Frosted Kisses

by Heather Hepler

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Heather Hepler

  Copyright

  When your best friend tells you she needs your help, you say yes. But if your best friend is Tally Greene, who has orange-and-red streaked hair (to match the autumn leaves); loves all animals to the point of obsession (even a prima donna albino vulture); and will do anything for a friend (including pretend to eat lard sandwiches), you might want to ask a few questions before saying yes.

  Blake is quick to point out my mistake as he hands us our masks, goggles, and gloves. “Penny, this is Tally. You always ask more questions.”

  “I can hear you, you know,” she says.

  Blake smiles at her. “I know. All I’m saying is that not everyone is quite as willing to go to the lengths you do for the things you believe in.”

  Tally frowns at him. “Since when is yard work lengths?”

  “Tally,” I say, pulling on my gloves. “I don’t think you usually have to wear hazmat gear for yard work.”

  Tally nods. Then she looks a little sheepish. “Are you mad?” she asks.

  “Of course not,” I say. “Whatever it is, I’m in.”

  For some reason, Blake finds this hysterical. “Oh, you’ll be in all right,” he says. He leads us around to the back of the barn. “Well,” he says. “There you go.” He points toward a giant mound of deep brown soil.

  We walk a little closer and I realize it’s not soil. It’s compost. Fresh, ripe compost. The brown dirt is marbled with clumps of manure and studded with bits and pieces of kitchen leftovers. Eggshells, lemon rinds, strawberry hulls, and lettuce leaves all peek out from between the clumps.

  Tally makes a face. “I thought we were raking leaves.”

  “There are leaves,” Blake says. “And there will be raking.” He grabs a couple of rakes leaning against the fence. “Mask up, ladies.”

  I’d put my mask on as soon as I saw the pile. I might be a city girl, but I know manure when I smell it. I pull my goggles over my eyes and make sure my gloves are secure before taking the rake from Blake. Tally gives Blake one more dirty look before donning her protective gear. Blake quickly explains that we’re supposed to mix the piles of leaves and grass clippings into the big pile of compost.

  “Got it,” Tally says.

  “You have to really mix it well,” Blake says. “Otherwise the methane gas will build up and there could be an explosion.”

  “That would be bad,” Tally says.

  “That would be bad,” Blake confirms. “All right, then,” he says, nodding toward the pile. “You’re burning daylight.”

  “Okay, bossy,” Tally says. She grabs her rake and stomps over to the pile. I start to tell her that stomping in fresh compost probably isn’t the best idea, but I’m too late. She hits a grapefruit rind with her heel and sends it rocketing to where Blake is standing. It smacks him in the chest. Even with the mask on, I can tell she’s grinning.

  Blake smirks and shakes his head. “I’ll be back in a while to check on your progress.” He starts walking away from us.

  “Wait!” Tally calls. “Aren’t you going to help us?”

  “Nope,” Blake says. “I have my own chores.” He disappears around the end of the barn, leaving Tally and me and a giant pile of compost all alone.

  “Guess we’d better—” Tally lifts one of her feet and examines the bottom of her borrowed boot. When she puts her foot down, it squelches. She looks at me. “Sorry,” she says.

  “It’s fine,” I say. “What’s a little poop?” I lift a forkful of leaves and toss it onto the pile. “Besides,” I say. “It’s for a good cause.”

  Tally’s latest big idea was to hire ourselves out to do odd jobs so that we can raise money for the ARK animal shelter. Monica, the ARK’s director, wants to buy a backup generator for the exotics building. Without it, one power outage and the lizards and tropical birds could freeze to death. Even with the big discount Lancaster Hardware is giving her, a good generator is easily over three thousand dollars.

  “You’re a good friend, Penny Lane,” Tally says, turning over a forkful of compost. (Yes, Penny Lane—my dad is a hardcore Beatles fan. I guess I’m just lucky he didn’t name me Ringo.)

  “I am a good friend. Aren’t I?”

  “And very humble,” she says.

