Frosted Kisses

by Heather Hepler

  “Okay,” I say. “Thanks again.” Poppy gives us one more fleeting smile as we head back toward the kitchen. Before I pull the door shut I see her staring at the folded piece of paper sitting on her desk.

  Tally and Blake wave goodbye from where they are setting up Scrabble. His mom is going to pick him up on the way back from her master gardener meeting, which Blake says is as dull as it sounds. Marcus and I pull on our coats and head out onto the porch. The last thing we hear before we shut the door is Tally talking her usual smack. “You’re going down, Pineapple Head.”

  Then Blake’s reply: “Bring it on.”

  Marcus takes my hand in his as soon as we step onto the sand. And I feel the same flutter, but I’m distracted by seeing Poppy so sad. “I hope Poppy’s okay,” I say. Marcus nods. We walk quietly for a few moments. I decide I’ll try to talk to Tally about it later. For now, I want to enjoy my time with Marcus. Even though it’s cold enough to see our breath, I feel warm inside. After the bright light and the noise, the beach seems soft and quiet. We walk down toward the water. The tide is low, exposing rocks and driftwood and shells. The wind is salty and cold, and makes me shiver. I can see lights on in the Fishes’ house ahead of us. A blast of noise pours through the open back door.

  “Uh, what was that?” I ask.

  “Bagpipes,” Marcus says. He grins and shakes his head. “When my dad said he wanted to learn to play an instrument, I thought it would be guitar or piano.”

  “It’s an unusual choice,” I say. “But building the whole solar system is a pretty hard act to follow.”

  “Good point,” he says. Another wheezing note breaks across the sand. I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing. Marcus sees me and smiles. “The bad news is that there is no way to play the bagpipes quietly.”

  “What’s the good news?” I ask.

  “That he can’t possibly get any worse,” he says. A blast of chaotic notes hits us as we pass by the Fishes’ porch, making both Marcus and me laugh. “I stand corrected,” he says. We walk for several moments, smiling at his father’s attempts at making music. A flash of light in the sky makes me look over.

  “What was that?” I ask. I turn, following the splash of light as it streaks across the darkness. “Was that a falling star?” I ask, staring at the spot in the night sky where it seemed to disappear.

  Marcus nods. “Probably. I saw something in the news about a meteor shower heading this way.” He releases my hand and points almost straight above us. “There’s another.”

  “That is so cool,” I say. I back up, trying to see if I can spot another. The sand and rocks crunch under my shoes with each step. Crunch, crunch, squish. I barely register the change in the texture of the sand before my foot slides out from under me and I’m falling. Marcus tries to grab my arm to keep me upright, but it’s no good. Suddenly I’m flat on my back on a wet mound of something that smells like last week’s seafood special. I try to push myself up, but my hand slides away from me. There’s a popping noise and something wet and cold hits my neck. “Ew!” I press my hands into the sand and try to rise, but there are more pops and more bursts of cold goo against my face.

  “Penny,” Marcus says. “Hold still.” I feel his hands slide under my arms. And then he pulls me to my feet. The wet liquid sliding down into the collar of my coat makes me shiver.

  I press my eyes closed and swipe at my face with my sleeve. “Let me guess,” I say. “Alien slime?”

  Marcus laughs. “Actually they’re sea grapes.” I open my eyes and look at the ground. Ropes of seaweed are decorated with clusters of giant mutant grapes.

  “Huh,” I say. “That’s pretty much the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.” Marcus smiles and brushes a wet strand of my hair from my cheek. Then he leans toward me. And I feel my heart beat faster.

  “Penny?” he says.

  “Yes?” I say softly.

  “I think you”—he reaches over and pulls a strand of seaweed out of my hair while I cringe—“have some seaweed in your hair.” He pulls two more strands free and drops them to the beach. I sigh. Of course I do. I swipe impatiently at another rivulet of sea grape spew running down the side of my face. Marcus steps toward me and puts his arms around me. I let myself sink into him, feeling the warmth of his fleece coat against my cold cheek. And I feel like time just stops for a moment, like we could just stand there forever if we wanted to. But then I hear Gram yelling. Marcus and I both turn and see something being launched from our back porch and onto the beach.

