The First Kiss Hypothesis

by Mandelski, Christina

  Why hasn’t my best friend told me she applied to a college out of state?

  “What’s wrong?” she asks when I climb in and yank on my seat belt.

  I glare at her. “Nothing.”

  She flips down the visor mirror and checks her hair. “Something’s wrong. You look like someone kicked your dog.”

  More like someone just kicked our friendship to the curb. “I’m fine.” I channel all my confusion and anger into making my truck’s damn engine turn over, which does not happen.

  “Fine,” she says. “Just tell me it’s a PFE day.”

  I take a deep breath. PFE is code for “Pie Fixes Everything.” Yeah, it’s lame as shit, but in our defense, we came up with it when we were nine.

  My brain is trying to work out this Emory news and it’s coming up with nothing. “I don’t know.”

  “So no pie?” she says, pleading.

  It’s a look I’ve never been very good at resisting.

  I try the ignition again, and the third time’s a charm. I back out fast, just in case it thinks about dying. “I’m pretty busy, you know. Homework.” This is weak. I usually do my homework the period before it’s due, if I do it at all. From her silence, I know she’s thinking the same thing and wisely decides not to make a smart-ass comment about it.

  “Okay, fine. No pie. Homework.”

  I grumble, unable to ever say no to this girl. “Fine. We can get pie. As long as it’s to go.”

  “You sure you have time? All that homework…”

  I glance her way. She’s definitely mocking me. I think of that letter in the box. Pie isn’t gonna fix this.

  “I said we could go, didn’t I?”

  “Okay. Yes, you did. PFE, to go.”

  My pulse pumps harder as my truck winds through historic downtown Edinburgh, which is about as exciting as it sounds. Not far from the beach, our town used to be a big tourist destination back in the old days. Now it’s rundown as hell. A few antique stores, the funeral home, an old courthouse, a hotel, and the Mermaid diner, which is where we go for pie.

  The Mermaid, first of all, sucks. It didn’t used to, back when Nora’s grandma was their baker. Now Gigi’s in an assisted living place and can’t remember my name. We still go to the Mermaid, though, because pie is our thing—me and Nora’s—and has been since the day we met, the summer before fourth grade.

  She and her mom had just moved in with her grandma, Gigi. Nora didn’t know anyone, and was sitting on the front porch looking lonely and sad. Mom made me go over. When Nora looked up at me with those big eyes, I didn’t know what to say, so I ran into her house and asked Gigi if we could have some pie.

  I brought two slices of blueberry out to the porch, and that was it. PFE. By the time the pie was gone, we were laughing at our purple teeth and telling each other everything.

  I thought we still did that. The important stuff, anyway. Obviously, I didn’t get the memo that we’d stopped.

  Donna, the waitress, sets us up with a slice of apple for me and a slice of cherry for Nora, to go. I can tell from the sound of the pie being sliced that it’s got a soggy bottom crust. I can hear the apples crunch, which means they aren’t cooked through.

  Damn, I miss Gigi’s pies.

  We walk out and get back in the truck. I say nothing, but inside, I’m about to boil over. We had a plan. Is she not even gonna tell me it’s off? I tear the wrapper off my plastic fork, open the Styrofoam container, and go after that slice of pie like a hungry lion on an antelope.

  She chuckles.

  “What’s so funny?” I ask.

  “I thought you wanted pie to go?”

  I drop the fork. “This is to go. We’re gone.”

  She tilts her head and purses her lips. “You are so predictable.”

  I know she’s talking about how I have zero self-control when it comes to pie, but this comment hits me wrong. I’m predictable? That’s rich. She’s the predictable one with her slice of pie still in the bag on her lap. She’s the planner. Scientific. Rational.

  Which means she’d never leave her mom and Gigi, I realize.

  There’s no way she’ll go to Emory.

  She nudges my arm. “Eli, come on, I’m just messing with you.”

  I tell myself to relax, feeling the pieces of my life that only Nora holds settle back into place. She’s not going anywhere. She’d tell me if she was gonna do something as huge as leaving home.

