My mouth, which up until a few days before possessed simply some harmless gaps between my teeth, was now a tangled cage of wire and metal brackets that had cut a series of highways into the inner side of my cheek.
I could eat only liquid foods. Even pudding was somewhat beyond my grasp, as was soup with chunks of noodles or vegetables. Not to mention the fact that I also had to cope with the sharp pains of wire cutting into my soft, defenseless cheek whenever I talked, smiled, or sneezed. The only thing saving me from crying was a small plastic container of dental wax given to me by the kindly assistant at the orthodontist’s office who said she was sorry when she tightened the wires around my teeth.
The dental wax (long cigarette-shaped sticks of white putty) easily broke off into chunks to be carefully placed over the braces wire as a barrier between them and my flesh. I struck a balance between my pain threshold and my fashion sense, managing to keep the wax concentrated at the back of my mouth, away from my front teeth. My back molars, in fact, were entirely encased in wax.
Kimberly told me that enough of her Cover Girl lipstick in frosted ice pink would disguise the fact that instead of teeth I now had barbed wire. Vivien agreed.
“No one will even notice,” Vivien reassured me.
I ignored her.
I refused to speak to Vivien for, among other reasons, not being persuaded to wait two weeks until after the dance to take me to the orthodontist. Besides, after the Roller Rink Debacle I no longer trusted her judgment on what boys would or would not notice.
The dance was held in the gym, which was decorated with blue and white streamers, Dixieland Middle School colors. At the center of the gym, there hung a giant Trojan piñata head. The DJ was playing Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s “Relax,” and a few brave souls tried to dance at the center of the gym. Most of us, however, huddled awkwardly along the sidelines.
Kevin Peterson was with his current girlfriend, Debbie Jenkins, head cheerleader, who had that perfectly hot-rolled, big-hair-bangs look complemented by blue eyeliner and matching blue mascara. Debbie was thirteen but looked seventeen.
Tears for Fears’ “Everybody Wants to Rule the World” came on, and I watched as they slow-danced together, Kevin slipping his hands a bit lower than Debbie’s waist in a suggestive swing. The song faded, and Kevin took Debbie’s hand, leading her off the dance floor toward the bleachers, where they disappeared behind the rows. It could only be assumed they planned to Make Out. No one went there for any other reason. You didn’t go there to discuss music or to compare dance moves. The dark, dusty hole beneath the stands was for one purpose and one purpose only: Sucking Face.
“Hey, Jen,” came the voice of Peter Deed, who was hovering beside me. In middle school, he was forever hovering. I knew he liked me. But I didn’t usually take much notice, since I was busy mooning over Kevin Peterson.
In elementary school, everyone called him Peter Peed, after an unfortunate incident on the playground involving him wetting his pants during a particularly grueling game of dodgeball. Peter had only barely transcended his elementary school nickname by mysteriously disappearing for a whole school year to live with his dad in Little Rock. He returned to be with his mother at the start of middle school, brandishing a Zippo lighter, and Journey and Foreigner concert T-shirts. No one now called him Peter Peed, but when I looked at him, sometimes I still saw the boy who clutched his pants on the playground in fourth grade, crying.
“Peter!” I said, as if he were the one person I really wanted to see. “How are you?”
“Uh—fine,” Peter mumbled, shocked at my enthusiasm. Usually, I did my best to discourage actual conversations. He wasn’t hideous, I’d give him that. But he was no Kevin Peterson.
Peter was a little on the short and pudgy side, but he did have nice brown eyes. And his hair was okay. He had it spiked up with gel.
“I like your shirt,” I told him, indicating his torn black Foreigner T.
“You do?” Peter blinked, taken aback by my compliment.
“So, uh, Peter …” I was desperately trying to think of something more to say. “You have a girlfriend?”
Peter snorted. “No,” he said, shaking his head, as if this were a dumb question, and, in fairness, it probably was.
“Great. You want to, uh, go together or something?”
“What?” Peter cried.
“Uh, I mean, you want to go sit down?”
Peter shrugged. I didn’t think he was getting what I was saying.
