Kiss And Blog

by ALSON NOËL

But Autumn just shakes her head, sits on her bed, and starts flipping through her drawings. “Nope, it’s definitely local,” she says, not even looking at me.

  “What makes you so sure?” I ask, trying to sound sort of neutral, and only mildly interested.

  “Well, for starters, did you read the one where she talks about skinny smoker dude? I mean, hello, there’s only one of those that I know of.”

  I just laugh. I mean, if this is the only evidence she can come up with, then I’m starting to feel pretty good about my prospects for keeping my anonymity intact. So I just roll my eyes and go, “Autumn, that’s insane. I’m sure there’s a skinny smoker dude on practically every corner, in every downtown area, in every city in America, if not the entire world!”

  But she just shrugs, finds the picture she’s looking for, and carries it out of the room. While I frantically scroll back through all of my entries, wondering how on earth I could’ve been so careless.

  Twenty-one

  I’m going to hell. No, seriously. Got myself a one-way ticket, nonstop, nonrefundable, and definitely nonnegotiable. And I feel so awful about the reason why, that I’m actually pretty reluctant to share it.

  Though I do think it’s safe to say that during the short amount of time it took to engage in the “why” I wasn’t exactly feeling all that bad about it.

  In fact, it was pretty much the exact opposite.

  It was only later, when I got caught, that I started to suffer.

  It was the Sunday evening following my birthday (or Thanksgiving Day, whichever is more important to you), and I went over to Rey’s because he just got back from his family’s place in Napa Valley. And after saying hello to his parents, he led me into the media room, where he got this big smile on his face as he presented me with this small, thin, shiny, wrapped package.

  “Happy birthday,” he said, handing it to me.

  I slipped my nail stub under the transparent tape and removed the navy-blue paper, where I found a red plastic jewel case containing a homemade, compilation CD, and some pretty impressive cover art that I recognized immediately as Rey’s. And after standing there for a moment, turning it over in my hand and reading each side, I smiled shyly, and said, “Um, thanks. This is so sweet of you.”

  Then he took it from me and said, “First you gotta hear it.” He slid it into the stereo, pushed Play, and just stood there smiling as the room filled with the sound of Social Exile (sans moi) doing an amazing rendition of “A Hazy Shade of Winter” (which if you’ll remember, is the exact same song he sang to me in Dietrich’s that day). Only this time he got all the lyrics right.

  I just stood very still, listening to the song, and slowly realizing how Rey had arranged it all just for me, just because it was my birthday. And when it finally ended, I felt so wildly happy and elated, yet also kind of embarrassed and unsure of what to do next. I mean, even though I wanted it to mean something big, the fact was, I was painfully aware of how he was still with Shay. Which basically meant that this gift probably didn’t mean near as much to him as it did to me. And that it was probably just another recorded jam session, in a succession of many, and therefore was never meant to be a big deal.

  And fully aware of how I needed to just relax and stay very cool about the whole thing or risk outing my true feelings, I just looked right at him and said, “Oh, that’s so cool. Thanks.”

  Then I leaned in to hug him.

  Which, if you think about it, is really not such a big deal since that’s what people usually do when someone gives them a gift. Besides, it’s not like we hadn’t ever hugged before.

  But this time, as I pulled away, our eyes accidentally met, and the next thing I knew, we were kissing. And I don’t mean some little grandma-style peck on the cheek. I’m talking about real-deal, full-blown, Hollywood-love-scene kissing. And it was so perfect. So seriously awesome. And his hands were all buried in my hair, and mine were wrapped around his neck, and even while it was happening I could hardly believe that it was really happening, because it was just that amazing.

  But then someone came into the room, cleared their throat, and said, “Excuse me.”

  And the second we broke apart, I turned toward the door and saw Shay.

  “Happy birthday,” she said, throwing a small wrapped box at me, aiming for my head, and only missing by a fraction.

  I just stood there, staring at the silver box with the curly purple ribbon lying at my feet, feeling like the most horrible person on the entire planet, as she ran crying from the room.

