17 First Kisses (6 page)

I grab another dress, a knee-length blue one Sarah swore would “make my eyes pop.” It's no use. I look like a phony. Like when I was little and I stomped around the house in my mama's high heels. It's not that the dresses don't fit me. They're my size and everything. Maybe it's because I don't have boobs yet. I look from my ponytail to my unpainted toenails in disgust. How am I ever going to find something to wear to the Winter Wonderland Dance?

There is nothing like standing in front of a floor-length mirror and trying on dresses to make you scrutinize everything you like or don't like about yourself. I'm tall—way taller than most of the boys in seventh grade—so dances are pretty stressful for me, or would be if I actually slow-danced with boys. I have long, dark brown hair with natural auburn highlights that my sister Sarah says she would kill for and a tiny sprinkling of freckles across my nose and cheeks. I love my freckles. They're the cute, tiny, tan-colored kind. Cinnamon-sprinkle freckles. The freckles combined with my round blue eyes give me a wholesome, all-American look, like I should be in soap commercials or something.

But don't get me wrong: I'm no knockout. I have all the curves of a celery stick. That means no boobs. None. My feet are too big, and my eyebrows are like two woolly bear caterpillars, but I'm scared to do anything about it lest I end up like Amanda Bell, who showed up to school with half an eyebrow after an unfortunate experiment with her mom's waxing kit.

But the worst thing about my looks, the thing that just kills me, is that I look like a boy. I'm serious. I have entirely too many muscles for a girl. It's probably why all these dresses look awful on me. I'm just about to take off the stupid blue dress in defeat when the doorbell rings.

“Hey, girls. Megan, it's so good to see you,” I hear my mother say.

Why is Megan McQueen at my house? Did she finally decide it's time to hang out? It's been a few weeks. I run downstairs. It isn't just Megan. Amberly and Britney are with her too. The entire Crown Society crew, minus Chessa. They're decked out in their dresses already with matching crown necklace charms that signify their supposed superiority over the rest of us.

“CJ, look who's here!” Lord, she's fawning all over Megan like she's the queen of England instead of the queen of seventh grade. “Can I get y'all a glass of sweet tea? Or maybe some lemonade?”

“That is so sweet of you, Miss Lily, but we really need to ask CJ about something,” says Megan.

“Okay, I'll let you girls talk.” She flashes one last smile over her shoulder before she manages to pull herself away from the
abundance of tween-age popularity in our doorway.

“What's up?” I ask.

I narrow my eyes. The three of them are smiling at me like they're going to eat me or something.

“Can we go up to your room?” asks Megan.

“Sure.” I turn, puzzled, and lead them upstairs.

They take in the kiwi-colored walls and sports paraphernalia with something between curiosity and disdain. Amberly and Britney sit on the star-patterned quilt my mom made and look at Megan like they're waiting for something. She prances over and stands in front of my desk like she's about to give a presentation at school.

“As we all know, Chessa moved away last month. It's been tough, but we've been looking for a replacement. And today we finally decided.” She clasps her hands in front of her and smiles. “CJ, we want you to be a member of the Crown Society.”

“What?” I fall out of my chair, I'm laughing so hard. “You're kidding. This is a joke, right?”

Britney crosses her arms over her chest. “I told you we should have picked Amanda Bell.”

“Why do you have to have a fourth person anyway?” I ask. “Why can't it be just the three of you?”

“Because four is the magical number of girlfriendship,” says Megan, like I was supposed to have learned this in Friendship 101.

Amberly nods fervently. “It's the trifecta.”

I refrain from pointing out what
trifecta
means.

“It's like
Sex and the City
,” explains Megan.

My mama would skin me alive if she caught me watching
Sex and the City
, so I've never seen it, but I nod like I get it anyway. Megan still hasn't asked me if I want to be one of them. She just assumes I do. Any girl in seventh grade would roll around naked in broken glass for the chance I've been given.

“But, why would you pick
me?
”

Megan shrugs. “You're nice and funny, and you have a good body. Being popular should be no problem for you.”

