The ABC's of Kissing Boys (5 page)

And I was flattered. Except that being seen talking to him in public felt dangerous. Like ditching school or writing test notes under your sleeve. It would be flaunting convention, practically daring people to figure out what was going on with us. And that wasn't my style. I was a by- the- book girl, a team player—

Except look where that had gotten me.

“Okay,” I said, a little uncertainly. I really didn't have much to lose at this point. “Sure.”

“Good.” He smiled. “Then I'll do it.”

“Do what?”

“Go along with your plan.”

My words escaped before I had a chance to catch them. “You mean … you weren't going to?”

Tristan laughed.
He laughed?

Then he flicked his head back toward land. “Come on. I've got to get home for dinner.”

Dinner. Oh, yeah.
My omelet was probably as cold and flat as those blades of grass we'd scraped up earlier.

“When do we want to start?” he continued.

My brain raced. “How about after my parents leave for work tomorrow? Just come over.”

He nodded.

We fell into step together, his legs longer than mine but the two of us somehow creating a balanced rhythm. And while a voice in the back of my head warned that Tristan might not be easy to handle, for the first time all day, my muscles weren't tense, and I suspected I'd soon be able to have whole thoughts on topics that did not include my sucky life.

Passing under the bridge, I glanced Tristan's way. It wasn't until I saw the smile start to pull at his mouth that I realized I was smiling, too.

Focus
:
When French-kissing, focus on
keeping your tongues inside each other's
mouths. Otherwise, it's more like puppy-
dog-licking.

M
y mother was sitting at the kitchen table when I got home, tapping an impatient foot. Her and Dad's dirty dishes had been cleared to the counter, telling me I was later than late. My dad was nowhere to be seen, but the steady pounding out back was a big clue that he was around and working on yet another home- improvement project.

I managed an apology; then I told her why I'd stormed off. “I just feel like everything's coming down on me at once,” I went on, hoping to shift the mood to one that included sympathy.

“I'm on your side, Parker. I really am. But I've heard of too many teens wasting their lives in front of screens. It's important to me that you stay fit and active.”

In this case, staying fit and active also meant staying stressed. But I could see we were mending fences, so I simply shrugged.

“Where were you all this time?”

“Out walking.” In case anyone had seen me with Tristan and reported it back to her, I added, “With the Murphy kid. He's starting DHS this year, and I, uh, offered to help him settle in.” (Conveniently leaving out all he was doing for me.)

“You two are becoming friendly?”

I shrugged one shoulder.

“Actually, that might be a good idea. I think half the reason your father keeps up this ridiculous property battle is ignorance. For some reason, he's got it in his head that George Murphy is evil. Maybe you can invite this Tristan over, and your dad can see for himself that the kid is not the spawn of the devil and start to humanize the situation.”

“Maybe,” I said, thinking of the strange make- out session Tristan and I had planned for the living room sofa as soon as my parents left for work in the morning. If my dad walked in on
that,
things would escalate from bad blood to Armageddon.

My mother patted my arm, then warmed my omelet, which I accepted with equal parts appreciation and guilt.

I'd only taken a few bites when my father cruised through the back door. He was dressed in a varnish-stained T-shirt, saggy jeans and cracked work boots—his standard around the house after he shed his brand-name suits.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, and braced myself for the where-have-you-been-young-lady routine.

But he just patted my head. “And here I thought you'd gotten a better offer for dinner.”

Sensing the chance to lighten things up, I grinned. “You mean like Prince Harry cruised into the harbor on his royal British yacht and offered me lobster?”

His eyes twinkled. “That, or anything that constituted a
real
dinner.”

I threw a look at Mom. “See? What did I tell you? I knew eggs wouldn't fly.”

Mom sighed. “Oh, the things I put you two through.”

I could have snorted and agreed—but it was kind of nice to have peace back in the house, so I simply went back to eating.

•

The next morning, I busied myself picking up the living room. I wasn't nervous, exactly (okay, maybe a little), but it
was
pretty weird to imagine locking lips with a guy I'd lived by for years and yet barely knew. Weirder still that it was going to happen
in my house,
and in the morning. At least if we were at a party, with music and friends and little or no lighting to take the edge off …

As I moved some magazines to my room, my eyes fell upon a seal- colored Furby doll that had been batteryless and “sleeping” on my shelf for years. Mom had tried to give it away or throw it out several times, but I'd dug in my heels, the memory of how desperately I'd wanted it, and how hard I'd worked for it with household chores and a lemonade stand, keeping its value high. Making it impossible to part with. I'd even taken good care of it long after its novelty had worn off.

I heard a door slam across the street, and images of the Furby and Tristan knocked together in my head. Idly, I hoped the Plan wouldn't be a repeat of my Furby incident, where getting what I wanted hadn't lived up to the goal and the chase.

The knock on the door was the equivalent of the first bell at school. Class was about to begin. I was suddenly as anxious about letting Tristan in as I expected to feel when I took that long, lonely walk down the hallway on Monday without Chrissandra or Mandy or any of my other friends. But I knew if I wanted my life back, there was a price to pay. And it started with putting my mouth where my money was. So I opened the door.

“Hey,” Tristan said. “Coast clear?”

“Yeah.”

His hair was damp and combed, his blue T-shirt and shorts looked fresh from the dryer … and did I smell cologne?

I glanced down at my soccer shorts and tank top. The most I'd done was a side- of- my- head ponytail and a solid tooth brushing. But hey, no matter how good Tristan looked (and smelled), this was
not
a date.

So why was my blood throbbing like the time Chrissandra had challenged me to guzzle a can of Red Bull?

