Kissing Brendan Callahan

by Susan Amesse

  “Unethical! How could it be unethical?”

  She takes my hand. “It would be unethical for a member of my family to enter.”

  I pull my hand away. “But you’re not the judge.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It would put Peter in a very difficult position. How could he give the other contestants fair consideration when my daughter is an applicant?”

  “But, Mom, his job is to pick the best writer, whoever that turns out to be.”

  She sighs. “Sarah, be reasonable.”

  “I don’t want any advantages. I just want a chance like everyone else.” My voice is high and scratchy. “Mom, this contest means a lot to me.”

  “There are other contests.”

  I shake my head. “Not like this one. The winner gets published in the society’s journal and receives two hundred dollars. It gets read at the fair, and the manuscript is displayed in the society’s showcase for a whole year. This is a big deal!”

  Mom pulls at her hair. “Honey, I realize it’s a great contest. I designed it to motivate young writers to improve their writing and research skills.” She begs me with her eyes. “Can’t you see how difficult your entering would be for me?”

  I shake my head, trying to keep myself from crying.

  “Honey, I’ll make—” Her cell phone rings and she flips it open. “Joe, just a minute.” She leans in to me. “I’ll make this up to you, I promise.” She leaves.

  I collapse into the window seat. Mom didn’t want me at the newspaper, and now she won’t let me enter her contest. Why is she doing this to me?

  THREE

  I find a word in the thesaurus to describe my mood: cantankerous.

  I begin a new story. A woman invents a time-travel cell phone. Hundreds of kids line up to use it, and one by one, she lets them make a call, and off they zip into the future. Her daughter tries desperately to get a turn but can’t get near the phone.

  I toss my notebook aside. I’m too cantankerous to write. After being cantankerous for as long as I can stand it, I do what I usually do when I’m upset. I read Antonia DeMarco.

  I find Enraptured Thorns in My Heart, Antonia’s best book. Antonia DeMarco is one of my favorite writers. She writes about great, heroic women. Mom dislikes Antonia DeMarco. She calls her a “silly romance queen.” I bring the book downstairs, where it’s cooler and where Mom can see what I’m reading. I sit in the living room. It’s an old-fashioned room like most of the rest of the house. I sit on our burgundy velvet sofa and begin to read.

  He draws near and her heart hammers away inside her chest. This is the moment Amanda has been waiting for all her wretched life. But as he hesitates before her, the question remains, will he kiss her and renounce the beautiful but artificial Celeste?

  “Sarah,” says Mom. “Beth and Brendan are coming over.”

  I continue reading. “You look exquisite,” he says.

  “Sarah, please don’t be angry with me.” I’ve never stayed angry with Mom for long, but this is different. Very different.

  He caresses her hand.

  The bell rings and Mom goes to the door.

  She tingles at his touch. No one has ever made her feel like this.

  “Sarah.”

  I look up. Brendan and his mother, Beth, are in the foyer.

  “Aren’t you going to say hi?” says Mom.

  “Hi,” I say, and look down at my book.

  “Beth and I need to meet for a while. We have to discuss the fair.” She means the Staten Island Preservation Society Fair, which includes the writing contest that I’m not allowed to enter!

  Brendan carries in a big box and drops it next to the coffee table. I don’t want to look, but I do. It’s the flyers for the writing contest.

  “See ya,” says Brendan.

  “Wait a minute,” says Beth. She tucks in the front of Brendan’s T-shirt, which he immediately untucks. It’s another silly shirt with a drawing of an upside-down cereal bowl running away from a bloody knife. The caption underneath reads, “Cereal Killer!”

  “While we have you two,” says Beth, “would you be sports and take the flyers around? You know, put them up on bulletin boards, in mailboxes, on car windows?”

  “We’d really appreciate it,” my mother chimes in.

  “You want me to hand out this flyer?” I’m astounded. How could she ask this of me?

  “Sarah,” says Mom, nudging me. “Just deliver them around the neighborhood. Afterward, you and Brendan could take a ride together and have some fun.”

  “I’m busy,” says Brendan.

