Confessions of a Serial Kisser (24 page)

83

Continued Quest for Ill-Begotten Lips

S
UNSHINE
H
OLDEN WAS VERY SUSPICIOUS
. "What do you mean you're sorry? I thought you hadn't done anything wrong!" Then she started mimicking me in a bitter, sing songy way. "It's not what you think, Sunshine. I have no intention of coming between you guys, Sunshine. He's all yours, Sunshine."

"Look," I said, trying to focus on my purpose (which did not include getting into a catfight), "I didn't mean to cause any problems, or hurt anybody in any way."

"Well, guess what? You did."

I nodded once and said, "I understand that now, and I'm sorry."

Somehow this emboldened her. She took a step toward me, saying, "Like that makes it any better?"

There was only so much groveling I was going to do. She wasn't even on the original list! So I put up both hands and said, "I'll leave you two alone now," and took off.

Between the 100 and 200 wings I pulled out my three-by-five card and crossed off Stu Dillard's name.

Two down, six to go.

But as I continued my before-school quest for ill-begotten lips, Stu suddenly came up from behind me. "Is this part of a twelve-step program?" he asked with a playful smirk on his face.

"Stay away," I warned, looking behind him for Sunshine.

Instead, he moved toward me, asking, "How's that work? First you admit you have a problem, then you apologize to everyone you've hurt, then you go through the other ten steps...?" His smirk grew bigger as I backed away. "I notice you didn't apologize to me."

"Stay back!" I said. "I didn't kiss you! You kissed me!"

"I know," he said, smiling broadly.

"And I don't have a problem, I was just...confused!" Then I added, "And it obviously didn't hurt you in any way!"

He was still smiling. "Why don't you let me straighten out some of that confusion?"

I squared off with him. "This is not a game, Stu. And I don't care what you think, it's not a sport! So just go back to Sunshine and leave me alone!"

"Ooooh," he said as I pushed past him. "You are
sexy
when you're mad."

"On a scale of one to ten?" I tossed over my shoulder. "That line doesn't even rate."

84

Crossing a Threshold

A
S
I
ESCAPED
S
TU
, I couldn't help thinking about what he'd said about my being in a twelve-step program.

How insane was that?

I wasn't addicted to kissing!

I hadn't kissed anyone in...
days.

But (despite Sunshine's reaction) the apologizing
was
making me feel better. So when the warning bell rang, I went directly to math and waited outside the classroom for Robbie Marshall.

He looked at me warily as he approached.

"Hey," I said, suddenly tongue-tied. We hadn't really spoken since the hibiscus flower incident.

He could have just ignored me and walked by, but he stopped. "Hey," he said back.

Then we just stood there.

The hustling throngs of students on their way to class began thinning out.

Still, we just stood there.

"I'm sorry," I finally blurted. "I just want to say I'm sorry." And when it came out, I realized that I really, truly, was sorry. "You were so nice with the chocolates and the flower and looking up Stevie Ray.... I'm sorry about everything."

He, also, looked hurt. "Why'd you come on to me if you didn't want me?"

"I was an idiot, okay? I was confused." That sounded like a complete cop-out, so I heaved a big sigh and said, "I've been a basket case all year. My parents were getting divorced, I had to move, I...I started obsessing over this book about the perfect kiss...I don't know. I'm kind of a mess."

He pursed his lips slightly and nodded. "My mom and dad split up three years ago. It was the pits." He snorted, then gave a little shrug. "It's why I started lifting."

It was like seeing a single snapshot of the past three years of his life--his transformation from smart boy to dumb jock suddenly made complete sense. And I was so grateful that he understood that tears stung my eyes. "Healthier than kissing," I joked, blinking the tears back.

He smiled. "Hey, it's okay. I'm not
mad
at you or anything. Actually, it's made me think about some things."

"Oh, yeah?"

Our student sixth sense told us that the bell was about to ring, and as we headed into the classroom, he said, "I'd really like to get to know you, Evangeline."

I stopped and blinked at him.

