Kissing Brendan Callahan
Read Kissing Brendan Callahan Online
Authors: Susan Amesse
Â
The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way.
Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at:
us.macmillanusa.com/piracy
.
Contents
Â
To my husband, Tom
For all the love, support, inspiration, and laughter
Heartfelt thanks to my editor, Deborah Brodie. You've always inspired me to chisel deeper and find what lies beneath the marble. It has been a privilege to work with you.
I am especially grateful to Michelle de Savigny for her encouragement and her readiness to read draft after draft with unflinching energy and thoughtfulness.
A multitude of thank-yous to the folks who were kind enough to read various drafts of this book and offer suggestions. Your generosity and camaraderie have warmed my soul. They include: Roberta Davidson Bender, Barbara Baker, Susan Marston, Jessica Feder-Birnbaum, Betsey Day, Susan Grillo, Grace Sells, Kathy Mignano, Maureen Marlow and Loretta Holz.
Hugs and kisses to my family and friends who always bothered to ask, How's the writing going?
And my undying gratitude to my husband, Tom, for his boundless support in encouraging me to pursue my dream of becoming a children's book writer and never, ever letting me give up. Thanks for reading and critiquing every draft of this book. I couldn't have finished it without you.
“Do you have what it takes to be a royal princess? Take the test and find out.”
Our checkout line isn't moving, so I grab a copy of
Teen Romance
from the rack next to the register. On the cover is a smiling Princess Agnes of Hortonia. I flip through the magazine until I find the story about her and the princess quiz. If only I could be whisked away from Granneli's Supermarket to a castle with turrets and a moat. Besides, I love purple, which everyone knows is a royal color.
Question one:
A princess must be prepared to make many public appearances. Are you shy around strangers?
A: Always. B: Sometimes. C: Absolutely not.
My answer is B, but I wish it were C.
Question two:
A princess often travels to foreign countries to speak about important issues. How many languages can you speak?
A: Two. B: Three. C: Four or more.
Let's see. Besides English, I know a few French words because it's such a romantic language. And I can say thank you in Portuguese. I pick B as my answer.
“Bonjour!” I give my brother, Jason, my finest princess wave, but he continues to sleep comfortably in his baby carrier among our groceries.
“Did you get a good shot of the accident?” my mother says into her cell phone. “It's for the front page.” I, Princess Sarah, wave at Mom, but she's not looking.
I take out my notebook, which I carry with me at all times, and jot down a few notes about being a princess. I'm planning to be a best-selling author of high-quality romances.
On to
Question three:
A princess must always exhibit poise and courtesy. If you were attending an official reception and noticed someone's wig falling off, how would you react?
A: Laugh and point. B: Ask them to leave immediately. C: Divert attention to give the unfortunate person time to fix her wig.
Absolutely, answer C. I turn toward a five-foot-tall stack of canned beans, today's Super Smart Buy. “
Enchanté!
Oh, look over there,” I say regally. “The queen has arrived.”
“Where?”
I turn. It's Brendan Callahan. He smirks. “Talking to yourself again?”
“I'm talking to my baby brother,” I say.
“Right.” He plucks the magazine out of my hand. He bats his eyelashes and puts on a high, silly voice. “Do you have what it takes to be a royal princess?” He looks at me and laughs. “No way could you be a princess.”
I grab the magazine. “And why not?”
“Look at the first question. You're not good with strangers.”
“I am too.”
“You're totally shy,” he says. “You could take a lesson from me. I have a wonderful, outgoing personality. And I know how to dress with style.” He poses so I can see the dumb T-shirt he's wearing. This one says, “I don't suffer from insanity, I enjoy every minute of it.”
I eye Jason, hoping he'll wake up and cry or something.
“Hey,” says Brendan. “How do you get a baby astronaut to sleep? You rock-it. Get it?”
“Got it.”
Wake up, Jason!
“You'll love this one,” he says. “A woman calls her doctor. âDoctor, doctor,' she says, âmy baby's swallowed a bullet.' The doctor says, âWell, don't point him at anyone until I get there.'”
Ha. Ha. Ha.
“Brendan.” My mother waves and pulls the cell phone away from her ear. “It's good to see you. Why don't you drop by later? It's been ages since you and Sarah played chess.”
“I'm busy,” he says.
“Me too.”
