Confessions of a Serial Kisser (10 page)

33

More Notes

I
WAS ACTUALLY
NOT
LATE TO FIRST PERIOD
. Mrs. Fieldman's classroom is on the outskirts of campus nearest the condo, and the school's side gate was open due to the reconstruction they're doing to our crumbling campus. (Bulldozers are the real answer, but nobody's asking me.)

So I was feeling lucky to have slid into my seat moments before the final bell, but that didn't last long. A note was delivered shortly after class started, and after inspecting it, Mrs. Fieldman said, "Evangeline, for you," and motioned me to her desk.

It was a small, official-looking blue note, folded neatly in half.

An image of the not-so-official-looking scrap of paper I'd taped to the toilet lid with
The jerk can't meet you for breakfast
scrawled on it flashed through my mind as I returned to my seat.

I sat at my desk, holding the note, staring at the adult script of my name, black ink against blue paper. I finally opened it and discovered that it was just Mr. Hikks, my counselor. He wanted to see me at break.

But...why? He'd never summoned me before.
I
was the one who made appointments with
him,
not the other way around. He was much too busy dealing with flunkies to worry about which colleges I should apply to, or what scholarships I might be eligible for.

"Pass your homework to the right," Mrs. Fieldman commanded. "Points off on
your
homework for any missed corrections. There's been a rash of that lately."

Unfortunately, Sandra Herrera was absent again. "Hey, Robbie," I said, sighing.

"What's the deal with you?" he whispered hoarsely. "Me, Rodriguez, and
Prescott,
bam-bam-bam?"

My first thought was
How did he hear about Andrew?
My second thought was
I hate this school!
And my third thought was
What do you mean, bam-bam-bam?
It had been over a week since his mouth had mangled mine!

I wanted to correct him, but I turned to his paper and corrected that instead. And as Mrs. Fieldman called out the answers, I noticed that the majority of Robbie's were right, but that his work didn't support his answers. It annoyed me, but really, why should I care? Everyone knew how the game was played: He'd get into college on an athletic scholarship, he'd major in jockology, and if he played well, he'd graduate and come back to high school to teach P.E., passing on the pressure to let jocks slide. One dummied homework paper was nothing in the scheme of things.

But the farther down the paper I graded, the more disgusted I felt. Why, oh,
why
had I ever wanted this moron to kiss me?

After class I hurried through the door, but Robbie grabbed me by the arm and pulled me aside. "I seriously want to know what your deal is. Why'd you come on to me that day?"

I twisted free of him. "What's
your
deal? Just drop it, would you?"

I escaped to second period, relieved for once to be spending time in the world history boredom tomb.

34

Counseling

"T
ELL ME
," D
ELILAH WHISPERED
. "Tell me where I can go to escape these memories, these ghosts."

"I'll show you," he told her. And then, with a tenderness that belied his imposing physique, Grayson took her hand.

Grayson didn't take Delilah to the counselor's office. (Or to bed, like in most of those ridiculous books my mom has.) He took her to a park bench overlooking a serene lake that had swans gliding along it and "graceful weeping willow boughs aching to taste the glistening water."

I shifted in my oh-so-comfy formed plastic chair as I waited outside Mr. Hikks's closed office door thinking that some lovely swans and glistening water would do wonders for my mood. Actually, at this point some basic air-conditioning would help. Why was it so hot in here? It was beautiful outside...why couldn't we open some windows?

"Are you sure he's in there?" I asked the counselors' secretary. I knew he was, but I was tired of wasting my break in this stifling place.

She nodded. "It'll only be another minute, I'm sure. And I know it's important, Evangeline, so just sit tight."

I went to the Sparkletts dispenser and treated myself to a paper cup of room-temperature water. How did she know it was important? Who had been talking to whom? Was this about the few recent blips on my otherwise shining academic record? Had my teachers alerted Mr. Hikks to my lack of focus? My newfound test-bombing abilities?

Or...

Was this about...

Kissing?

My blood pressure went up fast. My head started swimming with the sudden realization that my summons to the counselor's office might be for actual
counseling.

But...did they really think I'd talk to Mr. Hikks?

That I'd be able to explain anything during a twenty-minute nutrition break?

Who were these people, and what had they done with reality?

Mr. Hikks's door opened. A purple-mohawked Ryce Tibbins strode out sporting ripped black cotton, multiple piercings, and military boots.

