The Last Best Kiss (14 page)

“I’ll get him.” I’m halfway down the back hallway before I realize she’s followed me.

I knock on Dad’s office door and get permission to open it.

“Surprise!” Ginny sings out as she pushes by me and enters.

Dad looks slightly stunned by her sudden appearance. He’s not used to being interrupted when he’s working, and he’s definitely not used to people barging into his office. But his social skills are strong. “Ginny,” he says. “How nice to see you.” He snatches his reading glasses off of his face and puts them on his desk, then runs his hand through his hair, settling it all in place. He rises to his feet. “To what do we owe the honor?”

Ginny repeats the explanation she gave me. “You’ve taken me out to such nice meals,” she says at the end. “I wanted to give something back. Can I show you what I got?”

“Not here,” my dad says hastily. Food is not allowed in his office. “In the kitchen. In the kitchen.”

In the kitchen Ginny unloads her purchases. The crusty baguette. Some kind of fig jam. A soft cheese I’ve never seen before. Dark Belgian chocolate. Pickled miniature vegetables. A bottle of red wine. And a small carton of quail eggs.

“How cute are these?” she says, showing us the tiny speckled shells in their little carton.

Dad says, “This is all just terrific, but I’m afraid I ate a late lunch today.”

“And I had an enormous sub a couple of hours ago,” I say.

“Oh, that’s fine,” Ginny says, a little too brightly. It’s seven thirty, and I’m sure she thought she’d be getting to us right around our dinnertime, but the truth is, we don’t actually bother with sit-down meals in our house: Dad and I just eat when we’re hungry. And I’m usually starving right after school. And then again later, but that’s just for stuff like ice cream and brownies. And popcorn. And chips. She says, “This will keep. I didn’t mean for us to eat it tonight necessarily. It’s really more of a house gift.” She gives a little stilted laugh.

“Well, thank you,” says my father. He clears his throat. “Can you stay for a glass of wine?”

She says eagerly, “Only if you’re not busy. I don’t want to interrupt anything.”

“A pleasant interruption is far more enjoyable than the work I was doing,” Dad says gallantly. He stands up a little straighter. “Anna, get the wineglasses.”

I get out three. He pours two and puts down the bottle. I pick it up and pour a little bit into the third glass. “Cheers,” I say, and drink it.

Dad shoots me a look, but he lets it go.

“Shall I put out the bread and cheese too?” asks Ginny, who’s probably starving.

“Sure,” Dad says amiably. “We’ll have a little party. Anna, get out a cheese board.”

I hand Ginny a cheese board from the drawer, then pour myself a little more wine.

“Enough,” Dad says, just as the doorbell rings. “Who could
that
be?” he asks.

“A friend of mine.” I put down my wineglass and speed out of there.

This time it really
is
Wade. He’s waiting there on our front step, looking slim and handsome in a polo shirt and khakis. And a belt. And loafers. He seems kind of dressed up, actually. Like for a date. Only we’re not going on a date—he’s just dropping by to hang out, right?

Which is why
I’m
wearing sweatpants and a hoodie and a ponytail.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey.” He leans forward and pecks at my cheek.

Well, this is awkward.

I say, “Come on in.”

“Who’s here?” he asks as he steps over the threshold and hears Dad’s and Ginny’s voices coming from the kitchen.

“My dad and a friend.”

“His girlfriend?”

“No! God, no.”

“Oh, sorry. Who is she?”

“Just this friend of my sister’s. She teaches at my school now.”

“So your sister’s here too?” I shake my head, and he says, “She’s your sister’s friend, but she’s here even though your sister isn’t?”

“Yeah, but I have no idea why. Let’s just go to the family room so we don’t have to deal with them.”

“I don’t mind,” he says. “I like meeting people.”

I shake my head—I can imagine the little knowing smile Ginny will give me when she sees Wade and assumes it’s romantic. Which it may or may not be. I’m honestly not sure yet. But Wade’s already heading toward the sound of their voices, so I follow him into the kitchen.

Ginny looks up from the bread she’s smearing with fig spread and spots Wade. “Well, hello there,” she says. “You must be the reason Anna went running for the door so quickly.” She gives me a sly wink.

I reluctantly introduce everyone.

My father strides forward to shake Wade’s hand. “Good to meet you.”

