Kiss And Blog

by ALSON NOËL

  But hearing her say that made me realize how she didn’t really understand anything. “Hayden,” I finally said, lifting my head to look at her. “When you really like the guy, it’s never just a kiss.”

  And the moment it was out there, spoken like a fact, I suddenly felt a lot better. I mean, it’s not like I was the first girl to pine after a guy who preferred someone else, so there was a pretty good chance that I wouldn’t be the last.

  But Hayden just looked at me, nodding slowly, and running her fingers against the smooth, fake wood desk. “So, do you mind if I join you in here sometimes?” she asked. “Because I get kind of sick of hanging around the guys all the time, you know?”

  And I just looked at her and smiled, feeling relieved that I wouldn’t always have to be alone.

  But now, just as I’m reaching for the beaker I need so I can fill it with, um, stuff (okay, so I don’t really know the difference between a proton, a neutron, and an electron, and have absolutely no idea what the heck I’m supposed to be doing with this beaker. I mean, just because I’m in honors English doesn’t mean I know anything about science), Rey grabs my wrist and goes, “Winter, we need to talk.”

  And without even looking at him I just pull my hand away and go, “Okay, but I need to finish this first.” And I say that with such authority, like there is nothing more important to me than bringing this experiment to its ultimate and final conclusion (whatever that may be). And then I turn away, knowing that I need to start moving at a slowed-down pace, and just take my time with the measuring, charting, and checking everything thrice, doing whatever it takes to ensure I don’t finish until long after the bell rings, if even then.

  But Rey’s not having any of it. Shaking his head in frustration he goes, “Winter, please.”

  And the way he sounds when he says that, so full of anguish and desperation, makes me drop the beaker, halt the experiment, and finally look up at him.

  “Okay,” he says quietly, gazing at me intently. “I’m not sure how to say this, but I really feel like I need to apologize for what happened. It was impulsive and stupid, and I never meant to embarrass you or make you feel so uncomfortable around me.” He presses his lips together and looks away. “And you’ve got to believe me when I say that if I could do anything to erase it, I would. Because now I can see what a huge mistake it was. But since there’s no way I can go back and undo it, I was hoping that maybe you’d consider coming back to the lunch table, so that we can move forward and hopefully just be friends again. What do you say?”

  He’s looking at me, searching my face, and I know that he’s actually being really sincere, trying really hard to convince me of just how much he means all this.

  But what he doesn’t understand is how despite his anguished, heartfelt, sincerely crafted apology, he’s actually made me feel even worse. Because from my side of the table, all I can hear are the echo of words like sorry, stupid, impulsive, uncomfortable, huge mistake, erase. . . And believe me, the pleading look on his face, and his desperate attempt to renew our friendship, really can’t compete when it goes head-to-head with all that.

  But it’s not like I’m about to share any of that with him, so instead, I just nod and smile, and maybe even mutter something sounding vaguely like, “Okay.” And then I force myself to focus my attention solely on this completely confusing experiment, filling beakers, and logging data, like it’s just another day in chem class, and that my eyes aren’t really stinging, and that there’s no huge lump crowding my throat.

  Now that Sloane and Cash are history (and no, I still don’t know why, but I’m working on it), she’s totally back to being tight with the Pastel Posse. Seriously, it’s like every time I see her, she’s completely surrounded by them, as they hover all around her, offering up phony solace and insincere support, like a newly installed airbag in a factory-controlled crash.

  And for someone who was just recently entrenched in her second round of friendlessness, now thanks to my dad, his new show, and his sixteenth minute of fame, all these kids, most of whom I don’t even know, are waving at me in the hall, smiling politely in class, and pretty much doing whatever it takes to get my attention in a friendly, polite, nonthreatening way. I mean, it’s like virtually overnight I’ve managed to graduate from being someone who goes completely unnoticed, to a definite person of interest.

  Which would be totally cool and all, if it actually had anything to do with me.

