Read Confessions of a Serial Kisser Online

Authors: Wendelin Van Draanen

Confessions of a Serial Kisser (5 page)

BOOK: Confessions of a Serial Kisser
12.1Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

14

Chicken Soup for the Shattered Soul

I
SPENT ABOUT AN HOUR AT
I
ZZY'S
and on my way home decided to swing by Murphy's Market to see my mom. I actually like my mom quite a lot. And I missed her. The old her. The cheerful her. The pre-separation her.

And as I was walking along, I got the brilliant idea that maybe
she
was ready for a makeover, too! I knew just how I wanted to do her hair--long layers, red highlights...with chandelier earrings? Whoa. It would give her a whole new lease on life! Maybe over the weekend we could even do things together like we used to. Maybe
she
was finally ready to get out and have some fun, too!

So I breezed into Murphy's, anxious to see her. But after making the rounds at the checkout stands and not finding her, I walked up to the manager and said, "Hey, Mr. Banks, is my mom on break?"

He looked up from some paperwork he was reviewing at his little manager's stand by the value sacks of dog food. "Evangeline?" he asked. "My, haven't you grown up."

I suddenly felt very self-conscious. I'd forgotten that I'd changed my look. "Uh, yeah. It happens."

He laughed. "I'm sorry. I used to hate it when people said that kind of thing to me."

That threw me again, because I couldn't imagine it. Mr. Banks is a rosy-cheeked roly-poly puppy of a man. One of those belt-around the-equator people. How had
he
looked as a teenager?

"But you were asking about your mother," he said with a warm smile. "I'm sorry to report that she called in sick. She sounded terrible." He went back to sifting through papers. "Tell her to take it easy and get well soon, will you?"

"Sure," I answered. And since I didn't know if she had a cold or the flu or just needed a day of R&R, I bought a couple of cans of chicken noodle soup, some Jell-O, and Gatorade, and hurried home.

I found her in bed, a box of Kleenex on one side, a pile of used tissues on the other. "Evangeline, honey!" she said, sounding very stuffy-nosed. "I'm so glad you're home. Come here." She grabbed a tissue and patted the bed. "How are you? Tell me all about yourself. It feels like ages since we talked."

"I'm fine. But I found out from Mr. Banks that you're not, so I picked up some chicken soup and Jell-O and--"

"You're wearing makeup?" she asked. "Since when have you been wearing makeup?"

"Mom, I'm a junior! Most girls have been wearing makeup since seventh grade."

"But you don't need makeup. You're a natural beauty." She cocked her head. "What made you decide to start wearing it?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. Just felt like making a change."

She studied me a moment. "I do like your hair.... I told you that already, right?"

She had. Sort of. It had been a cry of shock as I was moving from the bathroom to bed.

I smiled. "Actually, I was thinking that I could do yours."

She shook her head. "Oh, I don't think so."

"It might give you a lift, Mom." I set the groceries on the bed. "And it would be fun." I pointed out her earrings, dangling from my lobes. "I'd even lend you your earrings."

She sighed. "They look great on you, Evangeline."

"You don't mind?"

"Mind?" Her eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. "You brought me chicken soup and Jell-O. Borrow whatever you want." She wiped away a tear. "And yes. I would love some soup."

While I was heating it and unearthing the saltines, she called, "Do you and Adrienne have plans tonight?"

"She had choir practice after school today," I called back. "We talked about getting together"--I stuck my head back in her room--"but I think I'll just hang out with you."

"I miss you, too," she said, but it seemed to be too much effort for her to smile.

After I delivered the soup, I sat down on the edge of her bed and watched her eat. She looked so small. So vulnerable. My mind flashed to the countless times she'd sat on the edge of
my
bed feeding
me
soup, keeping me company, watching me.

Had she thought the same things?

Please feel better.

Get well.

And please, please...smile for me.

15

Coffee, Tea, or Me

T
HE NEXT MORNING
my mom was feeling a little better and jonesing for some Starbucks chai. When I offered to run out and get the tea for her, she handed me a twenty and the car keys. "You really are an angel. And get whatever you want."

It felt great to be behind the wheel again. I powered down the windows, cranked up the radio, and enjoyed every second of the ride. It was a blast of total feel-good.

The Starbucks line was insane. Not that that's anything new. Especially midmorning on a Saturday. I'd be a frappuccino freak like half the school if it weren't for the line. Thank God for the line. Like I need a five-dollar-a-day addiction?

I'd applied a little makeup before leaving the house. After two weeks with it, I thought I looked washed out without it.

It was a good thing I had.

There were hotties all over the place!

Starbucks hotties come in a wide variety, but the two main categories are the rebel hotties and the fast-track hotties. Rebel hotties put a lock on you with their eyes but don't say much. I try to act cool and nonchalant when that happens, but I usually bump into something or miss the trash with my straw wrapper.

Rebel hotties bring out the dweeb in me.

Fast-track hotties, on the other hand, are usually a little older (like mid-twenties), but they smell good and look good, and they've obviously got something going on besides hanging around a coffee shop all day (unlike rebel hotties). They also don't mind engaging in clever conversation with others in the line.

Fast-track hotties make me feel older and more clever than I actually am.

Usually I see someone I recognize from school at Starbucks. Not this morning. This morning it was just me and the hotties. (And lots of moms, moms being big into Starbucks.)

Ahead of me was a fast-track hottie.

Behind me a couple of moms, comparing day-care notes.

In the chairs to my side Johnny-wanna-be-Depp and his java mates, getting an early start on their ne'er-do-welling.

