Never Been Kissed

by Melody Carlson

  “Fine then. It’s your life and you seem intent on ruining it. Go ahead. You probably will end up in jail, Elise. And this time I won’t bail you out.”

  The drive to school is silent—the kind of silence where you feel like you really could cut the air with a knife. But at least we’re there early enough to avoid being seen. The parking lot’s been unlocked, but only a couple of cars are there, including mine. Mom drives straight toward Bonnie Blue, but when I see my car, I feel sick inside. There’s a long scrape on the driver’s side—it starts at the front fender and goes clear to the end of the car.

  “What did you do to your car?” Mom demands as we both get out and stare at the damage.

  I run my hand along the scar, feeling the deep indentation of the gash, and a new lump develops in my throat. “Someone obviously keyed it,” I say in a hoarse voice.

  Mom actually swears now. This is something I’ve heard her do only a couple of times, and always in relation to my dad.

  “Get it out of here,” she growls at me. “I have to go to work.” She slams the door to her car and drives off fast. I get into my car, and for a moment I consider driving off fast too. I think maybe I’ll not only drive fast, but I’ll go someplace far away. I could shoot down to Mexico or up to Canada or maybe just straight off a cliff.

  Instead I drive to my grandma’s house. Thinking she’s already heard my story by now, since Mom usually tells her everything, I brace myself for her disappointment as well. But I know her wrath—if any—will be short-lived. Or at least this is what I tell myself as I knock on her door. I can hear Millie barking, and I hold my breath, waiting for the door to open.

  To my relief, Grandma smiles and hugs me. “What a nice surprise, Elise. What, no school today?”

  Millie seems happy to see me too, jumping and acting like I’m going to take her for a walk. Something about this little scene just gets to me, and I break down and start to sob. With her arm wrapped around me, Grandma guides me into the house and seats me at her kitchen table. Without even asking, she mixes me up a tall glass of chocolate milk and sets it in front of me. How do grandmas know to do things like this?

  I take careful sips and slowly calm myself until finally I’m able to talk. But the story spills out of me in one long sentence, and by the time I’m done, Grandma looks almost as confused as I feel.

  “You sent this boy a photo of you in your swimsuit?” she repeats—for clarity, I’m sure.

  “Yes. I know that was stupid. But he sent me a photo of him without a shirt on and asked for a similar photo.”

  “But you did have the top of your swimsuit on?”

  “Of course!”

  She slowly nods as if she’s trying to take this in. “But you were arrested for sending naked photos of yourself?”

  “A naked photo. Just one . . . as far as I know. But it was forwarded around school so everyone saw it.” I take a final gulp of chocolate milk. “But I never sent it. And I never had one taken. Never in my life!”

  “Oh yes you did, dear.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “When you were a baby. I took a couple of shots. You were perfectly beautiful.” She smiles. “You still are.”

  I stand up and go rinse my glass, setting it in the dishwasher since I know she likes that. “Thanks.”

  “So back to this little dilemma, Elise. Where did the photo come from?”

  I take Millie onto my lap as I explain my theory about Photoshop, and Grandma nods like that makes sense.

  “Yes, I’ve heard of that happening,” she tells me. “But can’t that be proven by an expert?”

  I feel a smidgen of hope. “I would think so.”

  “Did the photo look like it had been tampered with?”

  “I never actually saw the photo.”

  She frowns. “You never saw it?”

  I just shake my head.

  “Well, that’s just not right. I would think if someone arrested you for something, they should show you the evidence.”

  “Maybe they were waiting until I was in court.”

  “No, that’s not right.” She goes for her phone. “Let me call Wally. He’s a retired lawyer friend of mine, and he’s always willing to give me free advice.” She winks at me like she’s sharing a secret. As she calls Wally, I notice she’s dressed differently. She has on old jeans and an old white shirt, which I suspect might’ve been my grandpa’s, and her hair is tied up in a scarf. Upon looking more closely, I notice she has splotches of bright blue paint here and there.

