Never Been Kissed

by Melody Carlson

  Asher, you have no idea how rattled you made me feel in the parking lot this afternoon. Everything in me wanted to respond to you. And I would’ve loved to have taken you for a ride. But what about our plan? You can’t go around acting this way if you want to keep this thing under wraps. Even Phillip mentioned that he thinks you’re crushing on me. Now I’m wondering if you’ve changed your mind. Maybe you do want to break up with Brianna after all. If that’s how you really feel, why not just get it over with? Maybe she’ll have time to round up another guy to take her to the homecoming dance. Really, it seems kind of unfair to lead her along like this. Why not just tell her you’re finished?

  Love, Elise

  As I hit send, I feel a rush of hope. Maybe this really will be it. Maybe Asher will finally cut that girl loose.

  But by the time I’m getting ready for bed on Friday—another Friday night spent at home because I didn’t want to risk throwing all my cards on the table if I ran into him at the football game—I still haven’t heard back. Now I’m worried that maybe he’s going to cut me loose. Maybe I’ve been too pushy. Maybe I’m making him realize that he wants to stay with Brianna.

  Saturday comes and still no email. But at least Phillip calls. He invites me to church again, offering me a ride. I remind him that I have my own car now, and he acts disappointed. So I offer him a ride instead, and he accepts.

  “Come to church with me tomorrow,” I urge Stacie on Saturday night. I think that if I have Stacie with me, it won’t seem like Phillip and I are there as a couple. As silly as this sounds and as unlikely as it is that he’ll ever find out, I feel worried that Asher might not like me spending too much time with Phillip. But Stacie refuses.

  While church is good, I feel distracted by two guy problems. First, I still haven’t heard back from Asher. And second, I suspect Phillip is more into me than I am into him. He proves this when I drop him off at his house.

  “Why don’t you go to the homecoming dance with me?” he asks in an offhand kind of way. “It might be fun.”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . .”

  “We don’t have to be boyfriend-girlfriend to go,” he says. “We can just go as friends.”

  I promise him that I’ll think about it. The more I do, the more I think maybe it’s not such a bad idea. In fact, if Asher is still with Brianna by then, which I’m guessing he might be, at least I can see him . . . and maybe I can figure out if he’s stringing me along or what.

  By Sunday afternoon, I receive another email from Asher. Of course, he says all the right things. All the right things and a whole lot more. I’m literally tingling after I read and reread it a few times. But I try to act normal since Stacie is here. She came by to borrow a belt and now I can’t seem to get her to leave.

  I decide to read his email once more, taking my time as Stacie continues perusing my closet like it’s her mini Macy’s.

  Elise! Thank you, thank you for the photo! I love it. And I love you! But I just can’t get enough of you.

  This is going to be the longest week of my life. I even hinted to Brianna that maybe we should break up, but she threw such a fit about homecoming that I was worried for your sake. Please send me more photos. You are so beautiful. So much sexier than Brianna. But besides that, you’re a really nice girl. I love that you’ve never been kissed. I can’t wait to be the first one. There’s so much I can’t wait for. Thank you for being patient.

  Now send me more photos, please! And don’t be afraid to show more skin. You are gorgeous, babe! And I want more!!!

  Love, Asher

  “You’re not going to tell me what he said?” Stacie asks me for like the fifth time.

  “No,” I tell her. She’s been here for about an hour now, and I’m really wishing she’d go home. Not that I don’t like her, but I’d like to write back to Asher in private.

  “Just a teeny little hint?”

  “Okay. But then you have to leave because I have homework.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

  “He said a lot of nice things,” I tell her as I scan his words again. “And he really wants to break up with Brianna, but he’s going to wait until after homecoming—”

  “Does that mean you’ll go to homecoming with Phillip?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What else? Come on, did he like the swimsuit photo?”

  I nod and grin. “Yeah. He liked it a lot.”

  “I knew he would. It was really good. I’m thinking maybe I should become a photographer.”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And, naturally, he wants me to send more photos. Of course, being that he’s a guy, he wants me to send ones showing even more skin.” I giggle nervously. “Not that I plan to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s stupid and skanky and slutty, that’s why.”

  “But girls do it all the time.”

  “Not this girl.”

  “Oh, don’t be such a prude, Elise. Think about it. Maybe that’s what it’ll take to get him to break up with stupid Brianna.”

  “I still wouldn’t do it.”

  “Even if it meant that you’d have Asher Gordon all to yourself? No more Brianna?”

  “Not like that,” I tell her.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is, Elise.”

  “The big deal is that it’s skanky. And I’m not that kind of a girl, okay?”

  She makes a face. “Okay. But I hope you’re not blowing this.”

  I fake a laugh then turn my back to her, taking my laptop into a corner of my room, where I can hopefully have some privacy since it doesn’t look like Stacie plans to leave anytime soon. I hope I’m not blowing it as I quickly type out my response. I basically tell Asher thanks for the compliment, but nice girls don’t send nude photos to anyone—period. End of conversation.