  And now, the day I’ve been dreading for weeks is finally here. The one where I had to choose between faking sick— where I’d get to stay home, tucked safely in bed, far away from school and everyone who goes there (yet also suffering through my mom’s foul-tasting, highly suspicious, homeopathic medicine cures)—or sucking it up and grabbing a front row center seat for the stupid, freaking high-school talent show that I definitely don’t want to see. I mean, really, “Ocean Idols?” Who are they kidding? Yet, knowing full well that the dreaded administrations of Dr. Mom are definitely the bigger evil, I chose school.

  So I’m climbing the auditorium steps, searching for an empty seat, when Sloane, Jaci, Holly, and Claire start waving their hands all around, like they actually want me to join them or something.

  But I know better, so I just ignore them. Because even though they’ve been making twice the effort to be nice to me lately (well, at least their version of nice), I’m still not entirely convinced that they actually want me to sit with them, in a public place, in front of all of their adoring fans.

  So when I see Hayden, Evan, Elijah, and Clark, who are also waving at me, I start heading toward them. Because even though I hang with Hayden sometimes, I still kind of miss hanging with the guys. And with Rey safely stowed away backstage, preparing for his big debut, the coast is pretty much clear.

  And just as I get to their row, and am inching toward an empty seat, Sloane stands up, cups her hands around her mouth, and over the din of the completely packed auditorium yells, “Hey, Winter! What the hell are you doing? Get over here already! We saved you a freaking seat!”

  And just like that, everyone’s staring at me.

  Including Hayden, Evan, Elijah, and Clark, who are staring with a really strange, will-she-or-won’t-she look on their faces.

  I stand there, caught between two worlds (literally!), knowing that I now have to choose between some extremely popular girls who have gone out of their way to be mean and nasty and totally horrible to me, and my loyal friends who’ve been nothing but nice, accepting, and supportive, and who I’ve really missed hanging out with.

  Then I take a deep breath and make the only choice that I can. And as I wave at Hayden, her eyes go all stiff and wide in an oh-no-she-did-not kind of way, then I head for the empty seat between Sloane, Jaci, Holly, and Claire. Reminding myself the entire way just how great this will be for the blog. Which is definitely, completely, and absolutely the only reason why I’m even doing this.

  “Hey,” I say, crossing my legs just like them, making a conscious effort to mirror their body language, which according to one of the self-help books I read last summer is the quickest, nonverbal way to establish a sense of belonging and camaraderie.

  “Hey,” they say, all together now, scrutinizing my entire outfit, and smiling in a way that could never, under any circumstances, be considered sincere.

  And then Sloane looks at me, eyes all wide, and goes, “Omigod, this so reminds me. Remember ‘Lady Marmalade’?”

  And when I look at her, I can’t help but think how amazing it is that now that she’s officially the sophomore class It girl, it took one of my dad’s headshots to appear in People magazine’s “Comeback!” issue to green-light her admission that yes, at one time in the not-so-distant past, we actually were kind of good friends. But I don’t say that. In fact, I don’t really say anything. I just smile and nod and wait for what’s next.

  Then she looks at Jaci, Holly, and Claire and goes, “Omigod, major scandal! Major!” Then she rolls her eyes, and shakes her head, like her whol
e entire life has just been way too full and far too glamorous to keep it all straight. “Details later.” She smiles.

  And even though I don’t really do anything other than nod, I’m actually wondering if one of those “details” might be how in the midst of all of her “bad girl scandal-making” I had to stop and explain just exactly why we were getting hauled into the principal’s office. Since that whole entire time she had no idea what the lyrics even meant.

  And just as I’m thinking how I might just go ahead and share that, the lights are suddenly dimmed and Principal Meyer takes the stage, grabs the mike, and introduces the first act, which unfortunately consists of four ambitious freshmen, dressed all Fergie-style, while performing a not-so-family- friendly dance routine to “My Humps.” Which, by the way, is not only ten times worse than my own talent show debacle, but also way more embarrassing than it sounds.

