How to Make Out

by Brianna Shrum

  Seth opens his refrigerator and pulls out myriad ingredients: mushrooms, bread crumbs, garlic, several kinds of cheese I can’t really identify from here, and a few other things that get lost in the pile he sets on the granite island.

  “That’s like a hundred ingredients.”

  “Eh, more like fifteen.” He shrugs and smiles.

  “This is lesson one. You couldn’t have started with pasta or something?”

  “Oh come on,” he says. “You’re not the kind of girl to shy away from a challenge, are you?”

  He raises his eyebrows and stares straight into my eyes, his glinting with mischief, which makes me go hot all over. An errant black curl falls over his eyebrow and he brushes it back.

  “You’re right,” I tell him. “I love a challenge.”

  “Good.” He starts to arrange everything in a more reasonable, less intimidating order, and I just lean on the island, propping my chin up with my hands. “Besides, if I’m teaching you, this is the way it’s gonna be. No pasta or casserole or instant pudding mix. I don’t do anything halfway.” He steals another glance at me and grins, then pushes the pile of mushrooms at me.

  “I can handle that,” I say. I look down at the mushrooms. “So where do we start?”

  “First thing you’re gonna do is pop the caps off those mushrooms.”

  “It’s like you’re speaking a foreign language.”

  He laughs and crosses over to my side of the counter. “This,” he says, pointing to the fat end, “is the cap.” He flips it over. “This is the stalk. Just separate the two and hand the caps to me so I can clean them.”

  I grab one of the mushrooms and snap, and to my shock, it comes clean off. Something I can’t screw up. That was merciful of him. I separate the mushrooms quickly and toss them to him to wash, which he does lightning fast. Then he brings the bowl of caps back to me.

  “Okay, so we’re going to leave these alone for a while. Now comes the fun part.” He hands me a knife—a giant, extremely sharp-looking knife. My eyes widen and I look frantically between Seth and the blade of death in my hand.

  “I’m not going to stab you with it. Calm.”

  “No, no. I’m afraid I’m going to stab me with it.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You’ll be fine.” Then he steps around me and sweeps his arm across the mushroom stalks, pushing them all onto a cutting board. “Breathe. You will survive this,” he teases, and I narrow my eyes. “Just chop these up and slide them into that skillet.”

  I eye the stalks like they’re going to jump up and bite me. None of them do. Then I bring the knife down upon them, and one piece flies.

  “Whoa, okay. Not like that. You’re not trying to murder them. You already chopped their heads off.”

  I flush and bring the knife down again a little more gently. Once again, flying mushroom body parts.

  “Yeah, you’re starting to get a little stabby. Let me show you.” He takes the knife from me and braces the cutting board with one hand and grips the knife firmly in the other. Then he sets the tip of the blade on the bamboo and chops from the handle, the tip never leaving the board. Frick, something about that is unreasonably hot. And, of course, now a pile of perfectly chopped mushroom stalks is sitting there, taunting me.

  He hands me the knife, and I make an attempt, but the stupid knife won’t stay rooted to the board, and all I end up doing is moving mushroom pieces around.

  “Close,” he says. “Like this.”

  He puts his right hand over mine and his left on my shoulder, then lifts the handle of the knife, bringing it slowly down again, and then speeding until it’s rocking and the mushrooms he’s—we’re—cutting are coming out perfectly.

  His hand is warm and still damp from washing the mushrooms earlier, and I wish I didn’t notice the gentle pressure of his left hand on my shoulder, the slight heat from his breaths beside my ear. He gently lets up on my knife hand and backs away, letting me take over. And I’ve totally got it now.

  I pretend the pulse pounding all the way up in my throat is from the thrill of getting this right, not from him touching me. He has a girlfriend. He has a girlfriend.

  “Beautiful,” he says.

  “What?” I drop the knife beside the cutting board and spin around.

  “The stalks. They’re beautiful.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Thanks.”

  He comes around me and takes the cutting board, brushing the chopped stalks into a skillet. “And now the really fun part,” he says. He gestures for me to join him by the cooktop. Visions of third-degree burns and house fires rush through my head when he turns it on. He puts a little butter in the bottom and as it melts, he says, “Bring, well, everything else.”