We exchanged nods, and at the last minute he tagged on a knowing sneer.

Why the sneer?
I asked myself as he bashed through the reception-area door. Had he seen my graceful dive into garbage the other day?

Had he heard about my...

Kissing?

"Evangeline?" Mr. Hikks said with an artificial smile. "Come in."

So into his cubby of clutter I went.

"How are you?"

"Fine," I said, standing in front of his desk. There were stacks of papers, transcripts, college catalogs, newspapers, file folders...the place was a disaster.

He swigged back some coffee and grimaced like it was bitter or cold, or maybe both. "Have a seat."

"What's this about?" I asked, not sitting. "I really don't want to be late to Spanish."

He flipped open a manila folder with my name on it. "I'll write you a note. Have a seat."

My knees wimped out on me.

I sat.

"We've sent three letters home about this," he began, then took another swig of the sludge in his coffee mug.

My mind raced. Three letters home?
Already?
Why hadn't I seen them? And what about the flunkies? What about all the seniors in danger of not graduating? What about the bathroom smokers, for that matter! The drug dealers! The people who scrawl obscene messages inside bathroom stalls? What about them? So I'd kissed a couple of guys. So I'd bombed a test. So I'd been a little distracted.

So
what
?

Mr. Hikks thumped his coffee mug on his desk, looked me directly in the eye, and said, "You need to do your community-service hours, Evangeline. We will not advance you to senior status if you haven't completed your community-service hours." He frowned at me. "Even if you do have nearly a four point oh." He shoved a paper in front of me. "Here's a copy of the list we've mailed to you
three times.
"

I picked up the paper and looked it over. I could feel myself flush with a strange, almost uncontrollable anger. I'd been totally stressing out in the waiting area for
this
?

"Just choose an organization and get your hours done," he snapped.

I leveled a look at him. "Mr. Hikks, I never got this paper in the mail."

"Well, now you have it, don't you?"

His sarcastic tone ticked me off even more. Why was he treating me like a delinquent? Didn't my hard-earned GPA entitle me to a little respect? Couldn't he at least be a little more...pleasant?

My whole body felt flushed, but I tried to stay calm. "Mr. Hikks, my point is, where did you mail it?"

He swiveled in his chair and rattled away at his keyboard, then pointed to an entry on his computer monitor. "Seven sixty-eight Sycamore Drive."

"Well," I said, trembling now with anger, "I don't happen to live there anymore."

He rolled his eyes.
"Well,"
he said back, "it would help if you would inform the school of these things!"

My head felt strangely light. My whole
body
felt like it might just float away. "It would help
more,
" I said as I shoved out of my chair, "if you would go to hell!"

Then I stormed out of his office and burst into tears.

35

The Tune of a Hickory Stick

B
EING OUT IN THE FRESH AIR
helped me get a grip.

Mr. Hikks was certainly not worth runny mascara!

I took a deep breath, wiped away the tears, and ran to Spanish.

The running was a waste, as I was tardy anyway. And then midway through class a pink note arrived, instructing me to report to Ms. Hershey's office at once.

Ms. Hershey is not sweet, as her name might imply. She has a reputation for being severe and decisive, traits I always thought were necessary (if not commendable) in a vice principal. Miss Ryder calls her the hickory stick of Larkmont High, which, coming from an English teacher, would seem like an innocent enough metaphor, except she always does it with an evil glint in her eye.

So I was definitely not looking forward to meeting Ms. Hershey. How had this happened? How could I, Evangeline Nearly-4.0 Logan, be facing off with the Hickory Stick?

"Sit," Ms. Hershey commanded after I'd been let into her office.

I sat.

"We do not tell our counselors to go to hell," she said, her lips firm, her nostrils slightly flared.

I simply nodded and said, "I know. I'm sorry."

This seemed to throw her.

"Then...why did you do it?"

I held her gaze. "I...it doesn't matter. I just shouldn't have said it. I'm sorry."

Ms. Hershey continued to stare at me a moment, then turned to her computer and pulled up my stats. "You're an exemplary student," she said, turning back to me. "Your citizenship and work-habit markings are also outstanding. Is there something going on with you?"

"Pardon?"

"Is there some reason you flew off the handle today?"

I looked at my hands for a moment. How could I talk to someone I didn't know about something I couldn't really explain? I shook my head and looked back at her. "It was just wrong, okay? What do I need to do to atone?"

