by Nia Stephens
Kiki discovered that he didn’t spend all of his free time watching movies and knitting. Either someone had taught him how to kiss properly, or he was as naturally gifted at that as he was with the piano. It began with gentle pressure of lips on lips, then tongue on tongue, his stubble just barely stinging her chin; their hands were clasped so tight it almost hurt. With her eyes shut, all the sounds of the diner should have seemed louder than before. Instead, the whole world had disappeared except for Kiki and Lyman, joined by hands and lips and a mutual attraction roaring through their veins. Kiki was glad they were sitting down—she was more than a little dizzy.
“Get a room, kids,” said their waitress, slamming down two fresh cups of coffee and two plates of grilled cheese with a side of hash browns, extra pickles for Kiki.
They jumped apart, Kiki’s heart beating in her throat, Lyman’s eyes gleaming. She took a sip of her coffee, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder at Mark and Jasmine. She might have forgotten about them while she was kissing Lyman, but she remembered now. And she was still so flustered that she forgot to add cream and sugar to her coffee. She swallowed the acrid mouthful with a shudder, which made Lyman laugh.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” she murmured, pouring a glittering stream of sugar into her cup. “And how is your dinner?”
Lyman grinned and took a bite of his sandwich.
“Delicious,” he said.
Kiki couldn’t agree more.
On the way back to Kiki’s house, they talked nonstop. Like Kiki, Lyman liked hot weather, southern-fried tofu, and all kinds of music. Unlike Kiki, he also liked game shows, tempeh, and pre-calculus, but Kiki was sure they could work that out, and any other differences they might have. Mostly the website had been right—they were amazingly compatible.
She made him park half a block from her house since her father had binoculars and he wasn’t afraid to use them. Not that he would have seen anything too scandalous. Kiki was more or less in Lyman’s lap, her fingers plunged in his soft hair, while he kissed his way from her ear to her collarbone. Both of his hands were under her shirt, pressed against her back, bringing her closer to him. Her head was swimming, all thought of her curfew pushed out of mind by the slight, delicious pain of Lyman’s teeth on the delicate skin at the base of her throat. But eventually a weird vibration between his left hip and her right knee managed to distract her. His phone vibrated again. And again. And again.
“Are you sure you don’t need to answer that?” she asked, pulling back from him.
“What? Oh. No. It’s fine.”
“What if it’s some kind of emergency?”
“It’s not an emergency.”
“Aren’t you even going to check?”
He sighed and fished the phone out of his pocket. He flipped it open, and Kiki saw that every single missed call was from the same number. The half-Jasmine/half-Camille number. It filled the screen, except for the band across the top showing the time. She thought about teasing him about all the calls, but then decided against it. Lyman flipped the phone shut and slipped it back into his pocket.
“You know, I should probably be going,” she said, sliding back over to the passenger side to pull her clothes back together. “My curfew is up in seven minutes.”
“It can’t take more than two minutes to walk to your house from here. That leaves five minutes, six if I drive. And I’d be happy to.”
“No thanks. I like to walk.”
“Won’t you be cold?”
She grinned a wicked grin. “I think I need to cool off. Goodnight.” She kissed him again, briefly this time, and scuttled out of the car, leaving his coat inside. He sat there until she had her front door open, then she heard his car starting behind her.
On her way up the stairs, she checked her phone for the first time that night. Three calls in the last hour, all from Jasmine, plus a couple of text messages. Kiki didn’t feel up to dealing with her just yet. She wasn’t even sure what she thought about the situation. She knew what she felt, all right, but thoughts were different from feelings.
“How was your date?” her father shouted from the master bedroom.