  Then Rey yelled, “Shay! Oh, man. Wait!”

  And as he went running after her, I picked up the gift, set it on the table, and let myself out.

  And on Monday morning, I quit the band.

  “Forget it. You can’t quit,” Rey says, shaking his head and looking at me.

  “But I just did.” I shrug, taking a sip of my coffee.

  He leans toward me, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on mine. “Listen, believe it or not, we worked it out. She’s mad and all, don’t get me wrong, but that’s my problem, not yours. So don’t worry about it. It’s handled.”

  I glance at him briefly, then look away. I mean, doesn’t he get it? Doesn’t he know that’s exactly the reason I’m quitting? Because now that we’ve had that amazing kiss, I can no longer sit around and act like I don’t care when they kiss. It’s like, there’s just no way on earth I can go through all that again. In fact, little does he know, but not only am I quitting the band, but I’m also quitting the lunch table. And after today, these early-morning coffee meetings will be history, too. Only I don’t tell him any of that. He’ll find out soon enough. “Winter,” he says, his eyes pleading with me. But I just grab my coffee and stand. “Come on, we’re gonna be late for school,” I say, heading for the door.

  Twenty-two

  My dad is famous. Again. And this time he’s got not only the numbers to back it up, but also the reviews:

  TV Addict magazine says, “Act II is primetime’s newest guilty pleasure!”

  TiVo Times exclaims, “Act II is endlessly watchable!”

  Reality Recap reveals, “Finally, some real-life people worth rooting for!”

  My mother gasps, “Oh, my God, what is your father doing?”

  And then the day after my dad’s stunning reality TV debut, I step on campus and within seconds it’s clear that word is out. Which means that my dad is also out—or at least no longer a secret. And it’s not that anyone actually says anything directly to me, it’s more the way they all look at me as I walk around campus. And the way they nudge one another when I stroll into class. I mean, let’s face it, it wasn’t all that long ago that I was completely invisible to practically everyone other than Clark, Evan, Elijah, Hayden, and Rey. Hell, even Sloane acted like she no longer knew me. So the mere fact that I’m suddenly attracting any kind of notice is pretty much all I need to justify my suspicions. And since I’m well aware of how I’ve done nothing to elicit this kind of attention, I’ve got to believe it’s my dad who’s to thank for all this.

  But later, right after lunch, when I actually overhear a group of freshmen girls singing the opening lines to my dad’s hit song, “Gobsmacked” (which also serves as the show’s theme song), it suddenly dawns on me that the only people in this entire school who could actually connect me to my dad are Rey and Sloane. I mean, let’s face it, Simmons is not exactly considered to be an exotic, unusual, or in any way extraordinary last name. So if it was that alone that prompted all of these people to suddenly take notice of me then why wouldn’t they have noticed me before, wondering if I’m quite possibly the offspring of Gene Simmons, Richard Simmons, or Simmons Beauty Rest mattress?

  So, by following this logic, I’m pretty convinced that this sudden rush of attention most likely stems from the loose lips of either Rey or Sloane. Because like I said, they’re the only ones who know. Which makes one of them responsible.

  Though it’s not like I’m about to confront them or anything, I mean, what
good would it do? What’s done is done. And other than seventh-period chemistry class where we pretty much have no choice but to work as lab partners, Rey and I really don’t talk anymore. And it took a solid week of him trying to talk to me before he finally got the hint and gave up.

  So now we keep all of our brief conversations as professional, businesslike, and to the point as possible. Relegating ourselves to phrases like:

  “Can you pass me that beaker, please?”

  Or, “Don’t forget to light that Bunsen burner.”

  And because of that, my life has become a lot simpler. Which means I’ve pretty much convinced myself that whatever happened that night in the media room is no longer an issue. Not at all important. And in no way relevant to how I’m currently living my life.

