First Kiss

by Richards

  I marched to Ben’s house and rapped on the front door. Instead of Ben yanking me inside, Kirsten greeted me.

  “Stu!” she exclaimed. “Becca stopped by and told us we’re going to be runway models!”

  Ben gave a fist bump.

  “Yeah, you, me, Becca, Kirsten, and”—he gave me a questioning look—“Jackson.”

  He tilted his head to one side as if trying to solve the riddle of how Jackson came to be part of the mix. My own head had been stuck in that same position ever since Becca and Jackson strolled away together earlier.

  “Yeah, about that …”

  “It’s all good,” Kirsten beamed. She took Ben’s hand and twirled. “We’re going to be a smashing success prancing and twirling our way down the runway just like real fashion models.”

  “Real fashion models wearing old people clothes,” Ben said.

  “Actually,” I explained. “This show is for everyone, and my grandmother wants to show off younger people’s fashions, too.”

  “YES!” Kirsten and Ben shouted together.

  “And also, some of the old people clothes won’t fit on the other models.”

  “No worries,” Ben replied, strutting about in a circle like a barnyard rooster. “We’re going to make young people clothes and old people clothes look cool.”

  “You need to work on your cool,” Kirsten observed, wagging her finger. “I’m not going up onstage with whatever you got going on there.”

  Ben stopped, his thrust-out chest deflating.

  “Your words are hurting me.”

  Kirsten giggled.

  “You know you’re my little chicken,” she teased.

  My stomach lurched. It was time to get away from those two.

  “Listen, my grandmother needs us at the store tomorrow morning to be fitted. Make sure you’re there at ten a.m. sharp.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Ben said.

  I skipped down the front steps before I had to witness any more of their baby talk. Just remembering the pet name little chicken brought on a dry heave. And I didn’t dare look up as I passed Becca’s steps. If I saw even a glimpse of Jackson, I was bound to bash my head against her retaining wall until either the wall or my head caved in.

  And I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be the wall.

  My father didn’t get home until almost midnight. He stumbled into my room yawning and carrying the remnants of the ham sandwich my mother had left in the fridge for him.

  “You weren’t kidding that Harley needed help,” he said, plunking himself down on the corner of my bed. “There’s layers of cow dung on that floor that go back generations.”

  The tiredness in his voice renewed my fears.

  “Do you think the show will have to be canceled?” I asked.

  He downed the glass of milk in his hand.

  “No, I’m pretty sure with a little Truly ingenuity and a lot of backbreaking labor we’ll find a way to have it ready in time. But for next year let’s hope he gets an earlier start, like maybe in January.”

  I breathed a little sigh of relief.

  “However,” he continued, “we could use more help if you can roust up any of your friends the next couple nights.”

  Say what? “Do you mean to scoop poop?”

  “Yes, there may be some poop-scooping involved.” He grinned like a bleary-eyed diabolical genius. “But no need to bring that up when you’re asking them.”

  Easy for him to say. It wasn’t his friends being tricked into raking dried cow dung.

  “Okay, I’ll ask them tomorrow while we’re being fitted. But I can’t guarantee they’ll agree to help. That barn is pretty gross.”

  My father finished his sandwich and headed to the door.

  “What’s with kids these days afraid to get their hands dirty with a little cow poop?” He paused. “On second thought: smart kids. Convince them anyway.”

  He closed the door and left me lying in bed wondering how long it would take to make new friends once my current ones realized they’d been tricked into forced labor poop-scooping. Probably a lifetime.

  The next morning, I dragged myself into the store just as the wall clock flashed 10:00 a.m. Ben, Kirsten, Becca, and Jackson were already waiting in line to be fitted at my grandmother’s sewing machine.

  Elsa gave me a thumbs-up from her spot behind the counter. “Great job, Stu! Your grandmother is really pleased that you followed through on what she asked.”

  She pulled me behind the counter next to her.

  “Though I’m still trying to figure out why there are five of you, not four.”