An unexpected smile seemed to tickle her face. "To atone?" She thought for a moment, then breathed in deeply and said, "Considering your track record, I think a note of apology will suffice." She passed me a sheet of paper and a pen, adding, "As long as I have your assurance that it won't happen again."

I nodded.

"So give me your new contact information, write that note, and let's get this unfortunate incident behind us."

So I told her the condo's address and phone number, and on the spot I wrote a conciliatory note to Mr. Hikks.

Inside, though, I felt odd and shaky.

Inside, I wasn't at all sure it wouldn't happen again.

36

News Flash

"P
AXTON SAID HE SAW YOU
with a pink slip!" Adrienne said as she joined me in the quad at lunch. "I told him he was delusional." She hesitated. "He was delusional, right?"

I dug the summons out of my jeans and handed it over.

"To Ms. Hershey's?" she gasped. "Why?"

I peeled back the wrapper of my lovely Snack Shack burrito. "Because I told Mr. Hikks to go to hell."

"No!" she gasped. "Why?"

"He wasted my whole break over community-service hours. He was so condescending, and it was so hot in there. I felt trapped and...I don't know...I just lost it."

"Wow..."

There was nothing remotely squintlike about Adrienne's expression. Instead, her face seemed to be stretched out in all directions, which was strange. "Look. It's all settled," I said, picking at the disgusting crust of my burrito. "I wrote Mr. Hikks a note and said I was sorry.... It's over." I tried a bite of the burrito, chewing on cold beans as I asked, "Do you have any plans for community-service hours?"

"Oh, the Elf Extravaganza took care of that."

"It did?"
I
squinted at
her.
"How is dressing up like elves and singing Christmas songs serving the community?"

"We did performances for the children's hospital, remember?" She heaved a sigh. "Those poor kids. I'd sing for them every day if I could." Then she looked at me and said, "Community hours are easy, Evangeline. Just pick an organization and do it."

"You sound like Mr. Hikks," I grumbled.

She shrugged. "You could also tutor right here at school. That's what Paxton's doing."

"Where?"

"I'll ask him. It's on Tuesdays or Wednesdays, or maybe both. I'll get details." She gave me a mischievous look. "Or you could just ask Mr. Hikks."

"Oh,
right,
" I laughed.

"Hey," she asked, suddenly bubbling with excitement, "how'd you like the newspaper?"

"Great issue," I said, although I'd barely had a chance to leaf through it.

Adrienne pulled out her copy of the
Larkmont Times
and held it open, nodding at page three. "You have no idea how hard it was to balance the text and the graphics here. I had this text overflow problem that was just driving me bonkers! And this picture here of Lloyd Morro? It kept disappearing! I'd paste it in, move it to front,
save
it, but poof! The next time I'd open the file, it would be gone." She nodded at page two. "We got so many paid personals this time! Did you read them? We made a mint on them. I think it's because the Spring Fling is tonight and people are after a last-minute date. Or maybe people just know each other better now. Do you remember how we had, like,
two
at the beginning of the year, and how we had to make some up, just to keep it from being so embarrassing?" She looked at me, her face glowing. "Hey! You should put an ad in--'Wanted: A crimson kiss.'"

I snorted. "Maybe I should. I sure don't seem to be able to find one on my own."

"Any new prospects?"

I shook my head, and I was about to spill what had happened with Andrew, but before I could find the words, she said, "Do you want to meet me at the dance tonight?"

"You're going to the dance?"

"I've got to cover it for newspaper. Ms. Pickney insists that it's 'important.'"

I gave her one of her own trademark squints. "The Spring Fling is just like every other dance here: It's so loud you can't talk, they play awful music, and it's sweltering in the gym."

"I know. I remember." She shrugged. "But I'm assigned, and that's where I'll be."

"But...why you? Isn't someone from newspaper going to the dance, anyway? Why couldn't they just cover it?"

She frowned. "Apparently I'm the only one available." She folded up the
Times
and rifled through her backpack for her sack lunch and bottle of water, grumbling, "That class is full of loafers."

"Well, sorry, but I don't want to tag along."

"I don't blame you." She unwrapped her usual multilayered sandwich, which was half smashed but still delicious-looking. "So what are you going to do?"

I'd made it to the center of my burrito, which was slightly frozen. "I don't know. This has been one lousy day. I'm just looking forward to it being
over.
"

Then I tossed the rest of my burrito in the trash.