“Plus you've started dressing way cuter this year. We've noticed,” adds Amberly.

“But there must be dozens of other girls . . .”

Megan cuts me off with a brisk shake of her head. “Yearbook,” she says, like a doctor asking for a scalpel.

I find it on my shelf, and they explain how they systematically whittled down the list of girls to me and one or two others.

Megan closes the yearbook with a snap. “So, you see. There was no one else we could have chosen.”

“Well,” begins Britney.

“There was no one,” says Megan.

I'm still not convinced, though. “But I'm a tomboy.”

“So you play soccer. Soccer is fine. We can work with soccer. As long as it's not
softball.”
Megan shudders.

“Plus, we'll make you over, just like in
Clueless.”
Amberly's eyes light up at the thought.

“What do you say?” asks Megan.

I can't picture myself spending time with these girls, let
alone being one of them, but the image of Megan hiding out on her patio pops into my head. I really do want to get to know her better. And if they could make me look as confident in dresses as they do, that wouldn't suck either. Before I can stop myself, I say, “I'm in.”

“Awesome!” says Megan. “You're coming to my house to get ready for the dance with us.”

With that, they kidnap me. Well, they drag me across the street to Megan's house while my mom waves good-bye with tears of joy shining on her cheeks. We gallop up the stairs to Megan's room, and because all the houses in our neighborhood have almost the same layout, her room is in exactly the same place as mine, with the same window seat and everything. That's where the similarities end. Her walls are painted bubble-gum pink, and there are butterflies on her curtains. A huge poster of a boy-band lead singer smiles down at us from above her bed, and I cringe. I'm not the kind of girl who tapes boys to my wall.

“Let's get started.”

Megan pushes me down by my shoulders onto the seat in front of her vanity. Amberly grabs a stack of
Teen Vogues
to use as a reference. While it's clear Megan is the unofficial leader of the Crown Society, Amberly is the unofficial leader of this makeover. Even Megan defers to her vast knowledge of all things gloss and glitter. I can't really see what they're doing to me because Megan is flat-ironing my already-straight hair, Amberly is doing my eye shadow, and Britney is painting my
nails. I just try to keep up with their commands. Tilt your head forward. Close your eyes. Relax your fingers.

Partway through, it occurs to me this could be a sick joke. Maybe they're making me look ridiculous. But when Amberly finally shows me my reflection in the mirror, I gasp. It's hard for me to point out all the things they did, all the little pieces that make me look the way I do now. I no longer look like a boy in a dress. I'm beautiful.

Amberly sighs. “It's some of my best work,” she pronounces before we leave for the dance.

Except for the eighth-grade dance, which is like a mini prom, you don't have to have a date to go to our school dances (all of which are held in the gym). Girls and guys show up in clusters, dance in clusters, and leave in clusters. The exceptions are the people currently going out. The couples are interspersed between the clusters, wrapped up in each other's arms, gazing into each other's eyes like they wish the Winter Wonderland Dance would just go on forever, even though you know they'll be broken up by next month.

The coolest girl cluster by far is the Crownies, and that's where I am now, even though it's hard to believe. I shouldn't be wearing makeup and standing with these girls. I should be hanging out with Sam and making fun of the crappy decorations. I hope he's not worried. I didn't have a chance to text him or anything. I search the crowd for Sam and find so many eyes peering back at me.

“Everyone's staring,” I say. I fiddle with the hem of my knee-length blue dress. The one that looked awful on me at my house, but now, after their makeover, seems to fit just right. “They'll never believe I belong.”

“They'll believe whatever I tell them,” says Megan.

“Tool alert,” says Amberly. “Steven Lippert is walking this way.”

Steven makes terrible puns and tries to flirt with me in English class, and right now he's headed straight for us. He picks me out of the group like the weakest animal, his eyes going from my shoes to my headband and back again. Ew.

“What's up, CJ?”

Megan steps between us. “Claire's busy right now. She's going to go dance with us.”

