Kiss And Blog (2 page)

But before you get the wrong idea and think that having a
one-hit-wonder dad, and an organic bakery-café-owning mom makes me popular—think again. The only people at school who actually know my name are Sloane and my English teacher. Everyone else either ignores me or checks the seating chart.

But soon, all that will change.

When the smoothies are finally all blended and ready, I lift the glass container and carefully pour it into three (recycled) plastic cups. And as I look up I come face-to-face with Cash Davis—the single most gorgeous guy to ever walk the face of the earth.

Or at least the sidewalks of Laguna Beach.

But definitely the halls of Ocean High.

I take a deep breath and try to ignore the fact that my hands have gone all shaky, and my upper lip is now sporting major sweat beads, while my stomach is throbbing with this weird, nervous
ping.
And all of this is occurring because I’ve never actually been this close to him before. Not that I haven’t dreamed of it, like a gazillion times. But up until now, our relationship has pretty much consisted of Sloane and me silently worshiping his golden hair, piercing blue eyes, six-foot, totally ripped, muscle-bound frame, and amazing denim-clad butt, while he remains completely oblivious of our very existence.

I glance quickly at Jaci to see if she’s going to actually say something to Cash, but the way she and Holly and Claire are twirling their hair and nudging one another, it’s pretty obvious that cool as they are, even they have no idea how to talk to him. Because even though those three were like the big shit in the freshman class, and are destined to reign again this year when we’re sophomores, Cash Davis is in a league of his own. I mean, he’s hot, he’s a senior, he’s a varsity football star, and he drives a Hummer. Need I say more?

I blow a strand of mousy brown hair out of my eyes and grab three plastic, domed lids to cover the smoothies, gently pushing down and trying to get a secure seal when Cash goes,
”What’s the Marrakech Expresso? Is that a coffee shake?”

And I get so flustered when I hear his voice actually addressing
me,
that my already sweaty palms slip against the slick plastic lid, slamming it into the counter and sending all three smoothies soaring to the floor, one after another, like Acapulco cliff divers. And when it’s finally over, the floor, the counter, and I are completely covered in a thick, viscous coating of Purple Berry Haze.

I stand there for a moment, watching as Jaci, Holly, and Claire break out in total hysterics, laughing like crazy, falling all over one another, and pointing at me.

While Cash just stands there, taking in the mess, shaking his head, and going, “Oh, man, that is
sick!”

And me? I turn around and make a run for the back room.

Bursting through the door, I toss my apron toward the laundry hamper, watching as it slides off the top and falls to the floor.

“You missed,” Autumn says, barely looking up from her drawing. “Not to mention that it’s not even four yet, and no way am I covering for you.” She continues to shade in the area around Joaquin Phoenix’s deep, dark, mysterious eyes, which I must admit she’s captured perfectly.

“Don’t mess with me, Autumn,” I say, grabbing a towel and dabbing furiously at my clothing, trying to rid it of Purple Berry
slime.

“I mean it. I’m not going out there ‘til the big hand is on the twelve,” she says, her cute little elfin face hidden by her long, murky blond hair that acts like a screen between us.

“Whatever,” I say, grabbing my bag and heading for the back door, since I can’t exactly use the front. I mean, I’m like a fugitive now, running from my own humiliation.

“I’m serious! Hey, Winter? Where you going?” Autumn yells, charcoal poised in midair, large brown eyes narrowed and focused on me.

And even though it’s not nice, and even though she probably
doesn’t deserve it, I need to lash out at someone, and she just happens to be the only one here. “None of your freaking business!” I yell, and then I slam the door behind me and hurry down the narrow alleyway, holding my breath as I pass the smelly, green Dumpsters, while hoping to avoid the creepy, skinny guy of indeterminate age who seems to be on a permanent cigarette break from his job at the corner liquor store.

But why I thought I’d be so lucky is beyond me.

“Hey,” he says, taking a really deep drag and squinting at me. “Couple more weeks and those dolphin-art-buying assholes will be all cleared out. Can’t wait to get my town back.” He flicks the newly formed ash onto the ground, not even caring that some of it has drifted right back at him, clinging to the front of his black T-shirt and jeans.

