by Tina Ferraro
“You two are becoming friendly?”
I shrugged one shoulder.
“Actually, that might be a good idea. I think half the reason your father keeps up this ridiculous property battle is ignorance. For some reason, he's got it in his head that George Murphy is evil. Maybe you can invite this Tristan over, and your dad can see for himself that the kid is not the spawn of the devil and start to humanize the situation.”
“Maybe,” I said, thinking of the strange make- out session Tristan and I had planned for the living room sofa as soon as my parents left for work in the morning. If my dad walked in on that, things would escalate from bad blood to Armageddon.
My mother patted my arm, then warmed my omelet, which I accepted with equal parts appreciation and guilt.
I'd only taken a few bites when my father cruised through the back door. He was dressed in a varnish-stained T-shirt, saggy jeans and cracked work boots—his standard around the house after he shed his brand-name suits.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, and braced myself for the where-have-you-been-young-lady routine.
But he just patted my head. “And here I thought you'd gotten a better offer for dinner.”
Sensing the chance to lighten things up, I grinned. “You mean like Prince Harry cruised into the harbor on his royal British yacht and offered me lobster?”
His eyes twinkled. “That, or anything that constituted a real dinner.”
I threw a look at Mom. “See? What did I tell you? I knew eggs wouldn't fly.”
Mom sighed. “Oh, the things I put you two through.”
I could have snorted and agreed—but it was kind of nice to have peace back in the house, so I simply went back to eating.
•
The next morning, I busied myself picking up the living room. I wasn't nervous, exactly (okay, maybe a little), but it was pretty weird to imagine locking lips with a guy I'd lived by for years and yet barely knew. Weirder still that it was going to happen in my house, and in the morning. At least if we were at a party, with music and friends and little or no lighting to take the edge off …
As I moved some magazines to my room, my eyes fell upon a seal- colored Furby doll that had been batteryless and “sleeping” on my shelf for years. Mom had tried to give it away or throw it out several times, but I'd dug in my heels, the memory of how desperately I'd wanted it, and how hard I'd worked for it with household chores and a lemonade stand, keeping its value high. Making it impossible to part with. I'd even taken good care of it long after its novelty had worn off.
I heard a door slam across the street, and images of the Furby and Tristan knocked together in my head. Idly, I hoped the Plan wouldn't be a repeat of my Furby incident, where getting what I wanted hadn't lived up to the goal and the chase.
The knock on the door was the equivalent of the first bell at school. Class was about to begin. I was suddenly as anxious about letting Tristan in as I expected to feel when I took that long, lonely walk down the hallway on Monday without Chrissandra or Mandy or any of my other friends. But I knew if I wanted my life back, there was a price to pay. And it started with putting my mouth where my money was. So I opened the door.
“Hey,” Tristan said. “Coast clear?”
“Yeah.”
His hair was damp and combed, his blue T-shirt and shorts looked fresh from the dryer … and did I smell cologne?
I glanced down at my soccer shorts and tank top. The most I'd done was a side- of- my- head ponytail and a solid tooth brushing. But hey, no matter how good Tristan looked (and smelled), this was not a date.
So why was my blood throbbing like the time Chrissandra had challenged me to guzzle a can of Red Bull?
Leading him into the living room, I rolled my neck to try to ease some tension. But I knew that the best way to overcome anxiety was to put the “unknown” behind me. So I decided to turn and smack him on the lips. Just to get it over with.
Which would have been all well and good had he still been behind me and not stopped some feet back, head tilted as he scanned an open spiral notebook in his hand.
I unpuckered my mouth and cleared my throat.
He glanced up with that dark blue stare. “Oh, this? Last night I wrote down everything I could remember from camp.”
Okay—that was impressive. Flattering, even, that he was taking this whole thing so seriously and not just going along with it for the “paycheck.”
“Uh, thanks,” I said. “So I guess you're the studious type, huh? You make the honor roll and all?”