  And after somehow surviving that, some girl I’ve never talked to but who sits like two rows behind me in geometry, walks onstage, situates herself at this creaky, old, donated piano, and starts belting out a shaky, warbled version of that song “Fallin’ “ that leaves me cringing.

  Although to be honest, I’m mostly cringing at the things Sloane and her friends are saying, as they hurl insults so mean, so cruel, so heartless, and so degrading, even Simon Cowell would blush.

  And then somewhere after like eight more totally excruciating, completely embarrassing acts, Principal Meyer comes back on stage and announces, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Ocean High’s very own Social Exile!”

  And then the curtain opens again, and I see Pete on drums, Mick on guitar, and standing smack-dab in the center of the stage is Rey, with his guitar strapped to his long, lean torso and his longish dark hair hanging in his eyes. And as he grabs the mike and gets ready to sing, my eyes search the stage for Shay, who, I heard via Hayden, is back to singing backup.

  Only she’s not there.

  And just as I’m thinking how odd that is, and wondering if maybe she couldn’t get time off from school or something, Rey goes, “This one goes out to—well, you know who you are.”

  And then right before he starts singing, Jaci looks at us, her eyes all wide as she goes, “Omigod, does he really go here? Because he is so über-hot!”

  And then Holly goes, “Omigod, sexy! And those jeans aren’t even designer!”

  And then Claire starts to say something at the same exact time the band starts playing, so Sloane looks over, makes an angry face, and goes, “Shhh!”

  And me? Well, I just sit there as solid and immobile as a block of kitchen-counter granite as I listen to Social Exile play the opening strains to their awesome version of “A Hazy Shade of Winter,” while wondering if Rey really is looking right at me as he sings, or if I’m just so freaked-out and panicked that I’m somehow imagining it.

  And when the song is finally, mercifully over, Sloane, who’s been rotating her head back and forth between the stage and me that entire time like she’s spotting a tennis match, grabs my arm and goes, “Omigod! That was for you!”

  And then Principal Meyer comes back on, and once he’s quieted down all the hooting and clapping and cries for an encore, he says, “Folks, I’m sorry to have to say this, but it’s just been brought to my attention that only one member of Social Exile is actually enrolled here at Ocean High, so I’m afraid they will have to be disqualified.”

  Within seconds the entire auditorium erupts in screams, shouts, boos, and flying objects, and deciding to take full advantage of all the chaos, I peel Sloane’s fingers off my arm, grab my purse, dodge through outraged, rioting students, and get the hell out of there.

  And the second I’m outside, I remember how today is the last day before Winter Break.

  Which means it’s a short day.

  Which means I run off campus and all the way home.

  THE GOSPEL OF ELEANOR RIGBY

  December, dangerously close to Xmas 2006

  9:45 A.M.

  Current Mood—Fraught

  Current Music—The “all sad songs all the time” station that broadcasts only in my head

  Quote of the Day-”When you come to a fork in the road, take it.”

  —Yogi Berra

  I’m Only Happy When It Rains

  Number of times Princess Pink has called and left a voice message: 5

  Number of times Princess Pink has left a text message: 3

  1. OMG Call if u wan2 go xmas shopg

  2. Coffee Strbks L8R

  3. Call me 2nt at 7

  Number of times I acknowledge and/or returned any of these messages: Q

  Number of times I’ve left my room: 3 (but only to use the bathroom, as I’ve got a drawerful of junk food to rival any White House bunker and so probably won’t need to vacate the premises until I diminish all supplies which, by my calculations, will not occur until approximately sometime around the day after New Year’s).

  Number of times my mother has stood in my doorway shaking her head and going, “For the last time, what is going on with you?”: 2 many 2 count.

  So here’s The List, but only ‘cause you got so mad when I omitted it last time.

