17 First Kisses (31 page)

“Only because you freaked out after that time at soccer camp. You didn't talk to me for three weeks. I was worried if
I told you, you'd cut me out again, and I wouldn't even get to have you as a friend.”

“What about Amanda Bell?” I ask. I can't believe that while I've been hiding these growing feelings for a few months, he's been doing the same thing for practically forever.

“She's just a girl I had a crush on. She's not you.” I am suddenly very aware of the fact that we are in my bedroom. Alone. He takes my hands in his. “I like you. I have always liked you. It's grown and changed as we've gotten older, but it never went away. I thought you were feeling the same way. But maybe I . . .”

“No, I—I think I might like you, too.” Sam's face lights up like the Fourth of July. “I started to realize it that day you punched Luke.”

“Best punch ever.” He grins.

Kissing Sam right now would be the easiest thing in the world. And I won't lie, I want to. But even though Sam and I have been thicker than thieves practically since birth, I'm hesitant. Nervous. This isn't some hot guy I just met. Then it would be easy to be bold. This is my oldest friend. And some things are more important.

I think Sam can sense my reluctance, because he takes a step back. “So, um, what are we going to do about this?”

“I don't think we should do anything.” As much as it kills me to say it.

Sam looks at the floor. “Oh.” “It's just, our friendship is more important than anything else.
Plus, the timing is all wrong. Look at the facts.”

“What facts?”

“Fact number one: we're going to school in different states. Fact number two: we just got out of serious relationships—your first, my most traumatizing.” Sam looks amused, and I'm sure he will tease me about this later, but I keep going. “Starting college fresh and single is definitely the best thing for both of us. We still have a lot of figuring out to do, and if there's one thing I've learned this year, it's that friendships are permanent, but you never know about love.”

I watch Sam, waiting to see if he'll accept a friendship when he wants a relationship. “It makes sense,” he finally says. Whew. “But. What if the timing wasn't all wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, so we don't date now, but what if later, say, when we graduate from college, neither of us is in a relationship? We could give it a try.”

Works for me. “Dude. We should make a pact.”

“Those things you're always making with Megan?”

“Um, yeah. They're
awesome.
Here's how it works: I'll say the pact, and you repeat after me. Okay?”

Sam looks like he is working very hard not to laugh at me.

“Okay.”

I clear my throat. Despite my having been friends with Sam for practically forever, this is our very first pact. “Sam-and-Claire Pact number one: If neither of us is seeing anyone when we graduate from college, we're going to try dating each other.”

I nod at Sam, and he repeats the pact. “And that's it? That's all we do?”

I shrug. “Megan and I usually seal it with a pinky swear.”

“I have another idea,” he says.

The atmosphere, which was silly and fun when we were making the pact, is suddenly serious. He takes a step toward me, his green T-shirt and sunburned arms so close I could touch him in a second. His warm, brown eyes are locked onto mine, and he smells like grass and childhood memories. He's not supposed to kiss me. And if he does, I won't be able to stop myself from kissing him back. He leans down, and just when I think it's inevitable, he brushes his lips against my forehead, holding them there for just a moment. And somehow it is the most intimate thing that has ever happened to me.

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“Y
ou girls can start unpacking,” says Mama. “Dad and I will get the last few boxes.”

They head back to the car, leaving Libby and me to sort through a mountain of crap encased in cardboard cartons and plastic bins. I've already called my roommate (Katie B. from Jacksonville, Florida), but she doesn't move in until tomorrow—which is good because I'll need all twenty-four hours to make something of this wreck before she gets here. I open a box labeled Books and start filing them on my bookshelf. Libby moves around the room, touching a box here, a desk there, lost in thought.

“Hey, Libs, you okay? You've been really quiet today.”

She nods.

“You sure?” I turn back to the bookshelf and count to five. With Libby, it pays to be patient. One. Two. Three . . .

“It's just . . .” She sits down beside me and curls her legs to her chest. “I don't want you to leave me.”

“Aw, sweetie, it's not going to be like that, I promise.” I rub her back. “You can call me any time, every day if you want. And I'll visit a lot. And if Mama or Daddy starts acting weird again”—Libby's eyes grow fearful—“you let me know, and I'll come home and help, okay?”

Libby takes a deep breath and lets it back out. “Okay.”

The door to my room opens again, and my dad waddles to my dresser, setting down the last couple of boxes with an exhausted grunt.

“How do you have so much stuff?” He leans against the wall and pants like a hound dog.

Mama laughs. “This is nothing. Have you forgotten what it was like with Sarah?”

His eyes get big, and he touches a hand to his back like it's seizing up at the thought. “You're right,” he says. “This is child's play compared to Sarah's crates of shoes.”

“You should have seen the shoe collection we moved into Megan's place last weekend. She is so lucky she has a real closet to put them in,” I say as I hang clothes in a battered wardrobe that is slightly larger than the minifridge my dad is wrestling with.

Don't get me wrong. I'm really excited about the whole dorm experience. But that doesn't mean I didn't drool over the ginormous closet and non-communal shower in Megan's apartment.
Students at the Art Institute of Atlanta aren't required to live in campus housing, even as first years. Sometimes I worry her parents are still hoping she'll “get it out of her system.” Little do they know we're already planning to be roomies in a fantastic off-campus apartment next year.

Dad rubs Mama's arm. “We should probably get going. Give Claire some time to settle in.”

“All right.” She hugs me so close I can't take a full breath. “I am so proud of you.”

When she pulls away, she looks like she's about two seconds away from tears. Dad hugs me next.