“Fine.” And it was fine—better than fine, mostly. But there was something not quite right about those missed calls of Lyman’s. Franklin and Mark both called Kiki all the time, for work stuff or just to hang out, but they never called more than twice in a row. Lyman would probably think she was being sexist, but calling continuously just wasn’t guy-friend behavior. Girls, though—the Pussycat Posse did it all the time, even if there was nothing in particular going on. The only time Kiki could remember a guy calling her constantly was when she dumped James Johnston in the tenth grade. Whether it was some ex who didn’t want to be an ex anymore, or a female friend who was really, really curious about how Lyman’s date was going, Kiki had a gnawing feeling that it wasn’t a good sign.
She almost sent Lyman an e-mail about it, and then erased the message at the last minute. If there really was something going on, he was more likely to lie about it over e-mail than face to face. And if it was no big deal, she would look like an idiot for getting all freaked out about it. This was waaaay too soon to be getting possessive.
“I’ll figure it out in the morning,” she promised herself as she shimmied out of her clothes. She put on an extra-large Temporary Insanity T-shirt and lay down, too weary to even take off her makeup. Her mother always got mad about lipstick on the pillowcases, but Kiki was so tired, she fell asleep before she remembered to feel bad about it.
Chapter 5
Version 2.0
Kiki woke up to her mother’s grumbling and entirely too much sunlight for a Saturday morning.
“I’m sorry,” Kiki muttered, dragging the pillow over her head. “I’ll wash my sheets myself. Later.”
“I said that you have a guest, young lady.”
“What? I can’t have a guest. What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty. Now get up. I want to put your pillowcase in the wash before the stain sets.”
“Mooooooooom!”
“Get up!”
Kiki knew when she was beaten. She dragged herself out of bed and put on a pair of Jason’s Beautiful Youth boxer shorts, then headed downstairs.
“You’re up early,” she growled when she found Jasmine in the kitchen.
“I texted you I was coming. Here. Venti nonfat sugar-free caramel latte with extra foam.” Jasmine slid the giant cup of coffee across the table. “Plus Krispy Kremes in the oven, to keep them hot.”
“So not hungry.” Kiki accepted the coffee, though, and said, “Thanks. So,” she added with as much restraint as possible, “how was your date with Mark?”
Jasmine rolled her eyes. “It wasn’t a date. Not a date date, anyway. He asked me if I wanted to check out a few trip-hop bands at the Maze; I said yes. He didn’t put the moves on me or anything. In fact, I’m kind of wondering how much he really likes girls.”
“That is not the point,” Kiki hissed, trying to keep her voice down. Her parents stayed out of her problems with the band, but they had no qualms about butting into friend issues. “You know how I felt about him. I never would have believed that you’d go out with him.”
“Felt. Past tense. Supposedly.” Jasmine sipped her own drink, a nonfat white mocha, extra whip—Kiki knew Jasmine’s taste in drinks as well as her taste in men. Or so she thought.
“What about the six-month rule?” Kiki demanded.
“The six-month rule applies to ex-boyfriends, not people you haven’t actually dated.”
“But still! Jazz, you’re supposed to be one of my best friends. You knew I’d be upset. How could I not be upset?”
“Well, I didn’t expect you to find out.”
Kiki took a deep breath so that when she started screaming she wouldn’t have to stop for a long time, but Jasmine cut her off.
“Dude, you know I have no interest in Mark. None. Not now, not ever. I don’t even get how you could waste so much time on h
im in the first place.”
“So why did you say yes when he asked you out?”
“’Cause I wanted to find out what he really thought about you.”
Kiki cocked an eyebrow at her. “And how did that work out?”
Jasmine snorted. “Not too well. Mark’s even better at avoiding questions than you are.”
“It’s all those interviews. We get a lot of practice.”
They silently sipped coffee while Kiki considered everything Jasmine had said.
“I guess I believe you,” Kiki finally decided. “I mean, you think Mark’s an idiot. Right?”
“Pretty much.” She grinned. “He is fun to look at, though. I’ll give you that.”
“Not unlike Mr. Lyman.”
“Oh, my God, he’s even cuter in person, isn’t he?”
“Yep.” Kiki fished a doughnut from the box in the oven while Jasmine commented on every aspect of Lyman’s appearance, from his shiny hair to the purple laces on his shoes.
