Once Upon a Kiss

by Robin Palmer

  I had told her about that?

  She patted my arm. “I’m assuming that you’ve thought long and hard about taking this next step and that you’re prepared—mentally, emotionally, and prophylactic-wise—for the ramifications of it.” She sighed. “You only get your first time once. I remember with mine—”

  “Can we talk about something else?!” I said, freaked-out.

  “Of course.” She squeezed my hand. “The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable.”

  Yeah, well, we were way past that.

  “What is it that you’d like to discuss?”

  “I’d like to discuss . . .” Could I trust her? Apparently, from the way I had confided in her, I thought I could, but scheming about lying to your parents about sleeping over at your boyfriend’s, and confiding in someone that you had inadvertently ended up in a different millennium due to a kiss gone bad were two different things. “. . . that psychic lady you mentioned.”

  “Rhiannon?”

  “Yeah. Her. I was wondering if you could make me an appointment with her.”

  She reached over and hugged me, once again covering me with patchouli. “Omigoddess, of course I can! I’d love to. And not just because that means I’ll get twenty-five percent off on my next reading. When would you like to go?” she asked, picking up her iPhone and starting to type.

  “I don’t know. Maybe on—”

  “Her assistant told me last week she’s totally booked until the fall—that appearance she made on the E! Oscar Pre-show really helped business—but because it’s me, she might be willing to fit you in sometime sooner.” A second later her phone dinged. “Yup. She can fit you in.”

  Wow. These people were fast.

  “Okay, then,” I replied. I felt both relieved and scared at the same time. On one hand, I didn’t believe that this Rhiannon person could actually help me with my problem, but . . . what if she could? Was I ready to go back? Granted I wasn’t used to this popularity business by any means, and if I stayed, I was going to have to get some new friends, not to mention a whole new wardrobe, but it was kind of nice not being invisible anymore. It felt good to be seen, and to have people feel like my ideas were worth listening to. If I could get them to listen to the really bad ones (see: Mani/Pedi Monday), then I’d have no problem getting them to listen to the good ones.

  Right?

  Before parking myself at the Farmers Market to work on my speech, I decided to stop by Terri’s again. Maybe this time would somehow jog her memory and she’d remember me. Or maybe I could just get a pair of those cute silver hoops I had been eyeing last time I was in there.

  When I arrived, I saw that Andrea wasn’t kidding about how much pull I had when it came to fashion. “I guess I have you to thank for this,” Terri said as she motioned to an empty rack. “I sold out of all my poet’s blouses within an hour of school letting out.” She nodded appreciatively. “You’ve gotta lotta cred in the fashion department. Nice.”

  I shrugged. “I guess.”

  “A queen bee who’s modest? Wow. You don’t see that very often.”

  “I’m really not all that special. Believe me.” I laughed ruefully.

  Just then I saw Montana walking by outside, alone. The swagger that I had found so intimidating was gone. In fact, she looked pretty lonely. I ran to the door and pushed it open. “Montana!”

  She turned. “Oh hey.” She walked over and came in. “Wow. How retro.”

  “Are you by yourself?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “Yeah. So? There’s nothing wrong with hanging out by yourself,” she said defensively.

  “I agree. I just asked because I’m by myself, too, and if you were, too, I was going to say that maybe we could go to the Farmers Market and, I don’t know, get something to eat.” I really needed to work on my speech, but I usually looked for at least three ways to distract myself before actually settling down and getting to work on something anyway.

  Montana looked around the store.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Looking for cameras.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m obviously being Punk’d.”

  Thanks to Google, I now knew what that word meant. “Why is it so weird that I would want to hang out with you?”

  “How about because . . . I’m me and you’re you?”

  Terri nodded. “I don’t even know you guys, but even I can tell there’s a massive class difference going on here.”

  Even Terri—who at thirty-five was a grown woman complete with gray hair that she was so vain about that she kept a bottle of hair color in her purse at all times—was part of the problem. “Why is everyone so stuck on trying to keep everyone all Us and Them?” I demanded.

  Terri and Montana looked at each other. “You wanna take this one or should I?” Terri asked her.

  “Go for it.”

  Terri turned to me. “Here’s the thing: the Us and Them thing is the entire basis for all movies, TV, and music that are set in high school. If everyone was created equal and got along, there’d be no angst. You can’t be a teenager and not have angst. That would be like . . .”

  “Popcorn without Sriracha sauce?” Montana suggested.

  “Actually, I was gonna say Red Bull without vodka but then stopped myself because you guys are underage and I should be setting a good example. But you’re right—that is a good combination.”

  As she reached into her pocket and started feeling around for something, I reached into my pocket and pulled out some gum. “Here,” I said, as I held it out to her.

  “How’d you know I was looking for my gum?” she asked suspiciously.

  I shrugged. “Lucky guess?”