  I grab Marcus’s hand and hurry toward Gram’s house. We arrive at the base of the stairs, which lead up to our porch, just as projectile number two comes flying over our heads. A shower of tulips rains down on us. Around us all over the sand are a couple dozen more flowers, looking worse for the wear. We hear the back door open, then shut with a bang.

  “Well, that happened,” I say, at a loss. This is twice in a week that I’ve watched my usually levelheaded grandmother come unglued. “Guess I should—” I nod toward my house, unsure of exactly what I should do.

  “Guess so,” Marcus says. He seems disappointed, which makes me happy. “I had fun tonight,” he says.

  “Me, too,” I say. Marcus starts to lean toward me. I lean in and close my eyes. This is it. I’m about to have my very first kiss. On a beach, surrounded by flowers. Serenaded by music. Smelling of sea grapes. I have to remind myself to breathe.

  “Penny? Is that you, honey?” Gram asks.

  My eyes fly open. I look up and see Gram squinting down at us from the porch. Thankfully she is standing in the light spilling out of the house and we are in the dark. I know she can’t really see more than vague shapes.

  “Yeah, it’s me, Gram,” I say. “Sorry,” I mouth at Marcus, but he just shakes his head, smiling. “I better go,” I say. Gram’s next move is likely to flip on the floodlights. I’d like to avoid that if possible.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Marcus says. He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear, and then lets his fingers trail across my cheek before turning to go. I watch him for a moment before turning to float up the stairs toward where Gram is waiting.

  “Sorry,” she says when I step onto the porch. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. And it is. I guess I’m a die-hard romantic. I want my first kiss to be magical. The kiss to which all other kisses are compared. I know it’s ridiculous and completely unlikely, but at least that’s the plan. “So what’s with the flower bombs?” I ask, gesturing toward the sand below.

  Gram’s face goes hard. “If that man thinks that after all this time he can just waltz back in here and start courting me again like the last thirty-five years never happened”—she glares at the remaining tulip in her hand before chucking it over the railing—“well, he’s got another think coming.” She turns and heads back into the house, leaving me with a thousand questions. I hear bagpipes wheezing out the first few notes of what I think is “Mary Had a Little Lamb” and then a dog howling. I stand there listening to the first song die away and the opening stanzas of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” played badly and loudly accompanied by an extremely enthusiastic golden retriever until I’m shivering.

  “Good night,” I whisper. And it is.

  It rains all weekend, forcing us to put off painting the fence at the Windham Farm. It’s just as well. Between homework and helping Mom pull together a giant catering order, I barely have time to get everything done. Tally drops by the bakery for a few minutes on Saturday and helps pack cupcakes into boxes, but with her own homework and helping at the ARK, she’s slammed, too.

  Marcus calls Sunday evening to tell me it’s raining, which makes me laugh. Then he tells me to prepare myself. “My dad found someone to teach him how to play the bagpipes.”

  “That’s a good thing, right?” I ask.

  “In theory,” he says. “But the guy’s bringing his own pipes so they can play a duet.”

  “Ah,” I say.

  “I might go fo
r a run during the lesson,” he says.

  “Good call,” I say.

  “See you tomorrow?” he asks.

  “Definitely,” I say. I hang up and grin at the phone for a minute before forcing myself to get back to work. My yet-to-do pile is still significantly bigger than my done pile. I sigh and reach for my French book. I’m still struggling in French, but Gram has been helping me memorize vocabulary words and practice simple phrases. She told me she’s always wanted to visit France. I told her I’d think about coming along if she changed her plans and decided to visit another French-speaking country, such as Belgium or Switzerland. She just gave me one of her looks before going back to the book she was reading.

  It’s almost a relief when Monday finally rolls around.

