Praise for A Soul’s Kiss
“Sensational, satisfying and surreal. A thrilling tale, beautifully imagined and carefully crafted. A must read 'coming of age' novel. I hope to see more of Chapoton in the future.”
~Lucy Morris, Lucy Reads
“Very intriguing. With elements of friendship, romance, and the supernatural, A Soul’s Kiss is a fun novel with a good message and perfect for fans of Gayle Forman’s If I Stay.”
~Paola Benevides, Don’t Fold the Page
“A unique novel filled with engaging characters that captivate our heart as well as the imagination. An emotional ride loaded with intrigue, secrets, romance, and the paranormal that hooks the reader till the very last page.”
~Mandy Sickle, The Reading Diaries
"A Soul's Kiss is a compelling story of a group of teenagers struggling to find their place in the world. It's a fresh reminder that what we think we want isn't always what we need and that sometimes what we need was right in front of us all along."
~Ashley Gafford, Wholly Books!
"Ms Chapoton created living characters and gave us a gripping story. One word: awesome!
~Hira Mushtaq, Views and Reviews
Jessica
Drama is more than Jessica’s favorite class where she obsesses over bad-boy Michael—which is whyshe gets into a car with him. By the end of the day she’s in a coma, her spirit has split from her body, and the real soul-changing drama begins.
Rashanda
Best friends with Jessica for as long as she can remember, Rashanda struggles with health issues daily. Still, that didn’t stop Michael and Hannah for choosing her for one of their “pranks”. Can she save Jessica from the same fate?
Tyler
Tyler’s had a crush on Jessica, in spite of the fact that she keeps him firmly in the friend zone. When Jessica is fighting for her life, Tyler sits by her side, wishing he could do anything to help her, never envisioning that she will ask for help, and that it will be something beyond his wildest imagination.
Michael
Popular and athletic, Michael has never had to fight hard to get a girl. Then why is he fighting so hard to keep Hannah? Especially with Jessica just waiting for a chance with him.
Hannah
Being the most popular girl is school hasn’t kept Hannah’s insecurities at bay. Now, she seems to be stuck with that freak, Jessica, closer than she ever wanted her to be.
Jessica
Thursday and Friday
“Jessica Mitchell,” my drama teacher, Mrs. Clark, calls out my name. “Your group is first.”
We walk up the stage steps. Kayla first, then me, then Michael. I get goose bumps just knowing he’s right behind me.
I signed up for drama class because I saw the play last year and Michael blew me away. It’s not unusual for a junior, like me, to add drama to her schedule. I’m pretty sure Kayla had the same goal in mind when she switched into the class the second week of school: Michael Hoffman. How else could we get into a class with a senior?
We get into position on the stage.
I hold the knife steady, steady, directly over Kayla’s heart. Her eyes do not flutter open. I stay poised, waiting for the exact moment when I will raise my arm higher, release my breath with a scream, and plunge the weapon downward with jealous rage.
Or resentful hate.
Or odious envy.
I haven’t really got hold of my circle of emotion yet. What I really want to do is giggle. I stare at her closed eyes, waiting for a signal. She looks like my archrival Hannah. They share the same long blonde hair. Pretty like her, too.
Michael will step between us at any moment now and save her.
“Jessica,” Michael whispers my name. I raise my arm. Jerk it. I feel a tingle in my shoulder like a tendon snapped and I half turn without meaning to.
Her eyes open. She doesn’t scream and neither do I, though one of us should. She sneers instead, rolls her eyes toward Michael and whispers the classic save me.
I slam the knife down, my fist stopping a quarter inch from her chest. In the same instant Michael leaps from behind me and punches at my hand. He knocks the knife’s handle. It easily flips away and thumps on the floor with no resounding metallic clatter. Of course not. The rubber stage prop is as phony as we are. Our sixty second impromptu warm-up exercise receives the hesitant applause of the other twenty-seven kids watching. Three guys take the stage as we return to our seats.
Today we had to limit our dialogue to three words or less per person and concentrate on blending actions. Like a dance, Mrs. Clark had said. Michael, Kayla, and I step down and trail toward the empty fifth row as the next group gets into position. Like a dance, I think, and I sidestep my way past Kayla so I can sit next to Michael. He is so hot.
Now that I’m sitting so close to him I get more nervous, if that’s possible. I want to say something, anything, but the words are stuck somewhere near my pounding heart.
My best friend, Rashanda, would have something smart to say. Her constant advice rolls around in my head: just be yourself.
“So, Michael,” I whisper as the second group on stage begins, “what are your biggest fears?” I’ve practiced questions like this in front of the bathroom mirror. Now I feel like a fool for actually asking him such a lame question so I flip my hair back with my hand and angle my body toward him, crossing my right leg over my left. Why do I bother trying to act cool? I’m hopeless at this acting stuff, and I am über-scared that people won’t like me.
“Uh,” he says. He keeps his eyes forward, frowns a bit, and then turns toward me. For a second, we are the only two people in the auditorium. He keeps his voice to something less than a whisper. I read his lips. “I’d have to say robbers, the dark, and balloons on the floor.”
