, suddenly they seemed busy now when I called or IM'd. Like I was an illegal alien in their world and they were reconsidering my visa.
All I could think was they were waiting things out, trusting that I'd triumph over this injustice, that I'd make this awkwardness of what to say to me and what not to say go away. But in the still of the night, I couldn't help worrying that they were waiting for me to go away. That they were all varsity cool now—and I was not. Which dug like a stake in my heart.
Making things right between my friends and me was the driving force behind this crazy scheme that I had concocted with my brother and that Clayton had gotten Luke to agree to.
School started on a Monday, and the following Tuesday, classes let out at noon for the customary campus sports fair. There was your basic DJ and yummy food booths, and a raffle to give away T-shirts and homework passes and the chance to be principal for a day (like being a student at DHS wasn't lame enough). But the big draw was that each sports team hosted a booth, and the coach of the booth that raised the most money got to park in a very coveted reserved teacher parking space for the whole school year.
JV soccer always did a milk- bottle ring toss, and varsity soccer went with a kissing booth. This year's kissing booth would go down in history, if Clayton, Luke and I had anything to do with it.
The plan was for Luke and Clayton to be back from the university, presumably to see old friends and teachers. After some schmoozing, Luke would strut up to the three- dollar kissing booth and announce that he was willing to make a very large donation.
For a kiss from me.
When he was told he'd have to choose another girl because I hadn't made varsity, he would get loud and get demanding—in a charming way. And when you look like a rock star, and the girls at the school are still in love with you, and the guys still want to be you, well, you get noticed. And, usually, what you want.
At that point, he'd call on Coach Hartley and tell her if she'd put me on varsity for a few minutes, he'd plunk down what we had now decided would be three hundred dollars. Which we hoped she'd eagerly interpret as a lock on that reserved parking spot, the one the teachers called the “sleep in and slip in,” because the driver could arrive as late as first bell, park, and still be in class on time.
Clayton, who was just starting his second year at the university and had an eye toward law school, swore that those few minutes I spent on varsity would be enough to substantiate a claim to make Heartless keep me on permanently. Sort of like squatter's rights, he'd said. And having to kick someone off varsity to create the opening (like senior Rachael Washington, whose interest in soccer flip- flopped, anyway, and whose return to the game this year was basically the reason my life seriously sucked) was not too high a price to pay to keep my claim from going to court.
We'd have Heartless by the throat. And I'd have my old life back. Friends and all.
“Thanks,” I told Luke, to the offer of padding my money out to three hundred and, well, doing this whole thing for me. “I won't forget this.”
“Clayton's saved my butt more times than I can count. I'm glad to help. But one thing,” he said, and tilted his head down toward me. “When I go to kiss you, it's gotta look like the real deal. Like I'm enjoying it and getting my money's worth.”
Oh, God, there was no denying the majorly masculine look to his eyes.
Heat rose to my face. Not because I was excited about kissing Luke—or repulsed. The truth was, when I looked at him objectively, I saw his hottieness. (A whole town of girls could not be wrong.) But if it weren't for this kissing booth, I would go my entire life without locking lips with him, and that would be just fine, too.
What was making my freckled face blush was his und
erlying meaning—my inexperience with kissing. Which, in my own defense, was not totally my fault, since I'd had a boyfriend most of my sophomore year. But he'd lived in another part of Minnesota—in my grandmother's town—and had only given me quick, closed- mouth kisses when we'd been alone.
So it's not like I was some prude who was afraid to smear her lip gloss or something. Still, I was as new at kissing as most of the JV soccer team was at high school sports.
“I'm going to give it my all,” he went on, taking a step away from the display case and closer to me. “And you're going to have to give it back just as good.”
I swallowed. Hard. I couldn't tell if he was joking or strangely serious.
“In fact, when we're done, I expect applause and whistles. Otherwise, Coach Hartley could catch on that this was all a setup. Then, even if Clayton could somehow get a lawsuit going, she'd fight it every step of the way and make your life frigging miserable.