“All that purple, though. So very gay.”
“He definitely likes girls,” Kiki said, rejoining her at the table.
“You know for sure?”
“For sure.”
“Oh, my God! Tell me all about it!”
“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell, Jazz. We need to find you a guy so you can have some fun on your own.”
“A real guy, not your sloppy seconds.”
“No kidding.”
“So tell me about your date. Not the sex-standing-up-in-the-Waffle-Hut-bathroom part, but the rest of it.”
Kiki laughed at the image. She loved Waffle Hut, but she carried a little bottle of antibacterial gel so she didn’t have to go in the bathroom even to wash her hands. It was probably the last place on earth she would ever have sex.
Kiki told Jasmine about the awesome concert and the amazing conversations before and after. She almost didn’t mention the phone calls, because she knew Jasmine would blow it all out of proportion, but for some reason she did.
“It’s totally some skank-ass ho he keeps on the side,” Jasmine fumed. “Or it’s a dude! I hear gay guys are always the ones slashing tires.”
“Good thing I don’t have a car, then,” Kiki said, rolling her eyes.
“He could come over here and knife your cat!”
“No one is going to stab Mr. Lister. It’s probably just some friend of his looking for . . . oh, I don’t know. Maybe they left their wallet in his car or something.”
“Don’t you want to find out?”
“Well, of course I’d like to know, but if Lyman doesn’t tell me—”
“Dude. We’re not waiting for anything. Did you get the number?” Jasmine had already whipped out her cell phone.
Kiki flushed, embarrassed to admit that she had memorized the number. It made her seem so stalker.
Jasmine grinned. “You did get it. Good girl.”
“It was so easy to remember,” Kiki protested. “The first digits are yours, and the last four are Camille’s. But what are you going to do? Call and say, ‘Hi, I’m Lyman’s psycho lady friend’s psycho friend, calling to see who the hell you are’?”
“’Course not. Don’t you trust me?” Jasmine’s eyes were shining.
“Of course not.” But Kiki didn’t say anything as Jasmine punched the numbers. She felt pretty sure that whoever it was couldn’t possibly be awake at this hour—she wouldn’t be, if it weren’t for Jasmine’s early-morning ambush. Even if someone did answer, got suspicious, and called the phone company to see who had made the call, there was no way to connect Jasmine Ash to Kiki Kelvin.
To Kiki’s amazement, someone answered on what had to be the second ring.
Jasmine quickly said, “Good morning. Can you confirm that this line is now functional? Is this 594-6260? Yes, we had a complaint that this number was not functioning properly. What is the name on this account? I see. Is it residential or cellular? Well, thank you for choosing us, Mrs. Lyman, and please let us know if you have any problems. Goodbye.”
“It was his mother?” Kiki asked when Jasmine clicked off.
“Yep. Mother’s cell.”
“Wow. How freaky!”
“Freaky?” Jasmine cackled. “You should be glad it’s not his gay ex-lover.”
“Well, I am glad it’s not a gay ex-lover who wants to kill my cat or slash my nonexistent tires, but I’m not happy his mother called thirty times last night either. Weren’t you the one saying that home-school boys have weird relationships with their mothers?”
“I say a lot of things, but no one ever takes me seriously.”
“That’s because you’re crazy,” Kiki reminded her. “Do you think his mom’s crazy?”
“Nah. Probably wanted him to pick up some milk on the way home.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Yes, I am. There is definitely something funny going on there.”
“Fantastic,” Kiki grumbled.
“Why? What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that I really like him.”
“Like him like him?”
“Yep.”
“Oh. That is a problem. When are you going to see him again?”
“Tonight.” While they were finishing off their hash browns, Lyman had asked if he could take her to see the Jennifers.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at the studio tonight?”
“Yeah, but it’s only booked to ten-thirty. Lyman’s picking me up there.”
“What are you going to do? Go to the opera? Maybe a costume ball at the Belmont Mansion?”