  “I’d appreciate it if you called me back when you get home, Wally. My granddaughter is here with a complicated legal problem and we could use some advice. Thank you very much.” She hangs up and turns to me with a smile. “I’m sure he’ll get back to us as soon as he gets in, Elise.”

  “What are you doing?” I ask her. “I mean it looks like you’ve got paint on you.”

  She gives a sheepish grin. “Can you believe it? I’m painting my bedroom.”

  I look at her with wide eyes. “No way. I thought you were never going to change a single thing about this house. I thought you said it was perfect.”

  She chuckles. “Oh, I suppose it is perfect. At least that’s what your grandpa always thought. Maybe early on in our marriage I agreed. But I think a part of me always wanted to make a change.” Her forehead creases. “Although now I’m not so sure.” She motions to me. “Let me put Millie out back and then you can come and tell me what you think.”

  In the master bedroom, I try not to look overly startled when I see the wall color. It’s an intense turquoise blue—like something you might find in a set of kids’ felt pens or Stacie’s nail polish kit. “Wow, that’s really bright, Grandma.”

  She nods. “It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe.” I look around the bedroom, which like the rest of the house is fairly neutral, but nice. “I’ve always loved this house just the way it is,” I tell her. “You know, it’s really retro. Sixties decor is hot.”

  “Do you know who decorated this house, Elise?”

  I sort of shrug. “I just assumed you and Grandpa did.”

  “Do you remember that this was Grandpa’s house before he married me?”

  “Yeah, I guess I kind of remember that.”

  “His first wife, Lois, was an interior decorator. She did this entire house. That’s why it’s so well done and professional looking.”

  “Oh.”

  “And I suppose a tiny part of me resented that all these years. Oh, I liked it too. But I think I’ve always wanted to make my mark on it. And now that Grandpa is gone, well, I decided to just go for it. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “So why turquoise?” I ask.

  She heads for her closet and pulls out what looks like a comforter set. It’s kind of a tropical-looking print with shades of turquoise and lime green. “I fell in love with this,” she tells me. “It reminds me of when Grandpa and I went to Hawaii for our thirtieth anniversary.”

  “It’s pretty.”

  “I thought I’d like a turquoise blue room, sort of like Blue Hawaii, but now I think it’s a little overpowering.”

  “Maybe so.” I point to a soft aqua shade that’s also in the fabric of the comforter set. “What if you went with something more like this?”

  She studies the color. “You know, I think you’re right.” She frowns at the buckets of turquoise paint. “I guess that was a waste of money.”

  I look at the turquoise and remember what I do when I paint with acrylics. “Why can’t you just get some white paint and lighten it up?”

  “Brilliant!” She nods eagerly.

  “And I can help you.” Suddenly I’m hoping to distract myself from the anxiety that’s gnawing away at my stomach. Maybe I can lose myself in a project and pretend that nothing is really wrong.

  “What about school?”

  “I’m not going back there.” I firmly shake my head. “I told Mom I’d rather do prison time than return to school. She sa
id she doesn’t care.” I feel tears coming again. “She’s so mad at me, Grandma. I’ve never seen her this mad—not ever.”

  “Well, she’ll cool off. In the meantime, you can help me get the right color and then we’ll just paint our troubles away.”

  Grandma decides to send me to the paint store while she finishes masking off the trim and preparing the room. I explain the color challenge to the paint guy, then together we figure out how much white paint it’ll take to make the color right. Finally we end up with a very soft shade of aqua, which I think Grandma will like.

  When I get back, Grandma offers to start lunch for us. “You go and put some of the new color on the wall,” she tells me. “We’ll see if it works.”

  As I paint a large square of pale aqua, I block out everything else, and for the first time since my arrest, I feel like I can almost breathe normally. The color reminds me of a calm tropical sea, and I imagine myself swimming in it . . . on and on until I’m far, far away from my troubles.