  And then, as I’m walking home from school, by myself (even though I know for a fact that Rey and Evan are right directly behind me), I stop at the next corner and wait for the light to change just as Cash Davis pulls up in his big, shiny, black Hummer with his picture-perfect princess (Sloane) sitting right alongside him.

  And believe me, like the second I realize it’s them, I just stare straight ahead, my eyes unwavering on a spot far, far away, pretending like I’ve no idea they’re stopped right there beside me. And just as the light turns green and I step off the curb, Sloane slides down her window, sticks her head out, and goes, “Hey! Winter! Omigod, I didn’t even see you! Do you need a ride?”

  I stop in the middle of the street, looking at her and thinking:

  1. Is she serious?

  2. If she’s serious, then what the heck is she up to?

  3. This may be just the opportunity I need to build up the blog with some up-close-and-personal inside investigating.

  So I smile, nod, and climb into the back, making myself comfortable on the long bench seat. And as Cash pulls away from the curb, I glance quickly at Rey and Evan, just to see their expression. And when my eyes briefly meet Rey’s, well, “shocked” is probably the best way to describe him.

  “So, how’ve you been?” Sloane asks, turning in her seat and smiling at me like the well-trained, well-mannered, gracious hostess that six-week finishing school last spring taught her to be. Acting as though we’re just two old friends, who through no fault of hers simply lost touch.

  And I, automatically assuming my full-on investigative reporter mode, start noting all the little details while nodding and smiling and just basically following her lead. “I’m great,” I tell her. “And you?”

  I watch as she flips her long blond hair over her shoulder, glances at Cash (who, by the way, is totally ignoring me), runs the very tip of her French-manicured nail down the length of his arm (I guess so that I can see in a fully up-close-and- personal kind of way, how she now has an all-access pass to the body of the boy we once only dreamed about), and goes, “Awesome. Everything’s perfect.”

  And I just sit there, holding my smile ‘til the corners of my mouth begin to twitch.

  I wish I could honestly say that none of that bothers me. That seeing her sitting in that bucket seat as though it were her rightful throne, casually fondling Cash Davis’s extremities simply because she can, doesn’t bug me in the least. That knowing she’s probably going further with him than she ever did with her cousin is of no concern to me. That getting a front row center seat to today’s performance of “sit back and watch while I demonstrate just how perfectly, and easily, I succeeded at everything we set out to do, and how you didn’t,” is truly no biggie.

  But that would be a lie.

  Because the awful truth is that no matter how phony I think Sloane’s become, no matter how mean and shallow I know Cash to be, the truth is Sloane has easily succeeded where I failed. She’s claimed what I once wanted. And now she’s sitting before me, like a tiny, perfect, blond goddess next to her sexy, hunky, verbally challenged prince.

  While I take a backseat, as alone and unimpressive as ever.

  But it’s not like I share any of that with her. Instead I just force myself to look her in the eye, and smile even bigger. And then I gaze around the inside of the Hummer, thinking how it’s actually quite a bit smaller than I would’ve guessed.

  “So where should we drop you?” she asks, her eyes traveling over my outfit, starting at my scruffy black Target ballet flats, working up the super-narrow inseam of my straight from SoHo, stovepipe jeans, and ultimately coming to rest on my black “I Wanna Be Sedated” Ramone’s T-shirt that Easton accidentally left behind but said I could wear until he needed it again. “Home?”

  Originally I was headed home. But that was before she appeared. So now, everything’s changed. I mean, let’s not forget the most important detail here—the fact that I’m riding in a Hummer. An object my mom finds so despicable, has such tremendous disdain for, and holds personally responsible for some of the planet’s most egregious disasters (as in, global warming, dependence on foreign oil, parking space hogging), that I’ll be damned if I’ll waste this once in a lifetime, tailor- made, perfect opportunity to totally freak her out.

  So I go, “If you guys could just drop me off right outside the café, then that would be great.” Then I look straight into Sloane’s blue contact enhanced eyes and smile my heart out, as though this is all so totally and completely pleasant, and that there’s no hard feelings or anything at all awkward, weird, or forced about any of this.