Johnny locked on with his eyes, giving me a smirk and a twitch of the eyebrow.

I tried a cool smirk and a twitch in reply (although it probably looked more like I had a cramp), then moved forward in the line.

Unfortunately, the line hadn't actually moved, so I stepped on the heel of the fast-track hottie in front of me.

"Oh!" I said when he turned around. "I'm sorry!"

"No problem," he said with a smile. "Triple shot of molasses with your line this morning?"

I laughed. Our baristas are always pushing the flavor shots, which would be annoying if they weren't so cheery about it. But then I choked back a gasp as I took in this hottie's face. He had a cleft chin, a dimple in his left cheek, and beneath his long black lashes were dark, smoldering eyes.

Except for his clothes, he fit to a T the description of Grayson Manning in
A Crimson Kiss.

I tried not to gape as he kept the conversation going. I tried to banter back, but all my clever replies seemed to form too late, backing up in my brain as we moved forward in line.

He ordered a double latte, and I watched him doctor it up at the sugar station as my order was being filled. Forget Justin Rodriguez--this was fate! I'd never, ever seen a guy with a cleft chin
and
a dimple in his cheek. There must be a reason he'd been in line right in front of me. There must be a reason he'd been so charming. There must be a reason I'd stepped on him!

The reason was destiny.

He was a crimson kisser!

He was also walking out the door.

No wave goodbye, no smile, no wink...he was just
leaving.

But then I saw that he'd left his sunglasses on the sugar station counter.

"Evangeline!" the java goddess who'd filled my order called.

I snatched my tea, grabbed his sunglasses, and bolted out the door.

I looked around frantically.

Where had he gone?

There! Across the parking lot!

I ran over and inserted myself between him and his car.

"Oh, hi," he said, taking a step back.

"You forgot your sunglasses!" I panted.

"Hey, thank you."

His smile was like the morning sun breaking over the horizon. My knees went wobbly as I gazed into his beautiful eyes. And as I melted toward him, I gasped, "You also forgot to kiss me."

"Pardon me?"

"Kiss me," I whispered, and this time I grabbed his shirt and pulled him toward me.

16

Bulldozer

I'
D LIKE TO REPORT
that the earth moved when our lips met, but unfortunately it did not.
I
did, though. The guy was a bulldozer! His mouth pushed me back against his car until I was leaning way back and
sideways,
with my cup of tea reaching for the sky.

"Whoa!" I mumbled, then shoved him back with my free hand and ducked clear. "Uh...well...uh...thanks," I said, and escaped to my car.

I sat behind the wheel for a minute feeling breathless--in a run for-your-life sort of way, not a fantasy-kiss kind of way.

How disappointing!

What a complete waste of a perfectly dimpled face!

On the drive home I tried to figure out what had gone so wrong. Robbie Marshall
should
have been a crimson kiss. The Starbucks guy
should
have been a crimson kiss.

Why weren't they?

There'd certainly been pre-kiss chemistry, but instead of worlds igniting, everything had just fizzled. How had I managed to pick a tongue thruster and a bulldozer?

Was it me?

Was
I
the horrible kisser?

Reading about kissing was obviously not the same thing as actually kissing!

I mulled it over for a few blocks, then started laughing out loud as the reality of what I'd done sank in.

I'd said, "Kiss me!" to a perfect stranger.

It was insane!

So impulsive!

So unlike me.

And yet, thinking about it made me feel...good.

Giddy.

Adrienne was going to
die.

Mom was still in bed when I got home. And since I was still feeling giddy and strangely uninhibited, I delivered the tea and got next to her on the bed. "Tell me about your first kiss."

"My first kiss?" She sipped from the cup and said, "Ah, this is heavenly!" Finally she looked at me and asked, "Is there something I should know about? Some
one
I should know about? Is that why you're asking?"

I laughed. "No. I just want to hear about your first kiss. And I want to know if you've ever had a crimson kiss."

"A crimson kiss?" she asked, and I could see her trying to remember why the phrase was familiar. Suddenly her eyes got big and her mouth made a silent "Ohhhh" as she realized she was busted.

I grinned at her. "One of the hazards of having me clean house."

"I am so embarrassed."

I laughed. "Don't be. I actually liked that one." Then I asked, "So when did you start reading romance novels, anyway?"

"Kate Larson gave them to me--she thought it would get my mind off of...things."

"Did it?"

She shrugged. "More the opposite."

I didn't want to go down that dark, dank trail of despair, so I said, "Forget about the books. I want to hear about your first kiss, and any crimson kisses."

She took another sip of tea and said, "My first kiss was from your dad, and I would say that, yes, he's delivered more than a few crimson kisses."

"
Dad
was your first kiss?" I sat up straighter. "Wait. Does that mean you haven't kissed anyone
but
him?"

She nodded. "That's right."

"Your whole
life
?"

She shrugged. "My whole life."

I stared at her in disbelief. I knew they'd been high school sweethearts, but...I'd already kissed more guys than my mother?

I hadn't thought I could be any madder at my father, but now I was. She'd never even
kissed
another man, and he'd totally betrayed her!

My mother needed help.

Something had to change.

I took away her tea. "Get up," I said. "I'm giving you a makeover."

BOOK: Confessions of a Serial Kisser
12.1Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

Beautiful Lies by Jessica Warman
Crow Bait by Robert J. Randisi
Water Born by Ward, Rachel
Second Chance by Christy Reece
Acqua alta by Donna Leon
Sex Beast by Bourgoin, Stéphane
Pipsqueak by Brian M. Wiprud