Never Been Kissed

by Melody Carlson

“You know, Elise,” she says as she pauses by the door, “you’re the best friend I’ve ever had. Honestly. When I first met you, I thought you were going to be a stuck-up snob. But you’re not. You’re totally cool.”

  “Thanks,” I tell her. But even as I say this, I feel a little guilty. The truth is that although I totally enjoyed the process, my original motives about doing this makeover weren’t exactly pure. Not that I’ll tell her that. It wouldn’t make either one of us feel any better.

  “I have to go with my mom and sister to a family picnic thing tomorrow,” she says, “but maybe we could go to school together on Tuesday . . . I mean if you want. I usually just ride the bus since my mom never gets up on time.” She frowns. “The bus otherwise known as the dork mobile.”

  “My mom’s going to drop me off,” I tell her. “Why don’t you just ride with me?”

  Her eyes light up. “Sure, that’d be cool. And maybe my mom could pick us up afterward.” She thanks me again and leaves.

  On Labor Day morning, Grandma pops in unexpectedly and asks me to drive her over to her sister’s house, which is like two hours from here. “Your mom said you were just home alone anyway,” she tells me. “And I’m worried that I need to get my eyes checked. I’m just not seeing as good as I used to when I was younger.”

  So I agree to drive her to Great Aunt Louise’s. I suppose it’s better than just sitting around freaking over what my new school will be like and wondering if Asher Gordon will even give me the time of day. We end up staying there until evening, which means I’m driving home in the dark, but Grandma insists, assuring me that those hours will look good on my driver’s log when I go for my license.

  Back at the apartment, I get worried. “How are you going to drive yourself home now?” I ask her. “What about your eyesight?”

  She just smiles. “Oh, my night vision is excellent, sweetie,” she says as she takes the keys from me. “No problems there.”

  I have to laugh as I go inside. What a nutty lady. But I think maybe I can see through her little scheme. She probably knew I’d spend the whole day obsessing about tomorrow. I’ll bet she just wanted to give me a little distraction. Really, I appreciate it.

  “Are you all ready for the big day tomorrow?” Mom asks as I’m brushing my teeth. We’ve shared the same bathroom for so many years, I can’t even imagine having one to myself, although I think it would be nice to have a little more privacy sometimes. Like now.

  “I guess,” I say, then spit.

  “Picked out what you’re going to wear yet?”

  “I have it narrowed down to three outfits.”

  “No matter what you wear, I’m sure you’ll look great.”

  “I know what you’re doing, Mom. Trust me, it’s not helping.”

  “What?” She holds up her hands and gives me an innocent look.

  “Trying to make this thing seem all peachy keen and wonderful only makes me feel worse, okay?”

  She just laughs. “You’re going to do fine, Elise. You’re a very pretty girl. You’re smart and a hard worker. You’re talented in so many areas I can hardly keep track. Really, how could it not go well for you?”

  While I can think of 1,001 ways how it could go totally sideways for me, I decide not to list them for her. Not tonight anyway. Instead, I kiss her on the cheek, tell her good night, and go into my room. For no particular reason, I open my laptop, my Christmas present from Grandpa before he died last January. I power it up and then go online to check my email, which is completely ridiculous. Who would’ve sent me something is a total mystery, since the only emails I get anymore are from Grandma “just checking in,” or Mom sending me a message from work, but I go through the motions just the same. As usual, there’s just a couple pieces of spam, so just as quickly as I turned it on, I turn it off and fold the screen down, snapping it closed.

  I stand up and sigh loudly. I close my eyes and wish with all my heart that tomorrow will be a good day. Then I take it one step further and do something I haven’t done in months—I actually pray. Standing there in the center of my tiny room with tightly clenched fists, I ask God to help me make it through tomorrow, to help me make some friends, and, if it’s not too much to ask, to help me find a relatively cool guy so I can get my first kiss before I turn sixteen.

  Now why I think God would want to do this is beyond me. But it’s what I pray. Then, promising God that I’ll pray more frequently (and thinking that if he answers this desperate little prayer, I absolutely will keep this promise), I get into bed and try to force myself to go to sleep.