  Cash pulls into the empty space directly in front of the café, and I watch as my mom stops clearing a table so she can scowl at the big black beast, her face containing all the disdain and contempt I’d hoped for. So of course I take my time climbing out of the back, grabbing my backpack, and trying to milk this moment for all that it’s worth. And after waving good-bye I turn toward the window, laughing when I see my mom’s jaw dropped down around her knees.

  And just as I’m about to go inside and fend off all the expected inquiries, Sloane sticks her head out the window and goes, “Hey, Winter, I almost forgot to tell you. I saw your dad last night on TV. So cool! Tell him I said hi, k?” Then she smiles and waves, as Cash backs onto the street, and now I know why they gave me a ride.

  THE GOSPEL OF ELEANOR RIGBY

  December, only X amount of shopping days left, people! 2006

  11:10 P.M.

  Current Mood—Cautiously hopeful

  Current Music-”It’s My Life”—original 80’s version

  Quote of the Day-”The fish dies because he opens his mouth.”

  —Spanish proverb

  Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own

  This just in: PRINCESS PINK SACKED BY CAPTAIN WORLD—PASTEL POSSE SECRETLY CELEBRATES.

  It’s official. Princess Pink is back on the block. Though sadly for her she didn’t realize it until it was too late. Until she was already onstage, all dressed up in a bedsheet working overtime as a toga, hoping for the highest bid on the much anticipated “Slave Day.” (Yes, you read that correctly, and even though that’s not the real name as I can’t exactly reveal that due to issues of privacy and anonymity, trust me that it’s basically the same exact gist. Amounting to yet another misguided, politically incorrect, completely insensitive, school-sponsored activity that will do nothing to benefit moi, but everything to support the junior senior promgoers). While Captain world, who clearly was expected to dip into the deep pockets of his never-ending trust fund so that he could “purchase” the cow he’d presumably already “milked” for free, completely no-showed due to an assumed lack of interest. Spiteful, jealous posse members were overheard squealing with glee as they watched Princess Pink sell for the humiliatingly low price of twelve dollars and ninety-five cents, to an overexcited, presumably horny, pimple-faced freshman who apparently reads the same bathroom walls as me.

  And just moments after the festivities ended, yours truly (Eleanor) headed to her much dreaded gym class, unobtrusively trailing behind Pastel Posse members and listening in as they said:

  “Omigod! Did you see her?”

  “Omigod! So sad!�
��

  “Kind of an ego bust, but whatever.”

  “Not like she didn’t deserve it.”

  “You could totally see through that sheet.”

  “Stupid skank.”

  “Fucking bitch.”

  And as they veered down another hall, I continued toward the gym, all the while shaking my head and thinking, And those are her friends?

  And as unbelievable as this may sound, I kind of feel sorry for her. So in honor of that, today there will be no list.

  Adios,

  Eleanor Rigby

  Twenty-three

  Just three days before the much dreaded (well, at least by me) school talent show, Rey corners me. Which, when you consider how he works for my mom, sits next to me in Chemistry, and is now fully aware of how I’m back to eating lunch in the library, kind of makes me wonder why he waited so long in the first place. But I guess after his failed attempt at sending Hayden in

  to convince me to come back out and rejoin the table, he pretty much gave up.

  And believe me, I know for a fact that he’s the one who sent her, because it didn’t take all that long to get her to confess.

  “He feels really bad about the whole thing,” she said, taking the chair across from mine and eyeing my sandwich.

  “So you know?” I asked, quickly averting my eyes and feeling all weird and embarrassed yet also a little curious about what she actually thought of all this.

  But she just shrugged. “Believe me, everyone knows. But I still think you should just relax already. I mean, move on and get over it. There’s tons of guys out there. And once you finally realize that, I’m sure you’ll be able to just get on with your life and forget it ever happened. It’s like, what’s the big deal? It was just a kiss, right?”