Confessions of a Serial Kisser (2 page)

3

Adrienne Willow

I
MADE A BEELINE ACROSS THE QUAD
--hurrying past the outdoor stage, zigzagging between cement lunch tables and across patchy grass--to reach my best friend, Adrienne Willow, who was perched on "our" brick planter, organizing her binder.

I hopped up beside her. "I had an epiphany this morning."

"Really?" she asked, snapping the rings of her binder closed. "What's that?"

"I'm done being dragged through the knothole of my parents' life. I'm going to start living my own."

She looked up, blinked, then whooped and jumped off the planter. "It's about time!"

"Do you know how much I've missed this year? I didn't go out for volleyball, I didn't join link crew or help with the warmth drive...all I've done is live under their dark cloud and
study.
"

Adrienne had been bouncing with excitement, but she suddenly stopped, so I followed her line of sight across the quad.

It was Tatiana Phillips.

"It wasn't her fault," I said quietly. "It was her mom's. And my dad's. I shouldn't have let it stop me."

"From playing volleyball?" Adrienne asked, giving me her trademark squint. "No one could have played under those circumstances!" She snorted. "Her mother and your dad sitting together at games? Please."

I looked down. Adrienne has an uncannyway of putting her finger on the heart of the hurt.

The warning bell clanged. "The point is," I said firmly, "I'm through letting it ruin my life. I need to have some fun. I need to shift paradigms."

"You need to
what
?"

I laughed, then spread out my arms and looked down at my baggy John Lennon "Imagine" T-shirt and frayed jeans. "I need a makeover!" I caught her eye. "And I need you to help me."

She collected her things. "Anything," she said. "You know that. Anything."

Then she gave me a tight hug, and we hurried off to our first-period classes.

4

Robbie Marshall

F
OR THE PAST COUPLE OF YEARS
I've made a habit of ignoring Robbie Marshall. He's gorgeous, but that's exactly why I ignore him.

Like he needs one more girl fawning over him?

We used to be friendly, but that was back in middle school. Back when he wasn't afraid to be smart. Back before he grew into Robbie Marshall, gorgeous jock.

So in first period all the other girls in class paid attention to Robbie Marshall's biceps, and I paid attention to Mrs. Fieldman's math lesson. Mrs. Fieldman is a real pro. She's clear and concise, and there's no falling asleep in her class--she covers more material in a day than some teachers do in a week, and if you don't pay attention, you can kiss a good grade goodbye.

After math I continued through my morning classes, slipping into the typical rhythm of a school day. But somewhere in the middle of third period I realized that I was doing what I'd been doing all year: focusing, taking notes, getting a jump on the homework. Fun was no part of the equation. I was certainly not living my fantasy!

So as third period wound down, I did something I never do--I packed up early, and when the bell rang, I bolted out of the classroom.

Apparently I'm a complete klutz at bolting from classrooms, because not only did I hurt my wrist, I managed to slam the door into someone walking by.

Someone who turned out to be...Robbie Marshall.

"Sorry!" I said, turning beet red.

"No problem," he replied.

And then he smiled at me.

Diamonds seemed to dance between his lips as he gazed at me. His eyes twinkled smoky gray. His hair looked like it had been combed through with sunshine.

Then he was gone.

But just like that, my fantasy found a direction.

A
destination.

I staggered to my fourth-period class, out of breath and (granted) out of my mind. Suddenly all I could see was Robbie Marshall's face.

All through Miss Ryder's American-lit lecture I fantasized about Robbie Marshall.

His eyes.

His smile.

His
lips.

I didn't concentrate on my classwork, didn't scrutinize the red comments on the essay Miss Ryder passed back. By the end of class my chance collision with the school's most gorgeous jock was completely entwined with my newfound desire to live my fantasy.

It had all become perfectly clear.

I needed to kiss Robbie Marshall.

5

New Attitude

A
T LUNCH WHEN
I
TOLD
A
DRIENNE WHAT
I
WANTED TO DO
, she gave me her trademark squint and said, "Robbie
Marshall
? How in the world do you expect to kiss Robbie Marshall?"

"Shhh!" I yanked her off to our corner of the quad, checking around for gossipmongers. "Look. I've got assets--"

"Of course you do! But he just barely broke up with Sunshine, and in case you haven't noticed, she is
not
over him!" Adrienne whispered. "Plus Jasmine Hernandez wants him
bad,
and Nicole Bruma wants him
back.
"

"So?"

