The Things You Kiss Goodbye (2 page)

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

B
RADY HAD A SIGNATURE WAY OF SAYING
“B
ETTINA
.” The
B
sounded more like a
P
and the rest was clipped. “Y-you’re P’teen-uh, right?” I looked up from my locker to see him standing beside me. He was blushing like a stoplight.

“P’teen-uh.” It took me a second to hear my own name inside that pronunciation. Then I hid a smirk, and instead of saying, “Uh, not really,” I nodded and said, “Yeah.”
Yeah, okay. I’ll be “P’teen-uh.”
It was hardly worse than Bettina, which I had always thought was a prissy mouthful of a name—not to mention I’d heard myself called “Bettina Ballerina” way too many times.

Anyway, a few more “Hey, P’teen-uhs” and a few weeks
later, Brady introduced me to an upperclassman, also draped in a basketball jersey.

Brady said, “Hey, Spooner, this is P’teen-uh Vasilis. She’s a friend of mine.”

A friend
. Was I? Already? Spooner took me in—full ride up with the eyes—but he seemed more curious than lust filled. I gave him the warmest hello I had in me. I suddenly liked being Brady Cullen’s friend.

Meanwhile, Spooner smiled and tilted his head at me and I knew he was going to tease me. “Huh. So what is your deal?” he said. “Got a little ‘girl-from-the-dark-side’ thing going?” He did a little bobbing and nodding. “You’ve got your mean boots on. . . .” Then he flicked his own earlobe. “You like spiders and snakes, huh?”

I reached to hold one earring. “Serpents and tarantulas,” I said. A blush bloomed from my insides to my cheeks. Then I broke into a grin.

“Oh! Oh! She’s dark . . . but she
smiles
,” he said.

I laughed and stamped a foot down. He sort of had me; I was always self-conscious about letting myself be cracked open that way. I had a giant mouth, full lips—like, take-up-your-whole-face full—and big teeth. I’d gotten all of that from Momma. Her smile was warm and appealing. I wasn’t so sure I had Momma’s grace.

Spooner was nice enough to gauge my embarrassment.
He knocked me gently on the shoulder. “I’m messing with you,” he said.

Brady Cullen was encouraged. He obviously looked up to Spooner, who had, in his own way, given me his endorsement. After that, Brady kept turning up at the art room door and beside my locker, which were one in the same place, really. I started to look for him to be there. Then one afternoon after the last bell, he caught me lightly by the arm in the hallway. He stammered. “H-hey, what are you doing now?”

“Um . . . getting on the bus,” I said.

“Could you miss it? ’Cause I never get to really talk to you for long.”

“I could miss it if I walked slowly,” I said.

“Well then, come on. Slow down.” Another shy smile spread across his face.

So, I did miss the bus that day. Brady and I went to the upstairs hall where it was quiet. We leaned on the glass-block wall. He led with jock talk. He seemed surprised when I didn’t know that he’d been top scorer on the JV basketball team.

“Well, I don’t get to the games,” I told him.

“How come?”

“Hmm. It’s my parents,” I said, and I rolled my eyes. “I don’t get out unless I sneak out.”

“What about after school? What do you do?”

“I go home to a tiny, turreted room,” I said, and we both laughed. “I’m kidding. I used to take dance lessons right after school but they kind of ran out of classes for me.”

“I go to dances,” he said. “I don’t dance. But I go.” Again we were laughing. “So, you sort of don’t
look
like you have strict parents. I saw you with a spider tattoo one time.” He opened his hand wide and pressed it into the thigh of his khakis, indicating exactly where he’d seen the tattoo on me. “I get that it was a temp. But still, that doesn’t seem like strict parents.” He shook his head.

“Yeah, like I said, I sneak around.” I ducked my chin just a little. I didn’t know what he’d think of me if I started confessing my deceptions. But it wasn’t like Bampas was going to let me date this boy—or any other boy. Having nothing to lose is a pretty cool headspace. I looked right into Brady’s pale blue eyes. “I get into school on an early bus and I . . . do stuff. In the girls’ room before the bell.”

“You
do stuff
?” He opened his eyes wide as if to tease. I shrugged in return.
Nothing to lose
, I reminded myself.