He laughed at my reaction. "And you know what? I could use some tutoring in this class. I am so lost."

I smiled at him as the bell rang. "
That
I can do."

85

Behind the Bleachers

I
DON'T USUALLY RUN INTO
J
USTIN
R
ODRIGUEZ
. He hangs out in different parts of campus than I do. (Like in Mr. Webber's stinky biology room with his buddies Blaine and Travis, or the boys' bathrooms with his pet Magic Marker.)

This was probably a good thing, because when I was making my apology list, I'd put Justin at the bottom.

In pencil.

Inside parentheses.

Did I really need to apologize to someone who'd written my name on urinals?

But at break he unexpectedly appeared in front of me, flanked by Travis and Blaine.

It was like an omen:
There he is, just do it.

They did a bumbling U-turn when they saw me, but I caught up to them and said, "Justin, wait up."

Justin did not want to wait up.

Justin wanted to escape.

I circled around him and planted myself. "I'm sorry I asked you to meet me at the gazebo. It was a mistake, I shouldn't have done it, and I'm sorry."

He stared at me, not moving a muscle. His cheek had a nasty bruise, and his lower lip was swollen and split near the corner.

Luscious lips they were not.

Finally he said, "Is this a joke?"

I shook my head. "It's an apology."

He pulled a face. "I don't get you."

"Look, I started it. Brody ended it. The stuff in the middle? That was all you." He didn't offer up an apology of his own, so I shrugged and moved on.

Four down, four to go.

Concentrating in Spanish and American lit was (for once) not a problem. I'd sniff down the others at lunch. (Or, in Brody's case, after school.) Then I'd be ready to move on to the grand finale:

Adrienne.

Apologizing to Trevor Dansa was easy because Trevor Dansa didn't care. "You already explained," he said. "Eddie was hassling you."

Oh, right, I thought. And knowing Trevor and his academic tunnel vision, he probably had no clue about bathroom brawls or serial kissing.

Thank you, Trevor Dansa!

"Okay," I said as he put the one earbud he'd removed to listen to me back up to his ear. "Just making sure."

Eddie Pasco, on the other hand, was
not
easy. For starters, I couldn't find him. I scoured the Snack Shack line, the quad, the alcoves surrounding the boys' locker room, the football field...I must've walked two miles looking for that boy!

Not finding him was, I confess, something of a relief. My brain could dismiss him as a smooth-talking stoner, but every time I saw him, my lips had remnant tingles from our kiss in the gym.

Eddie Pasco had undeniable magnetism.

Bottom line--he was dangerous!

But then, with a lightning bolt of deductive reasoning, I knew where I'd find him.

Behind the football field bleachers.

Never in my life had I gone behind the west-side bleachers. Besides being the place where stoners were known to party, it was also not a place you just happened to stumble upon.

You only went there with the intention of going there.

You have to walk clear around the track (or cut across the football field) to reach the bleachers. And to get to the notorious eight-foot strip behind them, you have to go down a narrow corridor between the concession stand and the bleachers.

For stoners it's perfect. It's a place to go in broad daylight and toke on weed or light up bongs or whatever stoners do to get stoned. They're hidden, but between the slats of bleachers they can easily see anyone who's coming to bust them.

Knowing this, I felt very self-conscious as I crossed the football field.

Were people watching?

Did they think I was hiking over to join them?

That I wanted to be a serial-kissing
stoner
?

And was Eddie even there?

Was he crowing to his friends about how irresistible he was?
I knew she'd come back for more, man, I just knew it.

I felt small in the openness of the playing field. What was I doing? Why didn't I just wait until after psychology class let out?

But my feet were in motion, and they marched on. "Eddie!" I shouted when I reached the bleachers. "Eddie, are you there? I want to talk to you!"

There was no acknowledgment. Just the feeling that darkness was studying me between the slats.

"Eddie!" I called. "Come out here."

His dreamy voice drifted like smoke through the seats. "Why not come back here?"