  4

  ______

  I make it through the ordeal of locating my locker and navigating my way to my first class without too much trouble. Well, other than high blood pressure, although I try to keep a calm expression on my face. Never let them see you sweat. And I try not to be too obvious about the fact that wherever I go, I’m on the lookout for Asher. Not that I’m under the illusion he’ll speak to me or even pick me out of the crowd. But I suppose I’m hoping . . . wishing . . . dreaming.

  Then in fourth period, which is second-year Spanish, I see him just as I’m about to go into class, and I honestly think my heart skips a beat or two. But I don’t let him know. In fact, I act like I don’t quite remember him, like he’s one of those guys who just looks like everyone else, which is so bogus because he actually looks a lot like Matthew McConaughey.

  “Hey, Elise,” he says to me with a brilliant smile that’s so Matthew. “How’s it going?”

  I give him a sort of surprised look, then, cocking my head to one side, I say, “Oh, Ashton, right?”

  He laughs. “No, it’s Asher.”

  “Oh yeah.” I nod as if I’m soaking this in, like I really didn’t remember his name. “Are you in this class?”

  “Yep. How about you?”

  I nod and go inside the classroom, but my knees feel slightly weak as I take a desk on the sidelines. To my total delight, Asher sits next to me and continues to make small talk with me until the teacher, Ms. Sorenson, steps up and begins to take roll.

  I’m actually thankful for this break from Asher because I honestly felt like I was getting light-headed, like I might just pass out and fall limp to the floor. And how embarrassing would that be?

  As Ms. Sorenson talks to us (in Spanish) about what this year will be like, I focus on breathing and relaxing and probably miss most of what she’s said. Then I realize she’s telling us to choose language lab partners or to wait for her to assign them, and the next thing I know, Asher is nudging me.

  “Want to be partners?” he asks.

  “Sure,” I say calmly, hoping desperately that I won’t faint from shock. As class continues, I begin to wonder if I’m not really still at home in bed—maybe my alarm didn’t go off and I’m late for school, and I’m actually dreaming this whole thing. Just to be sure, I pinch myself. No, this is for real. For real.

  I am so thankful I started Spanish in middle school, because right now it feels like most of my brain has turned to mush. Fortunately, there’s a small part that just goes into some kind of autopilot, and I manage to make it through the class without embarrassing myself.

  “You’re really good,” Asher tells me when class ends. He grins. “I had a feeling you’d be a good partner.”

  I just thank him and stand up, hoping that I can walk out of here without tripping and falling on my face.

  “So do you know anyone yet?” he asks as he continues to walk with me down the breezeway. “Got someone to sit with at lunch?”

  “No, not really,” I say. Okay, I’m not going to admit to this cool senior guy that I’ve been hanging with a freshman nobody. I just hope I don’t run into Stacie and have her step up and say something lame. She’s got to know better than to do that.

  “Then stick with me and I’ll introduce you to some of my friends.”

  “Thanks.” Keep breathing, I remind myself as I walk with him toward the cafeteria. Just keep breathing.

  He leads me to
ward a table in the center of the noisy room. Already a number of kids are clustering there. They all look curiously at me. Suddenly I think, Oh no, what if this is a trick? What if something totally humiliating is about to happen? Why am I so gullible?

  But nothing happens. Asher simply introduces me to everyone who’s there, and I try really hard to remember their names. There’s Chance and Lindsey, who are a couple. Hayward and Bristol appear to be a couple too. And the other names seem to have evaporated.

  “Where’s Brianna?” Lindsey asks Asher with a slightly suspicious look in her big dark eyes. She’s petite and pretty, with short dark hair that frames her face in a pixielike way.

  “That’s what I was going to ask you,” Asher says to her.

  “Oh, there she is,” Bristol says. Bristol is tall, about my height, and she has this gorgeous red hair that goes halfway down her back. She waves to a girl who’s coming toward the table.