I stifle my laughter. Kayla nudges me.
“What’s so funny?” she asks. Her voice is a little too loud. I shake my head, keep my lips glued shut, and focus on the three kids that are acting like animals on the stage. Mrs. Clark’s piercing glance in our direction misses me and settles on Kayla. Kayla slumps back.
I dig my hand in my pocket for a breath mint, but only find lint. Drama is the last period of the day and the most important class to have fresh breath. Because, well, because I could get picked to do a romantic scene. And Michael Hoffman, man of my dreams, might have to do a scene with me, like today, and like two other times this semester, and I might get to sit next to him in the auditorium. Like today. So breath mints are a must.
I can’t believe I’ve run out of mints. I put my hand up to my face and give a little fake cough, trying to catch a whiff. Not bad, I guess. I join the others in clapping faint approval for the finished skit on stage.
Now’s my chance to respond and not be heard by Mrs. Clark. “Balloons on the floor?” I lean toward Michael, match his last two hand claps. “You’re going to have to explain that one to me.”
“I’ll tell you later,” he breathes.
Michael curls up one delicious corner of his mouth then breaks into a full grin. I memorize the moment as his deep blue eyes hold mine for a fraction of eternity. I didn’t know that a guy’s eyes could sparkle so. If I swallow now, will he notice the lump in my throat? When his eyes flicker to the stage I take advantage of two whole seconds to admire the way his sun-bleached hair falls across his forehead. He gives a tiny toss of his head like a rock star. I’ve seen him do that a hundred times, but maybe my ogling spurred the unconscious gesture.
My heart thumps. Later. What could that mean? Right after school? Alone in the auditorium? With Michael Hoffman?
As if to mock me the entire class howls at something silly that the third group on stage is doing. Michael catches it, and Kayla, too, so I laugh along with them. Three senior boys, frien
ds of Michael’s who are nice and cool and popular even though they aren’t in the party crowd or jocks, troop off the stage. They file into our row from the other aisle and Michael stands to high five them. I wish I knew what had been so funny.
As the next several groups do their skits we sit quietly. It takes half the hour to get through everybody, and then Mrs. Clark marches us back to the drama room and passes out some scripts.
Later. Later. Isn’t it time for the last bell to ring? I really want to get to the later part of today and talk to Michael.
Finally the bell rings. I fish under my desk for my Spanish book, the only class I have any homework in tonight, and take my time getting to my feet. If I time it just right I can exit with Michael and—
“Jessica.” Mrs. Clark motions me over as I pass her desk. “I want you to practice the part of the girl looking for her soul mate. You don’t have to memorize anything.” She laughs like a troll and adds, “Yet.” I can sense Michael passing behind me. He’ll be out the door in two more seconds. “But go over it enough times to get a sense of the timing and rhythm.”
“All right,” I say. She hasn’t given anyone else an assignment like this. She must think I need all the extra help I can get. Right. I fold the script in half and then fold it again and stuff the bulky square into my back pocket.
There are three slowpokes between me and the door. Michael is through it and heading for his locker. Of course I know exactly where his locker is located—I pass it several times a day.
I push past the slowpokes and enter the hallway. This is the third time I’ve left drama class after Michael. That means I’ll have to see him meet up with his girlfriend, Hannah.
Yup, there she is. She catches up to him at the corner, gives him a peck on the cheek—what I wouldn’t give to be in her shoes—but then she says something and waves him off. He continues down to his locker, but she keeps going straight.
Dilemma. Do I go to my locker? I’ve got my Spanish homework and the drama script. I didn’t wear a coat today. I can go down the senior hallway to the parking lot before heading to the pool. I can stop and ask Michael about his funny fear of balloons.
Or do I follow Hannah and see what she’s up to? Seems like a no-brainer, except that Hannah starts waving at Keith Mullins as soon as Michael turns away. If she’s two-timing Michael, well, that would be nothing but good news for me.
I turn down the senior hallway. Doors slam, lockers clang, locks jangle. Guys yell, jerks cuss, girls laugh. I’m pretty much ignored since I’m a lowly junior. I plaster a semi-smile on my face, ready if Michael bangs his locker shut and sees me. This is a practiced smile, one that doesn’t make my chin crinkle, but lifts my cheeks to create a higher cheekbone effect. I’m just average looking so I have to do the most with what I have.
I slow my pace.
And don’t see the elbow. Just feel it. Hard. Around my eye socket.
I’m flat on my back. Lights out.
“Sorry,” some moron says.
“Hey, are you all right?” I recognize that voice. Michael helps me up. The moron gets my book and hands it back to me.
“Yeah,” I say, “I’m . . . I’m fine.”
“Hey, I didn’t see her,” the moron says to Michael.
“What happened?” Hannah is right beside me. I stare at her shoes. Keith lags behind.
Michael explains to them in vivid detail. Has everyone slowed their pace to stare at me? Maybe I really did get knocked out. I’m not sure. My tail bone hurts and my wrists tingle from being pulled to my feet. My eye socket throbs and so does the back of my skull.