  “Humility when you’re as awesome as I am is very important,” I say. This makes Tally laugh.

  “Hey!” Blake calls from the corner of the barn. “Get to work!” This makes Tally laugh even more, but we do as he instructs and get to work.

  I’ve only lived in Hog’s Hollow for a few months—ever since my parents separated and my dad stayed in Manhattan and my mom and I moved here to live in the town where she grew up. In the short time I’ve been here, I’ve learned that Hog’s Hollow has to be one of the weirdest places on the planet. Just a few weeks ago, I walked an albino vulture in the Hog Days parade behind a trailer carrying the Hog Queen and her court. The parade route wound right through downtown, past the bank and the antique stores and The Cupcake Queen, my mom’s bakery.

  I tried to ignore the dirty looks the Hog Queen was giving me. Charity Wharton, aka The Meanest Girl in the Known Universe, had, in spite of Tally’s best efforts, been picked as queen. Charity’s hated me from the start. At first it was just because my mom had been chosen over her mom for Hog Queen every year they were in high school together. Then it was because I was the cause of a cupcake tsunami at her birthday party. Then she hated me because Marcus, her longtime crush, ended up liking me more than her. Of course the fact that I walked in the parade with Marcus probably didn’t help any. But I’d stopped noticing her dirty looks when he’d started holding my hand.

  After a while, Tally says, “I think we should take a break.”

  “I agree,” I say. We’ve been raking and mixing and flipping for close to an hour. And it is hot. Tally and I walk over to one of the apple trees behind Blake’s house and sit in the shade. I slide my hands free of my gloves and pull off my mask and goggles. The cool breeze on my face feels good. Tally takes her gear off and lies back in the grass.

  “Are you working on Saturn tonight with Marcus?” she asks.

  I nod and lean back against the tree. Marcus and his dad are building a stunning to-scale model of the solar system to memorialize Marcus’s mother, who passed away almost two years ago. Saturn is the last of the planets to be built, but it is proving to be the most difficult, so Marcus called me this morning and asked if I would help. Building something that beautiful to honor Marcus’s mom is one of the most amazing things I’ve ever heard of. The planets, peeking through the trees, are massive. Saturn’s rings are over thirty feet in diameter and Jupiter stands over eighteen feet tall. At night if there’s a full moon, you can see the light glinting off of the copper stripes of Jupiter or the red iron of Mars.

  “What are you doing tonight?” I ask Tally.

  Tally shrugs. “Blake said something about a mov
ie.”

  “That sounds fun,” I say, wishing that Marcus had asked me to go to a movie. I mean, I like helping him and his dad, but other than the Hog’s Hollow dance after the parade, we’ve never actually gone on anything resembling a date.

  “Blake will obviously want to see The Flaming Skull of Death,” she says.

  “That’s a movie?” I ask.

  “Probably,” Tally says, smiling. She closes her eyes. “Maybe you should ask him to the movies,” she says.

  “Blake?” I ask, teasing her. Tally kicks my foot. We’ve had this discussion before. Tally thinks I should just ask Marcus to the movies. (Or to do anything, really.) But that’s Tally. That’s not me. We are about as different as we can be. Half of the clothes Tally wears are Tally Originals. I wear jeans and T-shirts and hoodies. Tally dyes her hair all the colors of the rainbow. Mine is brown. Tally is outspoken. I’m quiet.

  “Besides, I barely have time to work on Saturn. I promised my mom I’d help this weekend at the bakery, and if I don’t learn the irregular French verbs, I’m doomed.”

  “You could ask Charity to help you,” Tally says. Charity, in addition to being fluent in meanness, is also fluent in French.

  “Yeah,” I say. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Hey! What are you two doing?” Blake is at the back of the barn holding bottles of water. “I come all the way out here, thinking how hard you must be working and how thirsty you must be, and you two are sandbagging.”

  “We’re done,” Tally says.

  Blake looks at the pile of compost and nods. “Nice job, ladies.” He walks over to us and hands us the bottles of water. I take a long drink.