“And, worse? I'll look stupid.” He narrowed his brown eyes at my blue ones. “And Parker, I don't do stupid.”
I winced, wanting to assure him that I wouldn't botch the kiss. But with nothing in my background to back it up, the words sort of clogged in my throat.
“So do us both a favor,” he said, pulling a ten back out from his pocket and handing it to me. “Stop by the supermarket on your way home and pick up some bing cherries and Starburst. I had this girlfriend once who swore she owed her technique to looping cherry stems and unwrapping Starbursts with her tongue.”
I'm pretty sure I grimaced.
“Try it. And anything else you can think to help get you up to par.” He glanced at the clock. “Look, I gotta get back. You do those exercises, and hang in there. I'll see you at the fair, okay?”
“Thanks, Luke,” I said, and blew out a sigh, relieved to have this mortifying conversation behind me. So much for retaining shreds of my dignity, huh?
Slipping out the door, I was suddenly grateful for the familiar sight of my old ten- speed. I rolled my neck to try to release some of the tension, then strapped my helmet back on. I was eager to pedal away, to try to feel normal again. Whatever normal was.
But what was most important, I told myself, was that I was no longer taking Heartless's heartlessness lying down. I had a real and viable plan in place now to turn things around.
And in the meantime, I had twelve days until the sports fair. Studying up on kissing had to be easier than geometry and biology, right? And a lot more fun. Besides, the bottom line was that this had far greater consequences than just getting a decent report card.
I had to keep my name from turning from Parker Elizabeth Stanhope into … well, Mud.
Butterfly Kisses:
When two people put their open eyes close
together and flutter their eyelashes.
Since I was in the neighborhood, I made a pit stop at my brother's dorm. I found him on the side patio, slapping a coat of paint on a chest of drawers I recognized from our attic. I knew he'd said he wanted his dorm room to have a cleaner look this year, but I had thought he'd simply meant getting the pizza boxes and dirty clothes off the carpet. Good to see him really stepping up.
“Luke's in,” I told him, balancing the bike and myself on the pavement.
With golden curls he hadn't cut in ages and bushy blond eyebrows, Clayton had started to look like the Cowardly Lion from The Wizard of Oz. Especially when he smiled and his cheeks puffed up, like now. “I knew we could count on him.”
“But he says I have to work on my kissing skills, that I have to make it look real.”
He paused mid- brushstroke and glanced up at me. “He's probably right. But just an FYI? Brothers don't generally like to talk about their sisters kissing people. Even when it's business rather than pleasure.”
“Oh, are you suggesting I take this little problem to Dad?” I asked in mock innocence.
Paintbrush firmly between two fingers, Clayton flung his arms up over his head as if a bomb were about to fall from the sky. I couldn't help but laugh at his expression.
“God, no!” he yelled, then chuckled and dropped his arms. “I'll let you take care of that kissing stuff, Parker, while I keep my mind on the legal angle and how we're going to hang your coach with her own words.”
“Sounds fair.” I grinned and hopped back on my bike.
What was that saying about all being fair in love and war? Well, this qualified as war.
Minutes later, I was in a nearby supermarket checkout line, my head down, mentally willing the lady ahead of me to hurry. I'd been embarrassed buying feminine-hygiene products in the past, but that was nothing compared with buying an economy- sized bag of Starbursts and a basket of bing cherries. If Luke's ex knew they were good kissing- improvement devices, others had to, too, right? I mean, come on, who buys bing cherries?
I half expected some idiot to notice and toss me a tube of Chap Stick or the address of a support group for bad kissers. What I didn't expect was to recognize the cashier. With her trademark thatch of dark hair and the Madonna- like beauty mark on her cheek, my middle school best friend and current ex–best friend, Becca Benvenuto, was unmistakable.
We'd met the week before seventh grade, grabbing the same size- four extralong jeans in Anna Banana's Boutique in Old Town. Then, recognizing each other in class, we'd started talking and became friends—soon, best friends. And by eighth grade, we had this thing going where we'd simply sign notes “Your BFF.”