  Yeah, I was still trying to figure that out, too. “Well, Becca wanted Jackson in the show.”

  She gave me a puzzled look.

  “Is that what you wanted?”

  What I wanted involved a shark tank, a bloody bucket of chum, and a well-timed nudge to topple Jackson into the churning waters. “Not exactly.”

  “I see. Well, I respect your professionalism. And commitment to the show. I’m sure she’ll come to her senses and realize in time that you’re the real catch.”

  Apparently, Elsa hadn’t seen his biceps, or my grades. On that cheery thought, I wandered over to the gang and waited my turn in line.

  “Ben has to wear a suit,” Kirsten giggled.

  “At least I’m not the one wearing a tux with a ruffly shirt and everything,” Ben countered.

  Becca leaned over to me. “The three of us are going to model formal wear,” she explained.

  “Ruffly shirts are back in style,” my grandmother added. “Aren’t you the lucky ones.”

  Jackson pulled off his T-shirt revealing pec muscles and actual abs that could be individually counted.

  “I don’t mind. I like ruffly shirts.”

  He pulled on a white tux shirt with ruffles running up and down the chest and around both cuffs.

  “Looks good on you,” Kirsten commented.

  If I had a handful of sharks, I’d show her what looked good on him.

  “Stu, try this on,” my grandmother said, handing me a black tux jacket with satin trim.

  My fingertips barely poked out of the sleeves.

  “Looks like it’s going to need some altering,” my grandmother observed.

  “Or maybe you could just give him hand puppets to hold,” Ben quipped. “You know, like turtles or baby chicks peeking out of each sleeve.”

  That brought about a lot more giggling than seemed necessary.

  “Shut up.” Honestly, how did I get stuck with that guy for a best friend?

  After we finished being measured, marked, and fitted, I walked the four of them outside. It was time for the other invitation. The one that involved less fashion and more stinky poop-scooping.

  “Hey, my dad was hoping we could all come over to Harley’s the next couple evenings and help get the barn ready.”

  “Sure,” Kirsten said. “What does he want us to do?”

  Now for the delicate part. How to convince them that raking muck was a fun group activity.

  “I don’t know. Just pick up stuff, and stuff.”

  That seemed clear enough for me.

  “Sure,” Ben said.

  “I’m in,” Jackson agreed.

  “Us too,” Becca finished.

  “And I know who else will be happy to help,” Ben added.

  We grinned at each other the way we always grinned right before getting our two closest friends into something they’d regret.

  “Tyler and Ryan!”

  Of course.

  That evening all seven of us gathered along with the meat float crew outside Harley’s barn. From the looks they kept giving us, I wondered if maybe I should have been more specific about what to wear. Kirsten had on white shorts and a yellow top. Becca wore sandals. And Jackson had on khaki pants and a button-up pink shirt that proved at least some guys can wear pink and still look studly.

  On the other hand, the meat float crew had on rubber boots, muck-worthy shirts and pants, and
leather gloves. Clearly, they had been in battle the night before and had come dressed for the next skirmish. My father exited the barn and addressed the troops.

  “Okay,” my father began. “We have some new recruits this evening.”

  “They look ready to muck,” Joe commented.

  That brought a round of laughter from the meat float crew. My father held up a hand.

  “Yes, some of you look better suited for work outside the barn.”

  He pointed to Kirsten, Becca, and Jackson.

  “How about you three start in the front yard. Anything you find that doesn’t belong there put in a wheelbarrow and then throw it all into the back of my truck and I’ll take it to the dump tomorrow. There are extra gloves on the seat of the truck. I suggest you wear them.”

  “And if it moves, don’t touch it,” Joe added with a snort.

  Becca and Kirsten gave each other disgusted looks, then broke into smiles.

  “Yes, sir,” Kirsten said, saluting. “We’ll get right on it.”

  My father turned his attention to Ben, Tyler, Ryan, and me.

