The ABC's of Kissing Boys (10 page)

“Seems like maybe we should celebrate this chance meeting,” I said, and forced out a laugh. “Sit down somewhere and scarf these things together.”

Her dark eyes darted toward me, and while I wasn't quite sure what I was seeing in them, her nod told me she was up for killing a few minutes.

We wandered out the side door and sat down on a curb. Her skirt was short, and I wondered if the concrete scratched her legs, but the insistent way she tore at her snack- cake package told me she was way more interested in her stomach than her legs.

“Cute skirt,” I said, to fill the silence. And, you know, because it was.

“Same one you have, just in blue.”

I was about to argue, then took a closer look. Little embroidered flowers, two front pleats—she was right. I'd bought it at Anna Banana's last spring and worn it to school a few times.

“No wonder I like it,” I said awkwardly, then crunched a pretzel. “And more proof that we see each other at school. How else would you have known about my skirt?”

She crammed the last hunk of a cake into her mouth like she was pushing back a reply. I realized she probably just didn't want to admit she was wrong … and tried to remember if that was why I'd stopped hanging around with her after middle school.

But for now, we were sitting here, and I
was
grateful for company. So I pressed on, asking about her older sister and if she'd gone away to college.

“Yeah, she got into MIT. In fact, when I saw you in the supermarket the other day, I'd only just gotten back from saying goodbye to her at the airport.”

I tried to remember if she'd had swollen eyes or had seemed super-sad, but all I could remember was trying to rush through so she wouldn't put two and two together on my strange grocery haul.

“I've gotten better at goodbyes,” she added. “Re mem ber how emo I went at Alexis's goodbye party?”

My thoughts circled back to her eighth- grade waterworks and all the snot and saliva she'd ended up slobbering on my shoulder during a group hug. But it was kind of sweet, how sentimental Becca used to get.

“Yeah,” I said, “and then, six months later, Alexis was back at school anyway.” I smiled and nudged her.

“What a perfectly good waste of tears.” She let out a thoughtful laugh. “And then there was how I sobbed at my grandmother's funeral.”

“Yeah,” I said, leaning in a bit, “but Becca, that was different.”

“Yeah,” she agreed.

I kind of wanted to hug her or pat her or something, but the bell rang, conveniently saving me from some display that would either embarrass or annoy her. There was no faking that we were friends like that anymore.

Standing, I brushed some crumbs off my shirt. Becca glanced down at her own shirt, then up at me.

“I'm here sometimes for lunch,” she said, then shrugged. “Okay—I'm here a lot. If you ever …”

I nodded, happy to find someone not embarrassed to be seen with me. “Yeah. But hey, we gotta reach a little higher than grade- A junk. There's that grill truck that comes out front. Hamburgers and stuff. Maybe we should try that sometime.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” I said, and grinned.

“Okay. Later, then.”

“Later.”

Becca took the stairs and I headed down the hall, toward my locker. But when I came face to face with Chrissandra, Mandy and Elaine, I longed for the simplicity of those last, awkward moments with Becca.

I was still mad about the stuff on my locker (and everything else), but I knew I had to sideline those feelings. When things worked out—
when—
I'd find the right time and place to tell them how they'd hurt me. But that time was definitely not now.

So I reached into the same hidden reservoir of strength that had propelled me to drag Luke and Tristan into my plans, and smiled. “You guys were busy little bees this morning.”

My gaze joined Elaine's and Mandy's in a straight shot to Chrissandra. Chrissandra looked right back at me.

“You're not mad?” she asked, then examined a fingernail.

“Mad?” I said, and forced out a laugh that had a moment of homeless-lady insanity. “No! I thought it was funny. In fact, Rachael and I had a good laugh while we peeled it off.”

Chrissandra's brow arched. “Rachael?”

Bull's- eye. Just a suspicion, but I thought her name would rankle Chrissandra.

“Yeah, she came by to congratulate me on becoming JV captain.” Holding my breath, I smiled again. “You were right, Chrissandra. Coach did lob that on me.”