  But that doesn’t mean I’m still not pissed she’s keeping secrets.

  “I know.” I turn the key and my engine coughs. Loudly.

  “That doesn’t sound right.”

  “Give him a second.” I try again. Cough. Cough.

  She reaches forward, picks at the duct tape that holds the glove box shut. “Maybe it’s time to put Michael out of his misery?”

  I huff. It’s one thing to keep secrets, it’s another to insult my truck. “You need to not talk trash about Michael Jordan right now. There’s nothing wrong with him.”

  She shifts in her seat, facing me, and folds her hand in her lap. “You mean besides not being able to start?”

  “He’ll start, don’t worry.” Finally, thankfully, he does. “See? And show some respect. If it weren’t for this truck, you’d be hitching a ride to school every day, or riding the bus with the freshmen.”

  A sly smile flickers across her mouth. “If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t be making twenty bucks a week doing nothing.”

  “Oh, I’m doing nothing, am I?”

  “Eli.” She laughs and it sounds exactly like her nine-year-old self, on Gigi’s front porch, pie stains on her teeth. “You don’t even have to come and pick me up. I’m literally the girl next door.”

  I can’t argue with that, so I don’t. We drive in silence down Main until I turn into our neighborhood.

  “So…” She breaks the silence. “Any plans this weekend?”

  Why even ask? She doesn’t give a damn what I do, even if I want her to. “Big party tonight at Koviak’s. You wanna come?”

  “To a lacrosse party?” She raises an eyebrow as I pull into our driveway and throw MJ into park. “No, thanks.”

  Surprise, surprise. My anger over the letter and her stupid theory comes to a boil. I bravely stare directly into her eyes—eyes that can make me think things if I’m not careful. “Oh. Right. No new guys to kiss there. Why waste your time?”

  She gives me a death glare as she throws open her door, then jumps to the ground.

  “Who’s predictable now?” I say to her back, and she slams the door closed behind her.

  We meet around the back of the truck and I lift out the box, which she yanks from my arms. If she were a cartoon, there’d be smoke coming out of her ears.

  I fold my arms across my chest and watch her try to carry all her stuff. “You want some help?”

  She stomps off. “No, I do not!”

  I can’t help watching her cross the driveway, hair wild and blown sideways by the hot breeze. For someone so smart, I can’t believe how she clings to this stupid theory.

  I grab my lacrosse bag and sling it over my shoulder a little harder than I need to, sending pain searing through my knee. A disturbing thought hits me. The kids who go to State are mostly local, and not the smartest. They let anyone in. Is that what Emory is all about? Maybe she thinks she’ll find a better class of guys to kiss up there?

  Is that why she didn’t tell me? Because she knows I’ll call her on that bullshit?

  I want to throw something, hard. It’s one thing to set up a kissing booth once a year in the high school gym. It’s another thing to leave home and everything you know just to prove a messed-up theory.

  Anyone with a brain can guess that’s not gonna end well. She’ll end up sad and alone, except for the cats. She’s definitely got cat lady potential.

  I walk up our front steps and glance over to her porch, where she’s struggling to unlock the door. I have to strangle the urge to go and help her. That’s what I do—I help N
ora.

  But maybe that’s what she needs now—my help, before she ruins her life. The problem is, she believes in that theory like little kids believe in Santa Claus. I’ve tried to talk her out of it. She won’t listen. All I’ve ever been able to do is sit back and make sure no asshole takes advantage of her. Now she’s thinking about taking that away from me, too.

  Fuming, I turn the doorknob and go inside. There’s no helping Nora Reid.

  Chapter Three

  Nora

  I clench my jaw and stab the key in the lock harder than I need to. I have no reason to be annoyed that Eli just called me predictable. I should take it as a compliment. Science is predictable. That’s why I like it. It should not bother me that he’ll be going to yet another party tonight, where he’ll probably hook up with some lacrosse-loving fangirl. That’s something we don’t talk about—sex—though it’s no secret he’s a player. I mean, look at him.