Leading him into the living room, I rolled my neck to try to ease some tension. But I knew that the best way to overcome anxiety was to put the “unknown” behind me. So I decided to turn and smack him on the lips. Just to get it over with.

Which would have been all well and good had he still been behind me and not stopped some feet back, head tilted as he scanned an open spiral notebook in his hand.

I unpuckered my mouth and cleared my throat.

He glanced up with that dark blue stare. “Oh, this? Last night I wrote down everything I could remember from camp.”

Okay—that was impressive. Flattering, even, that he was taking this whole thing so seriously and not just going along with it for the “paycheck.”

“Uh, thanks,” I said. “So I guess you're the studious type, huh? You make the honor roll and all?”

“Not really. But when I care about something, I give it my all.”

Everything inside me went tight, and I plopped down on the couch so hard that I bounced.

He closed the gap between us in a couple of long strides and sat down on the cushion beside me. “Okay, so first I was thinking we'd go over my notes—”

No way. First, we had to kill the tension. I reached out for his shoulders, and I pulled him toward me. Then I pressed my sealed lips against his. In a kiss. Not a fly-me- to- the- moon kiss—but not a bad one, either.

Moments later, he shifted backward, breaking our seal.

“That,” I said, attempting to explain, “was called … the Let's-Break-the-Ice Kiss.”

His eyes seemed to do a slow dance across my face. “Or maybe it's the You- Want- Me-
That
-
Bad
Kiss.”

I made a scoffing noise. “In your dreams.”

“I don't know,” he said in a rush of words. “I'm thinking I've been on your mind since we agreed to this last night, and you just couldn't wait to jump me.”

I crossed my arms. “More like I wanted the anticipation over.”

“Anticipation? Of what? Being with me?” He huffed out a laugh. “Heck, I'm the one who has to perform here.”

I instinctively opened my mouth to fire off some snappy comeback—but I found myself blank. I realized that he was right. The pressure
was
on him, for being the so- called pro. Why was I making this about me?

“Okay,” I said, feeling a little stupid, “then take over, Coach.”

A smile curved his lips. “I prefer the term Personal Trainer, if you don't mind.”

I made a face. That sounded so … well, personal, and one- on- one, and, well, physical.

“Or sir.”

“Sir!”
That
was too much. I raised a hand as if to swat him. “And I prefer Sparky.”

He intercepted my hand in midair and laced his fingers through mine. After a quick squeeze that startled my senses and blanked out my brain, he let go and thrust the notebook into my hand.

“Didn't you ever see that sign in the Greenfield cafeteria?” he asked, referring to the middle school. “ ‘The dictionary is the only place where
success
comes before
work.’”

“Oh, puh- lease!” Part of me wanted to tease him for the mere mention of our middle school, but the simple truth was, we were wasting time. I wasn't going to get any closer to impressing Luke until Tristan and I got down to business.

And no matter how frustrated I got with him, I had to keep one simple thing in mind: if I didn't learn how to kiss, I could kiss my chances of varsity away.

•

It turned out Tristan was a man with a plan. He wanted to conquer the other parts of the face before the mouth. Namely, by refining the Caterpillar Kiss (the strange eyebrow messer), learning the proper etiquette of the Butterfly Kiss (entwining eyelashes) and the Eskimo Kiss (rubbing noses) and perfecting the Cheek Kiss (classic lips-to-cheek, of course).

It was
way
more fun than any classes I'd ever taken, especially since there were no rules against talking or breaking into laughter now and then. But I was surprised by how tiring it could be, and after a while, my facial muscles got sore and my mind started to wander.

Around ten, we took a break. After knocking back a couple of glasses of fruit punch (and wiping the red streaks from around our mouths), we resumed our positions on the couch. Where Tristan announced that it was time to work on the lean- in.

“The side of the face you choose to approach your partner with actually tells volumes about how you feel about the person,” he explained.

Who knew?

By the time he stood to leave for his water polo scrimmage, the only mouth- to- mouth action we'd shared was that stolen kiss when he'd first sat down.

I didn't know whether to feel disappointed or triumphant.

“So,” I said, walking him to the door, “tonight, then? I'll get my mom's car and we'll find someplace to go.”
Someplace dark,
I added silently.
Alone. Where no one will see us.

“Sounds good.”

Then it occurred to me: it was Friday night. We both knew nothing better would come along for
me
—unless Chrissandra had a change of heart. But I had to assume that Tristan had a life. “Unless you get a better offer,” I added.

“Nah,” he said, turning back. “You're top priority right now.” A smile grazed his mouth, then rose to his eyes.

I was studying those eyes—wondering if navy blue properly described them—when they moved steadily closer. Before I knew it, his mouth was over mine, and I'd lost my sense of sight. Probably because I'd closed my eyes when his tongue slid between my lips.

His hand cupping the back of my neck, I leaned deeper into the kiss, trying to study and feel and experience every aspect, every nuance.

Then suddenly he pulled away, taking my breath with him.

“That,” he said, and grinned, “was the See- You- Later Kiss.”

My hands fled to my upper arms, almost as if I was hugging myself. I couldn't help but think that a better name for that kiss might be the Leave- Them- Wanting-More Kiss. I waved him through the door, stunned into silence.

And then tried
not
to think about how incredibly delicious and delightful the kiss had been. And how my first French kiss had come from the freshman across the street.

Graduation
:
For many
girls, great kissing is a diploma in itself; for
many guys, it's a prerequisite to a bigger
course of study.

T
hat afternoon I pocketed the debit card my mom had left out for me and headed toward Old Town, intending to take full advantage of the one good thing about not quitting soccer altogether: shopping.

Waiting for the gates of the harbor bridge to lift, I was filled with a sort of bubbly excitement, the familiar and wonderful feeling that with the right outfit, anything is possible.