“We’re going to hear a band at the End.”
“Think he’ll wear a tuxedo with a top hat and tails?”
“I have no idea.”
“But that’s the fun part, isn’t it? This Lyman guy is full of surprises.”
Kiki was a little worried when 10:55 rolled around and everyone was still hanging around the studio. Mark hadn’t said a word to her at the session, not even about her new arrangements. She didn’t have anything to say to him, either. Once the session ended, and the three of them plus a couple of sound engineers were sitting on the front steps of the studio, Franklin talked enough for all of them. He chatted with the engineers about mixing the record, and tried to find out from Kiki if Camille was going to Laura Keller’s party that night. Franklin rarely noticed guys his own age, but if he saw a guy all dressed up to take Kiki anywhere, she would hear about it forever.
But when Lyman drove up two minutes early, he was wearing jeans and a black hoodie, looking like a perfectly ordinary person. Most guys would not have stenciled the words “Carpe Noctem” on the back of an otherwise plain jacket, but this was normal enough for Kiki. And maybe it was weird for him to get out of the car to open Kiki’s door, but not in a bad way.
“Off to go seize the night?” Mark asked Kiki, a little meanly, as she got into the car.
“Off to seize something,” she snapped. Lyman shut her door and climbed back into the driver side. Before he could start the engine, she kissed Lyman hello.
“I don’t think your bassist likes me,” he said, breaking it off. Kiki didn’t have to look to know that Mark was glaring at them from the steps.
“I don’t care what that boy likes or dislikes.”
“So I shouldn’t ask any questions about him?”
“Nope.” Kiki realized how odd that must sound, so she went on. “We have a lot of history, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s just someone I make music with.”
“All right. Works for me. Do you need a bite to eat? I think the Jennifers will be onstage pretty soon.”
“Nah, I’m fine. And I’d hate to miss the beginning. I love the Jennifers.”
“Me, too. Have they signed with a major label yet?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen Jennifer C. since we went to Girls Rock Camp, and I haven’t seen Jennifer T. since spring sometime. But their demo is awesome. Even my mom likes it.”
“She seemed very . . . nice.�
��
“My mom? She’s not nice—she’s polite. There’s a difference. But she’s also pretty cool, most of the time. What’s your mom like?”
Kiki hadn’t planned to bring it up this way, but she couldn’t resist such a perfect opportunity.
“My mom? Like you said, polite, but not really nice. Not really cool, either.” He shook his head pityingly—it was the same gesture Kiki’s physics teacher usually made when she turned in her homework. “She worries a lot. Checks up on me. A lot.”
This was Kiki’s opening to talk about the freaky phone calls. “Like last night?” she asked innocently.
He sighed. “Like last night.”
Kiki put a hand on his knee. “I understand. My parents called me every fifteen minutes when I first went on the road.”
“But you were, what, thirteen at the time?”
“Fourteen.”
“And your parents got over it, eventually?”
She tilted her head to the side while she thought about it. “Well, yes and no. I think they still worry all the time, but they know I won’t answer their phone calls more than twice a day, so they leave it at that. I don’t know. I’m an only child, which makes them a little crazy.”
“Yeah . . . I know how that can be. But my mom won’t stop calling unless she knows exactly where I am at all times.”
“So why don’t you tell her? Wouldn’t that be easier?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged and abruptly changed the subject to recording, asking how that night’s session went.
“Oh, fine. We’re just doing scratch recordings now, so the label has some idea what we want to do on our next album.”
She told him all about that, and about the time they recorded in the haunted studio on Music Square East. Kiki never saw any ghosts or anything the two weeks they were there, but there were all sorts of strange echoes and background noise on their thirteenth track.
“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked her as they pulled into the hidden parking lot behind the End. The only access to the lot was a tiny alley with jagged potholes, and, legal or not, it would be impossible to maneuver a tow truck inside. That Lyman knew about the secret alley impressed Kiki—he really was serious about all kinds of music.
