Who I Kissed

by Janet Gurtler

  I pause. We both know who’s on the other end.

  “It’s Sam. Samantha Waxman.” Recipient of the lame-o of the year award.

  There’s no response.

  “Uh,” I say. Brilliant. All the things I rehearsed evaporate from my head. My mind is blank. I squeeze my eyes tight. “I was wondering if we could talk.”

  I hear nothing. No breathing. No background noise. I wonder if she hung up on me.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “I’m here,” she answers, her voice quiet and hesitant.

  I inhale deeply, pant loudly, and then plunge back in. “So. I know this is awkward, but I was hoping we could talk sometime. Not on the phone. I suck on the phone.” I close my eyes again and shake my head at myself. “As you can tell. Anyways. God, Chloe. I’m sorry. I’m not good at this. Do you think we could maybe meet in person? Sometime? For coffee or something?”

  “Okay.” Her voice is quiet.

  “Really?” I stumble for more but clearly, I haven’t thought this all through. “How about now?”

  She doesn’t answer, and I curse myself and hurry to fill the silence. “Of course not. It’s Halloween. I’m sorry. Another time.”

  “I could meet you now,” she says.

  “Really?”

  “It’s okay, Samantha. It’s not like I’m busy trick-or-treating. Or going to Taylor’s party or anything.” My cheeks flush. I want to melt away.

  “I want to talk to you too,” Chloe says.

  My heart pitter-patters. Fear. “Uh. Good.” I try to think of somewhere to meet her. Why did I not plan this better? I don’t know many coffee shops in town.

  “How about at Good Earth?” she says. “Fifth Avenue and Twenty-Fourth Street. On the corner. Not far from either of us.”

  Neither one of us says anything about how we each know where the other lives. I googled her house online. I’ve seen pictures of it from different street angles.

  “Good Earth,” I say. “Okay. What time?” It’s far enough away from the high school that it’s not likely we’ll run into anyone. A good choice.

  We agree to meet in a half an hour, and both of us hang up.

  ***

  The streets are still vibrant with Halloween when I leave the house. Little kids with costumes over winter coats are being replaced by older kids. Younger than me, but not old enough for house parties, they wander around in groups. The girls are underdressed, and the boys jump around and whoop it up. Some trick-or-treat, some just hang out.

  When I walk into the coffee shop, Chloe is the only customer at a booth. She’s facing the door, but her head is down and her long, dark hair hangs to her shoulders. She glances around when the bell above the door rings. She’s beautiful. Her thin fragility is emphasized by a black turtleneck sweater that brings out her pale complexion.

  The scent of freshly brewed coffee wafts in the air. I lift my hand and slowly walk toward her. “I’m going to grab a tea. Do you want one?” I ask.

  She points to a mug in front of her. “I already got coffee.” Halloween music plays quietly in the background. A rapped-up version of “Monster Mash.”

  I head to the counter, where a girl about my age is wearing a trampy zombie costume. Like a French maid zombie. I interrupt her mad texting, but she serves up my mint tea quickly. She goes back to her phone as soon as she hands me my change. I wrap my hands around the steaming hot mug, carry it over to the table, and slide into the booth, opposite Chloe.

  We stare at each other for a moment.

  Chloe’s eyes reflect everything I’ve dreaded seeing. They’re shiny with sadness. Dark brown shades of sorrow. “Did you walk?” I ask.

  “No. I took my mom’s car.”

  “I ran here.” As if it matters. I sound stupid.

  We’re both quiet for a minute. “Thanks for meeting me,” I manage. It feels like we’re on a blind date. There’s familiarity, but a huge dose of awkward. I suck at small talk.

  “I am so sorry,” I blurt out, and my voice catches. I reach into my coat pocket, take out the folded note, put it on the table, and slide it toward her. “I said it better here,” I whisper.

  She stares down at the paper. Tears rim her eyes, and I blink quickly.

  Stay strong. Stay strong. No crying.

  She picks the paper up by the corner. Holds it a moment and then opens it. Looks at me and then down, and her eyes dart back and forth over the words. She reads quickly. She stops. Blinks.