  “The rest of you grab a rake or shovel and follow us. We’ll show you what to do.”

  “Aren’t you the lucky ones!” Joe added.

  We followed the men into the barn and got a quick lesson in cleaning up cow manure.

  “Just rake it onto a shovel, then throw it into this wheelbarrow,” Joe explained. “When it’s full, wheel it out and dump it into my trailer. When the trailer’s full, it’s time to go home.”

  We peeked out at Joe’s trailer, it looked big enough to haul a mountain of muck.

  “You didn’t mention we were going to be picking up cow poop,” Ben whispered.

  “Yeah, I thought we were going to hang out and have fun,” Ryan added.

  C’mon, really? Even I wasn’t that gullible. “We’re here to help clean up Harley’s barn. What did you think we were going to do?”

  Tyler looked as if he had just now realized he was standing inside a dilapidated old barn.

  “I don’t know. Build hay forts and stuff.”

  Now that’s what I call naive.

  After what seemed like days, we reached the far corner and stretched our aching backs. Behind us lay a ragged surface full of scrape marks and missing chunks of dirt.

  “It’s not exactly a thing of beauty,” Harley remarked.

  “No,” my father agreed. “It needs a steamroller to smooth things out.”

  “Or landscaping bark to cover it up,” Joe suggested.

  My father rested his head on the handle of his shovel and sighed. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

  Joe nodded. “I can have it here tomorrow evening.”

  “I’ve got a piano lesson tomorrow night,” Ryan whined on the way home.

  “Me too,” Ben agreed.

  “You don’t play the piano,” I reminded him.

  Ben took a whiff of his own armpit.

  “Anything to get out of doing that again.”

  Tyler held his hands out in front of him as if afraid they might touch something, like his own body.

  “I think I’d even take up square dancing again,” he said. “If it meant not having to go back to that barn.”

  I had to admit the last couple hours had been pretty much the most disgusting thing I’d ever done. And I’m not even talking about scooping poop. Every time I looked outside, I had to watch Jackson skipping through the grass within hand-holding length of Becca while they searched for junk to pick up. Where were man-eating sharks when I needed them?

  The next night, we made our final assault on the barn floor shoveling landscaping bark in to replace the muck we had shoveled out. It was still hard work but a lot better smelling than the night before. Plus, Jackson had a church youth group meeting and couldn’t join us. That in and of itself made the night far more enjoyable. Ryan and Tyler also bagged out with the unlikely excuse that they had been grounded, though I knew full well they were hanging out at Tyler’s house playing video games.

  That left Kirsten, Becca, Ben, and me to carry on without them.

  “This is hard work,” Kirsten remarked ten minutes later.

  “That’s what I’ve been telling ya,” Ben said, wheeling in another load.

  “We’re just like real farmers,” Becca said.

  Ben dumped the load at our feet.

  “Yeah, beauty bark farmers,” he joked.

  “Better than farming cow manure,” I countered.

  “True,” he agreed, wrinkling his nose. “No more manure for me, ever.”

  Becca flexed her biceps.

  “I’m getting pretty ripped,” she proclaimed.

  I flexed my own biceps. Despite the dim light, an actual bulge could be seen through the sleeve of my T-shirt. Mind you a small bulge that required magnification to verify, but a bulge nonetheless. Hey, maybe all this shoveling had paid off.

  “Whoa, you got guns, boy,” Kirsten said.

  Becca put her arm up next to mine.

  “Who’s got guns?” she said.

  Frankly, it was hard to say who had the bigger guns. Not that I felt in any way embarrassed by that fact. I’m a modern man, right? I changed my pose to look like an emaciated version of the Incredible Hulk.

  “Yeah, well, look at all this hugeness,” I said, trembling with effort.

  Becca followed my example and did her best Hulk impression, followed by Kirsten and, lastly, Ben. He outdid us all by being able to make actual veins bulge out on his neck.

  “Ooh, look at that,” Kirsten said, pointing.