  20. After much sleuthing, Old Eleanor finally got to the bottom of P. P. and Captain World’s breakup. And the truth is, they didn’t break up. At least, not at first. You see, rumor has it that at the exact moment the “slave auction” began, El Capitan suffered the sudden onset of a severe case of abdominal distress, cafeteria worker’s revenge, or food poisoning, whatever you want to call it. Apparently things got so bad so quickly, he was left with no choice but to vacate the premises and rush home, leaving no time to contact P. P. and give her the heads-up. So P. P., unaware of anything other than the fact that she was stuck onstage, all alone, with no boyfriend bidder in sight, unfortunately allowed her old friend, Insecurity, to take over as she assumed she’d been ditched. So, hell-bent on revenge after suffering such humiliation, she paid off the freshman (tossed him a crisp twenty and called it even), and wasted no time in hooking up with Captain World’s newly single best friend (who will be referred to from here on as “Last Name”). When P. P. finally got around to listening to the Captain’s hugely apologetic, albeit tardy, cell phone message, it was too late—the damage (not to mention the “deed”) was done, and Last Name was in the shower, ridding himself of the evidence. And though it’s safe to say that P. P. does not place much (if any) value on her friendships or their corresponding commitments, Last Name, apparently, does. As rumor has it that he either (a) felt so badly about the betrayal he needed to confess his sins and beg forgiveness, or (more likely), (b) he felt obligated to inform his friend of his girlfriend’s skanky ways. Whatever the motive, the fact remains that, using his bathroom line, he placed a call to Captain World, filling him in on all the sordid details, while failing to mention any of this to P. P., who was slinking out of his house at the exact moment Captain World pulled into the drive to confront her.

  And that’s when they broke up.

  Over and out,

  Eleanor Rigby

  Twenty-four

  Talk about a social exile. By my fifth day of hanging in my room refusing to come out, my mom barges in, and believe me, from the look on her face, it’s clear she means business.

  “Okay, so what the heck is going on? It’s been almost a week, and I’m through playing games with you. I know you’re going through a rough time, and I’ve done my best to try and make things easier for you, but, Winter, I’m just about at the end of my rope here,” she says, plopping herself hard on the edge of my bed and gazing at me with so much worry, despair, and concern, it makes me feel completely guilty and awful.

  But that doesn’t mean that I tell her.

  “I’m fine, seriously,” I say, trying to look as though I really do mean it by sitting up straighter, and running my hands through my tangled, messy, greasy hair.

  “Listen, Dave, Autumn, and I are heading out to the Winter Fantasy Art Festival. And I know ho
w much you always enjoy that. So how about you take a quick shower, get dressed, and come along with us, and then we’ll grab dinner somewhere later.”

  But even though she thinks I “always enjoy that,” I’m sorry to say that these days enjoyment falls pretty low on my list of priorities. It’s somewhere down there with sunshine, showers, and smiling. So I just look at her and shake my head. I mean, I feel bad about being such a big disappointment, and I feel even worse knowing how bad I’m making her feel, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to budge. “No, thanks.” I stretch, making a big show of lifting my arms high above my head. “I think I’m just gonna take a hot shower, and then maybe head outside and take a walk,” I say, filling her with false hope, while knowing full well how there’s no way I’m doing any of those things.

  But she just looks at me, staring at me for so long I squirm. Then finally she sighs, hoists herself off my bed, and heads for the door. And then almost as an afterthought, she turns and goes, “So, maybe during your walk, you can head on over to the café and fill in for Rey.”

  “Rey’s not coming in today?” I ask, immediately wondering why, since he’s got like the best work ethic of anyone I know, and has never been late, never gets sick, and wouldn’t even contemplate pulling a no-show.

  But she just shrugs and goes, “Can you cover for him?”

  Do I want to cover for him? Not exactly. But I no longer feel I have much of a choice. So I just nod, climb out of bed, and for the first time in a long time, head for the shower.

  Okay, so here’s the deal. I know you probably think that all this high drama, fainting lady stuff is all about the talent show and that surprising song dedication and my pathetic inability to finally get real with the guy I’ve been not so secretly in love with this whole entire time, right?