“I'm proud of you too, Claire-Bear.”

He's almost as tearful as Mama. Man, are they getting sappy. I'm so glad Katie B. is still in Jacksonville right now, instead of here in our dorm room witnessing these embarrassing displays of affection. I walk them to the car for more hugs and more sappiness, and okay, maybe I get a little sappy too, especially when I wave good-bye as they drive away.

Then it's back to my room for more unpacking. As I set up my laptop, my phone buzzes in my pocket. It's Sam!

“Hey!”

“Hey, CJ. How's college?”

“Great. I've been here two hours,” I laugh. “How's UNC?”

“It's good, it's good. It's so weird not seeing you every day, though.”

“Yeah, it is. Hey, fall break isn't that far away, though.”

“Yeah.” There's a pause on the other end of the line. “Hey,
you, uh, won't forget about that agreement thing we made?”

“They're called pacts. And no, there is no way I could forget about it.” My phone beeps that I have a text. “Oops, that must be Sarah. She's bringing me some kind of surprise. I gotta go.”

“Call me tomorrow?”

“Definitely.” See? This whole friendship with Sam thing can work. I just have to refrain from hooking up with him when he comes to visit.

I check Sarah's text.

Outside your dorm. Come down.

I tear down the stairs like an excited kid on Christmas. Surprises do that to me. Sarah shuts the door to the car and wraps me in a huge hug.

“Whadya bring me?! Whadya bring me?!”

“You'll see,” she says, stepping around me to pop the trunk with a flourish.

A gigantinormous plastic box is inside.

“A container from the Container Store?”

Sarah puts a hand over her heart like I have mortally offended her. “This is no ordinary container. This is my costume box, painstakingly assembled during four years of parties, mixers, and Halloweens. And now that I no longer need it, I'm passing it down to you.” She says it with the seriousness of a priestess imparting a sacred rite. “I'll let you open it upstairs because I have to get back to work. Call me if you have time to get lunch this weekend.”

She gives me one last hug, and I pick up the box. And nearly tip over into a nearby gutter, because it weighs as much as a small pony. Sarah was the social chair of her sorority at Georgia, and I remember seeing about a bazillion pictures of her with her sisters in ridiculous outfits. Now I know where those outfits ended up.

I stagger up the stairs—I swear this thing contains bricks, not clothes—and finally manage to make it to the door. Now to figure out how to get my key out of my pocket. I definitely need both hands to carry the box. But I don't want to put it down, because coating the top of the stairs is a nasty puddle that appears to be growing three kinds of fungi and some creatures from another planet.

“Need a hand?” says a voice from behind me.

Whew. I'm saved. “Yes, please.”

I turn to look at my rescuer. Wow. There is one word to describe this guy, and it is
rugged
. Blond hair tumbles over a scar on his forehead, and his nose crooks slightly to one side like it's been broken. If I ask what he does for fun, I'm sure he'll say something like extreme mountain biking or night rappelling or catching trout with his bare hands. He grabs the box like it's empty and stacks it on top of the one he's already holding while I fish my key from my pocket and pull open the door, the metal bottom scraping through the grime at the top of the stairs.

Rugged Boy follows me down the hallway, and I can't help it: I imagine what it would be like to make him Kiss #17. I open the door to my dorm room and push a box out of the way so Potential Kiss #17 won't trip over it. Staring up at me from the bottom of
the box is a photo of Sam and me at graduation. My heart feels all squirmy in my chest. I know I can date whoever I want, kiss whoever I want, and Sam can too. But maybe I'm not ready for Kiss #17 just yet. Though that doesn't mean it wouldn't be fun to have a friend who looks like he could be in an SUV commercial. Maybe he could teach me outdoor survival skills. Or maybe he's actually really into knitting.

The Potential Knitter strides across my room and sets my container on my bed (the only free space in the whole room).

“Hey, thanks,” I say.

“No problem.” He smiles a dazzling smile (his teeth are straight and white, but the smile is still somehow
rugged
).

I dig into my new treasure chest of clothes right in front of him because I'm too excited to hold back. Sarah wasn't kidding. There are knee-high boots in every color, angel wings, a toga, assorted animal ears, a marginally creepy blond wig, and so much more. The costumes make me think about how figuring out who you are is like dressing up in different costumes, and how college is the perfect place for me to do that, and a third reason Sam and I shouldn't date yet.

You can't start a relationship if you don't know who you are Sam's not the fat kid anymore. I'm not the little tomboy. Or the girly-girl my friends tried to make me into. Or the slut everyone from high school thinks I am. Or the girl hiding the horrible secret behind the doors of her cookie-cutter suburban home. I have to figure it out. And I have to do it on my own—without a boyfriend. But I have a feeling I'll do fine.

“So, I guess I'll see you later, but if you need any help with anything else, my room is the one to the left of the elevator.”

“Oh.” I realize he is still standing there and that I completely forgot to introduce myself, and also that I am currently holding a feather boa and a pair of handcuffs. I shove them back in the box, ASAP. “Oh, sure, that would be great.”

He holds out a hand. “I'm Troy, by the way.”

I push off the bed and shake hands with Rugged Boy, aka Troy, aka Potential New Friend.

“I'm CJ.”

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Debut author
RACHAEL ALLEN
lives in Atlanta, GA, where she's working furiously on her PhD in neuroscience. When she's not doing science or writing YA, you can find her chasing after her toddler and her two sled dogs. Rachael may or may not have had 17 first kisses . . . luckily she doesn't kiss and tell. www.rachaelallenwrites.blogspot.com/

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HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

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7 FIRST KISSES
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