“Yeah.” I cocked my head a little. “I put that spider tat on in there one morning. Sometimes I change my clothes in a stall. Whatever.” I tried to sound dismissive.

Brady Cullen smiled. Then in a voice just above a whisper he asked, “Will you go out with me?”

Suddenly, I flashed on all my kisses in the graveyard, how
fleeting all of it had seemed. I was pretty sure that Brady was asking me to be his girlfriend. Had he ever had a girlfriend? I wondered. More than one? It didn’t seem like it. He was a little bit awkward and innocent, I thought. But man, his eyes were bright and his lips were full and perfect. I could
so
try kissing those. . . .

“Oh, God,” I said, and his eyebrows bumped up just the littlest bit. I shook my head. “Sorry, but no. I cannot go out with you. My father is so old-fashioned. Prehistoric. I’m basically not allowed to date. We’d have to sneak around. It wouldn’t be much fun for you.”

“Oh. Wuh-well . . . uh, okay then.” I watched the air go out of the boy.

“I’m sorry. Really. Look, I should go down to the office and use the phone,” I said, though I didn’t really want to leave him. “They’ll wonder at home why I’m not off the bus yet. I’m supposed to call for a ride if I miss it.”

“You don’t have a phone?” He twisted up his face as he dug into his pocket. “Here.” He held his phone out. I took it carefully. I
loved
phones. They were sleek and shiny and responsive—all in a package like a chocolate bar. And this one was warm from being next to Brady Cullen.

I dialed home. I got my father and, aware that Brady was listening, I tried to keep it simple.

“Bampas? Yes. Sorry, I missed the bus. I was slow getting
out of the art room,” I lied. “Yep, okay. See you down in the circle—” I looked at Brady while Bampas scolded me. I was sure that he could hear everything.

“I do not understand it, Bettina! What keeps you in that art room too late for a bus? You will explain at supper tonight. When you take the time of others, you disregard them. And when you are late, you make them worry—”

I mouthed the word
sorry
at Brady and rolled my eyes while I continued to use his beautiful phone. “Yes, Bampas. I will. I will. Yes. Bye.” When the call was over, I held the phone to my chest for a beat and sighed. “And there is a little sample of my life for you,” I told Brady.

“So, are you in trouble now? He sounds kinda
mad
. Will you be grounded?”

“No,” I said. “Well, not any more than I usually am. I’m kind of grounded as a way of life.” Again, Brady and I were laughing together. “And sometimes, there just has to be a lecture and then it’s over.”

“So, wait . . . is
Bampas
your father or your grandfather?”

In truth, Bampas was old enough to be my grandfather. But Brady didn’t need to know that. “‘Bampas’ is Greek for father, or dad,” I told him. “Like Papa.”

Brady reached for my hand and didn’t so much take it as he gave it a timid sort of tug. “Is it okay if I walk you out to the circle? Or is that a bad idea?”

“Even Bampas doesn’t get to say who goes out to the circle,” I said.

On our way through the lobby, Brady and I leaned together. I gave him our home number and watched as his long fingers quickly tapped it into his phone.
I should not be encouraging this boy
, I thought. But it’d be so nice if he really did call.

For the next few weeks, I missed the bus about every other day. Bampas would pull up and see me with standing with Brady. Finally, he dug down for the monotone and asked me, “Who is the boy, Bettina?”

“His name is Brady Cullen, Bampas.”

Without taking his eyes off the road, my father said, “Do I need to tell you—”

“That there is no dating until
you
tell me there will be dating? And not to ask before I am at least sixteen? No, you don’t.”

“And do you know why?”

Oh. This part had not come up before. I looked at Bampas and tried to read his profile—stern as ever—as he stared forward.

“It is because you are not mature enough for a relationship, Bettina.”

I suppose I could have said what I was thinking—that I wouldn’t mind
practicing
a little bit before anyone called it a “relationship.” But that wasn’t a good way to deal with
Bampas; he’d ground me for being fresh. So, I dropped it.

Then one day around the end of May, after I had missed the bus some more, Brady walked up to the car with me. He leaned in to the window and introduced himself to my father, all the while holding my hand on the outside of the car where Bampas could not see.

“Oh, yes. You are the boy who has called the house?” Bampas said.