Mom raises an eyebrow at me. “Perhaps another time, Brendan. Tell your mother we need to talk about the Preservation Fair. Is she here?”
Brendan shrugs. “She's somewhere.”
Mom nods and resumes her phone conversationâsomething about a factory strike.
Brendan looks over his shoulder. “I have to get out of here. The guys are getting a basketball game together at P.S. 43 and they need me.”
“So?” I say.
“I ditched my mother in the produce aisle. If you happen to bump into her, forget you've seen me.”
“That won't be hard,” I say.
He leans in. “You should check out aisle five. Good humor is on sale.” He backs away, pretending to dribble a ball.
In my notebook, I write
Brendan Callahanâjerk,
and underline it. Then I write a reminder to e-mail Lynn as soon as I get home. Before she left to visit her father in San Francisco, she sat on my bed listing the cutest boys at Hamilton Intermediate School and Brendan was on the list. It is my duty as her best friend to point out his flaws, as there are so many of them.
“Martha, listen to me,” says my mother. “We cannot do a feature about a psychic. We get little respect being a Staten Island newspaper as it is.”
“Mom,” I say. “I'd love to read about a psychic.” She shushes me.
“When I stop by the office, we'll talk.” She clicks off the phone and we begin piling groceries on the belt.
“Mom, no one has ever written about a day in the life of a psychic.”
“And with good reason,” she says. “Pass the grapes.”
“You're being closed-minded.”
“Sweetie, our readers count on us for accuracy.”
“Accuracy isn't everything,” I insist.
“Yes, it is.”
The cashier rings up our groceries and I help bag them. On the way out, I see a circus poster.
“Mom,” I say, pointing. “Can we go? There's a show this afternoon.”
“It sounds like fun,” she says. “But I have to stop by the office.”
“You're on maternity leave. Doesn't that mean that you don't go to the office every day? Isn't this the time to bond with your children?”
She wheels the cart across the steamy parking lot. “I only drop in for a few minutes. You wouldn't want the
Courier
to fall apart without me.”
“What if
I
should fall apart without
you?
”
“What, honey?”
“Nothing.” She straps Jason's baby seat in while I put the groceries in the trunk of our Volvo.
On the way to the office, I take out my notebook and begin a new story. It's about a lonely but talented contortionist named Roxanne. A circus comes to town, and the owner sees Roxanne performing in a supermarket for her baby brother, bending herself into a pretzel. “What a talent!” he says. “You must join my circus.”
“Please, mother,” begs Roxanne. Her mother refuses because she has been put under a spell by an evil spirit lurking in her cell phone.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
When we get to Mom's office,
she runs ahead. As I carry Jason into the building, I imagine myself an ace reporter like my mother used to be. I'd race to the scene of the crime, interview the witnesses, and solve the mystery all by myself. I wish I could lead such an exciting writer's life.
The newsroom is full of activity. Along the sides are offices, but most of the floor is just a large, open area crammed with desks. Many of the reporters and editors are typing stories into their computers or talking on the phone. It's so loud that I wonder how any of them can concentrate.
Mom is in her office talking with the assistant editor, Joe. They're arguing about something and Mom pulls at her hair. She's been doing this a lot lately and it worries me. Before the baby, her short brown hair was always neatly styled, but the constant pulling is creating tiny spikes on the top of her head. She almost looks like a punk rocker instead of a managing editor. I carry Jason back into the newsroom.
“Hey, cutie,” says a deep voice. I turn around. It's Filipe Santo, the sportswriter. He walks toward me and I lean in to kiss Jason because I don't want Filipe to see that I'm blushing. Filipe is so handsome! So tanned! So exotic! It's because of him I know how to say thank you in Portuguese.
Obrigado.
“You're going to be a hit with the ladies,” he tells Jason, pinching his cheek. I was hoping he thought I was cute.
“How's it going, Sarah?”
“Uh.” I stare at his lips, wondering if his slim moustache would tickle if he kissed me.
“Well,” he says. “Got to run.”
“Right,” I say to his back. “Obrigado!” He leaves behind a mist of musk aftershave.
“Oo goo goo goo. Can I hold the kid?” I hand Jason over to Cynthia, the restaurant critic. “Oo goo goo goo,” she says. “What a gootie, gootie cutie. Oo goo goo goo.”