Mandy took a step forward. “And she made Rachael our captain. Which was just crazy.”

“Crazy,” Elaine echoed.

“Everyone knew Chrissandra was in line for it,” Mandy continued.

Elaine nodded. “And deserved it.”

I made an appropriately tortured face.

“No matter,” Chrissandra declared. “It's in the bag for me next year. And it gives me more time to concentrate on other things now.”

Like what, the continued destruction of my junior year?

“Anyway,” she went on and touched my arm, “nothing personal about your locker. You know we're behind you finding your true love. It's just if we acted like it was okay for you to date a nonentity, it would look like we'd go there, too.”

Mandy nodded.

Elaine did an “ Uh- huh.”

I scanned their faces. Who
were
these girls?

“Just know,” Chrissandra went on, and gave me an air kiss, “that we couldn't be happier for you, Parker.”

“Thanks,” I said, and tried to summon one more smile, but I found my well dry. “Yeah, it's a great time in my life.”

Motivation
:
Information
can be imparted through your kiss, from
your level of interest to your full intentions.

I
glimpsed Tristan a couple of times that afternoon as he passed in crowds. A true- blue girlfriend would have shouted his name or shouldered her way toward him. But as an impostor (and one who had already had enough drama for one day, thankyouverymuch), I went with the head- in- the- sand routine and was relieved that he let me get away with it.

But on the field later, suited up to lead some defense drills, I'd have to have been Helen Keller not to notice the arrival of my faux beau. For suddenly, there he was on the sidelines, looking big and solid and pretty danged cute in darkish jeans and his gray “DeGroot High School Water Polo” T-shirt.

The action around me all but stopped, the gazes of a dozen and a half players racing from Tristan to me and then each other.

“Parker, isn't that your new guy?” Lyric asked, wiping her brow of running- induced sweat.

“He's
hot,
” one of the froshies said, and was immediately seconded by her drill partner.

“Didn't he go to Greenfield with us?” another one asked, referring to the middle school.

“Yeah,” a third girl said, and let out a dreamy sigh, “but he's grown up … a lot.”

Emotions battled inside me. Embarrassment, reluctance and—to my surprise—a hint of pride. “ Uh- huh,” I said, in agreement with them all.

Lyric looked straight at me. Pretty in- your- face for a girl who it was easy to forget existed. “Aren't you going to go see what he wants?”

Her suggestion rocked me like a penalty kick to my head. It hadn't occurred to me that Tristan
wanted
anything; I guess I was getting used to him existing in the periphery of my life.

I walked over, eager to get him off the field, and stopped a few feet short of him. “Hey, you,” I said, and reached back to tighten the band around my ponytail. I felt a bit dorky in my baggy practice clothes, and smoothing out my hair was at least proactive.

“Hey yourself.”

“You need something?”

“Proof.” He nodded toward some freshman- type people on an upper level of the bleachers. “My friends don't believe we're a couple.”

I crossed my arms. “What, that kiss earlier wasn't good enough?”

“They thought you lost a bet, that a gorgeous older girl wouldn't fall for a guy like me.”

I wanted to pause, to let that sentence drift lazily through the air for all to hear … but since no one who really mattered was on the field at the moment, what was the point? “Sounds like you've got smarter friends than I gave you credit for.”

“Yeah, well, we gotta straighten this out if you want to keep
your
friends fooled. So now that we've had this wonderful and very public conversation,” he said, bending down toward me, “I'm going to kiss you goodbye.”

“You are, huh?” Energy fizzled inside me, although— believe me—I tried to hide it. “The See- You- Later Kiss?”

“No, the Official Goodbye Kiss. Shorter, but you'll still like it.”

He was close now. Super-close. So close I could breathe him in, all male and clean.

“We'll see—” I said in teasing singsong. I started to say “about that,” but his kiss took the words right out of my mouth.

Tristan was right about the kiss. It was quick, just a brush of the lips, with maybe a second or two of contact before the pullback. As far as passion went, it was low-maybe a three on a scale of ten (and I suspected we'd gone as high as eight or nine with the Leave- Them-Wanting-More Kiss).