  Stacie is still going through my closet, complaining that my wardrobe is so much better than hers. Meanwhile I’m sitting here stewing. I mean, as much as I like Asher, I’m a little put out that he asked something like that of me. I’m halfway tempted to write him another email and tell him I’m done with him. But suddenly there’s another email from him, and feeling hopeful that he’s realized he was wrong to ask this of me, I open it.

  I thought you loved me, Elise. But I guess I was wrong. I’ve trusted you with something really personal—remember what happened to me at camp? And now you treat me like this. I’d be lying if I pretended this doesn’t hurt. I want our relationship to be built on trust. But I can see you don’t trust me. Maybe you never did. I’m sorry I trusted you now. I guess I just thought you were someone else. I won’t bother you again. Please don’t write back if you can’t trust me.

  Asher

  I don’t know how to react to this email. Is he really trying to end this thing? Just because I wouldn’t send that photo?

  “What’s wrong?” Stacie asks.

  I decide to just ignore her.

  “I can tell something’s wrong,” she says. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.” I close my computer and sigh.

  “Come on, just tell me, Elise.” She really is starting to remind me of a pesky little sister.

  I give her a blank look.

  “You’re, like, totally bummed. I can tell. What’s wrong? You can talk to me.”

  “Okay . . . The problem is that Asher is really hurt because I refused to send the photo.”

  “You already told him you wouldn’t send it?”

  I just nod.

  “Of course he’s hurt. He probably thinks you don’t like him.”

  “I don’t think we’ll be emailing anymore.”

  “That’s so wrong.”

  “I guess it makes me sad too.” I feel a lump growing in my throat when I think that this relationship—this relationship that never really started—is actually going to end.

  “It should make you sad,” she says. “It makes me sad too. You guys would’ve made such a great coup
le.”

  “I know it’s because of me . . .”

  “Well, of course it’s because of you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I stand up and head for my bedroom door. Maybe she’ll take the hint and leave too.

  “It means you blew it.” She follows me to the kitchen, watching as I open the fridge. “And now he’s hurt.”

  I remove a can of lemonade, ignoring the fact that Stacie is helping herself, acting like she lives here. Whatever.

  “And you probably said something like, ‘Nice girls don’t do that.’ Right?”

  I nod as I pop the can open and take a swig.

  “So how do you think that made him feel?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll bet you’re going to tell me.”

  “He probably feels guilty for asking you now. He probably thinks you don’t really like him and—”

  “I do really like him,” I say.

  “Just not enough to—”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” I set down the lemonade and make a run to the bathroom, trying to hide the fact that I’m crying, which is really weird.

  “Elise?” Stacie calls through the door. “Come out, let’s talk about this. I can hear you crying.”

  “Just go home,” I tell her. “I’m fine. Really . . . just PMS. And I have to do homework. So I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Okay, but you’ve got me worried.”

  “Really.” I try to brighten my voice. “I’m fine.” With the bathroom door locked, I sit on the edge of the bathtub, waiting for her to leave. After several minutes, she finally seems to take the hint and I hear the front door close with a thud.

  Okay, maybe I really am having PMS. Or maybe I’m just really frustrated. Who knows? But honestly, Stacie is the last person I want to talk to right now. She just confuses me and makes me feel worse.

  I emerge from the bathroom, go to my room, and open my computer, but like I expected, there’s no email from Asher. And I don’t want to be the first one to write again. In fact, I’m starting to wonder if I’ve just been a total fool for letting myself fall for a guy who will probably never give up on his girlfriend. I’m halfway tempted to write him an angry email and tell him that we’re finished. But that seems pretty lame considering that we never really got started. I mean it’s not like we’ve been together. Not really.

  I shut down my computer and climb into bed. Maybe I can simply sleep this broken heart off.

  “Elise?” my mom calls.

  I get up to see that it’s almost seven. “I’m here,” I tell her.

  “Oh, I saw your car down there, but it was so quiet . . .” She studies me. “Are you okay?”

  “Just a little bummed.”

  “More boy trouble?”

  I kind of shrug. As I help her fix dinner, I tell her a bit more about Asher (not about the photos!) and about how I’m afraid he’s just leading me on. “He’ll probably never break up with Brianna.”

  “That’s a possibility. And it might be that he’s enjoying having the attention of two girls. Some guys are like that.”

  It’s hard for me to believe Asher is really like that, but then again . . . I don’t know. “Well, maybe I’ll just go to the homecoming dance with Phillip,” I say suddenly. “That would teach Asher a lesson.”

  “And Phillip seems like such a nice boy. Why don’t you?”

  “I think I will.”

  When we’re done with dinner, I pick up the kitchen phone. Right then and there, with Mom giving me a thumbs-up, I call Phillip and tell him that I’d like to go to the dance with him. “I mean if you still want to.”

  “Sure,” he says. “It’ll be fun.”

  “Yeah, I think it will be.” Okay, I don’t tell him that part of the fun will be seeing Asher’s face when I walk in with Phillip. But at least he’ll get the message that I’m not going to be strung along like that.