  “Would you stop calling us that?” Tally asks.

  “What?” Blake asks.

  “Ladies,” Tally says.

  “Fine,” Blake says. “Nice job, dudes.” Tally rolls her eyes. It’s then that I notice his T-shirt. The front of his shirt reads WITHOUT ME. I frown, wondering what I’m missing. “Well, as soon as you dudes are ready, we can move on to the chicken coop.”

  “Chicken coop?” I ask.

  “No problem,” Tally says with confidence. I raise my eyebrow at her. I’m not, in general, a fan of chickens. Beady eyes. Pointy beaks. I take another long drink of water, draining my bottle. Tally does the same. Then we hand our empty water bottles back to Blake, pick up our gear, and stand. We walk with Blake toward the gate, where I can already see the chickens milling about. He grabs our rakes on the way.

  “You sure about this, Tally?” I whisper.

  “We got this,” Tally says to me. I wonder how much of that she believes and how much of it is not wanting to show weakness in front of Blake. They are the most competitive non-couple I’ve ever met. Blake opens the gate and shoos the chickens out of the way. He motions for us to follow.

  Six months ago, the only chickens I’d ever seen were photos of hens on the labels of the organic eggs my mom always bought. Now, a dozen or more chickens swirl around me as I follow Tally into the yard. Blake shuts the gate behind us and heads toward the chicken coop. I quickly find out why they call it playing chicken. The hens think it’s crazy fun to freak out the city girl by sprinting under my feet, moving just before my boot clips them.

  “You might want to put your gear back on,” he says.

  Tally and I both don our gloves, masks, and goggles again. Blake leans the rakes against the side of the coop, then he pulls the door of the coop open. The smell of ammonia makes my eyes water in spite of the goggles.

  “You sure about this, Tal?” Blake asks. I want to say, No! I’m not sure, but Tally has a different take on the situation.

  “No problem,” she says. “Peaches and gravy.”

  “Don’t you mean peaches and cream?” Blake asks. Tally shrugs. We stand in front of the open door for several moments. “Go ahead,” Blake says.

  Tally glances over at him. “Aren’t you coming?” she asks. Suddenly all of her bravado is gone.

  “Nope,” Blake says. “This is all yours.” He turns and heads toward the greenhouse. I see the back of his shirt as he’s walking away. On the front: WITHOUT ME. On the back: IT’S JUST AWESO.

  Tally sees me reading his shirt. “He got a grab bag from some T-shirt Web site. A dozen shirts for ten dollars or something ridiculous. He won’t let me see them until he wears them. Just think. Eleven more to go.” She tries to look pained, but I can see through it. Tally adores Blake’s weirdness. Just as much as he adores hers. They keep not talking about their relationship. I think it’s because Tally’s afraid of liking someone too much, then getting burned. And Blake, well, he’s a guy. Guys, in general, aren’t big fans of the relationship talk.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Tally says, picking up one of the rakes. She hands it to me and arms herself with the other. “After you,” she says, nodding toward the door.

  I start to take a deep breath in order to steel myself, but stop short when I’m hit by another wave of the awful smell. I step over the threshold, unsure of what to expect. The inside of the chicken coop is basically a huge box with a human-size door on one end and a chicken-size door on the other. One wall is lined entirely with nesting boxes, while the other sports long rods that I assume are perches. Tally and I begin working our way down the nests, pulling out the dirty hay. We set aside any eggs we find. It’s straightforward enough. However, the hens seem determined to supervise, pecking at our boots and squawking orders.

  “We’ll be finished in no time,” Tally says. I nod. We’ve only been working for about five minutes and we’re already halfway down the wall. I’m pretty sure Tally jinxed us because just as she says that, she jerks her hand out of the nest she’s cleaning. “Ouch,” she says, holding her wrist. There’s a slice in the rubber glove she’s wearing. She ducks to peer into the dark box, then immediately jumps back with a yelp. “What is that?” she asks, pointing and backing up. A head with an enormous hooked beak and beady eyes emerges, and Tally and I both start inching toward the door as the rest of the bird exits the box. It’s easily five times the size of any of the other chickens. A ragged comb flops to one side of the rooster’s head. A giant rooster. And does he look mad.