  “That’s perfect,” Grandma says as she comes into the room. “Absolutely, perfectly perfect.”

  “I like it too,” I tell her. “And if it’s okay, I’d like to keep painting. It’s really relaxing.”

  She laughs. “Maybe it’s paint therapy. At least for you anyway. The truth is I wasn’t enjoying it much myself.”

  She gives me some old clothes to wear, hands me the scarf from her own head, and returns to fixing us lunch. I continue to paint . . . and to block out all else. When I take a lunch break, I make her promise not to peek at her bedroom until it’s done.

  “I feel a little guilty,” she admits as I’m heading back. “Like I’m taking unfair advantage of a bad situation.”

  “I like your paint therapy theory better.” It really is therapeutic, and as I paint, I decide that maybe I’ll just drop out of school and go to work as a house painter. I’ll bet they make good money too.

  But by the time I finish the room around six o’clock, I’m not so sure. All my muscles ache, and I’m in serious need of a long, hot shower. The results are totally worth it, though. “Don’t come in yet,” I holler out the door.

  “Don’t worry, I’m starting to fix dinner now. Wally is coming over to join us.”

  I start cleaning up, packing up the paint things, removing drop cloths and masking tape, and scrubbing my hands. I put her furniture back where it goes and even put the comforter set on her bed before I clear all the painting things out. Then I call Grandma to come and see.

  “Oh, Elise!” she exclaims. “It’s beautiful. It’s much better than I hoped it would be.” She hugs me. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  I can’t believe how happy this makes me. I can almost totally block out what’s really going on in my life. Or maybe I’m just going into denial.

  She points to her bathroom. “Now you get yourself cleaned up. Wally will be here soon. I made lasagna, his favorite.”

  As I’m showering in her oversized bathroom, I look at the walls and wonder if that blah beige might actually be better in pale aqua too. Maybe I can make an arrangement to stay with Grandma indefinitely—just paint her whole house one room at a time.

  “We have the right to see the state’s evidence against you,” Wally tells us as we’re finishing dinner.

  “We?” I question. “Meaning you’ll represent me?”

  “If you want me.”

  I nod eagerly. “Of course. I’d love to have you as my lawyer.”

  “I’ll let Elise’s mother know what’s up,” Grandma tells him. “In fact, she should be getting home from work about now. Why don’t I give her a jingle to let her know that you’re here and you’re okay?”

  I want to remind her that Mom probably doesn’t even care, but instead I tell her to call the landline. “Remember, our cell phones were confiscated by the police.”

  Wally makes a note of this. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, Elise.”

  “So you believe me?” I ask incredulously.

  “Of course I believe you. You’re my client.” He grins as he shakes my hand.

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  He nods. “I know you are. And I have a good sense about these things.”

  I hear Grandma in the kitchen. She’s informing Mom that I’ll be staying with her for a while, and it sounds like my mom doesn’t put up a fight. Grandma tells her about Wally too. Finally she lowers her voice, probably thinking I can’t hear. “She’s your daughter, Denise. It’s your responsibility to believe in her. We all make mistakes—you know that as well as anyone—but you’re making an even bigger mistake to believe Elise would do something like that. She’s obviously been framed. With or without your help, we plan to get to the bottom of it.” She says a pleasant goodbye and hangs up.

  Wally smiles at me. “You know, I’m an old guy, but I’ve got a pretty good idea about some of the things mean girls can do to other girls. It’s usually related to jealousy or some kind of love triangle. I strongly suspect there’s another girl at the bottom of this little scandal.”

  I tell him a little bit more about Brianna and how Asher had been trying to keep our relationship undercover.

  “She found out, didn’t she?”

  I just nod.