  “He was,” she says. “Alex was a great guy. He could also be a pain, but…” She folds the note back into squares. “I loved him.”

  She closes her eyes and inhales deeply through her nose, holding the breath in and then letting it go. “No one wants to talk about him,” she says. “At school. Except Zee and Casper. Everyone else avoids saying his name. You know. Like they’re trying to pretend he never existed.”

  My lips press together tight, but I force myself to speak. “I guess people don’t want to make you sad.”

  She lifts a shoulder but doesn’t look at me. “I don’t want to forget him.”

  I lower my eyes and study the wisps of steam coming up from my tea. The scent of mint reaches my nose. “You won’t.”

  “I’m afraid,” she says. And I know that she means so many things. A phone starts ringing from the bench beside her. She reaches for her purse, digs around, pulls out a phone, and checks the screen. I wait for her to answer it, but she puts it down and ignores the next ring.

  “It’s okay. I don’t need to get it.”

  “I don’t want to make things worse. Being around,” I tell her. “I’ve wanted to say I’m sorry. But…I didn’t know how.”

  She lifts up the paper. “You did okay here.”

  We’re both quiet.

  “I know you feel terrible,” she says.

  I try to swallow away the lump in my throat. “Your family…I can’t imagine.”

  She frowns and looks down again. “No. You can’t.” She lifts her cup and sips at her coffee. “My mom cried so hard when she got the flowers and note. That you and your dad sent.”

  My head snaps up, and I frown, but she’s staring into her coffee, as if looking for answers inside of it.

  “My dad cried too. I never saw him cry before Alex died.”

  If I could take a pill to suck out my insides, shrivel me up into dried-out bones for dogs to cart away, I would do it. Right there.

  “There’s more to that night than you know,” she whispers, and then she looks at me and I see something else in her eyes. It looks like fear. “I haven’t told them.” She wipes under her eyes and takes another long sip of coffee. “But you deserve to know.”

  “What?” I watch her swallow her coffee and glance around the empty shop. She follows my gaze. It’s all so surreal. Like a movie set. Decorations above the door. Skeletons made of paper. Ghosts. All of it rather amateur. Homemade. I wonder if the zombie French maid did it herself.

  “There were a bunch of people at Casper’s house before the party.”

  I turn back to Chloe. Watch her mouth move. I can’t shake the sensation that I’m dreaming. That this isn’t really happening to me.

  “I had soccer practice and needed to shower and stuff, so I didn’t go. Alex was pissed off at me anyway.” She talks slowly and pauses between sentences. “It’s a long story. He was usually cool with me hanging with them.”

  She tucks her hair behind her ear. “Anyhow, I met them at Taylor’s. At least they didn’t drive. They walked there. Alex, stupid drunk Alex, left his backpack at Casper’s. All his meds were inside.” She studies her nails. “He never usually went anywhere without them. But that night…” She shakes her head, glances over at the zombie French maid. “If I’d been there, I would have remembered.”

  Her hair fl
ops out from her ear, and she tucks it back again and sighs.

  “When I got to Taylor’s, Alex was downstairs. They were smoking pot down there. I was looking for someone, but when I saw Alex, I was so pissed off. Instead of dragging him out, I thought, you know, it would serve him right, for being so stupid. It would throw him off for the next few days, and maybe he’d learn a lesson.”

  My memory is tweaked to the sweetish scent of smoke on Alex. Him saying he was on the deck to get some fresh air. The image makes me uncomfortable.

  Behind me, the chime tinkles over the door. Chloe glances over and frowns at whoever walked in.

  “Chloe!” a high-pitched male voice calls. “Your mom said you were here.”

  Casper is standing in the entrance way, dressed in a pirate costume. A skull headband, a big fake hoop earring. Tight striped pants and a vest that shows off his bare chest. I cringe inside a little. It’s the male equivalent of a skanky girl Halloween costume. His head tilts, and he blinks when he sees it’s me sitting across from Chloe.

  “Hey, Sam,” he says. His eyes dart from her face to mine and back. “What’s up?”