  I wouldn’t be caught dead at Alex Koviak’s party. It’s not my crowd, plus Alex and I kissed at a party sophomore year, and that was the end of that. Worse, there’s a largeish group of girls in school who don’t like that I’ve dated and rejected so many guys. I used to be friends with a lot of them, but now they ignore me. The price of science.

  This all translates into me not going to parties often, and honestly, I don’t think I’m missing much. I usually feel guilty when Eli invites me—he always does—and I turn him down, but not today. That was a jerk comment he made, and he can suck it.

  I throw open the front door and step inside.

  The house is dark and cool and quiet and relaxes me immediately. Mom’s at work and then she has class. She’s going to be a dental hygienist this time. The times before it was masseuse, phlebotomist, and nail technician, none of which stuck. I hope one of her hypotheses work out soon.

  On the way upstairs, I pass my grandparents’ wedding picture and the sight of them comforts me. That’s how sure I am of Maggie and Harold Frye and their incredible love story. I touch Gigi’s face on the black-and-white print. She’s beautiful, and while I never met him, I think Grandpa was a stone-cold fox. The look on his face, on both their faces…so content…always fills me with hope that my hypothesis is solid. That my own Harold is only a kiss away.

  Up in my room, I flip open my laptop and go to Emory’s site, trying to keep those embers of hope alive. They have one of the best medical research programs in the country, and I didn’t think I’d get in. It’s my dream school, but without scholarships, I can’t go. That’s why I haven’t told anyone. Plus, my stomach twists when I think about leaving Mom and Gigi.

  And then there’s Eli.

  My face heats up again when I think of that snarky comment in his truck.

  He infuriates me, which wouldn’t bother me so much if I didn’t still have this pesky crush on him. It’s like a bite that itches the more I scratch it.

  For example, right now, I hear the Costases’s garage door go up. I run into my bathroom, step into the bathtub, and stand on my toes to see through the small window.

  I can’t stop myself, and I don’t even try. I’ve been doing this for years.

  There he is, on the driveway, lugging a container of recyclable plastic to the curb. He’s changed his clothes from school. Now he’s wearing that sea-green T-shirt that makes his eyes even bluer. When he heads back inside, I sink down into the empty tub and hold my head in my hands. I’m pathetically obsessed with my completely off-limits best friend. I mean, how many times have I imagined him here, in this pink-tiled bathroom? He comes in from lacrosse practice, hot and sweaty. I turn on the shower, pull that jersey up, over his head. My fingers trail along his tanned chest, my lips follow…

  It’s a harmless fantasy. Right?

  I’m not so sure.

  What if this stupid crush is affecting my test results? How can I experience the perfect first kiss if I’m imagining myself doing things with Eli that best friends don’t normally do?

  I run a hand through my hair, my awesome new, celebratory hair, and climb out of the bathtub. Enough of this. I march back into my room, grab my pie and laptop, and plop onto my bed. First things first, get my emotions in check. I take a bite of pie…and instantly cringe. The crust is mushy and the filling is way too sweet. Bad pie fixes nothing!

  Scowling, I open the scholarship page on the Emory website, click on the first application, and get to work. I’d be stupid not to try.

  After an hour or so of filling out forms, I hear the signature asthmatic cough of Eli’s truck attempting to come to life. I focus even harder on the screen. I will not run to the window. I will not run to the window. And I don’t.

  My chest fills with pride. There, see? I can control myself.

  I feel kind of bad, though. He drives around in that wreck while I have a perfectly good car that Gigi bought me for my sixteenth birthday sitting in the garage.

  I close my laptop as Eli tries the ignition again. Probably going to the party early. Every girl there will want him. Will any of them succeed?

  I imagine him here, next to me, in my bed, smiling, with that damn dimple. We face each other, knowing what we both want…

  NO!

  I have to think of something else. Anything else.

  I roll onto my back and gaze at the stick-on constellations on my ceiling that have been there since I was little. I’ve always loved science, everything about it. I’ve always wanted to help people, animals, the planet. Emory could make all that possible in a big way.

  Finally, the truck starts. Michael Jordan. Who names their truck? It’s actually kind of cute.