  “Me too.” I point to my book. Mom raises her left eyebrow when she sees it’s Antonia DeMarco.

  “Just do it for half an hour,” says Beth. “It’s for a very worthy cause.” Beth hands Brendan a stack of flyers. “It will go quickly if you work together.”

  “Don’t I have any rights?” he says in a gruff voice.

  “Of course you do,” says Beth. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t help your mother for a measly half hour.”

  “That’s all we’re asking,” says my mother, smiling. I know what my mother is up to. She thinks Brendan and I could be friends. She thinks she is doing something nice. She is misguided.

  “Are you coming?” he asks.

  I follow him. “A half hour and not a minute longer,” I call back into the living room. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

  “Here,” Brendan hands me the flyers and walks to his bike.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “We’re supposed to be doing this together.” I pick off about half the flyers and hand them back to him. By the time I get my bike out of the garage, Brendan is already down the block.

  I go from car to car and tuck a flyer under the windshield wipers. I see Brendan flinging flyers wherever he pleases, littering lawns, stuffing them in rosebushes, crumpling them, and throwing them at trees.

  I pedal over to him. “It wouldn’t kill you to put the flyers in the mailboxes.”

  “Really?” he says.

  “Yes, really.”

  I get off my bike. “See, it only takes a second to do it the right way.” I slip the flyer in the mailbox.

  “Wow,” he says, grinning. “That only took a second, princess.”

  Great! Now he’s making fun of me. How can Lynn think he’s cute and sweet? But she also thinks orange is a great color and that Jane Austen is a better writer than Antonia DeMarco.

  We, or shall I say I, continue to distribute flyers. Brendan flings a few more flyers and then tosses the rest into the corner garbage can. He rides alongside me without holding the handlebars, just leaning back with his arms crossed, watching me work.

  I picture Brendan wearing one of those black-and-white striped prison uniforms with a cap to match. I will escort my mother to see him on visiting day. “But I thought he was such a good boy,” she’d cry. “How could I have not seen what a public nuisance he is?”

  “Hey,” he says. “There are these two snakes living in the snake house at the zoo. One snake says to the other, ‘Are we poisonous?’ ‘Why do you ask?’ asks the other. The first snake answers, ‘I’m a little worried because I just bit my lip.’”

  He laughs at his own joke. “Don’t you find that funny?”

  “Snakes don’t have lips.”

  “You really should work on getting a sense of humor,” he says. We pedal on. Brendan rides with the front wheel up. You’d never know that we’re the same age. It’s embarrassing to be with him.

  I distribute more flyers. Brendan rides in circles, getting in my way.

  “Hey,” he says. “I rode all the way to South Beach in fifteen minutes.”

  “Wow,” I say in my dumbest voice. “In only fifteen minutes.”

  “Very funny,” he says. “But don’t be surprised when I make it into the Guinness Book of World Records.”

  “Really. For what? Long-distance annoyance?”

  “You definitely need a sense of humor,” he says.

  “And you de
finitely need a clue.” Yawn. Why couldn’t I have an interesting adversary? Like someone from Antonia’s books. Her men are handsome and exotic like Filipe Santo. They argue about sophisticated things.

  “You’re a conceited snob,” says Brendan. “That’s another reason you couldn’t be a princess.”

  Antonia’s men are mature and well educated.

  “If you really were as great as you think you are, then you’d be able to ride to South Beach in less time than I can.”

  Antonia’s men know how to talk to a woman.

  Brendan leans in. “Well, of course, if you can’t do it, I understand.”

  I push him away. “If I wanted to ride to South Beach, I’d get there in twelve minutes.”

  He leans in again. “Prove it.”

  “I’m busy.”

  He grabs the flyers from my hand, rides to the curb, and tosses them into the nearest garbage can. “Not anymore.”

  “You have a lot of nerve!” I ride to the garbage can. The flyers are in reach, but I stare at them. The side announcing the contest is faceup. Why should everyone be allowed to enter that contest but me? Antonia’s women are bold. Antonia’s women have power over their lives. I check my watch. One-fifteen. “You’re on!”