  “Hey, Brianna,” Asher says in a friendly tone as he embraces her and they exchange a kiss. “I want you to meet a new girl. She’s a friend of my cousin, just moved here from Renaldo this summer.” As he introduces us, I expect her to be suspicious or jealous or to even say something mean or degrading. Instead, she just smiles brightly and shakes my hand.

  “Welcome to Garfield,” she says. “Home of the wildcats.” She curls her hand into a paw and makes a hissing sound then laughs. “But we’re really pretty nice. Most of the time.”

  I laugh too. It occurs to me that this girl could be one of the Olsen twins—Mary Kate or Ashley. Although she’s younger, I want to ask her if she’s related. Thankfully I do not.

  As we walk over to get in the lunch line, I am stunned at two things. First of all, how easy this was, and second, that I’m being included in what appears to be the A-list crowd. It’s like a fairy tale. Unbelievable.

  I pay attention to what Brianna and Lindsey pick up for their lunch, and trying not to be too obvious, I imitate them. Although I do go for a different dressing on my salad. I follow them back to the table, almost expecting this too-good-to-be-true scene to go up in smoke, but it doesn’t. I sit down in the empty spot next to Bristol and try to appear calm and relaxed. Still, there’s a ton of pressure here. Don’t say too much, but don’t be a mouse. Try to fit in, but don’t let them see you trying.

  I feel like someone’s staring at me, and I glance up and spot Stacie watching me from the lunch line. She’s with a couple of girls who I assume are her friends. But her expression is a mixture of shock and concern. I simply look away, returning my focus to opening the stubborn salad dressing packet.

  “It must’ve been hard to switch schools,” Bristol says to me. “Leaving all your friends behind. I’d freak if my parents did something like that to me.”

  “It’s been a challenge,” I admit as I fork my salad.

  “So what are you into?” Lindsey asks.

  “Into?” I echo in a lame way.

  “You know. Like Brianna and I are cheerleaders. Bristol is into drama. The guys are pretty much jocks.” She laughs like that’s funny. “What about you?”

  “Elise is really good in Spanish,” Asher says quickly. “And I was lucky to snag her as my lab partner.”

  Lindsey glances quickly at Brianna, like she’s wondering what her friend will say or do. But Brianna just smiles. “I hated Spanish,” she tells me. “I switched to French in my sophomore year.”

  Then the subject changes to football. From what I can tell, both Hayward and Chance play, but Asher decided to quit this year. And no one is too pleased about it.

  “Hey, sorry that I’d like to graduate from high school without being permanently crippled,” he tells them, “or suffering another concussion.” He looks at me like I should understand and take his side. “I played quarterback and took so many hits last year that my parents got worried I was going to suffer brain damage.”

  “I think you made the right choice,” I tell him, then instantly wish I hadn’t said anything.

  He grins. “Me too. Maybe I’ll go out for basketball. I kind of gave that up for football.”

  “Well, it just won’t be the same this year,” Brianna says with a pouty expression. “Cheering for football with my boyfriend sitting in the stands.” She shakes her head. “Pretty pathetic.”

  “You’d rather have a boyfriend who’s turned into a vegetable?” I say.

  Brianna laughs and pats his cheek. “But you’d make such a cute vegetable. I’d call you Mr. Potato Head.”

  He chuckles. “Thanks a lot. But if you don’t mind, I’d like to hold on to what brains I have left.”

  They banter back and forth and I realize that I’m mostly just sitting and listening. Maybe I’m like Miss Potato Head. Finally the bell rings, and I’m actually relieved to go to class. Despite the rush of exhilaration that comes with hanging with the cool crowd, it’s also very exhausting. But I have Art next, so it should be kind of like taking a break.

  I’m surprised to discover that Bristol is also in Art. And even more surprised when she invites me to sit with her. There are four to a table, and the other two seats are occupied with a lanky-looking guy with dark-rimmed glasses and a pale-faced girl with shoulder-length, mousy hair.

  “I’m Phillip Martingale,” the guy tells me with a confident smile. His brown hair is on the longish side, and he’s actually pretty good looking.

  “I’m Elise Storton,” I say.

  “Elise just moved here from Renaldo,” Bristol tells him. “She was friends with Asher’s cousin, so Asher’s been helping her to meet people.”