  I transfer all the spices and random ingredients to the counter beside the cooktop and he steps back. “Okay, you’re on.”

  I can feel the color drain from my face. “What do I do?”

  “Toss in some of this. A little more. Good.”

  And the process goes like that for a while. I’m stirring and adding ingredients like I’m Gordon Ramsay. A little cheese, a little garlic, some bread crumbs.

  “And the coup de gras.” He hands me a bottle and I raise an eyebrow.

  “Beer? So you’re a rebel then?”

  He smirks. “Maybe. Don’t tell.” I pour a little into the pan and he takes the bottle from me and drinks.

  “Let’s just implicate me too. That will guarantee my silence.” I take the bottle back from him and put my lips around the rim, where his just were. Questions of what it would feel like to kiss him whirl around in my head and I take a swallow, and smile with my eyes. I take a swallow, thinking only about my mouth and his mouth and not at all about how much I hate beer, and when it touches my tongue, I cough. I have to physically force myself to swallow.

  He raises an eyebrow when I give him a thumbs-up, then takes back the bottle. He leans up against the counter as I stir, taking another swig. I wonder if he can taste my cherry lip gloss, and how it combines with the flavor of the beer.

  The pan is sizzling and popping and emitting the most amazing smell. Butter and garlic and mushroom and Heaven, basically. I inhale deeply and close my eyes, lost in the smell and the warmth in the kitchen.

  Seth walks quietly to my side and takes the pan from the burner, then shuts it off. He sets it on a hot pad on the island, and hands me a spoon, taking one himself.

  “So, you’re just gonna spoon this stuff into the mushroom caps.”

  I sit across from him, still overwhelmed by the smells swirling around the room, filling every available crevice. Stacey, while apparently my father’s dream girl, can’t cook more than a box of cereal, so this is awesome.

  I take a spoon and let it do lazy circles in the Heaven-mix, then start spooning it in. He does the same. We sit in silence, filling the mushrooms, then setting them on a baking pan and sprinkling them with cheese. Seth, wisely, takes the pan from me and puts it in the hot oven, undoubtedly saving my wrists from severe scarring.

  “And now we just wait for about fifteen minutes.”

  “I can’t get over how amazing this smells.”

  “Right? It’s like, my anti-drug.” He laughs. When he does, he leans over and shifts, and his chain falls from his shirt.

  “What’s that?” I ask, reaching over to grab the charm.

  “Star of David. Mom got it for me when I turned seventeen last month. And the chain I got from … uh … Taylor.” He looks away and I cough, dropping the star like it’s on fire.

  Neither of us says anything for an awkward minute, and I think we’re both extremely grateful when his parents come bustling in the door.

  “Seth, it smells marvelous in here!” his mom shouts. Her voice is round and lovely, and I can hear her smiling.

  Both of them come around the corner into the kitchen and shrug off their jackets. His dad smiles a broad smile at me, holding out his massive hand for me to shake. I take it. They are both super beautiful. His dad is tall and giant with smil
ing eyes, and his mom is short and curvy, and her lips are perfectly bowed and pink. Both of them have the same amazing, tanned complexion as Seth.

  “This is Renley,” Seth says.

  “Oh, the math friend you have. Great to meet you, Renley,” says the dad.

  Ugh. The math friend. Could I be any deeper in the friend zone?

  I sit there for a while, forgetting the slight, and enjoy the cacophony I can’t believe these two people can create themselves. The timer goes off on the oven but I can barely hear it over the sheer power of his parents’ voices.

  Seth goes to the oven and takes the mushrooms out, and waits about five loud minutes to hand a semi-cooled one to me.

  “The moment of truth,” he says.

  I eye it and take a hesitant bite. But I immediately just stick the entire thing in my mouth because I have very little sense of decorum. It pops when I bite into it, cheese and mushroom and spices melting everywhere. I actually moan a little when I taste it. That would be embarrassing except that I’m sure no one can hear me.