  “Wicked,” Becca added. “I hope one of them doesn’t explode.”

  Funny. I was hoping just the opposite.

  The next two hours went by in a blur of laughter and general silliness as we continued to sprinkle beauty bark while striking body builder poses. Even my father and his buddies started posing during their breaks.

  “Now, this is what the Hulk should really look like,” Joe said, contorting his body until he looked like a flexing panda bear.

  “Okay, everybody,” my father called as he threw a last shovel of bark. “I think that does it. Time to call it a night.”

  “Thanks, everyone,” Harley said as he shook each of our hands. “I don’t know how I could have done this without you.”

  Two nights of physical labor hit me like a load of dried manure when I got home. My arms couldn’t even lift the second sandwich my mother had left out. And yet I felt better than I had in a long time. Spending time with Becca without Jackson hovering around reminded me what it had been like in the old days, back when we went on a single movie date together and on a single family picnic. Had our relationship really been that short-lived?

  I pulled out my notebook and pen. Maybe there was still hope. Maybe this time I could find the words to write an epic poem expressing my feelings. Maybe I could win her back yet.

  I relaxed my mind. And let the ballpoint tip of the pen rest on the page. Trust your feelings, Stu. It had worked for Luke Skywalker in Star Wars—why not me? Creative energy swirled inside my brain until I could feel a stream of words building like floodwaters ready to burst over the dammed wall of my own awkwardness.

  Speak to her, the voice in my head said. Speak from the heart. Speak the words you long to tell her without fear of embarrassment, or the thought of what might happen if Ben sees them.

  I tried to keep my focus, but the moment slipped away until I found myself staring at the Seattle Sounders poster taped on my wall. I gently set down my pen, closed the notebook, and threw it in the trash.

  So much for being a poet.

  The next two days at the store went by in a blur of pre-show panic.

  “The U-Haul dealer forgot about our reservation and doesn’t have any rental trucks available this weekend. How are we supposed to move all the clothes?” Elsa moaned from behind the counter.

  “There won’t be any need,” my grandmother added from behind the mountain of clothes piled around her sewing mac
hine, “if I don’t get all the alterations finished in time.”

  Diane paced back and forth like a nervous woman looking for reasons to be nervous. “It all comes down to now, doesn’t it?” she babbled to herself. “This is why I left show business. Too much stress, too much craziness, too little time.”

  “STU!” all three ladies yelled at once. “I need your help!”

  Somehow, I stayed calm, cool, and collected while feverishly sorting, hanging, and bagging the finished clothes. By Friday afternoon, we were all huffing from exhaustion.

  “We did it!” Diane exclaimed.

  “Every year it’s a race to the finish,” my grandmother explained.

  “An even bigger race this year with twice the number of models,” Elsa added.

  I had to admit it had been a thrill ride. Not quite like the Zipper but better than shoveling cow poop.

  On my way home, a rumble brought my attention to Harley on his bike. He pulled up next to me and held out his spare helmet.

  “Hey, dude, get on.”

  “I’m not supposed to ride with you.”

  He gave a Harley-sized grin. “No worries. I got it all worked out with your mom. You can ride with me now.”

  “Cool! Where are we going?” I asked, pulling on the helmet.

  “To my place.”

  For the second time in months, I clung to Harley as we roared out of town. This time I forced my head to the side so I could see the world whizzing past. Fields and pastures and farm houses blurred into shades of purple and green that somehow seemed more vibrant when viewed from a rumbling two-wheeled death machine. It was like a carnival thrill ride but without the childish screams and vomit smells.

  Unfortunately, the ride only lasted a few minutes before we chugged into Harley’s driveway and came to a stop next to his barn. He took my helmet and dropped it next to his on the grass.

  “I don’t want Elsa to see the barn until it’s all done,” he said. “But I wanted to show someone before I put on the finishing touches.”

  We crossed to the barn, and Harley pulled open the two massive sliding doors.

  “Um … it looks nice,” I said, peering into the darkness.