Kissing Brendan Callahan (6 page)

“You don't have to yell.”

“Yes, I do!”

When Mr. Fry walks to the other side of his yard, I take a deep breath. “Do you promise not to call me stupid?”

“I would never do that,” she says. “Tell me.”

I take another breath. “Brendan kissed me.”

“Yay!” she says. “And?” I can hear the excitement in her voice.

“And I ran away.”

“Are you stupid?”

“See, I knew you'd say that.”

A pause, and then she says, “Lots of love stories begin that way. Look at Rhett and Scarlett. Scarlett did a lot of stupid things during the whole movie.”

“I know,” I say. “And then he left her at the end.”

“Stop being so negative,” says Lynn, back to her usual calm voice. “How do you rate the kiss?”

I play with the phone cord. “I've never been kissed before.”

“It doesn't matter. Close your eyes. How did it feel?”

I close my eyes. I don't have to try hard to remember. “It felt nice.”

“Nice! Kisses aren't nice. They are either wonderful or awful. So which was it? Be honest.”

“What are you—the authority on kissing?”

“Yes. So tell me, was it awful?”

“No.”

“Then it had to be wonderful.”

“Well,” I say, “yeah, it was.”

“Of course, it was,” she says dreamily.

I twirl the cord around my fingers. “How do I explain why I ran away?”

“Tomorrow's another day, as Scarlett would say.”

“That's a big help.”

“You'll think of something,” she says. “I have confidence in your creativity. I'd better go. Dad's hovering. We're going to see his girlfriend in a fashion show.”

“Tell me all about it.”

“I will.”

“I miss you.”

“Miss you too. E-mail me. You'll come up with something to tell Brendan.”

After she hangs up, I just sit there, watching the setting sun. I do feel better. Lynn can do that to a person.

I smile at a blue jay as it swoops down on the feeder. “Tomorrow
is
another day,” I say in my best Southern twang. “I'll think about what to say to Brendan tomorrow.”

ELEVEN

By morning, I've thought of a hundred ways of avoiding Brendan for the rest of my life. It's the only solution.

Mom pops her head in before leaving for work. “Before I forget”—she reaches into her pocket and hands me a piece of paper—“here's Antonia's address and phone number. You're to call her this morning. The entries are downstairs. She must begin reading them.”

I grab the paper and see an address I don't recognize.

“She rented a bungalow in South Beach. She said not to call her before ten.” Mom shakes her head. “If you have any problems with her, remember to tell me immediately.”

I nod.

She kisses my cheek. “You're looking pale. Why don't you call Brendan and go for a bike ride together?”

“Brendan,” I mutter.

“Or maybe you'd like to play chess.”

“No thanks,” I say.
I'd rather kiss him!
I turn away from her, not believing what I just thought.

I try to write for the next two hours, but all I can think about are Brendan's lips and what to say to Antonia. At two minutes before ten, I walk down to the kitchen. I wait three minutes and then I call Antonia. My hands tremble so much I can barely press the numbers.

The line rings four, five, six times. Finally someone picks it up.

“Hellloo,” comes a mellow voice.

“Is this Antonia DeMarco?” My voice is unsteady.

A pause, then, “Who is this?”

My hand tightens around the receiver. “Hi, I'm Sarah Simmons.”

“Who?” There is music in the background.

Could this be her? “I'm Helen Simmons's daughter.”

Pause. I lean against the wall to steady myself. “I'm calling about the teen writing contest.”

Pause.

“Contest? Oh, yes. What about it?”

“I have the plays Ms. DeMarco needs to read. I'm her personal assistant on this project.”

“How lovely,” she says. “I'll tell you what. I'm doing a book signing at Barrett Books today. Do you know it?”

It
is
her. “Yes,” I say excitedly.

“Good,” she breathes into the receiver. “It starts at noon. Meet me there.”

“Noon,” I say. “I won't be late.”

“And would you be a love and bring several cans of Fancy Feast Savory Salmon?”

“Excuse me?”

“Ophelia simply loves it.”

“Ophelia?”