“Not really. But when I care about something, I give it my all.”
Everything inside me went tight, and I plopped down on the couch so hard that I bounced.
He closed the gap between us in a couple of long strides and sat down on the cushion beside me. “Okay, so first I was thinking we'd go over my notes—”
No way. First, we had to kill the tension. I reached out for his shoulders, and I pulled him toward me. Then I pressed my sealed lips against his. In a kiss. Not a fly-me- to- the- moon kiss—but not a bad one, either.
Moments later, he shifted backward, breaking our seal.
“That,” I said, attempting to explain, “was called … the Let's-Break-the-Ice Kiss.”
His eyes seemed to do a slow dance across my face. “Or maybe it's the You- Want- Me- That- Bad Kiss.”
I made a scoffing noise. “In your dreams.”
“I don't know,” he said in a rush of words. “I'm thinking I've been on your mind since we agreed to this last night, and you just couldn't wait to jump me.”
I crossed my arms. “More like I wanted the anticipation over.”
“Anticipation? Of what? Being with me?” He huffed out a laugh. “Heck, I'm the one who has to perform here.”
I instinctively opened my mouth to fire off some snappy comeback—but I found myself blank. I realized that he was right. The pressure was on him, for being the so- called pro. Why was I making this about me?
“Okay,” I said, feeling a little stupid, “then take over, Coach.”
A smile curved his lips. “I prefer the term Personal Trainer, if you don't mind.”
I made a face. That sounded so … well, personal, and one- on- one, and, well, physical.
“Or sir.”
“Sir!” That was too much. I raised a hand as if to swat him. “And I prefer Sparky.”
He intercepted my hand in midair and laced his fingers through mine. After a quick squeeze that startled my senses and blanked out my brain, he let go and thrust the notebook into my hand.
“Didn't you ever see that sign in the Greenfield cafeteria?” he asked, referring to the middle school. “ ‘The dictionary is the only place where success comes before work.’”
“Oh, puh- lease!” Part of me wanted to tease him for the mere mention of our middle school, but the simple truth was, we were wasting time. I wasn't going to get any closer to impressing Luke until Tristan and I got down to business.
And no matter how frustrated I got with him, I had to keep one simple thing in mind: if I didn't learn how to kiss, I could kiss my chances of varsity away.
•
It turned out Tristan was a man with a plan. He wanted to conquer the other parts of the face before the mouth. Namely, by refining the Caterpillar Kiss (the strange eyebrow messer), learning the proper etiquette of the Butterfly Kiss (entwining eyelashes) and the Eskimo Kiss (rubbing noses) and perfecting the Cheek Kiss (classic lips-to-cheek, of course).
It was way more fun than any classes I'd ever taken, especially since there were no rules against talking or breaking into laughter now and then. But I was surprised by how tiring it could be, and after a while, my facial muscles got sore and my mind started to wander.
Around ten, we took a break. After knocking back a couple of glasses of fruit punch (and wiping the red streaks from around our mouths), we resumed our positions on the couch. Where Tristan announced that it was time to work on the lean- in.
“The side of the f
ace you choose to approach your partner with actually tells volumes about how you feel about the person,” he explained.
Who knew?
By the time he stood to leave for his water polo scrimmage, the only mouth- to- mouth action we'd shared was that stolen kiss when he'd first sat down.
I didn't know whether to feel disappointed or triumphant.
“So,” I said, walking him to the door, “tonight, then? I'll get my mom's car and we'll find someplace to go.” Someplace dark, I added silently. Alone. Where no one will see us.
“Sounds good.”
Then it occurred to me: it was Friday night. We both knew nothing better would come along for me—unless Chrissandra had a change of heart. But I had to assume that Tristan had a life. “Unless you get a better offer,” I added.
“Nah,” he said, turning back. “You're top priority right now.” A smile grazed his mouth, then rose to his eyes.