  “So. As I was saying,” she went on as she shoved two pieces of Trident cinnamon in her mouth. “Artists build entire careers on teenage angst.”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t have to be that way!” I cried. “We can all get along!” From the looks on their faces, I could tell they didn’t agree. “Okay, fine, maybe not, like, everyone can get along.” I was thinking specifically of this kid Kurt Cotner who still ate paste. “But a lot of people could. But they won’t get to know that unless they stop with the Us and Them thing.” I turned to Montana. “So do you want to get something to eat or not?” I demanded. Whoops. I was so high up on my soapbox that that came out a lot more forceful than I intended it to.

  She shrunk back. “Okay?” she said meekly.

  “Great. Come on,” I ordered as I whisked her out the door.

  In order to get to the Farmers Market, we had to walk through the mall. And maybe because we were girls, we had to take a few detours and stop and look at store windows in case there was something we desperately needed to have. As we did, I was all too aware of how weird it was to be with a friend who didn’t know you inside and out. Who didn’t know that, because of an unfortunate experience at Zuma Beach during your eighth-grade field day, where a giant wave took your bikini top straight off your body, you had a phobia about setting foot in bathing suit stores. (Which had been just fine with Jonah because there was no way he was going in one, even if I wanted to.) Who was unaware of the fact that you were afraid of balloons. Who had no idea that before you bought something, you needed to let an hour go by, and if you were still thinking about it, then you could buy it.

  I was so used to Jonah being able to read my mind just from reading my face that while I wouldn’t have traded my friendship with him for anything, it was evident that my conversation skills had evaporated over the years due to having no other friends. Not like Montana was that much better. She wasn’t talking, either. Finally, after not being able to take the silence between us or the instrumental version of what I now knew to be a Katy Perry song because it was my ringtone for Brad, I cleared my throat and turned to her. “What a mall. Huh?”

  She shrugged. “I guess. I mea
n, if you’re into getting run over by trolleys and the threat of epileptic fits because of singing fountains.” She cringed. “Sorry. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. Because you’re, like, queen of this place.”

  I shrugged back. “Yeah. But that doesn’t mean that I actually like it.”

  She looked surprised. “You don’t?”

  I shook my head as I motioned to a group of middle-aged women teetering by in stilettos and full makeup. “A place where you have to go shopping to buy something to wear before you actually go shopping? No thanks.”

  “Omigod! I said the exact same thing to Jonah last week when we came here to go to the movies!” she gasped.

  “You did?”

  She nodded. “That’s so weird.”

  It both was and wasn’t. “Yeah.”

  We went back to being silent. As we passed a clothing store whose window was filled with clothes so tiny they looked like doll’s clothes, Montana turned to me. “Sorry I’m not more talkative. I guess spending all my time with Jonah has made it so that I have no idea how to be social,” she said wryly.

  I paled. Okay, now this was getting really weird. We were like the same person. Not to mention it made me sad. And . . . a little bit jealous. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

  She looked over at me. “That spending all my time with Jonah has made me socially awkward?”

  “No. I mean, I know what it’s like to spend all your time with someone who, even when you’re not talking, you’re still talking with. Because you don’t have to talk because they already know what you’re going to say.”

  I was pretty sure I sounded like a complete idiot until she smiled. And not just a regular smile, but one that was full of relief, like she finally felt understood.

  “You have a really pretty smile,” I said. “You should do it more often.”

  The smile went away. “Why?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. It makes you look . . . softer. More . . . approachable.”

  “Who says I want to be approached?” she asked defensively.

  “No one. I’m just saying, it’s a whole other look for you.”

  She looked down at the ground. “Sorry for being so defensive. It’s a bad habit.” She sighed. “Jonah says the same thing.”

  “What? That you have a pretty smile?” Did I sound as jealous as I felt? The jealousy wasn’t jealousy jealousy. It was more about the idea that she was the one he chose to know better than anyone.

  “No. That when I smile, I look more approachable.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . not used to being around girls, I guess. I don’t have a lot of experience with it.”

  I nodded. “I know what you mean.”

  Soon enough we had made our way over to the Farmers Market. With its old-school bakery stands and fudge shops and L.A. T-shirts and souvenirs, it didn’t have the cool factor of the Dell—in fact, it was downright cheesy. But I had a soft spot for the place. Especially Bob’s Coffee and Doughnuts.

  “I’m totally craving—” Montana started to say.

  “—a doughnut from Bob’s,” I finished.

  She looked surprised. “Exactly.”

  “Glazed,” we said at the same time.

  This time we both smiled.

  “I don’t know what’s weirder,” she said. “The fact that you’ve even been to the Farmers Market or that you eat carbs,” she said as we sat at a table watching the senior citizens with their walkers and black socks and sandals go by. I was so relaxed that I wasn’t even self-conscious about the fact that I ordered not one but two doughnuts.

  “Yeah, everyone seems to be surprised by the carbs thing,” I said. We sat there in comfortable silence for a bit. There was something I wanted to bring up, but I wasn’t sure how.

  “So you’ve never really thought of going out with Jonah?” I blurted out.

  I guess that was how to bring it up.