“Do you want to go sit over there,” I said, pointing to the make-out corner of the gym.
This was rash on my part, but I didn’t care. I wanted to go over to those bleachers and I didn’t want to go alone.
“Over there?” Peter squeaked, understanding dawning. He recovered quickly, however. “Uh, yeah, yeah, definitely, sure.”
Duran Duran piped in through the speakers, and I stomped over to the bleachers to the tune of “Union of the Snake.”
* * *
We sat in a darkened corner of the bleachers known informally as the Kissing Staging Area. Serious making out was being done below our feet, underneath the bleachers. We sat in silence during Duran Duran, and then Belinda Carlisle came on the speakers, belting out “Heaven is a Place on Earth” to a gym where there were only four people dancing.
I could see Kevin Peterson hugging Debbie, and I snuggled a little closer to Peter. At least he didn’t smell, I thought. He might not have been as cute as Kevin Peterson, but I supposed I could do much worse.
I carefully smoothed out the Espirit polka dot skirt I wore, the one I had lobbied so hard for Vivien to buy. This was after we’d spent an hour in the juniors’ department, with Vivien shouting out in the store, “What’s the big deal about E-spirt,” pronouncing it “ee-spirt” instead of “uh-spree.” It was almost as embarrassing as the time she referred in public to Bono from U2 as “Bone-o.”
“You want a jawbreaker?” Peter asked me, retrieving from his jacket pocket a giant red ball wrapped in cellophane.
I ran my tongue over the sharp wire on the front of my teeth. My orthodontist’s instructions were clear. No gum. No nacho chips. No taffy. No caramel. Not to mention, my teeth were still sore. But I felt a little rebellious and willing to court danger.
“Sure,” I said.
Peter smiled. He ripped open the jawbreaker and then popped it into his mouth.
“Hey,” I cried, giving him a shove in the arm.
“I’ll pass it to you,” Peter said, his lips curling up into a leer.
“Gross!” I cried, understanding slowly dawning on me. He wanted to pass me a used piece of gum.
“You’ve never done that before?” Peter asked, incredulous.
“What? Haven’t you even kissed anybody before?”
I watched Kevin Peterson and Debbie in an impressive lip lock below us.
Backed into a corner, I lied.
“Yes,” I said. “Of course I have.”
“So, the gum thing isn’t a big deal then,” Peter said.
“It’s still kind of gross.”
Peter shrugged.
“You want to kiss me or not?” he asked me.
I considered my options. One: I could kiss him, lose my lip virginity, and then risk being passed a very unhygienic piece of gym. Two: I could tell him to shove off, and perhaps never kiss anyone ever and live through the rest of my teen years without the coveted knowledge of how to kiss a boy.
And besides, what if everyone did the gum pass? What if that was just another version of kissing, like French kissing? Maybe it had a name and I didn’t even know it: Bubble Yum Kissing. I might as well sample the technique.
I nodded.
Peter visibly relaxed. He drew me to him and put his face close to mine, so close our foreheads were touching and I could smell the cherry cinnamon spice from his jawbreaker. For once, I wasn’t thinking about Kevin Peterson. I was focused on Peter.
“Uh, can you take those rubber bands off?” Peter asked me, dr
awing back. “I had a bad experience with those.”
I realized he was referring to the rubber bands in my braces. Embarrassed, I ducked my head and took off the bands.
“Better,” Peter said.
My lips were slightly parted (as I’ve seen in all the movies, as well as in the list of “Ten Things You Should Know About Kissing,” which I read in YM). He put his lips on mine, and at first they were nice and soft. Who knew boys’ lips were so soft? And then, ever so slightly, I felt the flicker of his tongue. Then, in a sudden, swift movement, Peter pushed the wad of gum in my mouth and pulled away.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Peter asked me.
Tentatively, I started to chew the gum. It tasted like cherry. I smiled. My poor sore lips and teeth ached at the contact. I winced a little.
“I haven’t kissed a Japanese girl before,” Peter noted, absently.
“I’m only half,” I reminded him.