  I’m flying down the street. The breeze feels great.

  “You’ll never make it in twelve,” yells Brendan, gaining to my right.

  I pedal as if my life depends on it.

  FOUR

  As we near the beach, I taste the delicious salt air. There is nothing like the beach. I ride onto the boardwalk and screech to a halt. My watch reads 1:26. “Yes!” I yell. “Eleven minutes.”

  “Hey,” says Brendan, pulling up beside me. “What’s gotten into you? You were riding like me.” He looks at his watch. “Let’s see. Was that thirteen minutes and ten seconds?”

  “Eleven minutes,” I gloat. It’s not like I’ve won the Tour de France, but it’s something.

  “Sarah Simmons, is that you?” Lucy’s mother walks up the beach ramp, waving. “Lucy is having a great time at camp. Says she’s becoming a real tennis pro.” She smiles. “How’s your summer?”

  “It’s great. I have a new brother.”

  “Wonderful.” Mrs. Feldon pats my shoulder. “Hi, Brendan. Have to run.”

  “Say hi to Lucy,” I call after her.

  “Hey.” Brendan nudges my arm. “What did the fish say when it got caught in the seaweed?”

  I shrug.

  “Kelp! Kelp!” he says, laughing.

  I ride away, pumping the pedals. I’m thinking of Lucy at tennis camp. She’s so lucky to have a mother who encourages her to do what she likes.

  I love the rrrrrrrrr my tires make as they push against the boardwalk. Brendan rides alongside.

  “Hey!” he says. “Why are fish well educated? Because they travel in schools.”

  “Ah,” I say.

  “What is with you?” he asks. “I’m giving you some of my best jokes.”

  “I guess I’m not in a good mood.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  I slow down and breathe in the ocean air and try to catch the mist on my tongue. I listen to the waves crash. A seagull swoops by.

  Brendan stares at the beach. “We should go swimming.”

  I feel the rhythm of the waves. I’d love to go swimming. “If we had planned on coming here, I would have brought my suit.”

  “Who needs a suit?”

  I blush. He couldn’t possibly mean go swimming in the nude. Could he? He gets off his bike, walks it down the ramp and across the sand. He leaves it resting on its side, its front wheel still spinning. He takes off his sneakers, socks, and T-shirt, runs into the water and jumps up as the waves crash against his chest. He’s a lot more muscular than he used to be.

  Last night Lynn e-mailed saying Brendan is not only cute, but also sexy. “Don’t take offense,” she wrote, “but I know about these things.” She had a boyfriend for three weeks, but I don’t think that makes her an authority.

  I guide my bike along the same path Brendan took and leave it next to his. I take off my shoes and socks. Maybe I’ll just put my feet in the water. I walk along the sand and my feet sink in. I step over shells and bits of seaweed. A woman is making a sand castle with her son and daughter. I can’t wait to do that with Jason.

  “Hey, come on,” calls Brendan, waving to me.

  “I can’t swim in my clothes.” The beach is crowded with people sunning themselves, reading, or sleeping under umbrellas. There’s this mysterious woman dressed all in black who seems to be hiding behind her umbrella. Is she crying? I take a step closer, wishing I had my notebook with me.

  Brendan grabs my arm and pulls me in. “Don’t be a wimp. Your clothes will dry.”

  “I’m not a wimp,” I say, but my voice is drowned out by a wave crashing over my head. It’s cool and wonderful. A group of kids are body surfing. Brendan swims out a bit to where it’s not so crowded, and I follow.

  “What were you doing back there?” he asks.

  “Watching someone,” I say.

  “You watch too much. You should do more.”

  We float on our backs, gazing at the clouds. This is so peaceful. I look at Brendan. He’s staring at me. I look at the clouds again.

  He splashes water at me. “I’ve just decided that I’m not helping our mothers with the fair this year.”

  Lucky him.

  “And how about you?”

  I swish the water around. “I don’t have a choice.”

  “Everyone has a choice. Stand up to your mother. Just say no. Do you want to spend the rest of the summer selling raffle tickets and handing out flyers?”