  “We should—” Tally says, dropping her rake and backing away from the monstrous rooster. I quickly back up and step over the threshold into the yard, followed closely by Tally. Neither of us seems to want to turn our backs on this behemoth, so we back our way to the gate. Tally keeps making these strange clicking noises and saying, “Good chicken,” in a soothing voice. The rooster responds by stretching out his wings and giving an unearthly screech.

  Tally screams, turns, and runs for the gate. I try to follow her, but my too-big borrowed rubber boots twist under my feet, sending me sprawling. The pain in the side of my face is immediate as my cheek hits one of the stepping-stones, but it’s not enough to distract me from the fact that at any second I’m about to be attacked by the world’s largest rooster. I throw my arms over my head.

  “George!” It’s Blake’s voice. “Get over here.” I peek out from under my arms and see Blake striding across the yard, his spiky hair bouncing with each step. George the rooster clucks at him. “Leave them alone,” Blake says. I watch, horrified, as Blake reaches his hand toward George, certain he’s going to pull back short one finger. But Blake just pats George’s head, causing the rooster to make a satisfied noise deep in his gullet.

  I sit up, holding my cheek. “Ouch,” I say. It’s only then that Blake notices that I’m hurt. His eyes get big and he’s at my side instantly.

  “Penny, are you okay?” I always love it when people ask that when you are so clearly not okay. Tally hurries over, giving George a wide berth.

  “Oh no,” she says, her hands flying to her masked mouth. I look up at her, squinting in the bright sunlight. The movement brings tears to my eyes. I swipe at the wetness dripping down my cheek and my glove comes away with blood on it.

  “Mom!” Blake yells, standing up. I try to stand as wel
l, feeling dampness from the recent rain soaking into my jeans. “Don’t move,” Blake says, pushing me back. “Wait till my mom gets here. She’ll know what to do. She used to be a nurse.” He looks very pale.

  “I’m fine,” I say, eyeing George, who is edging toward me. “I just need to—”

  “Blake?” I hear the latch on the gate, then quick footsteps. “Let me see,” Blake’s mom says, bending in front of me. She carefully lifts my goggles and slides them off. She removes the mask next. Then she gently touches my cheek, making me wince. “Sorry,” she says. She tilts my chin and turns my head slightly. “I don’t think anything’s broken, but we should probably get a real medical opinion.” She stands, reaches down for my hand, and helps me up. The world goes green for a moment and I wonder if I’m about to faint. “You okay to walk?” Ms. Wallace asks.

  I nod, feeling like my head is full of jelly. Tally takes my arm and helps steer me through the gate and toward the truck. I hear Blake’s mom talking on her phone behind me.

  “Yes, we’ll be right there,” she says. Tally helps me shed my boots and gloves. Then she helps me into the truck and slides in beside me. Ms. Wallace climbs in behind the wheel. Blake stands watching. There’s only room for three in the truck. “I called ahead to the clinic to make sure someone was there. Never know,” she says. Blake lifts a hand as we pull away from their house. He still looks pale, and his hair is definitely a little wilted.

  Ms. Wallace hands the phone to Tally. “Call Penny’s mom. Tell her to meet us at Sandy’s.” I assume Sandy’s is the clinic because Tally just nods. Blake’s mom keeps looking at me out of the corner of her eye, checking on me without wanting it to seem like she’s checking on me. Tally starts talking to my mom, telling her where to meet us. I hear my mom say something and then feel Tally looking at me.

  “She’s okay,” she says, but she’s not very convincing.

  Sitting in the middle, I’m right in front of the rearview mirror. All it takes is a little shift to see myself. What I see is a girl with one eye nearly swollen shut and a stream of blood running from her eyebrow to her chin. Tally says goodbye to my mom and pokes the phone to end the call. She leans into me slightly.