  As I get ready for bed, I think about calling Stacie—just to tell her that I’m sorry I fell apart and that I’m okay and that I’ll see her in the morning. She did seem pretty worried about me, which is actually kind of sweet. But I noticed her sister is visiting tonight, so I’m sure Stacie’s already forgotten about me. I can just explain things to her in the morning.

  9

  ______

  “But what about Asher?” Stacie demands as I’m driving us to school. She’s still digging through my bag in search of gum, although I told her I don’t have any. And she’s mad at me because I just told her I’m going to the homecoming dance with Phillip, not Asher. Seriously, this girl needs to get her own life!

  “What about him?” I say to her with disinterest.

  “He’s so in love with you, Elise. Remember the roses? The emails? You can’t just give up on him like this.” She tosses my bag down in disgust.

  “I’m not giving up completely,” I point out. “I’m just taking a little break.”

  “But what if Asher changes his mind? What if he’s broken up with Brianna? What if he asks you to the homecoming dance now?”

  I laugh. “Like that’s going to happen.”

  “It might.”

  “Hey, it’s sweet that you’re so wrapped up in my crazy life, but don’t worry, Stacie, it’ll all work out. Phillip is actually a really nice guy. I was talking to my mom about him last night, and she thinks he’s great. I do too.”

  Stacie lets a foul word fly.

  “Hey,” I say. “No cussing in my car.”

  “Sorry.” She folds her arms across her front and slumps down.

  “What’s with you?” I ask. “You can’t be that mad at me for agreeing to go to the dance with Phillip.”

  She doesn’t answer. Fine. I need to focus on my driving anyway. Let her pout by herself—pity party of one. If she’s so nuts about Asher, maybe she should go after him herself. Not that she’s likely to get anywhere. In fact, I have a feeling he was never going to break up with Brianna in the first place. Mom’s probably right—some guys just like thinking all the girls are in love with them.

  I’m heading for Spanish when I feel someone grab my arm—tightly. I turn to see Asher with a hard-to-read expression. “We need to talk,” he says urgently.

  “Right now?” I glance around, worried that someone may be looking.

  He firmly nods as he escorts me away from the classroom and toward a somewhat secluded corner near the restrooms. “What do you think you’re doing?” he demands.

  “What?” I peer curiously at him.

  “I thought you were a nice girl.”

  “I am a nice girl,” I shoot back. “What are you talking about?”

  “That photo!” he hisses.

  “I thought you liked the photo.”

  He kind of smiles, but suddenly scowls. “You never should’ve sent it to me. That was wrong! So wrong!”

  “But you wanted—”

  “Seriously, Elise. It was a stupid, stupid move. Brianna saw it, and now it’s—”

  “What’s going on here?” Bristol asks as she emerges from the restroom. “A clandestine meeting of sorts?”

  “No way.” Asher growls at her.

  “Definitely not!” I step away from him.

  Bristol gives me a snooty look. “You’re a real piece of work, Elise Storton—a real class act.”

  “Thanks,” I snipe back at her. “Same to you.”

  “At least I’m mature enough to know that sexting is not only wrong, it’s a punishable crime in this state.”

  “What?” I stare at her. “Sexting? What are you talking about?”

  She laughs. “Oh, sure, play innocent. That’ll work.” The bell rings and she struts off.

  “She’s right,” Asher says in a stern tone. “It is a crime.”

  “What are you talking—”

  He holds up his hands and shakes his head, like he’s finished with this conversation, and even more than that, like he’s finished with me. Then he just turns and storms off.

  Feeli
ng totally confused and slightly freaked, I follow about ten feet behind him, wondering what on earth is going on. I know something is not right, but I have no idea what—or how. As I slip into my seat, I realize that being tardy is probably the least of my worries today.

  It’s hard to focus on Spanish verbs as I try to remember what the actual definition of sexting really is. They talked about it at my old high school last year, and I thought it meant sending nude photos or sexually explicit messages. I’m fully aware that I sent that stupid swimsuit photo of myself—which in hindsight was totally moronic—and I may have written things about how much I liked him or even said that he was hot. But sexting? I don’t think so.

  Class is almost over when a man in a suit comes into the room to speak to Ms. Sorenson. To my total horror, she points directly at me, then motions for me to come up to her desk.

  “If you’ll get your things and come with me, Miss Storton,” the man says in a polite but firm tone.

  I look at Ms. Sorenson, who nods. “Do as he says, Elise.”

  Once we’re outside of the classroom, I start to freak. For all I know, he’s some pervert trying to kidnap me. “I’m not going one step with you until I know exactly who—”

  “I’m Detective Lewiston.” He flashes a badge at me. “You are Elise Storton, right?”

  “Right.” I feel a deep-seated fear in the pit of my stomach.

  “I want to ask you some questions,” he tells me.

  “About what?”

  “Please, come with me.”

  “What’s going on?” I demand. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m going to place you under arrest for distribution of child pornography, penal code 33—”

  “What?” I feel my knees get weak as he spews out some numbers and words, then proceeds to rattle off my Miranda rights as he takes my bag from me without even asking.

  “Now, you can make this easy or difficult,” he says as he escorts me toward the front of the school. “I wanted to be discreet, but I have handcuffs if we need them.”