“Yes, sir. That one time, it was during your dinner. I apologize for that.”

Bampas progressed from a shrug to a nod, saying, “No, no. This is okay.”

“Mr. Vasilis, I was hoping Bettina could come to Shoot for a Cause with me on Friday night. It’s a cookout and basketball free throw contest, down in the park. We have sponsors and the money goes to disaster relief.”

I stood outside the car, linking pinkies with Brady and thought about what a nice try that had been. Then damned if I didn’t hear Bampas say
yes
. And damned if Brady didn’t stand up, smile, and brush me a little kiss for the first time, there above the roof of the car where Bampas would not see it happen.

Brady Cullen became my beacon. He was the boy my father would let me go out with. Brady picked me. Bampas picked Brady. I flew free—a couple of times a week.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

I
N THE BEGINNING
, B
RADY WAS WHAT ANYONE WOULD
call a
good
boyfriend. He waited for me between classes, and he sat with me at lunch on the days our schedules allowed. He bought me little books of cartoony tattoos and left funny cards in my locker. Once, he brought me a lemon-poppy cupcake in a box from the best bakery in the city. He’d gotten up early just to have it at my locker when I arrived in the morning.

I made Brady ugly little clay creatures with big ears, snouts, and toothpick horns on their heads. I pinched them together toward the end of art class and handed them to him while they were still wet. He’d take them from me knowing
he’d end up with mud on his fingers, which I found hilariously sweet, and put them on the top shelf of his locker to dry. He gave me discreet kisses in the hall. I had told him no tongues in school. Couples that did that grossed me out. He honored that.

He seemed oblivious to the fact that other than Spooner, who was about to graduate and be gone, his friends hadn’t exactly warmed to me—especially the girls. They eyeballed the clothes I wore, my henna inkings, heavy-metal jewelry. I didn’t think of myself as an outrageous dresser. But I definitely clashed with their designer labels. No one was outright mean but they nudged each other in my presence and made faces they thought I couldn’t see. No one ever said more than a perfunctory “hey” to me. I wasn’t good at striking up conversations with them either. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Brady’s friends didn’t get me. But Brady was steadfast, if shy, in his affection for me. That melted me over and over again and it made me want to be with him no matter who else was around.

Then, just before school let out for summer, he talked me into something I had never even thought of doing. “Be a cheerleader,” he said. I stared at him. If the mere suggestion wasn’t enough to make my eyeballs squirt out of my head, he gave my arm an encouraging pump too. “You could make it,” he said.

I managed a shrug for his sake, but a resounding
no
bounced all around the inside of my head. “I don’t think that’s really my thing. . . ,” I tried to tell him.

“Aw, come on. Sure it is. All that dance stuff you did?”

“But they’ll make me take my boots off. . . .” I whined. “I
need
my boots.” I knocked my heels together and Brady laughed.

He pushed at me. “Come on, come on, come on. . . .”

“I don’t know. . . . I guess I could try—”

“Hell, yeah!” he said. He popped his fist off his chest and did a big sidestep in celebration. He jumped up, shot a pretend ball at a pretend hoop. I had to smile as his cap of hair landed back on his head. “If you make it, you get into every game free. You can watch me play. . . .” He tried to begin a list but it seemed to end there.

I wanted to go to Brady’s games and if I made that cheerleading squad, Momma and Bampas would pretty much have to allow that—sometimes even on school nights. Oh. My. Gosh.

“Colleges like to see that too—the extra stuff—besides the grades,” Brady added.

Colleges
. A stone sank through me. Bampas wouldn’t talk about college—not for me. I was all about art, and Bampas had always said, “You don’t need to be at an expensive university for what you do.” That would always catch me a
sympathetic and pensive look from Momma. She wouldn’t say it, but I think she felt we should at least talk about college. But when I opened my mouth to mention the possibility of scholarships, Bampas raised a finger and said,
“Siopi.”
He was telling me to be silent.

I did try out for cheerleading. I wasn’t as loud as the teacher-judges wanted me to be. But I learned routines in a snap because I was used to impatient chorographers. As for what little actual dancing the cheerleaders did—well, piece of cake. I could leap. Or jump. I could lift and be lifted—no fears about that. If anything set me apart from the others, it was that I arrived and left the tryout alone.