  Chloe reaches for the paper on the table in front of us and puts her hands over it.

  “Kind of obvious, isn’t it? We’re talking,” Chloe says. Her tone is a little rude, but they’ve known each other a lot longer than I have.

  “Cool.” He takes a step toward us and glances at the girl behind the counter and then back to us. “I stopped by your house before going to Taylor’s. Your mom asked me to make sure you’re okay, and you weren’t answering your phone.”

  “I’m fine.” She makes a face and takes a sip of coffee.

  It’s obvious we all know what’s going on. What Chloe and I are doing. “You want to join us?” I ask and start scooting my butt along the booth.

  “No!” Chloe says, her voice loud and firm. I stop sliding. Chloe frowns, her lips pressed tightly together, and it’s clear she’s not happy with him. Not at all.

  It’s kind of uncomfortable to be in the middle of whatever is going on between them. Like having someone’s parents argue in front of me at their house. “I’m fine,” she says. “And you’re on your way to Taylor’s. So don’t let us stop you. You can tell my mom I’m fine.”

  He crosses his arms in front of our table, not appearing upset at Chloe’s behavior. “You two having a good talk?”

  “Fine, Casper,” Chloe says and picks up her mug. “God. I need a refill.” She glances at me. “I’ll be right back.” She slips out to the counter.

  Casper and I watch the zombie barista put down her phone, pick up a coffeepot, and walk over to Chloe to refill it.

  “How’s it going?” Casper asks. His voice is casual, not giving away the intimacy we’ve shared or the tension that tangles between him and Chloe. I bet he’ll be a politician someday.

  “Fine.” I force a smile. “Everything okay with you and Chloe?”

  “Yeah. She’s pissed at me.” He doesn’t offer an explanation and doesn’t seem terribly fazed. “Her mom is using me to check up on her.” He smiles and lowers his voice. “I’m glad you’re talking.” He gives me a sexy smile, and I imagine him at home practicing it in his mirror. “I wish you’d come to the party, but I get it. I can’t wait until the festival.”

  I lift my eyebrow and watch Chloe stride back to the table, her coffee cup in her hand and a sour look on her face.

  “Okay,” she says when she reaches us. She puts down the mug and slides back into the booth. “You can report to my mom that I’m fine, Jack Sparrow,” she says to Casper.

  “I’m Captain Hook,” he says.

  She lifts her chin. “Whatever, pirate.” She takes a sip of coffee and contemplates him over the top of the mug. “Either way, I’m sure you can’t stop thinking about sailing.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  “You have ship for brains.”

  A snort escapes my mouth. I laugh out loud.

  Casper rolls his eyes at her. “Chloe. As always, you drip with charm.”

  He tips his fake sword at us, but his expression suggests he might actually be hurt. “Arrrrgh. Didn’t know we were anti-pirate at this table.”

  Her scowl softens. “Casper, Samantha and I are in the middle of a conversation and it’s kind of intense. You get that, right?”

  He shrugs and smiles at us both. “Of course. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Doing my duty for mama bear. I’ll see you two later.”

  “See you, me matey,” I call, trying to keep things light.

  “Arrrrrghhhh. By hook or by crook,” he calls.

  The bell dings as he leaves.

  Chloe shakes her head when he’s gone. She takes a big sip of coffee and stares at the door. “I think he’s around so much because he’s in love with my mom.”

  She glances at me. “Not in a creepy way. Parents love Casper, he’s that kind of guy. My mom likes having him around. It makes her feel closer to Alex. She doesn’t know they were kind of…” She puts her mug down and traces her finger around the rim. “Zee, on the other hand, finds it hard to talk to her right now. He feels guilty or something.”

  I bite my lip and glance away.

  “I guess I was kind of rude to Casper.” She sighs. “It’s complicated. Everything is.”

  The phone rings again, but she doesn’t even seem to notice. “He was there that night,” she says.

  I flinch and wonder if I’ll ever be able to talk about that night without wanting to cry. “Casper? Yeah. I know. I saw him.”

  “I mean downstairs. With Alex. Casper was smoking the joint with Alex.”