  * * *

  The cafeteria is more chaotic than usual, which is saying a lot. I pause just inside the door to watch teachers herd students from their regular tables and force them to sit with people they barely even know. When a group of cheerleaders balk, Mrs. Hamm, the eleventh-grade English teacher, points to a poster hung on the wall. MAKE NEW FRIENDS!!! SAY NO TO CLIQUES! I spot Tally leaning against the back wall, nibbling on half of a sandwich. She’s holding a piece of paper and is alternating between reading it and watching the chaos. I skirt around a cluster of scowling cheerleaders and weave in between dozens of people who are trying, like Tally, to eat their lunches standing up. Eventually I make it over to where Tally is standing.

  “Hi,” I say. Tally quickly folds the paper and stuffs it into her pocket. Her cheeks are flushed and she looks upset. “You okay?” I ask.

  “Of course,” she says. Then she gestures toward the commotion in front of us. “I just hate this.” I nod. But I don’t quite buy that the lunchroom reorganization is what’s upsetting her. It’s just more attempts to destroy the caste system. I sigh and lean against the wall beside her, wondering if the piece of paper she was holding is the same one Poppy was reading. I pull out my apple and take a bite, watching as Mr. Ellison, the vice principal, directs Charity and her minions toward a table near the trash cans. The minions comply. I suppose they are used to following orders, but Charity isn’t about to give up her primo table without a fight. As soon as Mr. Ellison has moved on, Charity’s right back to her old table. The minions are only seconds behind her.

  “It might be a while before we get a table,” I say. I slide down the wall and sit. Tally sits beside me. Madame Framboise leads a group of soccer players past and seats them with four guys playing Magic. The two groups barely acknowledge one another. I know the administration means well, but you can’t force people to be friends.

  We both watch as Esmeralda flits effortlessly between a table full of hardcore gamers and a cluster of cheerleaders before finally settling in at Charity’s table. Slowly the tables in front of us begin filling up and the chaos dials down a couple of notches. Tally watches her for a moment before turning back to her lunch. While infinitely better than the lard sandwiches she was bringing a few weeks ago in an attempt to get back at Charity, salami and black raspberry jam is still pretty gross. I eat quietly, giving Tally a chance to talk if she wants to.

  “I just don’t get it,” Tally says finally. She nods toward where Esmeralda has the whole table enthralled in something she’s saying. “She’s been here—what? A week? And she knows everyone.” Talking about Esmeralda isn’t exactly what I had in mind, but I go with it.

  “Why does she bother you so much?” I ask.

  Tally shrugs. “She just seems false, you know?”

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “Like Charity 2.0.”

  “More like Charity 8.0,” I say. Esmeralda is talking to the minions, who seem to be hanging on her every word. Charity is pretending not to care that she’s not the center of attention, but it’s obvious from the way she’s attacking her carrot sticks that all isn’t well at the popular table. Esmeralda finishes whatever she was saying and all of the minions burst into giggles. Charity snaps another carrot stick in between her teeth. “Maybe Esmeralda isn’t that bad,” I say. Although I’m not sure whether I actually believe that or just enjoy watching Charity get knocked down a peg or two. “I think we should keep an open mind,” I say.

  “Hm,” Tally says. “You keep an open mind. I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  The minions burst into another round of giggles. Charity rolls her eyes, picks up her lunch bag, and heads toward the trash cans. One of the Lindseys follows, but she keeps looking back at Esmeralda. After throwing away her trash, Charity watches Esmeralda holding court where she once ruled. She rolls her eyes again, spins on her heel, and heads toward the door. Unfortunately, her trajectory takes her right past where we’re sitting.

  “Just ignore her,” Tally says. I try to, but the bite of sandwich I’m chewing turns to cement in my mouth, and my heart rate increases. I hate that I always react to her the way I do, but she’s just so mean and random. Charity spots us sitting against the wall and smirks. She says something to Lindsey, who hiccups a laugh. My heart starts beating even faster and I feel sick to my stomach.

  Charity pauses in front of us and shakes her head. “Look, Lindsey. It’s Penny Lame and her lame little friend.” She looks at me, waiting to see if I’ll say anything. I try to think of something. Anything. But my brain just freezes. Then Tally starts laughing.

  “Wow,” Tally says. “You’re almost as clever as you are pretty.”