“We should take her home,” Hannah says to Michael. Then to me, “Did you drive or take the bus?” I guess I don’t answer fast enough because she keeps talking. “We’ll take you home. You shouldn’t drive. You seem all disoriented.”
More like embarrassed. Mortified. Humiliated. Totally self-conscious.
They huddle me out the back door and down the steps. Hannah has my free arm and guides me between two rows of cars until we reach a new Ford Focus. Midnight blue. Michael, or maybe it’s Keith, takes my Spanish book as Hannah helps me into the back seat, and then he hands it back and I stare at the book’s cover, still too embarrassed to lift my eyes. And dizzy.
“Where does she live?” I hear Hannah ask as she closes my door. The three of them stand outside and I’m shocked to hear Keith recite my exact address and give directions. How strange is that? Why would he know where I live?
Two of them skirt around the car and then all three of the doors open and they slide into their spots like a dance. Like a dance? Music blares from the radio, but I don’t recognize the song and now I can’t remember who was sitting next to me or who was driving.
* * *
Suddenly I wake to swirling walls. I focus on the ceiling and wait until the dizziness passes. I’m not in my room; this is my sister’s room. She’s studying abroad this year so sometimes I use her room.
I turn my head and stare at the red numbers on the clock radio. I try to remember if it’s Saturday or a school day. If this isn’t Saturday then I’m seriously late. I sit up on an elbow and listen for the usual house sounds: dad in the shower or mom emptying the dishwasher or the kitchen TV spouting the Early Show.
Nothing.
I chuck back the comforter and realize I’m still wearing my jeans and blouse from yesterday. That’s a tremendous time saver and it isn’t as if anybody will remember what Jessica Mitchell wore the day before. Fashionista I am not. Now if only my hair isn’t too bad.
The bathroom mirror reflects my oval face which is maybe a little paler than usual. Sleepy green eyes, unfashionably thin lips, and messy hair. I don’t waste more than ten minutes on trying to look better. Hardly a bruise around my eye. No swelling.
I don’t have time for breakfast and from the looks of the kitchen neither did my parents. No toast crumbs on the counter, no cereal bowl in the sink. I don’t even smell coffee.
Something seems off, but I don’t have time to figure it out.
Toothpaste, mouthwash, find some breath mints, grab my homework—did I have homework?—and I’m outta here.
But my car isn’t in the garage. My mom’s car, I mean. Dad drops her at work when I need to use her car to stay after school for practice. Like yesterday. For some reason my head is all fuzzy for a moment before I realize that I missed practice. My car is still at school! I step out the garage door, lock it, and glance up the street. Three kids are standing at the bus stop. I start walking toward them trying to remember why I left my car, skipped practice, and somehow got home. I stop in the middle of the road as a throbbing around my eye brings back the memory. I was in Keith Mullins’ car. A wave of embarrassment washes over me as I remember.
I start walking toward the bus stop again. Little groans escape between my teeth as I think of Hannah, Keith, and most of all Michael, taking pity on poor little me. The ride out of the school parking lot is hazy, though. I imagine that it was Hannah who sat in the backseat with me, but that doesn’t seem right if it was Michael’s car. I can’t picture the car. In fact, I can’t remember arriving home or anything else about last night.
The rumble of the approaching school bus cuts off my reflection. The bus’s gears shift down as I shift up into a jog. I’ve been on the bus when the driver has pulled away leaving behind a kid who was racing to catch it. I don’t want to be that kid today. If I have to ride my bike three miles to school I’ll miss first hour for sure. I ramp it up another notch as the stupid yellow monstrosity huffs to a stop and swings open its door. Three neighborhood kids I rarely speak to take their sweet time, thank you, thank you, and trudge up the steps. I make it and I’m not even out of breath. The driver closes the door practically on my heels and I fall into my usual seat as the bus lurches forward, spewing diesel fumes.
* * *
I’m in first hour English, last row, last seat, before the tardy bell rings. The bus ride smudges in my memory under a growing headache.
There’s a weird feeling about today. Like the stars aren’t lining up right.
Mrs. Brown’s student teacher is waiting for the bell to ring so she can click enter on the computer and finalize the attendance. She stares at Rashanda’s empty seat and then at my desk, but not exactly at me. She looks oddly sad, but maybe that’s because she started teaching the class this week and it’s not going too well. Junior English is a far cry from Junior Honors English. I was in the Honors section last year with all my friends, but I couldn’t fit it in my schedule this semester.
There is the usual pre-bell ruckus going on with half the kids not even in their seats. A bunch of girls are knotted into a whispering frenzy near the front of the classroom. Their heads turn one by one to look back here. At me? Maybe they’re staring at my black eye. I guess I didn’t use enough cover-up. They whisper some more and then file down Tyler Dolan’s row.
A couple of the kids that sit around Tyler are making a fuss over him, reaching a hand out to tap his arm, nodding their heads in unison. The girls join in the conversation. Tyler’s freckled face holds a deeper blush than usual, almost as red as his hair. I like Tyler; he’s one of those guys I’ve known all my life, but usually take for granted. He held a door open for me last week. Last year, before I got my driver’s license, I missed the bus and he walked me all the way home.
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