  I open my mouth. Shocked. “Casper smokes weed?” Mr. Perfect Grades, Ivy League–bound Casper Cooper and illegal drugs. He’ll have to say he didn’t inhale.

  She glances up. “Well. Not all the time or anything. Same with Alex. I mean. We’ve all kind of experimented.” She sighs and waves at the letter I wrote. “You don’t. Drink. Or smoke, or anything.”

  I shake my head. “Swimming.” And then I remember I don’t swim anymore and take a sip of the tea that’s pretty much cold.

  “Zee swims too,” Chloe says and her voice quavers. “We’re not bad. Not really.” She sniffles and wipes a tear from her eye. “It’s not like we do stuff like that all the time.”

  “I’m not judging anyone,” I tell her softly. Me. Judging. After what happened. As if.

  “Well. Maybe I am,” she says. “Judging us, I mean. I was drinking too, and I was mad at Alex. I should have made sure he had his meds. Especially after I saw him downstairs. But instead of going to Casper’s to get his stuff…” She drops her head and her shoulders shake, but she’s silent.

  I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. “It wasn’t your fault, Chloe.” I can’t believe I’m offering her comfort. That she feels like she had a part in it. She’s taking on guilt that clearly belongs to me.

  “It was me who kissed him,” I remind her. “I had the peanut butter sandwich, and I barely knew him. I mean. He was a great guy, but…”

  “No,” she interrupts. “Everyone heard what people used to say about you at your old school.” She drops her eyes. “That you liked girls. You probably wanted to start fresh.”

  It’s an interesting theory. I only wish it were true.

  “I kind of thought you had a thing for Zee. But I guess we were all trying to act more sophisticated. Sex. Drugs. Drinking. We’re just a bunch of stupid kids.”

  She’s sobbing softly now. I’m shocked that she seems to forget that I’m the one who caused her brother’s death. Nobody else.

  She looks up and sniffles. “We all had a role that night. Zee feels bad too,” she says. “He always made sure Alex had his meds and stuff.”

  A tear slips from her eye and splashes on the table.

&n
bsp; I wiggle on my seat, and the leather groans. “No.” I glance around the empty restaurant. The coffee barista is sitting on a stool, still tapping at her phone. I hope she has unlimited texting. She’s probably complaining about working Halloween night and being stuck with two losers. Or maybe she recognized us and is telling friends that the peanut killer and the dead boy’s sister are having coffee. “It was my fault.”

  “Yeah? Tell Zee that. He’s furious he got drunk. He doesn’t usually. And he was with Kaitlin again, which he also feels bad about.” She makes a face and then looks up, and the pity shines through the tears rimming her eyes. She wipes them away, but the pity stays.

  I shake my head. I don’t want to talk about Zee and Kaitlin with her. I don’t want to hear that she knows how much I liked Zee. I kissed her brother. Killed him. I chew my lip, but she keeps talking.

  “Zee thinks if he hadn’t made out with Kaitlin, you might not have kissed Alex,” she whispers.

  I blink and blink and blink. Shake my head. I don’t want her to think that. Alex was her brother. “Please don’t, Chloe.”

  I push the tea away. So much for the soothing qualities of mint. The smell is making me sick.

  “How’s your family doing?” I ask softly to change the topic.

  She sniffs and then chuckles, but it’s not happy. “My mom is a mess. She cries all the time. Especially when she thinks I can’t hear her. My dad has stopped crying, but he’s sad. They’re both messed up.”

  “You are too,” I say.

  “Yeah.” She digs inside her purse and pulls out a package of Kleenex. Wipes her nose.

  “I miss the weirdest things about him. The way he would always pull my hair to get my attention. The way he would laugh obnoxiously at jokes. The way he read my People magazines and pretended not to. He knew all the celebrity gossip. And the stupid Hot Wheels collection that’s still in his room. I keep waiting for it to seem normal. That’s he’s gone. But it doesn’t.”

  We stare at each other, and I don’t think I’ve ever looked so deeply inside someone’s soul. Felt such a connection to someone else’s inner pain.

  “I didn’t tell my mom I was meeting you,” she says.