Confessions of a Serial Kisser (11 page)

37

Counteracting the Mope Gene

M
OPING IS COUNTERPRODUCTIVE
. Once you start, it'll hook you and drag you down until you are full-on depressed. To counteract my mope gene (which clearly comes from my maternal side), I eat ice cream. I read. I hang out at Groove Records. I shop. I blast music. I go to Adrienne's.

Adrienne was not available, and since there was a note from my mother asking me to wash the dishes and mop the kitchen floor, I settled on the driving, bluesy rock of The Black Crowes and got busy, singing along with "Twice as Hard," "Jealous Again," and "Sister Luck" as I did the dishes. I dried and put away during "Could I've Been So Blind," "Hard to Handle," and "Thick 'n' Thin," mopped the floor through "She Talks to Angels," "Struttin' Blues," and "Stare It Cold," then collected the trash and tidied up until the Crowes were done cawing.

Chores are no big deal when you're rockin' out.

I was actually starting to feel good!

By the time the Spring Fling was scheduled to begin, I'd eaten dinner (a bowl of Cheerios and a big dish of rocky road ice cream), had read from where I'd left off in
A Crimson Kiss,
and was disciplining myself to tackle the section reviews of the material covered in the chemistry test I'd bombed. After I was done with that, I planned to move on to the next section. I wasn't just going to catch up, I was going to get ahead! This was not, N-O-T, going to happen to me again. I was going to be on top of things! Focused!

Unfortunately, galvanic cells and standard electrode potential have got nothing on the meandering thoughts of a girl genetically predisposed to moping. My mind started wandering, thinking about Adrienne at the dance.

About Adrienne having a
life.

Here I was at home on a Friday night, doing chores and studying chemistry?

Whose fantasy was that?

Not mine!

The phone rang, so I abandoned my chemistry book and dashed into the kitchen to answer it.

"Hi, sweetie!" my mom sang out. "Happy Friday. Just checking in to see what you and Adrienne are up to tonight."

Her calling was a little odd, but it was nice to hear her sounding cheerful. "Adrienne's covering a school function for newspaper, and I'm catching up on my chemistry."

"Chemistry?" There was a pause, then, "So you're not...getting together?"

This was also a little odd. And I suddenly sensed that there was more to this than a maternal concern over my being nearly seventeen years old, studying chemistry alone on a Friday night.

And then I got it.

"Let me guess. He stood you up for breakfast, so now you're going to have dinner with him after your shift."

There was another pause, then very decisively she said, "He didn't stand me up, Evangeline. And it's for dessert. Dessert and coffee. That's all."

"Mm-hmm."

"But if you're home alone, I'll just cancel. You and I could go out for a bite, or catch a late movie?"

"Forget it, Mom. I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Yup."

But after we said goodbye, I spent the next ten minutes staring at the wall. I wasn't going to be able to concentrate on galvanic cells and standard electrode potential. That was insane!

I needed to get out.

I needed to
do
something.

I needed a life!

Groove Records was closed, and the only place I could think to go was the dance.

38

Memories

A
S
I
WAS GETTING DRESSED
to go to the dance, I suddenly realized that my first kiss had happened at a school dance. The Beaumont Middle School parents--including my mom--were very "involved," putting on a dance every month, usually on a Friday right after school. So it was convenient to attend dances, but Adrienne and I never went. The truth is, we were afraid.

Were we afraid because we'd never danced outside of P.E. class? (Do-si-do-ing does not really count as dancing.)

Were we afraid we'd be asked to dance by a boy we thought was a total dweeb?

Were we afraid of
being
the total dweebs?

Whatever it was, it wasn't until the eighth-grade promotional dance that our mothers joined forces and said, "You're going. It's not just a dance, it's a party. There'll be plenty of other things to do if you don't want to dance."

We, of course, were dying to dance; we just had never danced with a boy and were afraid that we didn't really know how. So we agonized over what to wear, how to act, and what to say (especially if dweeby boys asked us to dance). And then the Thursday night before the big event, we finally got serious about the actual dancing. We spent hours in my bedroom with the radio on, trying to figure it out.

Mom and Dad thought we were hysterical and tried to demonstrate how to dance fast and then slow. "Although you probably won't be doing any slow dancing," my dad said after they'd taken a few swaying turns around the middle of my room. "Take my word for it--eighth-grade boys are terrified of slow dancing."

This parental coaching may have been well intentioned, but it was more embarrassing than instructive. "My dad doesn't dance," Adrienne whispered into my very receptive ear.

I gave her a nod and said to my still-swaying parents, "Thanks, guys. We get it. We're going to Adrienne's for a while to figure out what to wear."

On the walk over to her house, Adrienne had asked me the one thing I'd been trying to
not
think about: "What if Lucas asks you to dance?"

I shot back with, "What if Noah asks you?"