  “This is amazing,” I sigh.

  Seth pops a whole mushroom in his mouth and nods, eyes lighting up.

  “Not bad for your first lesson.”

  “Not bad?” I scoff.

  “Not bad. I say, you pass.” He winks at me again and I go for another mushroom, hoping he fails at trig forever and I never get any better at cooking.

  12. How to Make Out

  I sit at my computer desk, shaking my leg so hard things are rattling and falling off it to the floor. The nail on my index finger is chewed down to the quick. I’ve been thinking about Seth for the last few days, sure. I mean, how could I not? A hot cooking night has been everyone’s fantasy since all those movies in the eighties decided that food was sexy. But that’s not what’s got me going crazy.

  There’s a question lighting up on my blog, a question that’s been there for ages. I wanted to delete it the second I saw it, but I couldn’t. Probably because it’s one of the top searches on Google, and an answer from a “certified expert” on this subject would rake in enough money to get me halfway to New York. I might even be able to charge two bucks to access the answer to this one, instead of the usual.

  It would be worth it. I wake up my phone and start typing, and then, like I’ve done over and over for the past several hours, I shut it down again. This is ridiculous. I’m not twelve. I just need to put on my big-girl panties and text him.

  After several more failed text attempts, I finally work up the nerve.

  Can I come over?

  I click SEND before I can force myself to think about it. Seconds later, Drew texts back.

  Duh.

  I stand up so fast I knock over all the remaining small items on my desk, then I run my fingers through my hair to give it an ounce of body. Before I leave, I toss a piece of gum in my mouth for good measure. Fine, two pieces of gum.

  I power-walk over to Drew’s place and knock on the door, refusing to let myself consider what I’m about to ask him to do, or what it could change or, well, anything related to the situation.

  He answers the door looking totally normal, which is absurd to me.

  “Whoa. You okay?” he asks, a smile in his voice.

  “Yes, Drew. I’m fine,” I snap. I don’t even know why I’m pissed. I’m probably not, not really.

  I push past him into the foyer and he keeps his distance.

  “Let’s go downstairs. My room is trashed.” That’s code for I’ve got another girl’s underwear on my floor and I’d rather avoid that whole situation.

  I take a couple steps in front of him and lead the way downstairs. Every time we’re down here, I wonder why we don’t always hang out here. His basement is finished and carpeted and huge and totally spotless. Better than a dirty, cramped room that smells like boy. Anyway, who cares about that right now?

  I go straight to the corner and sit, picking at my nails and chewing my gum furiously, refusing to look at Drew.

  “Seriously, R,” he says when he sits in front of me, cross-legged, “you’re acting really weird.”

  “I need a favor from you.”

  “Okaaaay …”

  I take the gum out of my mouth and toss it in the trash nearest to me. Then I take a deep breath. “I need you to teach me to do something.”

  “Is this for your blog? I have a plethora of ties stashed in my room.”

  “No, it’s not that.”

  He looks at me quizzically, and I don’t elaborate. Then he says, “Spit it out, girl. What do you need? I’m yours.”

  I finally look up at him. “I need you, um … this is so stupid. I need you to teach me to make out.”

  His jaw drops. “Are you serious?”

  I stand. This was a ridiculous idea. “Never mind. This is stupid. I need to go home.”

  He catches my wrist and looks up at me, tugging gently. “No, stay.”

  I slowly sit and look at him, though I’d like to be looking anywhere else.

  “So you need to teach your loyal readers how to suck face, and you’re asking my expertise?” He wiggles his eyebrows, teasing me like this isn’t totally embarrassing.

  “That’s disgusting. And yes. I am. I don’t have anyone else to ask.”

  “Not even April? I bet she’d help you out. Invite me over.”

  I hit him in the chest and he falls back, laughing. “Seriously though, you have to become a ‘certified expert’ on this topic? Have you ever even kissed a guy?”

  I scoff. “I’m sixteen. Of course I have.”

  He scoots a little closer. “With tongue?”

  I purse my lips and look away.

  “That’s what I thought. Maybe you should just let me ghostwrite this one for you.”