Still, I liked it. I liked it a lot….

Hartley, however, had a different take. (Surprise, surprise.) Her voice carried across the field, shouting my name— “Parrrrr- kerrrrr!”—with the demand
“Get back to work!”

“I'm very important,” I deadpanned to him.

“I can see that.”

“They can't survive without me.”

“And they shouldn't have to.”

As I took a few steps backward, my gaze stayed locked with his. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

A smile crept over his face, and I had no doubt he would.

•

Practice resumed. Some of the girls were actually good, and not just the ones who'd played on JV last year. I saw some raw talent—players with speed, with tireless legs, and some who could use their heads to make judgments as well as move the ball. With enough work, I figured they could be league- title contenders.

I just didn't plan to be around to help make it happen.

“Game speed!” I yelled at a couple of the slower girls (Smurfs, as Chrissandra would have called them).

But once we divided into teams for scrimmages, the play started to get good, started to feel real. For the first time since the summer practices, I went to that hot, sweaty, stinky place where I didn't care if I was hot, sweaty and stinky, as long as my side was winning.

And, as corny as it sounds, I felt like myself again. Focused, in the zone. I realized that I'd missed playing, that it was an outlet for me. And that quitting for the sake of saving face would have been just plain stupid.

“Up the line!” Hartley shouted as an orange- haired newbie tossed a throw- in. A short, squat girl named Dayle trapped the ball with the side of her foot and slammed it forward to me. I rushed it, did a fast receive, then booted it past the goalie to put our team ahead.

My team cheered (and so did I). Sure, it was only a JV scrimmage, but some days you had to take what you could get.

I think I was still smiling when I spotted Tristan back on the sideline. I had no idea what he wanted, but no way could I break ranks and go to him, so I had to hope he was enjoying the show.

Energized and positive, I watched the redhead knock a through ball between two defenders, straight at me. Receiving the ball, I heard her yell “Man on!” at me, letting me know the opposition was hot on my tail. I jammed around behind the ball and wound my leg back for the soccer equivalent of the football Hail Mary, then connected with force and, to my relief, amazing aim.

“Way to go!” the redhead cheered, celebrating my second goal.

I nodded her way, then threw a look at the bench for a silent
nah-nahnah-nahnah
at Heartless, an in- your-face reminder that I was one
heck
of a player (and that she'd made a terrible mistake). But Hartley's attention was focused down the foul line.

On Tristan. Who was now sandwiched between two ninth graders, Emma and Marg. They'd been taking breathers on the bench—and had apparently decided that this breather would include Tristan. His arms were crossed over his chest, doing that pumped- up biceps thing (which they were
so
falling for). Marg was grinning at him madly, and Emma was talking with cartoonlike animation, her hand on his wrist.

“Parker,” Hartley boomed, calling me out for replacement, “will you go do something about your
boy
friend? He's distracting the players.”

I felt heat race to my already mottled face, unsure if it was perverse jealousy that my non- boyfriend was flirting with girls his own grade or if I'd picked up a Chrissandra-type age-discrimination razz in Hartley's tone.

Nodding at her, I stomped toward the three of them, still very much in game mode. Coming to a halt, I reached out and plucked Emma's hand off Tristan's skin while tilting my head and squinting at Marg in a glare my dad and Tristan's would have envied.

“Mine,”
I told them, in my most mature five- year-old voice. “Now, you two, back on the bench.” I waited until they stepped away. “And you,” I said, turning to Tristan, “Coach wants you out of here.”

“No problem, I was just—”

“Tristan,” I said, shaking my head, “you're making trouble.”

“I just wanted—”

My hand went to my hip, but I left the bite out of my tone. “You're just too good- looking. You're killing our concentration.”

“Your coach said that?”

“No, I did. Now go—and don't come back.”

He gave me a long, slow smile, then walked away. I hustled back to the bench, putting my glare back on for the two froshie Smurfs.

“Um, Parker,” Emma said when I plopped down beside her, “what's your favorite color?”