"So?
So?
Helloooo, Evangeline...you know I love you--you're witty and thoughtful and loyal and smart...and very pretty"--she leaned in--"but since when can you compete with Sunshine, Jasmine,
or
Nicole?"

I scowled at her. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Evangeline, get real!" She squinted at me harder. "And why him?"

I shrugged. "He's gorgeous. And, well, experienced." I arched an eyebrow in her direction. "A crimson kiss does not reside on the lips of inexperience."

"A crimson kiss? What...from that book? You're still obsessed with that?"

I looked down and shrugged again. "I'm just trying to have some fun, okay? I'm trying to live a fantasy." I looked at her through my lashes. "You said you'd help me. You said 'Anything.'"

She bit her lip as she studied me, so I gave her a puppy-dog look and said, "Please?"

"Okay, okay," she laughed. "I'll help you. So what's the plan?"

I smiled, happy to have her in my corner. "I really do need a new look."

She eyed my clothes and nodded. "Have any idea what?"

"Something to match my new attitude."

"You're talking about clothes? Makeup? Hair?"

"The works. What are you doing after school today?"

Her forehead crinkled. "Today? I've got choir practice until five."

"Can you come over after?"

She hesitated, then said, "Sure. Why not?"

I hugged her. "You're the best!"

6

Ch-ch-ch-changes

A
FTER
I
GOT HOME
, I couldn't seem to concentrate on my schoolwork. I'd picked up a hair-highlighting kit at the pharmacy on my way home, so instead of studying math, I studied the directions. Then I studied myself in the mirror, trying to decide how much highlighting I really wanted to do. The old me would have gone subtle. The new me was saying, "Take chances! Make a
real
change!"

I moved on to studying my mom's wardrobe (which is way cooler than mine), trying to find something that spoke to me from her boxes of still-packed clothes.

Then I studied the clock. It was already five-thirty.

What was taking Adrienne so long?

The phone rang five minutes later, and when I picked up, Adrienne said, "I'm so sorry! Mom made lasagna and she insisted I come home. Can we do it tomorrow?"

I told her, "Sure," but after I hung up, I decided to dive in on my own. I'd been waiting all afternoon to make a change, and I didn't want to put it off any longer!

So I took out the scissors, cranked up some classic David Bowie, and started snipping.

I'm actually good at cutting hair, because I've butchered Adrienne's locks enough times to figure it out. I've also cut her brother Brody's hair, and now that I've got skills, my mom lets me trim hers, too. Cutting hair is just basically applied geometry...which can get a little tricky when you're facing the mirror image of yourself, trying to get the scissors to go the right way.

I always do my own hair dry, which isn't the best, but I seem to be able to see what I'm doing better that way. And I usually just trim little bits, but now after a few timid snips, I let the spirit of Bowie's "Changes" take charge of the scissors.

I took a deep breath and started
cutting.

All through "Suffragette City," "Ziggy Stardust," "The Jean Genie," and "Rebel Rebel" I cut in layers. I cut off length. I gave myself long side-swept bangs and a cute shaggy flip at the nape of the neck. It was a style that cried out for oversized hoop earrings, eyeliner, and go-go boots!

Ch-ch-ch-changes!

I felt good!

Mom called as I was mixing up the highlighter. "Evangeline, honey. Would you mind vacuuming the carpets tonight? I didn't get to it this morning, and they really need it." She sounded tired, like she always does, but this time I was feeling so good that it didn't bring me down.

"Sure," I said brightly. "Anything else?"

She hesitated, then said, "Thank you. I needed that. But no. Unless you want to wipe up that old orange juice spill in the fridge."

"Will do!"

I hung up and got busy streaking my hair.

Bowie sang "Ashes to Ashes," "Fashion," and "Under Pressure."

I shouted along.

And while the highlights timer ticked and radical chemicals bleached streaks into my hair, I vacuumed crumbs and fuzz and a month's worth of dust out of the carpet, singing along when "Let's Dance" came on.

My dad called as I was putting the vacuum cleaner away.

"How are you?" he asked.

And just like that I was back under the cloud.

I wanted to say, "Better than I've been in ages! I'm moving on, Dad. Moving on!" But what came out of my mouth is what always comes out of my mouth when my dad tries to engage me in conversation. "We're sorry, you've reached a number that has been disconnected. Please hang up and
don't
try again."

My highlights timer dinged as I hung up the phone.

So I cranked up "Dancing in the Street," then went to the sink to wash out my hair.