I was studying those eyes—wondering if navy blue properly described them—when they moved steadily closer. Before I knew it, his mouth was over mine, and I'd lost my sense of sight. Probably because I'd closed my eyes when his tongue slid between my lips.
His hand cupping the back of my neck, I leaned deeper into the kiss, trying to study and feel and experience every aspect, every nuance.
Then suddenly he pulled away, taking my breath with him.
“That,” he said, and grinned, “was the See- You- Later Kiss.”
My hands fled to my upper arms, almost as if I was hugging myself. I couldn't help but think that a better name for that kiss might be the Leave- Them- Wanting-More Kiss. I waved him through the door, stunned into silence.
And then tried not to think about how incredibly delicious and delightful the kiss had been. And how my first French kiss had come from the freshman across the street.
Graduation: For many
girls, great kissing is a diploma in itself; for
many guys, it's a prerequisite to a bigger
course of study.
That afternoon I pocketed the debit card my mom had left out for me and headed toward Old Town, intending to take full advantage of the one good thing about not quitting soccer altogether: shopping.
Waiting for the gates of the harbor bridge to lift, I was filled with a sort of bubbly excitement, the familiar and wonderful feeling that with the right outfit, anything is possible.
But it wasn't sweaters or jeans or jackets that were filling my brain. Strangely, it was the doorway kiss. Being mouth to mouth with Tristan had been, well, remarkable. A whole new experience. Which, when I stopped to analyze it, drove home my suspicion that my ex had been a dud in the kissing department.
But to keep things in perspective, I knew it wasn't the boy or the up- close action that I'd liked, as much as it was what that kiss had signified: hope.
The bell in the doorway tinkled when I entered Anna Banana's, and I made a beeline to a colorful table of V-necked sweaters, thinking how great they might look with a T-shirt underneath.
A momlike voice broke me from my musing. “Parker?”
I looked up to see Anna herself, dressed in her customary airy gauze clothing and too many necklaces.
“Looking for a back- to- school outfit?” she asked, her German accent so watered down from years in the U.S. that all that remained were some harder- than-usual syllables.
I nodded. “I kinda have my eye on that gray skirt in the window.”
“Oh—oh … on you? Perfect! You've got the long legs to pull it off.” She took me by the shoulders and turned me until I faced a dressing- room door. “You—there. Me—right back with everything in your size.”
I let out a laugh and followed her instructions. Anna was great. And it had been a while since I'd gotten a compliment. Chrissandra had this theory that truly confident people—like we were supposed to be—didn't need the gratuitous support of others. That we could stand on our own two feet. And she felt that some compliments were actually backhanded insults, meant to demean previous outfits or hairstyles or other friends.
Her philosophy seemed a real stretch to me, maybe even a little paranoid, but rather than rock the Chrissandra boat, I'd learned to bite my tongue when she or Elaine wore something new or Mandy did some new streak in her hair. And to sort of frown at people and wave my hand dismissively if they said nice things about my looks in Chrissandra's presence.
Of course, with Chrissandra snubbing me, all that had changed. And how raw was the irony that now I didn't even have friends to trade compliments with?
Anna came back with a huge pile of clothes, including some long- sleeved tees that she swore would “make any day special.” I loved her attitude, not to mention most everything she had me try on. Seeing the cash-register total, on the other hand, made me feel a little sick, but I punched in my mother's PIN, knowing she was cool about my clothing allowance. I figured it was payment for forcing me to “accept” the JV position.
I grabbed my receipt and was just turning to leave when I had a near collision—with Becca. I was hardly surprised to see her. She was, after all, an Anna Banana junkie, too. But I was surprised to almost knock her over and hoped my fancy-seeing-you-here expression thawed any ice.
“You're the last person I expected to see,” she said, neither smiling nor frowning, showing not much of anything.
“Why? I shop here all the time.”
“I mean, now. Chrissandra and some people are across the way, headed into the new Matt Damon movie.”