  Charity is momentarily at a loss for words. Clearly she’s trying to figure out if she’s just been insulted or complimented. Then she gets it. She looks Tally over and shakes her head. “Nice skirt. Did you get that at the Salvation Army?” I glance over at Tally’s denim skirt, which she made out of a pair of old jeans. Then Charity lowers her voice. “I hear they give discounts to orphans.”

  “Hey!” I say, finally finding my voice. “Lay off.”

  Charity moves away from us. The look on her face suggests that maybe she knows she overstepped a line. That was a low blow even for her. Tally calmly balls up her lunch sack and chucks it at the back of Charity’s head. It strikes her ponytail and bounces off. Charity spins and glares at us. She mouths something. I actually have no idea what she said, which is probably a good thing. Then she stalks off toward the doors.

  “I hate her,” Tally says. “I wish she were—”

  “Whoa,” I say, putting my hand on her arm. “I know she’s horrible, but you can’t let her get to you. Just ignore her.”

  “Like you’re one to talk,” Tally snaps. She leans her head against the wall and closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath and lets it out. Then she looks at me. “Sorry,” she says. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “You do seem a little on edge,” I say hesitantly.

  “I think I’m just tired,” she says. “I am sorry, though. Forgive me?”

  “Of course,” I say. We go back to eating our sandwiches, but it’s obvious neither of us has much of an appetite anymore. I’m not buying that Tally is just tired. Something else is going on. But I decide not to push her. She’ll tell me when she’s ready.

  Blake finds us sitting against the wall. He sits on the floor beside Tally and balances his tray on his legs. Blake takes a big bite of his pasta and smiles. He chews, swallows, and nods. “Say what you like about caf food, but this is the best spag bol I’ve ever had.” I’m grateful for Blake’s presence. Maybe he can shake Tally out of her funk.

  “Spag bol?” I ask.

  “Spaghetti Bolognese,” Tally says. She leans forward so that she can see his T-shirt. “Save the Narwhals?”

  “What? They’re the unicorns of the sea,” Blake says.

  Tally looks at him for a long moment but obviously is at a loss for how to respond. She turns to me. “Are boys always this ridiculous?” she asks.

  “I’m pretty sure,” I say.

  “I’m right here,” Blake says. He takes another bite of spag bol and makes a happy sound. Clearly he’s not that offended.

  “Well, I h
ave a history test that I’m only marginally prepared for,” I say. “I’m headed to the library.”

  “See you after school?” Tally asks.

  I shake my head. “Not unless you want to stack firewood. Gram’s having three cords delivered today.”

  Tally makes a face. “Um—”

  “I’m just kidding,” I say. “I don’t think it will take long anyway,” I say. I collect my trash, gather my books, and stand. “I’ll call you after,” I say. I see Blake smirking as I walk away. I’m not sure but I think I hear him say, “City girl.” Then Tally shushes him, but maybe I’m wrong.

  * * *

  I know it makes me crazy nerdy to admit it, but I like libraries. Actually I love libraries, and the HHHS library is really cool. And I can say that with some authority because the libraries in the City are pretty amazing. But what the library at HHHS is lacking in size compared to those, it totally rocks in style. And it’s all because of Mrs. Zinnia. First of all there are plants everywhere. And she has rainbow catchers mounted in the upper windows, which, when the light hits them the right way, make the whole library light up. And she’s constantly changing the artwork, asking artists from around the region to lend her new paintings and sculptures. Right now a guy who makes these crazy sculptures out of found objects has his pieces everywhere. I sit at the table under a giant octopus made out of a couple of pasta strainers, random silverware, and dozens of gears and springs and bits of glass. I spot Charlotte sitting at a table way in the back. She looks up and sees me. I wave. She gives me a smile but quickly looks back down at the book in front of her. Weird.

  I spread out my history notes on the table in front of me and start running through them again. I can remember the names and the details, but never the dates, so when a shadow falls across my notebook, I’m mumbling numbers to myself in a way that might make me seem mental.

  I look up. Marcus.

  “Hey,” he says. “I don’t want to bother you. I just haven’t seen you in a couple of days.”

  I smile. I do a little dance in my head. Marcus missed me. But then who should appear walking out of the rainbows? Esmeralda of course.