“Great to meet you too, sir,” says Wade, pumping away enthusiastically.
Sir?
Boys in California don’t say “sir.” Do they? “Has Anna told you how we’re related?”

My dad shakes his head, so Wade explains that we’re cousins. Dad asks what his mother’s maiden name was, and Wade tells him, and Dad says, “Oh, yes, I know exactly who she is. I met her mother—your grandmother—a few times when I was a lot younger. Please send them both my regards.”

“I will,” Wade says.

“Are you two kids hungry?” Ginny asks, like she’s our hostess. Like this is
her
kitchen. “We have tons of food. Cheese, bread . . . quail eggs . . .”

“Oops, too bad—I had quail eggs for lunch today,” Wade says, and Dad and Ginny laugh appreciatively.

“How about some bread and cheese?” Ginny says.

“Sure,” Wade says with a quick glance at me.

I shrug, and we join them on the stools around the kitchen island. It wasn’t exactly how I wanted the visit to go, but the bread and cheese are good, and I’m hungrier than I realized.

Somehow—I’m not sure how or why—we get onto the subject of colleges. I guess it’s inevitable. It’s all anyone asks us seniors about, and it’s all we think about, so conversations these days always seem to end up there.

Ginny asks Wade if he’s applying early anywhere, and he says, “Yeah. I mean, I know it’s probably ridiculous, because it’s such a long shot . . . but it is the best school out there, and I figure I have no chance of getting in if I don’t even try, right?”

“That’s the spirit,” says Ginny.

My dad nods absently, because he’s reading something on his phone.

Wade raises his voice slightly. “You went to Stanford, didn’t you, Mr. Eliot?”

Dad looks up. “I did. Best four years of my life. Eight years, if you count law school.”

“Law school definitely counts,” Ginny says.

Wade says, “Any advice for someone desperate to get in?”

“Yes,” Dad says. “Get good grades and do well on the SATs.”

“I’m working on it,” Wade says.

“I’ve done quite a bit of alumni interviewing for Stanford,” Dad says. “We’re always looking for the exceptional.”

“The exceptional. Got it. Will you be interviewing this year, sir?”

Sir
again.

“Not this year, no. When you have a child applying, they make you take the year off.”

“But she’s not actually applying to Stanford, right?” Wade looks at me for corroboration, and I nod.

“I’m hoping Anna will change her mind,” Dad says, which is probably true, since he’s said that to me several times. If we spent more time together, it would probably stress me out, but he can only put pressure on me when he’s actually with me, so it hasn’t been too big an issue.

“I wouldn’t get in, anyway,” I say.

“Oh, Anna,” says Ginny, who clearly enjoys saying “Oh, Anna” to me. “That sounds like fear talking. Wade’s got the right idea—you have to take the shot if you want a chance to make the goal.”

“I don’t know why you think I’m so afraid of everything,” I say irritably. I drop a bread crust down onto my plate. “I’m not.”

“I worry that you’re holding yourself back out of a fear of looking stupid.”

“How nice for you that you don’t have that problem,” I say sweetly.

“Funny,” she says icily. She glances at Dad, but he’s looking at his phone again.

“You done yet?” I ask Wade, who obligingly slides off his stool, even though he still has a chunk of bread and cheese in front of him.

I was thinking we’d go to the family room and hang out there for a little while—maybe watch some TV and talk—but in the hallway he says he should probably get back to his homework and college applications. At the door we say good-bye, and then he bends down to kiss me. He kisses my cheek, straightens up, hesitates, and then leans back down and kisses me again, on the lips this time. It’s light and brief, but it’s definitely on my lips. Then he smiles at me and leaves.

I call Lucy to ask her what she thinks that meant.

“He likes you,” she says without any hesitation.

“It was a very quick kiss.”

“Well, did you respond? Pull him back in?”

“Not really. Did I mention it was very quick? I mean, his lips landed and then were gone. Stealth kiss.”

“How’d you feel about it?”

“Fine. I felt fine about it.”

“Calm down,” she says sarcastically. “You’re fogging up my phone.”

“I don’t not like him. I’m just not sure I like him yet. I was hoping I’d have a better sense after he came over tonight, but we spent the whole time with my dad and Ginny.”

“Who’s Ginny?”

“Ginny Clay.”

That only confuses her more. “Why was Ginny Clay at your house if Lizzie wasn’t there?”