“My cat, of course. See you at noon. Don't buy any cans that have dents. Ophelia is a bit finicky.”

I hang up the phone. My mother might be right. Antonia is a little strange. But then, she is a great writer and probably very busy doing all those great things she writes about. She must love her cat very much. I will buy undented cans. I plan on being the best personal assistant Antonia ever had. Maybe after the contest is over, she will want me to continue.

I love that she's named her cat after one of Shakespeare's tragic heroines. It's so deep. I knew she would be exciting and wonderful. I'd better not mention anything about the cat food to my mother. She wouldn't understand.

“You seem in better spirits,” says Georgina, breezing into the kitchen. “I was worried about you yesterday. You seemed even more peculiar than you usually are. Want to talk about it?”

“It was the heat. I'm better now. Thank you.”

She nods and glides to the refrigerator, filling the air with her rose-scented perfume. She opens the door gracefully. As she stares at the contents of the refrigerator, her feet are actually in first position. Amazing. She must have years of dance training. Why didn't I see that before?

“Want some orange juice?” Georgina asks. I'd like to know why she's here, babysitting my brother, and not dancing. She should be dancing with a professional troupe. She's that good.

“Sure, I'd love some.”

She brings the OJ to the table. “I'm pooped. I've walked your brother all over the neighborhood for an hour. He's napping now.”

She fills two glasses and hands me one. She sits on one of the chairs, her legs crossed under her. Could I learn to be this graceful?

“Oh, I almost forgot.” She goes into the other room and comes back with a large expandable folder. “Here,” she says. “Your mum told me to give this to you. It's the entries for the contest.”

I take the folder. It is heavy and bulky.

“Are you entering one of your stories?” asks Georgina.

“No,” I say. “I'm not allowed.”

“Too bad.” She leans in. “I sense a lot of drama going on upstairs. Pity for it to go to waste.”

Does she know I'm writing something secretly? She's always popping into my room, looking over my shoulder. Sometimes I get the impression she's spying on me.

I go upstairs and open the folder. The contents spill onto my bed. There are twenty-two entries with two days left before the deadline. Anne Marie's is on the top of the pile. Her play is called
For the Love of Alice.
Hmmm. Nice title. I skim the first scene. It's about Alice Austen, the photographer who lived around the turn of the last century and became famous for her awesome photos. I went to her museum just a few days ago. Why didn't I think of writing about Alice? No one will know Captain Anderson and his family. How can my characters compete with Alice Austen?

I look up at the clock. It's getting late. I can't start another play. I have to finish this one. Without looking at the other plays, I put them all back into the folder. I will finish.
Please, God.

I turn on my laptop and slide into my window seat. I work on Scene Four. In this scene, Suzanne goes off to meet her love, Richard. He tells her that he has enlisted to fight against the Confederacy. Tomorrow morning, he will leave for training camp. Suzanne begs him not to go. Richard takes her into his arms and kisses her. It is their first kiss. It is wonderful. Richard asks her to marry him before he leaves. Suzanne agrees, even though her mother has forbidden it. Her mother thinks Richard is a silly and irresponsible person.

Suzanne hears footsteps behind her and she worries. Could it be the beautiful and graceful Gabriella spying on her? Will Gabriella tell her mother what Suzanne is about to do and ruin everything?

TWELVE

I want to wear something special for my first meeting with Antonia. Something that screams out I'm a writer, a talented and passionate writer. I settle for a long blue skirt, which flows when I move. To go with it, I choose a purple T-shirt—the color gradually changes hue as it descends to the bottom. Lynn thinks this shirt is totally cool. I hope Antonia does, too.

My hair is a mess. The humidity has made it frizz. I try combing it, but it doesn't look any better.

I practice my cool look. I invented this look last night. I tilt my head to the side and give a small, uneven smile as I look at the person I'm trying to impress from the corner of my eye. It suggests that I'm giving them my attention, but not all of it, because I have other things going on in my head. I hope it works.

At the last moment, I decide to wear the Suzanne hat.