Oh, jeez, this again.
Ranting about seashell-art-loving tourists is one of his favorite pastimes. I just mumble something noncommittal and hurry past. I mean, no way am I stopping to talk with this guy. It’s like he’s always out here, wearing the same all-black outfit, which means he either has a closetful of black, thinks he’s Johnny Cash, or (more likely) he only does his laundry like, once every six weeks. Not to mention that he totally gives me the creeps. I mean, you’d think his boss would do something about the fact that he spends more time smoking in the alley than working behind the counter. And why he thinks I’d be interested in standing right alongside him, bashing tourists, and making fun of their lame art- buying habits is beyond me.

“You can thank MTV for this mess! They’re not content with destroying the music world, now they’re going after
my
world! Don’t fall prey to that corporate-branding crap!” he yells at my retreating back.

But I just ignore him, cross the street, and board the Laguna Beach shuttle bus. Grabbing an empty seat near the back, and praying (not for the first time) that Mr. Back Alley Smoker
is not gonna be my new daddy. Because believe me, I’ve heard my mom say some very similar things.

Heading down Pacific Coast Highway (a.k.a. PCH), I gaze at all the little shops, restaurants, and galleries, remembering how great (not to mention, convenient) it was when Sloane lived right across the street. We spent so much of our childhood running back and forth to each other’s houses, getting this toy from Sloane’s or that CD from mine, that our moms used to joke about building a bridge.

But now our moms don’t even talk, much less joke. Which I have to admit, still feels kind of weird. I mean, they used to be best friends, sitting on the porch on hot summer nights sipping beer and complaining about our absentee dads while Sloane and I rehearsed one of the intricately plotted plays or music videos that I wrote, produced, and directed and that she starred in. I mean, years of tap and ballet had made her a natural performer, while I, a little more cerebral and far less coordinated, felt way more comfortable behind the scenes. Though sometimes I did take the stage during the musical numbers, since I like to write songs and sing.

But after the sixth-grade “Lady Marmalade” talent show fiasco (I mean, who knew that many of the parents spoke French?), we gave up the stage. And a couple of years later our mothers gave up their friendship.

At first it was awkward, watching them go from beer- swigging gripe sessions to not even speaking, but then Sloane’s mom got pregnant and married (yes, in that order), and in a matter of weeks, they moved to a swanky gated community in south Laguna, an older gay couple moved into their old space, and I became a regular on the Laguna Beach shuttle bus, making the daily commute from my neighborhood to hers.

When I get to Sloane’s, I find her mom in the driveway, struggling to get a screaming, pink-clad baby Blair into her car seat.

“Sloane’s in her room,” she says, barely glancing at me.

I stand there cringing as I listen to Blair shriek at the top of her lungs. “Um, do you need help?” I ask, even though I have no idea how I could possibly assist, other than risking bodily harm by grabbing hold of those tiny, furiously kicking limbs and pinning the baby down. But when she doesn’t answer, I just head straight into the house and upstairs to Sloane’s room.

“Perfect timing,” Sloane says, removing her earplugs and tossing her iPod onto her big, wood, canopy bed. “They’re on their way to Mommy and Me. Did you notice the matching outfits?” She rolls her eyes.

“I didn’t know Juicy made clothes for one-year-olds,” I say, plopping onto her furry zebra print butterfly chair, which is one of the few things she was allowed to transfer from her old life to her new one.

“They don’t. My mom had it made special just for Blair. I swear, that kid was born to be homecoming queen.” She laughs.

“And speaking of.” I look at her, smiling with anticipation.

“Follow me.”

I trail her into her bathroom, which is practically bigger than the bedroom Autumn and I are forced to share, and make myself comfortable on the edge of her oversized Jacuzzi tub.

“Okay, so this is what I got,” she says, reaching into a cupboard and pulling out two bulging plastic bags that seem like they just might possibly contain the entire hair and beauty section of the Monarch Beach CVS Drugstore. “I chose Frosty Latte for you, since I figured with your medium to light brown hair color you can probably go about two shades lighter and still look natural, and then I bought Macadamia Fizz for me.” She tosses me the box with a picture of a smiling woman on the front, her thick, coffee-colored hair rippling in the wind as her eyes focus directly on mine, daring me to try it.