It takes a while to explain the whole Ginny Clay story, so we never get back to our discussion of Wade, which is maybe just as well. What insight could Lucy have into the viability of this relationship when she doesn’t know anything more than I can tell her?

And when you toss around phrases like “viability of this relationship,” doesn’t that sort of mean you’re not in love?

But why
aren’t
I in love? Wade is perfect.

I’ll have to work harder at falling in love with him. That’s all. I need a boyfriend so I can stop lying in bed at night wondering whether Finn and Lily have finally decided to stop worrying about Hilary’s feelings and let themselves become a couple.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

nine

A
t lunch every day, we plan our weekend at the music festival. The twins’ father is arranging a van for our group, which so far seems to be Phoebe, Hil and Lily (obvs), Lucy, me, Oscar, Eric, Jackson, and Finn.

“Don’t you dare break up with Eric before then,” Hilary says to Phoebe as Lucy and I follow them out of school at the end of the day. “That would complicate everything. Wait until after the trip to break his heart.”

“What makes you think I want to break his heart?” asks Phoebe.

“History,” says Hilary, who has a point—none of Phoebe’s boyfriends have lasted longer than a month or two.

But so far she and Eric seem to be doing just fine as a couple. Eric is so happy she’s his girlfriend that his round face radiates joy whenever he sees her. He jumps up to hold her chair for her, goes to her volleyball games and cheers wildly when she scores a point, opens doors for her, carries her books, pays for her meals, and rubs her shoulders.

And Phoebe . . . uh . . . lets him do all those things for her.

It works for them, I guess.

We reach our hangout near the tree and sit down on the grass to talk some more about plans for the festival—most importantly what clothing we’re all bringing—and then my phone dings and I glance down at it.

“Crap,” I say, jumping back up to my feet. “I totally forgot I was supposed to meet Mr. Oresco in the art room. We’re supposed to go over my portfolio, see what I still need to add to it.”

“I should head off too,” Lucy says, scrambling up after me. “I’ve got to start that English paper.”

“It’s not due for another week,” Hilary points out.

“I know, but I have so much else coming up. . . .”

As I walk back into school, I wonder if Lucy will be different in college. So much of her anxiety is about getting in—I hope she’ll be able to relax once she’s there. Maybe she’ll stop caring about her grades or whether teachers like her and start partying like a beast.

Or maybe she’ll just pick a new goal—graduate school or a fellowship or a cum laude degree—and obsess over
that
.

Yeah, it’ll be that second one. Anxiety is her caffeine—it keeps her going. Keeps her focused. Keeps her busy. I can’t imagine a Lucy without stress—it wouldn’t be Lucy.

I reach the art room, where Mr. Oresco and I spend the next half hour sorting through the pile of art I’ve produced since ninth grade, weeding out the bad pieces (“Don’t call them
bad
,” he chides me. “Art is a process, and sometimes that process takes you down paths that you decide not to pursue—but it’s all valuable.” Yeah, whatever—I’m still planning to burn the work that embarrasses me) and seeing what’s left once we’re down to the pieces that don’t make me cringe.

“I love the direction you’ve been going in,” Mr. O says, after we’ve finished making our piles. “I think the tension in your pieces is phenomenal. And there’s something to be said for having a distinct and memorable point of view, so if you want to submit a portfolio that’s all in this one very strong voice, I’m fine with that. But—”

I brace myself.

His voice is gentle as he goes on. “You might want to try your hand at something like a portrait or still life—something with a lot of detail, just to show some range. You don’t have to include it unless you’re happy with it, so there’s no risk in trying, right?”

He’s being reasonable, supportive, and intelligent—everything Ginny Clay wasn’t when she told me I was a coward—so I tell him I agree.

I thank Mr. O, put my work on the shelf where I keep most of it, and head out to the mostly deserted hallway, where I spot Finn and Lily standing near the back door. Their heads are close together as he shows her something on his phone.

I stop where I am. It hurts to see them like that and I don’t want to have to start smiling and pretending it doesn’t, so I think about slipping away quickly, but just then Lily lifts her head, sees me, and calls out a greeting. She’s wearing a pair of bright red jeans tucked into purple boots and a dark blue tank top. Crazy colors, but they work together. She says with a laugh, “Save me, Anna! Finn’s showing me the most disgusting photos of dust mites and bacteria and stuff like that.”