  “I think there are lessons all the way around in cases like this. And I’m sure by the time we’re done, you’ll be all that much wiser for it, Elise.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You should see what a painter she is,” Grandma tells Wally as I begin to clear the table. She chuckles. “If you didn’t think I was too forward, I’d invite you to see what she did to my bedroom.” She calls out to me in the kitchen. “Come on, Elise, let’s show him your handiwork.”

  Wally is impressed with both the color and my painting skills. “I might want to hire you to repaint my living room.”

  “I was thinking maybe I should paint Grandma’s bathroom to match the bedroom.”

  “Ooh!” Grandma claps her hands. “I’d love that!”

  When I finally get to bed tonight, wearing one of Grandma’s nightgowns, I am thoroughly tired. So utterly exhausted that I don’t even think about my arrest or criminal record or upcoming trial. I just say a prayer, close my eyes, and fall asleep.

  11

  ______

  On Wednesday afternoon, I take a break from painting Grandma’s bathroom when Wally arrives. His plan is to chronologically record everything I can remember that happened leading up to my arrest. He also takes down phone numbers, Asher’s email address, and anything else he can think of that could relate to this case.

  “A good lawyer is part detective,” he tells me. “Or else you can think of it as putting a puzzle together. It takes a lot of pieces to get the full picture.”

  I’m not so sure that the picture is getting any clearer to me, but I do my best to cooperate with his questions. He tells me he’s filed for copies of evidence and my arrest documents and statements.

  “Well, that’s about it for now,” he says as he gathers his things up. “But if you think of anything else—no matter how small—that seems in any way connected to your case, write it down and get it to me.”

  I promise to do that, then return to painting the bathroom while he and Grandma head for the backyard with iced tea. It’s around four when I finish painting, and not wanting to disturb them to wash out the brushes and rollers, I go around to the front yard instead. I’m just finishing up when I hear someone calling my name. To my surprise, it’s my old friend Hilary—the very person who first introduced me to Asher, although that seems like a lifetime ago now.

  “Hey, Elise,” she says as she comes over with her mom’s poodle. “What are you doing here?”

  “Just visiting,” I say casually. “Doing some painting for my grandma.”

  “How’s school?”

  I study her expression, trying to decide if this is a suspicious inquiry or just curiosity. Finally I decide to just be honest. “It’s not so good,” I tell her as I set the ro
ller in the clean pan. “I guess I’m kind of taking a break.”

  “Really? They let you do that?”

  “Under the circumstances, I don’t think they mind too much.”

  “What circumstances?”

  I quickly tell her how someone tried to frame me by sexting a guy. “A guy you happen to know,” I say like it’s no big deal. “Asher Gordon.”

  Her eyes grow wide. “Seriously?”

  I just nod.

  “So who did it? Do you have any idea?”

  “I have a lawyer and we’re trying to figure it out. He thinks there’s a jealous woman involved, which makes me think it’s Asher’s girlfriend Brianna. But we’re still gathering evidence. The police take sexting very seriously,” I explain. “I was arrested and everything.”

  “I remember when something sort of like that happened in middle school. You didn’t go to Webster, did you?”

  “No, I went to Kennedy.”

  “Well, there was this big scandal at Webster when I was in eighth grade. Not for sexting exactly, although that was kind of involved, but for cyber bullying.”

  “What happened?”

  “This girl Summer really hated this girl Rachel, so she and her friends went onto MySpace and some other sites and started saying really mean stuff about Rachel. They made up all these skanky stories, and everyone at school was reading them and believing them and forwarding them. They’d email Rachel and text her stuff, and they set her up to write back. Then they’d circulate it around the school. It was horrible.”

  “Did they get in trouble?”

  “Yeah, but not until Rachel hung herself.”

  “She hung herself?”

  Hilary nods. “I guess she just couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “I kind of know how that feels,” I admit.

  “But you wouldn’t hang yourself, would you?” Hilary looks alarmed.

  “To be honest, I did have thoughts of suicide.”

  Her hand flies to her mouth.