The world spun before my eyes. Rationally, I knew my friends’ lives hadn't stopped. I'd figured that phone calls and text and instant messages were firing around DeGroot, connecting people with plans that did not include me. But what I hadn't known for sure hadn't hurt me.
Now I knew.
And wow, it hurt.
“Why aren't you with them?” she asked.
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. The truth seemed too easy—and yet too hard. And I had no idea how she'd react. I mean, sure, we used to have that unconditional BFF thing going on, but that was back when my idea of a great summer day was a blue raspberry slushy after a bike ride to the east side of the lake.
So, out of desperation, I did what any self- respecting loser would do: I laughed. And added an “Oh, yeah, well …,” which could have meant anything from I'm totally over Matt Damon to I am an alien just visiting this planet in the body of Parker Stanhope.
Becca studied my face. “You guys have a falling- out?”
“No!” I said, then paused, wishing I could recall my too- loud yelp. “No. I mean, not really. Okay, there's this little issue of me not getting promoted to varsity. You know,” I said, like she or anyone would have a clue how dig- a- hole- in- the- ground humiliating it felt, “a temporary problem until Coach finds a place for me on varsity.”
“Temporary.”
“Totally. Over before you know it.” If I lived that long. I shuffled my feet again. “Um, so, I guess I'll see you at school.”
“You keep saying that.”
“What?”
“ ‘See you at school.’”
I shook my head. “What? You won't be there?”
“I will. It's just, well, it's not like we really see each other there.”
Huh? Couldn't she tell that this was no time to split hairs? Didn't she see that I was dying here?
I must have looked pissed or confused or something, because Becca shrugged, flashed something close to a smile and walked away.
I cruised on through the doorway, dragging my spirits and my chin behind me on the ground.
Outside, I headed toward home—not about to go anywhere near the movie theater. Wondering if I was still on Chrissandra's speed dial and in Mandy's and Elaine's Top Five. And if any of them had even once stopped to put themselves in my shoes, to try to imagine what I was going through and how it would have felt if the world had continued rotating without them.
But of course, I thought, it wouldn't have been one of them.
Mandy and Elaine were the stuff college soccer scholarships were made of. And even though Chrissandra had gotten in Hartley's face a few times as JV captain, she could practically kick a ball into the solar system. I was a solid player, but with Legs of Steel Rachael returning and that new girl transferring in, solid just wasn't enough.
Until now, our fearsome foursome had had nothing to do with talent and positions and everything to do with heart and trust and, well, loyalty. We were there together, with each other, for each other. Friends to the end.
I thought.
My breath caught in my throat as it really sank in for the first time. Was this the end? Like a ref giving me a red card that took me out of the game … forever?
Hand Kiss: This gesture of
extreme politeness is considered totally
impolite to refuse.
Clayton called that evening to check up on me. The mere sound of my brother's voice lifted me up, and I tried to sound sincere as I lied and said I had a handle on everything.
“Your coach doesn't know who she's tangling with,” he said, and chuckled.
I made noises of agreement, thinking how glad I was to have him (and Luke) on my side.
We hung up, and I tried to copy a charcoal- eyeshadow look from a fashion magazine; then I went downstairs to borrow my mom's SUV for the next lesson.
Minutes later, Tristan and I were speeding off, his jaw clenched over “words” he'd just had with his dad.
“It was nothing,” he said, and exhaled.
When I'd walked over to get him, he and his father had been arguing in the open garage.
“Is it because I'm older and therefore automatically a bad influence? Or because I'm my father's daughter?” I asked playfully.
He shot me an ice- cold glare, real electric blue, like wild- berry Gatorade.
“Wait—it was about me?” Unbelievable. Like I was social outcast number one.
“So what if it was?” He turned on the radio, but my mother kept the volume set so low that we didn't have to raise our voices. “Besides, he's got his own issues. Like why he won't get out of the car when he drops me at my mom's. Or the fact that he's involved in this nonsense with your dad.”