  Montana wrinkled her nose. “Ew. No way.”

  “How come?”

  “Because he’s my best friend!”

  I slurped away at my mochaccino (over the last few days they had grown on me). “Right. Which is exactly why he’d be the best possible boyfriend. What could be better than kissing your best friend?”

  She took a sip of something called a venti half-caf Americano (you could write an entire book made up of just names of drinks at this Starbucks place) and looked at me for a moment. “If I tell you something, do you swear not to tell anyone?”

  I nodded.

  “I mean it. Seriously. Like no one.”

  “I promise.”

  “Okay. Well . . . we actually . . . have kissed.”

  I felt my stomach fall to somewhere around my knees. “Oh yeah?” I tried to keep my voice neutral. Why was I upset? I was the one who had suggested it!

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “And . . . it was a disaster.”

  My stomach shot back up to its original setting. “How come?”

  “Because it was like kissing my brother.”

  “Well, first kisses are always weird,” I said. “Did you try again?”

  She shook her head. “No. We were both too traumatized by how wrong it felt.”

  It was weird to feel such relief and have no idea why I was relieved. It wasn’t like I wanted to kiss Jonah.

  She finished off her doughnut and sighed. “Jonah’s awesome. He’s my best friend. He’s just not . . . my person.”

  I nodded. “It’s tough to find your person.”

  “But you have.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  Her eyebrow went up. “Brad isn’t your person?”

  “Who?” I asked, distracted, too busy wondering whether I’d ever find my person.

  “Brad. Your boyfriend.”

  And with that, I was slammed back into reality. If that was what this was. “Oh, Brad. Right. Yup. He’s my person.” Something told me that I could have told Montana that Brad was not my person, but I stopped myself.

  “He really seems to like you,” she said.

  “Yeah. He does.” I sighed. What was I going to do? Why couldn’t I just like him already? So what if your boyfriend didn’t get your jokes. Or have similar interests. Maybe it was enough that he texted you all the time and talked about how much he wanted to make out with you. Maybe wanting your boyfriend to also be your best friend was asking too much. But in my heart of hearts, I knew that wasn’t true. That, in fact, being your best friend was part of what made you love someone: the idea that you didn’t want to just kiss them—you wanted to tell them your secrets and fears and hear theirs in return.

  Montana’s iPhone beeped with a text. “I’ve got to go pick up my little brother.” She rolled her eyes. “A car full of fourteen-year-old gamers. Do you have any idea how long it’s going to take me to get the smell of BO out of there?”

  I laughed. Of course she had a fourteen-year-old brother.

  She smiled again. “This was fun,” she said.

  “It was.”

  “I’d say let’s do it again, but I know that’s probably pushing it.”

  “No, it’s not,” I replied. “I was going to say the same thing.”

  She looked surprised. Pleasantly so.

  “I’ll find you on Instagram,” I said. That day I had learned—from eavesdropping on Michelle Sawyer and Lora Levitt while changing in gym class—that Instagram was way cooler than Facebook.

  “Awesome sauce,” she said with another smile before walking away.

  I smiled. For the first time since waking up as the most popular girl in the world, I suddenly didn’t feel so lonely.

  I HAD JUST GOTTEN MY PEN AND PAPER OUT to start working on my speech when my phone
rang and Rain’s name flashed across the screen.

  “Hey, Rain,” I said when I answered.

  “Zoe?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s Rain. Your family’s personal assistant.”

  Maybe all that patchouli she wore had caused some brain damage. “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “I just got a call from Rhiannon’s assistant, and her five o’clock just canceled, so I went ahead and booked it for you.”

  “Five o’clock today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh. Um, okay,” I said nervously. While it had been my idea to go to the psychic, now that it was actually going to happen, I was having second thoughts. What if she told me something I didn’t want to know? Like that I would never fall in love. And I’d end up like my great aunt Florence, alone in a condo in Florida with a yippy Maltese, with the only thing to look forward to my weekly mah-jongg game.

  “Great. Why don’t you come home and get me and I’ll take you there?” she asked. “Rhiannon is very careful about who she gives her address to. I don’t want to text it and risk having some hacker get hold of it.”

  “Got it,” I said.

  I was that much closer to getting an answer to how to get back to my regularly scheduled life. So why wasn’t I more excited?

  Rhiannon lived in Laurel Canyon, which, according to Rain, had been ground zero for the music scene in the seventies. “You know, Joni Mitchell; Crosby, Stills, and Nash . . . everyone who was anyone lived up here,” she said as we rounded a particularly sharp corner. “Her spirit guides told her to move there when she got off the bus from Minnesota.”

  “Good thing she listened to them,” I replied. What was I getting myself into?

  “Hello, hello, come in, come in,” said the woman with the jet-black bob and ruby-red lipstick who opened the door. Dressed in a crisp black suit with high heels, she towered over us. Definitely not what I thought a psychic would look like.

  I smiled. “Hi, Rhiannon. Thanks for fitting me in—”