I head to Granneli's Supermarket. The cool air inside Granneli's invigorates me. I rush around the store until I find cat food in aisle four. I never realized there were so many kinds of cat food. Fortunately, they carry Fancy Feast, but it takes me a while to locate salmon. I grab the only two undented cans on the shelf and run to the express checkout line, hoping Antonia will be satisfied with only two cans. The line moves slowly. I focus on the checkout girl, willing her to move faster. Finally, I pay for the two cans of cat food, which are unbelievably expensive, and head out into the hot afternoon.

I arrive at Barrett Books at 12:05. There is a display of Antonia's books on the center table. Quite a crowd is milling around. I don't see Antonia. Mr. Barrett, who is all decked out in a beige suit and a pale peach tie, leans against the front counter, staring nervously at the door. I walk over to him.

“Hi. Where's Antonia DeMarco?”

“That's what I'd like to know,” he says in a snippy voice. “She's late and I have twenty customers lined up waiting for her to autograph their books.” He turns to the girl at the register. “Did you call her, Marge?”

“Yes,” she says, nodding. “There was no answer.”

Mr. Barrett flutters about, greeting customers. “Just a little delay,” he says. “Ms. DeMarco will be here momentarily.”

I meander over to the fiction section and pretend to be looking at books, but I study the customers waiting. Anne Marie Valgetti is second in line, wearing a miniskirt that exposes her long, bony legs. She waves to me, her red hair springing all over the place. “Isn't this exciting,” she says. “Imagine, Antonia DeMarco judging our little local contest. I entered.”

“Yes, I know,” I say. “I'm Antonia DeMarco's personal assistant for the contest.”

“Really?” Anne Marie looks surprised. “I didn't know.”

I practice my cool look on Anne Marie. I tilt my head and give her the small, uneven smile. “Her personal assistant. It's a very important job.”

Her eyes narrow into tiny slits. “I hope Antonia comes soon. I have to get back to the newspaper, you know.” She begins playing with her
STAFF
badge. “Is there something wrong with your neck?”

“No,” I say, walking away from her.

“All right, everyone,” says Mr. Barrett. “Antonia has arrived.”

We all turn. Antonia DeMarco rushes in, wearing her floppy hat, and it makes me glad that I'm wearing mine. I'm mesmerized by the pattern in her long, flowing skirt. It has swirls of blue and purple, with dancing half moons and stars that match her earrings, which are dangling moon slivers. She looks like a movie star again. We're wearing the same colors. This must be fate.

Mr. Barrett leads Antonia to the table he has set up in the middle of the store. “These are for you.” He gestures to a glass vase filled with beautiful yellow roses.

“Thank you.” Antonia looks around at the crowd and then sits, like she's used to having all these people stare at her. I move closer, but Mr. Barrett stops me.

“Sarah, no cutting in the line. People have been waiting longer than you.”

“I'm here as Antonia's assistant for the playwriting contest.” He rolls his eyes and escorts the first customer to Antonia. Couldn't he have been a little impressed?

“I'm parched,” Antonia says to Mr. Barrett. “I need some water, please.” He nods and goes into the back room. I try to get Antonia's attention, but she's talking with the first customer, so I stand off to the side. It's unbelievable enough that I'm in the same room with her. I like the way she talks—her voice bounces along. Mr. Barrett comes back with a glass and a pitcher of water. He smiles at the customers while he fills the glass and hands it to Antonia, placing the pitcher on the table.

Antonia wrinkles her nose. “I'm so sorry. I should have been more explicit. I never drink tap water. Would you be a dear and find me some bottled water? I prefer Pelton Springs.”

His smile fades. “Yes, of course.”

Anne Marie is next. She straightens her
STAFF
badge and puts on that phony smile. “Antonia DeMarco,” she says, gushing, “I'm your number one fan. I'm a writer, too, and I've just written a play, all about Alice Austen.”

I won't let her charm Antonia into choosing her play. I march over to Antonia and stick out my hand. “I'm Sarah.”

Antonia looks at me. “Who?”

Anne Marie shoots me an exasperated look. “You're cutting in.”

I reach into the bag I'm carrying and take out a can of cat food and hold it up.