Peter shrugged. “Same difference,” he said. “Only your eyes aren’t so squinty.”
I was not sure if I should take this as a compliment. I glanced over at Kevin Peterson. He wasn’t kissing Debbie Jenkins anymore. In fact, he was looking up at Peter and me with interest.
“Okay, now it’s your turn,” Peter said, leaning in.
Feeling Kevin Peterson’s eyes on us, I kissed Peter, maneuvered the gum, managing to slip it back to Peter without dropping it, or doing something equally embarrassing.
It was in the split second after the pass that I realized something very sharp was poking my back cheek.
The dental wax I’d put on my back braces had come loose. Quickly, I searched my mouth. No sign of it. I had either swallowed the wax or passed it back to Peter attached to his jawbreaker.
My heart started to speed up, and my palms went clammy.
If he figured it out … I was doomed. Ruined. No boy would ever kiss me again. I’d be known as Wax Lips Jen, or something equally embarrassing.
The realization that something wasn’t quite right with the gum seemed to be crystallizing in Peter’s head. He frowned, furrowed his brow, and chewed thoughtfully.
“Pass it back to me,” I pleaded, knowing that getting the evidence away from Peter would be the best defense.
Peter was slow to move. He was still chewing, his eyes focusing off in the distance as if he was trying to figure something out.
I kept silent, trying to gauge how much Peter already knew.
“There’s something I should tell you,” Peter said.
The gum was going to be the death of me. What if the wax had already come off ? And how was he not tasting it?
“I think we should break up,” he said.
“What?” I cried. We had only been going together for fifteen minutes.
“It’s almost summer, and I’m too young to be tied down,” Peter said.
Clearly, Peter had let his leather jacket and Journey concert shirts go to his head. I didn’t even really like Peter. He wasn’t supposed to break up with me.
Peter took my hand and then spit out the used piece of gum.
“By the way,” Peter said. “I think something is wrong with your spit. This gum tastes funny.”
I saw now, looking at the wrinkled ball of used gum, that this was where my wax went—there were braids of white mixed in with the red.
“It’s kind of gross,” Peter said, and then pulled himself up from the bleachers, leaving me holding his used-up gum, a red cherry pulp.
—Mr. Miyagi, The Karate Kid II
No worry, Miyagi fix everything.
“Riley,” I cry, trying to recover from the shock of having just kissed Kevin Peterson. “Uh, this is Kevin Peter-son.”
“We already met,” Riley says, not looking at me but at Kevin.
“At the rehearsal,” Kevin says.
The two men stare at each other for a beat or two.
“Kevin! Kevin, where are you?” cries Lucy, who comes out of the front doors next. “THERE you are. I’ve been looking all over for you, sugah.”
Lucy’s sweet southern twang sounds a little forced. Lucy takes in Riley, me, and Kevin and hesitates a moment.
“Everything all right out here? Ya’ll look like you’re at a funeral or something.”
“We’re fine,” Kevin says.
“Well, come on inside, my mama wants to make a toast,” Lucy says, dragging Kevin by the hand back inside the restaurant.
Riley turns to follow them but I catch his arm.
“Wait,” I say.
“Look, it’s not any of my business, is it?” Riley says. He sounds a bit peevish.
“But it’s not what you think,” I say, realizing that I sound exactly like Tiffany.
“Look, you don’t owe me anything, remember?” he says, throwing my words back in my face.
“But …” I start again. “He kissed me. I swear I didn’t want him to.”
“What? Like with Paul? You’re telling me that every man you run into mauls you?”
That’s so not fair! I feel like I have traveled back in time. I’m in grade school again where everyone switches boyfriends and girlfriends and there’s speculation on who kissed whom and when.
“Riley, wait,” I say, but he brushes past me.
That night, I barely sleep. I toss and turn so heavily in bed that I wake even Grandma Saddie, who sleeps sounder than the dead.
“Ya-shee, you’re like a Tasmanian Devil,” Grandma Saddie says, before rolling over and falling back asleep.