We both laughed and agreed: "They won't!"

But we were wrong. At least, we were half wrong. Noah was there, but he spent the whole time playing foosball and table tennis in an area they'd cordoned off for alternate activities.

Lucas spent the last three songs dancing with me.

And during the very last seconds of the very last dance, he suddenly moved in and kissed me.

It was sweaty and zip-lipped, but that kiss had me jumping up and down for the entire final week of school. Right up to the time I found out that Lucas's family was moving to Georgia.

"Georgia!" I cried. "What's in
Georgia
?"

"My dad got a promotion," he said, kicking a rock.

I gave him my e-mail, my address, my phone number.

I never heard from him again.

39

The Spit Bath

G
RAYSON SWEPT HER GENTLY
around the dance floor, his steps confident and light. Soon he was spellbound--her scent, her glow, her delicate touch and crystal-clear eyes--who was this bewitching creature? How had he not noticed her before?

When the music stopped, he held her gaze and, no longer able to resist the impulse, lifted her satin-smooth hand to his lips.

Bolstered by the romantic passage from
A Crimson Kiss,
I reached the school convinced that something wonderful might actually happen. Maybe someone would sweep me off
my
feet. Maybe even deliver a crimson kiss!

I knew it would be hot in the gym, so I'd dressed accordingly, borrowing a red keyhole halter from the depths of one of my mom's clothes boxes. I paid my five bucks at the door, then went inside.

The dance had been under way for over an hour and a half, and the gym was stuffy and dark, lit only by glow sticks and bracelets bobbing to an overdriven beat. I wandered through the crowd looking for Adrienne, and my eyes were still adjusting to the dark when I accidentally thumped into someone.

"Excuse me!" I said.

"Bitch!" was the immediate reply.

Perfect. Hundreds of people in the gym and I manage to hip-check Sunshine Holden.

Sunshine Holden, who, I now noticed, was holding a hand that was attached to an arm that did
not
connect to Robbie Marshall.

No, it belonged to Stu Dillard.

Apparently my jaw had fallen out of its socket, because Sunshine snarled, "Get over it."

"Consider it done," I answered.

"Consider it your fault!" she seethed in my ear as I went by.

"Consider yourself lucky!" I called, then snipped, "Stu's
gotta
be a better kisser!"

I escaped the two of them, threading my way through the crowd, searching for Adrienne. Or any friendly face. Being alone in a crowded gym where everyone else seems to have someone else is so...embarrassing. It feels like everyone's staring at you thinking, Don't you have any friends? Couldn't you get a date? Doesn't anyone want to dance with you?

I took a deep breath.

I told myself, Say your fantasy, see your fantasy,
live your fantasy.
You'll never get a crimson kiss by moping around! This gym is full of guys! Find one! Dance! Have some fun!

There was a warm touch to my elbow. "Evangeline?"

I turned and saw a smiling...Blake Jennings? We'd had a few classes together as freshmen, but I couldn't remember having seen him since. He was definitely older, and much hipper-looking.

"Blake?"

"Wow, you look great!" he said, eyeing me up and down.

"Didn't know you still went to school here," I called back over the music.

"I don't! I do still have friends here, though. They invited me. How have you been?"

"Great! You?"

"Great!"

We smiled at each other, sincerely at first, then awkwardly. We'd already run out of things to say.

He looked out at the bobbing glow sticks. "You want to dance?"

He was standing very close to me; his breath was warm and sweet. "Sure," I called back.

The odd thing about dancing is that you're immediately thrown up against someone you may barely know, and it means nothing. Girls wrap themselves around guys, guys latch on to girls, people gyrate like animals, and when the music stops, they separate and walk off like it was no big deal. Do that on campus in the middle of the day and the whole school will be talking, but on the dance floor? No one seems to care.

Anyway, the instant I said "Sure," Blake grabbed my hand and led me into the sea of sweat and overtaxed deodorant. And even though a bass-heavy tune that was not exactly meant for slow dancing was playing, Blake latched on to me and started to sway.

But after a few turns he began nibble-kissing my shoulder, working his way up my neck to my earlobe. Then he started licking the edges of my ear and
huffing
into it.

I pulled away from him, but before long he'd pulled me back, zeroing in on my ear again, this time thrusting his tongue inside it and doing licky laps around it.

Saliva began dripping down my neck.

He was giving me a full-on spit bath!

I was going to get swimmer's ear!

I felt like shouting, "It's an ear, dude! An
ear,
" but instead I just broke away.

"What'sa matter?" he asked.

I casually wiped my neck and ear dry and made an attempt at diplomacy: "That was a little intense, is all."

He grinned, totally misinterpreting my comment. "You want to go outside? It's cooler."

I shook my head. "I've...I've actually got to find my friend." Then I did what all girls do when they're desperate to escape a guy at a school dance--I made a beeline for the locker room.