  I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”

  “Then do something about it. If you say no and I say no, then we’ll have strength in numbers. It’s the only way. Be strong. Say no to selling raffle tickets.”

  “I’ll try,” I say.

  “Try very hard. Isn’t there something else you’d rather be doing?”

  “Yes,” I say. “But Mom won’t let me do it.”

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “Entering the teen writing contest.” I sigh. “I know I’d win.”

  “Then you have to enter,” he says. “Don’t let her stop you.”

  “What good will it do? Once Mom sees my name, she’ll disqualify me.”

  “It’s simple,” he says. “Use a different name.”

  * * *

  Brendan leaves to meet his friend Steve. But I can’t get his idea out of my head. It’s so bold, so exciting, so Antonia DeMarco. I pass the arcade, the ball fields, and the old men playing bocci ball. What if I win? Would Mom be fired as president of the Preservation Society? Will she ever speak to me again? Or would anyone care besides my mother? If a person really, really wants something, shouldn’t she pursue it? What a confusing decision! If only Lynn weren’t so far away.

  Besides, who would I be? Victoria is a name I’ve always liked. It sounds like a writer. Antonia—Victoria. Very similar. I try a few last names. Victoria Summers. Victoria Winters. Or I could use Lynn’s last name and make it Victoria Johnson. It’s not as romantic sounding as Summers or Winters, but Johnson might bring me luck. I compromise and decide on Victoria Winters Johnson. It makes me sound mysterious.

  I ride home feeling happy for the first time in a long time. I should be able to come up with a plot by this evening because I have notebooks filled with ideas. I never have a problem finding something to write about. The only problem I have, and I hate to admit this, is that by the time I get halfway through a story, I start to lose interest and my mind is on to another story. I have a problem with endings. Does that mean I could never be a real writer? No, I won’t let that happen.

  Mom is feeding Jason in the living room. She looks so content, so happy. I think back about a year when she and Dad told me that they were having another baby. I was thrilled, and I think they were a little relieved that I was happy.

  I remember
Dad saying that when he and Mom were trying to make the decision, there were a lot of reasons not to have another baby: Mom’s job, Dad’s promotion, more expenses, how I might feel. But in the end, he said, they decided to go ahead and have another baby, knowing that our family has always chosen to accept challenges with bravery, compassion, and strength. My father is one of the smartest people I know.

  I know I must be brave and strong—and enter the contest!

  FIVE

  My brain hurts from thinking. It’s been two days since I decided to be bold and I haven’t come up with a single idea for the contest. Yesterday I went to the library and flipped through a few books on Staten Island history. It’s mostly about farming. I made a few notes, but I have no story line. I rode around on my bike to all of Staten Island’s most historical places, like Richmond Town Restoration, the Alice Austen House, and Snug Harbor Cultural Center. I didn’t find anyone interesting to write about. If only a princess or some other royal person had lived here. I’m vexed, exasperated, perturbed, anxious, frustrated, agitated, disheartened, and thirsty!

  I go downstairs for lemonade. Mom and Beth are meeting again about the Preservation Fair. Peter Boswin, the judge of the writing contest, is sitting on my living room sofa. Most of the time, Dr. Boswin looks half asleep, like his mind is off wandering the shelves of the Library of Congress, but today he actually looks animated. Mom is talking in that I-won’t-accept-anything-but-what-I-want tone. I slip into the kitchen and pour lemonade into a glass. Next to the refrigerator is an opened box packed with raffle tickets. I kick the box. I will say no to selling them. I am Victoria Winters Johnson and I am going to write a bold and fabulous historical play, if it kills me.

  The front door shuts with a bang. Seconds later, the kitchen door flies open. Mom marches in, followed by Beth.

  “I cannot believe that Peter would do this to us,” says my mother. “He had to have known about it for weeks. He should have told me about it sooner.”

  “Finding a replacement took time,” says Beth.

  Mom rummages through papers on the table, desperately looking for something. “What’s going on?” I ask Beth.