I can’t help it. I’m thinking about Riley, about Kevin Peterson, about the fact that even though it wasn’t my fault, I may have inadvertently ruined my cousin Lucy’s chance for happiness. I can’t decide which I feel more: guilt for letting Kevin Peterson kiss me, or anger that he tried to kiss me at all. Isn’t he the one getting married, for heaven’s sake? Not to mention, I can’t stop thinking about the look on Riley’s face. There was surprise, and maybe hurt, but definitely disappointment.
After two hours of lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, I decide to creep down to the kitchen. I’m surprised to find the light there already on, and Lucy, wearing her pink frilly pajamas, standing by the sink and eating Cherry Garcia ice cream straight from the container.
“So you were the ice cream thief,” I say. My voice surprises her, and she jumps a little. When we were kids, ice cream would always go mysteriously missing. Vivien always blamed Bubba.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Lucy says. Without her makeup, she looks ridiculously young. In her pink pajamas, she could pass for fifteen, not twenty.
“Mind sharing?” I ask her, grabbing a spoon from the silverware drawer.
“Sure.” Lucy offers me the pint. It’s the closest I’ve seen Lucy get to being generous. It’s a sure sign she’s not feeling herself and that something is bothering her. I feel that maybe I should tell her about Kevin, but I don’t know how. What do you say? “By the way, your fiancé tried to make a move on me”?
“You can’t sleep?” I ask Lucy.
“Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” Lucy asks, ignoring my question. “Getting married?”
“I don’t know, Lucy. That’s a decision only you can make.”
“I know what you and Kimberly think,” she says, pulling a face. “You think I’m too young. Aunt Vivien thinks so, too.”
I’m silent.
“You girls, though, you’re both so smart. I’m just the one who won a few beauty pageants.”
“Lucy, you’re smart.” Just not disciplined in your studies, I don’t add.
“Maybe Kevin Peterson is the best I can do, you know?”
I put down my spoon. “Lucy, no one you marry should be a life accomplishment,” I say, sounding like Kimberly. “I’m not married, but I don’t think marriage should be a goal or a crowning achievement. Marriage is about sharing your life with someone. But it’s not supposed to be who you are.”
“That’s easy for you to say; you don’t care about being alone,” Lucy says. “You
don’t care if people talk about you and say that you couldn’t find a man willing to marry you. I mean you’re twenty-eight. God, if I were single and twenty-eight, I’d kill myself.”
Typical Lucy.
I take a long, deep breath and try to remember that I’m back in Dixieland, where women are spinsters at twenty-five.
“Lucy, you have your whole life ahead of you, and you can do whatever you’d like. You could go to college, or travel, or anything.”
“But I took two classes at the community college in Little Rock and failed them both,” Lucy whines.
“Look, you can do what you want to do if you put your mind to it. How much did you actually study?”
“Not a lot,” she admits.
“There you go. You can’t rely on your life to be lived for you. You’ve got to make some decisions on your own. You’ve got to decide what it is you want.”
Lucy thinks about this a minute. “But I wouldn’t know how to live on my own.”
It occurs to me that maybe Lucy wasn’t simply spoiled. Maybe her whole life everyone rushed to do things for her, so she never really learned how to do things on her own. After all, she was going to go straight from living with her mother to living with her husband.
“Did you know that Kevin flirts all the time?” Lucy asks me, changing subjects.
“Uh, yeah, I sort of picked up on that.” I really ought to tell her, I think.
“Other people say things about how I should put him on a short leash. I know what they say,” Lucy says. “Even Billy Connor says so.”
Glue-eating Billy Connor? “Billy Connor has an opinion?” I ask her. She shrugs. “About Kevin …” I start.
“What about Kevin?” Lucy asks me.
I look at her expectant face, and I lose my nerve.
“I’m no expert.” I’m quick to add, “I just think that if you have second thoughts, maybe you should take them seriously.” I hold my breath, waiting for her to answer me.
She looks up, thoughtful. “Maybe,” she sighs. She’s silent awhile.
“You know,” Lucy says after another long pause. “I’ve got some extra Biore strips if you want to do something about your skin.”
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