I crossed my arms. "Look, if you're not coming out, I'll just say this from here." I liked that idea better, actually. No face-to-face with his dangerous magnetism. Just voice-to-voice with a stoner.

But a few moments later he sauntered out from the shadows, his soccer ball in hand. "Hey, hot stuff," he said with a comfortable grin, "here to dance?"

I dug in mentally and said, "Actually, I know you're going to think this is totally stupid and lame and all of that, but I'm here to apologize."

An eyebrow arched slightly as he moved toward me, tossing his soccer ball lazily from one hand to the other. "For what? Being a hot chick?"

He was close to me now, but to my great relief his magnetic pull was not working. Maybe it was blocked by my realization that there was something truly pathetic about spending a beautiful spring day hiding behind bleachers getting high.

"No," I said. "I'm apologizing for coming on to you at the dance."

He hesitated, then his brow furrowed. "You're kidding, right?"

I shook my head. "I know it's dorky, but that's why I'm here. I just wanted to say I'm sorry and clean the slate."

He was now looking suspicious. "You in a program?" he asked.

I laughed. "You're the second person to ask me that. No!" Then I looked him in his bloodshot eyes and ran the risk of totally overstepping. "But I've heard they work."

"Huh?"

I nodded at his soccer ball. "That should be your future, Eddie." I cocked my head at the bleachers. "Not that." I shrugged. "You know they don't go together."

Then I turned around and cut back across the football field, not caring at all that in Eddie Pasco's book, I'd probably just gone from hot chick to complete dweeb.

86

Curbed

E
DDIE DIDN'T EVEN SHOW UP
for sixth period. There was nothing I could do about that, but I
could
still try to smooth things over with Paxton. So when the dismissal bell rang at the end of school, I went directly to the student parking lot. If there was no after-school choir practice, odds were Paxton would be heading for his car like the rest of the drivers. If there was choir practice, I'd just wait in the parking lot until it was over.

I found Paxton's white Lexus, no problem. (Larkmont isn't one of those schools where Mercedes and BMW and Lexus models glint like so many diamonds in the parking lot sun. We've got a couple of acres of B-list brands, and the few "cool" cars are mostly restored and lowered.)

The bumper-to-bumper exit lines formed fast. Speakers started thumping; horns honked as cars jockeyed for position and peeled out of the parking lot and onto Larkmont Boulevard, leaving bluish puffs of smoke behind.

It took a good fifteen minutes, but then it was quiet except for the occasional mom cruising in near the Performance Pavilion side of the lot to pick up her kid.

Clearly Paxton was staying after school, so I parked myself among construction trucks on a comfy yellow
SCHOOL VEHICLE ONLY
cement curb two aisles over from the Lexus and waited.

I didn't mind waiting. I wanted to be done with this; wanted to get it behind me.

Unfortunately, I'd been so intent on checking another name off my list that I hadn't thought about how
Adrienne
might be getting home.

Brody's truck had not been in the parking lot.

Of course not.

He was suspended.

But sitting on the curb, I realized suddenly that it
would
appear. It would appear at the appointed hour to pick up Adrienne after choir practice, because that's the way Brody was. Quiet, punctual, reliable, considerate.

My stomach tied into a knot just thinking about him.

And then I heard laughter. Tinkling, joyful, familiar laughter. I turned, and there was Adrienne, walking beside Paxton. She was glowing, hanging on his every word.

They weren't holding hands, they weren't even walking that close together. But he was laughing, too, enjoying being the center of her attention.

I stayed stock-still on the parking curb as they approached the Lexus. I didn't want to interfere; didn't want to ruin this moment for her. In all the years I'd known her, I'd never seen Adrienne look this way. Even when she'd been around Noah in middle school, she'd never looked like this.

Paxton chirped open the door locks of his car, then held the passenger side open for her.

Spotting me was not an issue--they only had eyes for each other.

Adrienne ducked in as gracefully as a girl with an oversized backpack can, then beamed up at him as he closed the door for her.

Moments later he was in the car and driving off.

I watched them go, feeling a strange mix of love and loss.