  He nods. “That’s cool. So what do you think of old GHS?”

  “It seems okay.”

  Phillip gestures to the quiet girl next to him. “This is Katie, and she’s a little on the shy side. Right, Katie?”

  Her cheeks flush slightly, but she doesn’t say anything.

  “Anyway, what Katie lacks in chattiness she makes up for in talent,” Phillip says. “She’s a real artist.”

  Before long, I can see for myself that Phillip wasn’t kidding. Katie is very good.

  Mr. Hanson gives us random pages from a magazine to pull ideas from for a pencil sketch. “Just use the photos as inspiration,” he tells us. “This is a chance to warm up your pencils, and for me to get to know everyone’s skill level. No pressure.”

  But Katie jumps right in, and I’m totally impressed. “You’re really good,” I tell her.

  She mumbles, “Thanks,” but keeps her eyes on her drawing, which is an old pickup and falling-down fence. How she extracted that from her magazine page is a mystery. It takes me a while to decide what my magazine page is inspiring me to draw (since it’s an advertisement for Usher perfume), but I finally decide just to draw his hand, which is wrapped around the bare leg of a woman. Once I get going, I realize it’s not bad.

  “Wow, sexy,” Phillip tells me when he sneaks a peek at my drawing.

  I just laugh and show him the magazine ad. “Like I had a choice?”

  “I don’t know,” Bristol says. “Usually our drawings represent pieces of ourselves. Art is subjective like that.”

  I look at her sketch, which is a really great-looking high-heeled shoe with what appear to be rhinestones decorating the toe. But when I look at her magazine photo, it’s just an ordinary-looking woman in sneakers. “How’d you get that shoe from that picture?” I ask her.

  She laughs. “It’s called imagination, Elise.”

  I can hear the put-down in her voice, and I’m reminded that I really am out of my league here. I wonder how long I can keep up this charade.

  Finally the school day comes to an end, and I’m so thankful to have survived. But now I’m faced with a totally new dilemma. Stacie’s mom has offered to pick us up today, but I so don’t want to be seen with her. Since school is over, it’s okay to use electronics, so I turn on my phone and call Stacie’s number, hoping that she’s turned her phone back on too. When she answers, I tell her that I’ve got a ride home with someone e
lse.

  “You’re kidding,” she says. “Who?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Well, you better.”

  I decide to just hang near the computer lab since that’s where my last class was, just trying to waste enough time for me to know she’s gone. What I do after that is anyone’s guess. Maybe I’ll just walk home, although that will take more than an hour and my shoes will pay the price.

  “What’s up?” asks a guy from behind me.

  I turn to see Asher grinning at me.

  “Oh . . . nothing,” I say.

  “Are you waiting to use a computer or something?” He glances over to where some computer geeks are gathering for some after-school “fun.”

  I make a face. “No. Not even close.” I kind of shrug now. “Actually, I was trying to figure out how to get home. My mom was supposed to pick—”

  “Why don’t I give you a ride?”

  “Seriously?”

  He laughs. “Yeah. Is anything wrong with that?”

  “No, of course not. I’d love a ride.”

  “Come on then,” he says as he starts walking. “My car’s in the east parking lot.”

  “Will Brianna mind?” I ask as I walk with him.

  “No. She’s got her own car and she’s got cheerleading practice anyway. She probably won’t leave for another couple of hours.”

  Once we’re settled in his car, which is a very cool Honda Accord, I feel like I can almost relax and actually let out a sigh.

  “Long day, eh?” he asks as he backs out.

  “Oh yeah.”

  He turns and smiles at me. “It looks like you held up okay.”

  “Thanks. Hopefully it’ll get easier.”

  “For sure.”

  “I like your car,” I tell him. “It feels like it’s pretty new.”

  He nods. “Yeah. I’d been hoping for something a little zippier, you know, but my parents thought this was a practical car. And the gas mileage is good, so I guess I shouldn’t complain. Except that most of my friends have cars that are a whole lot cooler.” He laughs. “But that’s pretty juvenile, isn’t it?”