  I pause for a second, considering that. He’s kissed the equivalent of like the entire population of a small country by now, so maybe … No. I need to do this myself. I roll my eyes at him and say, “Okay, enough. Are you going to do it or not?”

  The little smirk on his face reduces and he looks me in the eye. “So you’re asking me then. To kiss you.”

  I draw in a shaky breath. “Yes.”

  He scoots closer to me and moves his face toward mine. I find myself inching backward. “What are you doing?” I blurt out.

  “I’m gonna kiss you.”

  I move back closer to him and he leans forward, not touching me anywhere. And when he kisses me, it’s like that scene from Sixteen Candles. Mom made me watch it a couple months before the blow-up and she was totally embarrassed when she remembered it had boobs and an f-bomb. Anyway. That doesn’t matter. Drew is kissing me. Sixteen Candles. It’s like that scene where Molly Ringwald and Jake Ryan lean over the birthday cake. It’s a small kiss, almost innocent, and it doesn’t send shivers down my spine or anything.

  He pulls back and grins, licks his lips a little. “Green apple gum. Interesting choice.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I just need to say one thing before I kiss you again.”

  “Shoot,” I say.

  “I’m … you know I’m in love with you. That’s not a state secret. So if I get caught up in this, if I go too far, anything, I need you to tell me. Because I’m being honest with you here. I might, if I’m kissing you, I might start thinking with my dick, and it does not know I’m doing this for a blog.”

  “Eloquent.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I know,” I say. “And I trust you. You go too far, I’ll tell you.”

  “Okay.”

  We both sit there in silence for a minute, then he inches even closer than he was before.

  “I’m gonna kiss you again. And I’m gonna use tongue.”

  I steady myself; my heartbeat is wildly out of rhythm. “Okay.”

  He leans forward, slowly this time, and I can see that he’s shaking. And then he kisses me, soft at first, just his lips on mine. This time—maybe because it’s real, maybe because I know what’s coming—I get tingles everywhere. Then
he nudges my mouth open with his and there’s a tongue. There’s a guy’s tongue in my mouth. What am I supposed to do with this? Oh no. Do I lick it or something? I don’t even think there’s room for me to move mine. I think maybe I’m biting it a little. This is not good. Mayday. Mayday. And then he slides his hand up my leg and I jump so far back, I hit my head on the wall.

  He jumps back, too, like I’ve stuck him with a cattle prod.

  “You touched my leg. Your tongue was in my mouth. Drew, you freaking, you licked my mouth.”

  “I did not lick your mouth.”

  “Well, I don’t know what else you’d call it. And what was that? With your hand?”

  “Excuse me,” he says, clearly annoyed. “Sorry for touching you while we made out. I apologize; I usually touch a girl with something other than my lips when I kiss her. It’s not like I was fondling you.”

  I shake my head. “This was such a bad idea.”

  “No it wasn’t. You just need to chill out.”

  “I need to chill out? Okay Shaky McGee, master of tongue. You’re the one giving me semi-rapey pre-kiss warnings and I’m the one who needs to chill out.”

  He narrows his eyes. “I’m going to ignore that for now, and teach you how to kiss a guy, okay? You’re overthinking it. When I kiss you, you’re thinking about where your tongue should go and if this is exactly how it’s supposed to feel, and Oh no, his fingers are touching me in completely appropriate places. Just stop. Stop thinking about it and let me kiss you.”

  The crazy pulse again. Now I’m shaking. He brushes a lock of hair behind my ear and runs his fingers through it with one hand, while he slips the other just under the hem of my shirt, to my bare waist. Then he inches closer to me, so close that I can’t believe we’re not kissing yet. He just lingers there for a minute until I can feel myself moving toward him, wanting to kiss him.

  When our lips touch, it’s me who brought them together. But Drew takes control fast, pulling my head toward his, fingers tangled in my hair. This time, when he slides his tongue between my lips, I just let it happen. I try not to think, try not to analyze everything, just let myself feel the rush of it, the intoxicating touch of his fingers in my hair, him gripping my lower back, his mouth moving against mine.