  Oh my God, not even science can distract me. Frantically, I take another bite of the subpar pie. Its over-sweetness coats my tongue with a sour taste, but hey, at least I’m thinking about something else for a second. I close the container and toss it into the trash can next to my desk. So much for pie fixing everything.

  I desperately want to have that kiss, to meet the One, but what if I’m missing the signs because I can’t stop fantasizing about Eli? In my shower. In my bed. In Michael Jordan. Under the bleachers at school. There is nowhere I haven’t imagined Eli and me together.

  This has been going on for way too long. It’s time for a change.

  I run my fingers through my curls again and know what I have to do.

  Not that we won’t be friends anymore. I just need to break the Eli habit. There are three months to graduation, and there are still guys to kiss and possible scholarships to acquire. My car has been sitting in the garage since I hit the driver’s ed instructor two years ago and broke her leg. I can still hear the crunch and the bloodcurdling scream. I haven’t driven since.

  Truth is, I’m terrified to get behind the wheel. I just can’t think of a better way to distance myself from Eli than to stop letting him drive me around every day. The only glitch: I need someone to teach me, and unfortunately, I think he’s the only one who can.

  Two weeks. That’s my plan—two weeks to get over my driving anxiety and get some refresher lessons from Eli. Then I won’t need him anymore. I can move on to other boys, and maybe Emory, then we can really be just friends.

  The next morning, I hear the thonking sound of the basketball on his driveway. Great. He’s awake. I force myself not to think of his bed head, or his probably shirtless chest. I need to stay focused if this plan is going to work. Mom can’t teach me how to drive. She made me crazy last time, always gasping and pushing imaginary brake pedals. Abby is always busy. Gigi can’t teach me anymore. It’s Eli or no one.

  I head outside in the T-shirt I slept in and pajama pants.

  Oh.

  I turn in a circle and consider going back inside because I was right. He’s not wearing a shirt. Honestly, why does he have to tempt me like this?

  What really makes me breathless, though, which I am right now, is when he wears his glasses. I don’t know what it is about those things. They’re just big, black retro-looking frames, and they are seriously killing me.

>   I throw my shoulders back and make my way toward him anyway, determined.

  Just ask him the favor. Stick to the plan.

  “Eli,” I start, but his little brother, Ari, runs out their back door before I can finish. I love Ari. He’s eleven, a sixth grader, and even though he’s Eli’s brother, he’s like mine, too.

  “Nora Reid.” He likes to greet people with their full names. He runs over like he might hug me, and then he doesn’t. That’s okay.

  “Ari Costas.” I tip my head toward Eli, who is holding the ball. “You showing him how to play?”

  “Yes,” Ari agrees. “I’m showing him how to play.”

  Eli smirks. “In your dreams, butthead.”

  That smirk is so cute it makes me woozy. I swallow hard. “Pass it, Costas.” I clap my hands. “And how about maybe put a shirt on?”

  “Why? You can’t handle this?” He throws me the ball and the action makes his pecs flex. I shake my head. God, he’s beautiful.

  I watch the ground and dribble the ball. Focus! “Where are your contacts?”

  “Girls like when he wears his glasses,” Ari says matter-of-factly.

  I laugh out loud. Yes, Eli is as hot as the surface of Mercury, but he knows it. This fact brings me back to earth. “Oh,” I say, “is that so? A bare chest and hipster glasses and we’re falling at your feet. You really think that works?”

  It does. It so works.

  He grins. “I don’t know. You’re looking a little wobbly.”

  “You wish.” I lift the ball, aim, and arc it toward the net for a resounding miss.

  He nabs the rebound and tosses it back to me. “Come on, Reid, aim for the box!”

  He’s given me this advice about a million times over the years. “I am, Coach!” Which is not even remotely true. The next time, I aim for the stupid box and voilà, it goes in.

  “See?” he says smugly. “Maybe I am more than just a pretty face.” He pushes the glasses up on his nose. I try to hide the shudder that ripples through me. He’s a pretty face, and more. He’s just not my pretty face, and never can be.