But high school has a way of steering people in different directions, and while I'd fallen in with the soccer girls, she'd gone … well, somewhere else. I mean, whenever I saw her in the halls or cafeteria, she was with people.
“Hey, Becca,” I said, smiling big to will her attention to my face and away from my odd purchases.
“Parker.” She nodded, reaching for my family- sized candy bag. “What are you doing all the way over here?”
My brain reeled. I didn't want any “proof” of my planning meeting with Luke. “Visiting Clayton at school,” I said, only half lying.
“What's he now, a junior?”
“Sophomore.”
But instead of keeping up her end of the conversation, she just grunted and read me the total. Fine by me. I sooo wanted this over. “Okay, then,” I said, a little loud, as I paid. “Uh, have a nice end of summer. See you at school next week, huh?”
Becca looked at me, straining, as if a reply was circling in her head but couldn't find its way out. I was so sure she was seeing through my purchases. And how embarrassing would that be? Then all she did was say “Uh- huh,” hand me my sack, and turn to her next customer.
As I left, I told myself I was paranoid. It made sense that a stud like Luke and the girls he'd go for would be wise to things guy- girl intimate. But that didn't necessarily hold for the average person. Like, look at Chrissandra, who was totally popular. And … Mandy and Elaine and me. We held our own in the status-sphere, but even in all our sleepover chats, we'd never talked about cherries and Starbursts.
My secret was still safe.
Traffic was backed up along the cobblestone- edged streets of Old Town, so I cut over to the industrial district. Aside from getting my fair share of exhaust fumes and hey- baby toots from truck drivers—I'd learned a long time ago that lecherous guys go for tall blondes—I made good time, even crossing the Aerial Lift Bridge to our Lake Superior island without having to wait for the bridge's midsection to rise to let a trawler or high- mast sailboat through.
I decided these were good signs, proof that everything was moving with me now rather than against me. And surely our neighbors’ gardeners, whose wooden-slatted truck had spit out freshly mowed grass onto the street that morning, had come back to clean up. I'd chased the truck down on my bike, soaring through two stop signs to make up for the fact that my wheels only went a fraction as fast as theirs.
They'd pulled their rickety truck over and listened while I'd huffed out my request. I knew I'd come off like a crazed neat freak, but the gardener
s didn't work for my dad or Mr. Murphy, across the street, and didn't have a clue the can of worms they'd be opening if they left that mess in the street between our houses.
Rounding the corner of my street, I kept my gaze low, looking for residual blades of bright green. But my attention was quickly stolen by the tall, broad figure in the center of the street, pushing a broom. I realized with a sinking feeling that the gardeners had laughed at the silly girl on the old bike and driven off.
And that my across- the- street neighbor, Tristan Murphy, was taking matters into his own hands (literally) to help keep the peace.
I had to thank him. Which was even further out of my comfort zone than buying learn- to- kiss items. I mean, aside from the proximity of our houses and the fact that our fathers were embroiled in a ridiculous, unreasonable and thoroughly embarrassing feud, Tristan and I had nothing in common. We passed silently, like ships in the night, sometimes while he was shooting baskets in his driveway, sometimes waiting for the bridge to rise, sometimes in town. And breaking that silence would be awkward, to say the least.
I was two grades ahead of him in school, although he'd told me at a neighborhood barbecue when he and his dad had first moved to DeGroot that he'd started school late because of a fall birthday. I had a fall birthday, too, and over Orange Crushes, guacamole and chips, we'd calculated that he was only 364, days younger than me.
But whatever. For the past couple of years, he'd been at the middle school. And now it was almost worse. He was a freshman at DHS. And freshman was a very dirty word to me right now. It went arm in arm with JV and “friends nervously avoiding me.” I didn't want to admit freshmen existed, let alone speak to one. God, I felt like a loser.
Reasonably, I did know it wasn't his fault that Heartless had lost her mind. And he was out here doing reconnaissance to prevent World War III from breaking out on Millard Circle, so breaking our silence was the least I could do.
“Hey,” I said, my brakes squeaking to a curbside stop.