“Are we supposed to drink this or pour it on our hair?” I
laugh, staring at the color swatches on the back and trying to imagine myself with a frosty latte head.

“And check this out, I went crazy with the lip glosses and eye pencils. I figured with your brown hair and eyes, and me being blond and blue-eyed, it should be pretty easy to divvy it all up, right?”

She pours a pile of makeup onto the rug, and we kneel down around it, sorting through it, popping off tops, and coloring on the back of our hands. And when I gaze up at her, I can’t help but feel this overwhelming surge of gratitude that she’s actually gone and done this for me, because it’s not like she has to dabble in drugstore makeup anymore. I mean, even though she may have grown up kind of poor, now, since her mom’s remarriage, she’s actually pretty rich. Which is kind of like having an all-access, backstage pass to the aisles of Sephora and all the best hair salons. And even though, technically, I’m not poor, I’m not exactly wealthy, either. Not to mention how my mom would never agree to pay for stuff like this. And all the money I saved from slaving in the café all summer? Well, that’s already been spent on some image-altering, life-changing school clothes.

“Sloane, thanks,” I say, smiling shyly, as part of me considers telling her about the humiliating smoothie incident I’d just barely survived, while the other part, the smarter, more careful part, doesn’t allow it.

I mean, we’ve been planning this makeover and social coup since the last day of ninth grade, so there’s no way I can tell her how just one day before the first day of school and our well- planned debut, I may have already blown it.

But she just shrugs. “Please, it’s way more fun this way. Besides, we’re in this together, right?”

I look at her and smile. “Who goes first?” I ask, opening the box and retrieving a pair of rubber gloves, knowing that no matter what happens with our plan, whether we succeed or fail, we’ll always be friends.

Two

Today is the first day in the history of my life that I woke up without a hassle. I mean, usually it’s a pretty big, long drawn- out ordeal, where I hit the Snooze button the absolute maximum number of times, and even then, once it’s stopped cooperating and starts shrilling, I can still manage to eke out another ten minutes just by going all the way under the blankets and placing the pillow on top of my head.

But today I rose with the sun. Partly because I was excited, and partly because I had some major prep time ahead of me.

Tiptoeing past Autumn’s bed, I go into our bathroom and squint at my new frosty latte hair, which is actually more the color of tea with honey and lemon than anything resembling Sumatra blend. Then I get in the shower and perform my usual routine of hair washing, leg shaving, and body cleansing, only today, all the products are new.

“A whole new life calls for all new toiletries,” Sloane had said, handing me a bag full of citrus-scented shower gels, moisturizing
shampoos, and conditioners that promised to make the most of my newly minted frostiness.

And now with a towel wrapped around my head and another around my body, I’m like a fresh, blank canvas, eagerly awaiting the stroke of color that will turn me into a masterpiece. Or at least keep me from blending into the wall.

I’m sick of being invisible. Tired of being bumped in the halls without apology, of being chosen last for a team (if chosen at all), and of drooling over guys like Cash Davis who wouldn’t even notice if he ran over me with his Hummer.

It’s like, last year, when we became freshmen, Sloane and I were so excited about getting a fresh new start, in a brand-new school, falsely believing that we could just walk away from our former junior-high nerdiness and ease into the higher social ranks, beau monde, in crowd, A-list, popular clique, cool kids, or whatever you call them at your school. But just three days into the very first week, the roles were already cast, and Sloane and I, denied the chance to audition, stood on the sidelines among a sea of faceless extras, watching as girls like Jaci, Holly, and Claire took the parts of homecoming princess, frosh-soph cheerleaders, and collective varsity jock bait.

And after yet another year of watching everyone else have all the fun that we could only dream about, Sloane and I made a pact to do whatever it takes not to go unnoticed in our sophomore year. So we spent the entire summer holed up in her room, with an arsenal of fashion magazines, Dr. Phil books (Sloane read one, while I read another, then we gave each other the gist), that book where some guy tells you how pretty much no guys are into you (duh!), and endless TiVoing of makeover shows, including
Queer Eye,
because let’s face it, good advice really does transcend all genders.