I'm so used to being called CJ it takes me a second to realize she's talking about me. Steven mouths the word
Claire
and slinks away with a backward glance at my legs.

We work our way to the center of the dance floor, right underneath the gargantuan papier-mâché snowflake. Before I was one of them, I thought they all danced the same way: cooler than everyone else. But now I realize they each dance differently. Britney alternates her little dance moves with a glare that is either self-conscious or angry. Hip shake. Glare. Shimmy. Glare. Amberly dances with so much hip action I'm worried a teacher will come over. Megan looks beyond cool. She flings her long blond hair around, and throws her hands in the air, and laughs with her head thrown back as she sings along to the
music. I just stand there like a moron.

“Why aren't you dancing?” asks Amberly.

“I don't dance.”

Britney snickers. “You can't
dance?”

Megan doesn't laugh.

“B, can you find a boy and make him get us some punch?” she says sweetly.

When Britney exits, she turns back to me. “Dancing is an important life skill. Amberly and I can teach you.”

“Yeah!” Amberly nods like a bobblehead. Oh, Lord.

“What about Britney?” I ask, stalling.

A smile forms on Megan's lips. “Do you really want to dance like Britney?”

“No.” I look down at my overly large feet. “I've never really tried to dance,” I mumble.

“Wait, wait, wait. You've never practiced in front of your mirror?” asks Megan.

“No.”

“You don't try to copy the girls in the music videos?” asks Amberly.

“No.”

Megan acts like I just told her I have a third eye growing out of the back of my kneecap. “We are totally having a sleepover. Tonight. At my house.”

Britney is back with the punch. Well, she's back, and Sam and Glenn are trailing behind her with punch.

“Thanks, boys.” Amberly winks at them.

“I can't believe that's you,” Sam whispers to me. “No one recognized you at first. All the guys were trying to figure out who the new girl was.”

I grin in spite of myself. “You will not believe what happened. I'll call you later,” I whisper back.

Glenn hands me a cup of punch. “You look different. I mean, pretty. You look really pretty.”

I'm shocked. Glenn Baker, who has up until now treated me pretty much like I'm a boy (despite the fact that we kissed in sixth grade), is red-faced and tongue-tied around me. And he thinks I'm
really pretty.

“You're right,” I say to Megan in disbelief after they leave to rejoin their boy cluster. “Everyone does believe I'm one of you.”

“Well, you're not in yet,” says Britney.

“But you said . . .”

She shakes her head. “Do you see a necklace around your neck? You have to be initiated first.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Whatever we tell you to do.”

I am about to say “screw this,” and Megan can tell. She pulls me aside.

“Look, we all had to do a dare to get in. It's not that bad. Just do it and get it over with. Please. I really want you to be a Crownie.” Megan has the biggest, bluest eyes you've ever seen. It's impossible to say no to them, and she knows it, which is why she's got them trained on me right now. She lowers her voice. “I know I acted like we only picked you because there
was no one else, but that isn't true.”

“It isn't?”

“Nope. Two weeks ago I saw you fighting with your mom in your driveway. She was trying to make you take dance lessons and you said you wouldn't do it.” She hesitates. “I would give anything to be able to stand up to my parents like that. That's when I decided I wanted you to be my best friend.”

The girl I saw on the patio is back. This is the Megan I want to be friends with. The real one.

“Okay. I'll do it.” We rejoin the other girls. “So, I just have to do a dare?”

Britney opens her mouth, but Megan cuts her off.

“Yes. Just one dare. Give us a second to decide what it is.”

The three of them form a huddle, and I stand there in my dress feeling stupid and trying to imagine what sort of public humiliation they're concocting. They're giggling when they turn back to me.

“You have to kiss a boy,” says Amberly.

“And you have to say, ‘I feel like a snowflake because I've fallen for you,'” says Megan.

I start to feel nauseous. “Who do I have to kiss?”

“We're still working on that part,” says Megan.

“What about Eric Masters?” asks Amberly.

Britney gives her an
Are you crazy?
look. “Pass. You know he was Megan's boyfriend in sixth grade.”