The ABC's of Kissing Boys

by Tina Ferraro

  He glanced over, his head much higher above mine than last time I'd looked. He'd somehow shot up to about six feet and had maybe started weight lifting, because he suddenly had more upper body than ever before, too.

  He may have only been fifteen, but I figured he could get into R-rated movies, no problem. Still, he had the F for freshman seared into his forehead, so I had to make this quick.

  “I talked to the gardeners who did this,” I said, pointing to the grass that was now squashed down flat, thanks to the numerous sets of tires that had ridden over it. “They promised to come back and clean it up. But clearly, they lied.”

  “You think?” he said, a tinge of good- natured humor touching his sarcasm.

  I took off my helmet and gave my head a shake, but I didn't need a mirror to know my hair was most likely sweaty and hanging limp down my back. Like I said, “carelessly tousled” would be a compliment.

  “Some of this stuff just won't sweep up,” he said. “I think we're going to need a spade to scrape it.”

  I hooked my helmet around my handlebars. “We probably have one. I think my dad's got every tool and gadget ever invented now, to make sure our house is in tip-top shape.”

  “Tell me about it,” he said, with a grimace that suggested he was every bit as embarrassed by his dad's juvenile behavior as I was by my dad's. “Since this thing between them began, we've become like a mini version of Home Depot.” He nodded toward his open garage. “There's a spade hanging on the wall above the workbench. Can you go grab it? I mean, if you're not afraid to enter enemy territory.”

  I did an exaggerated “Ooh, ooh,” like, Oh, yeah, I'm so scared; then I leaned my bike against the curb. My helmet and plastic grocery sack came to hard rests on the pavement, and a bright red edge of the family- sized bag of Starburst slid out.

  “Hey, Starburst,” he said.

  “Help yourself.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Go crazy.” Turning toward the garage, I heard a car cruise past. I hoped it didn't squish more grass. “Over the workbench, you said?” I called back.

  “You can't miss it.”

  I made my way to the garage, knowing what I could miss was our dads coming home to this mess. Each would blame the other, resulting in heated conversations with anyone who'd listen, including city officials.

  This all dated back about a year, when “someone” (and don't get my dad started on how he knew it was Mr. Murphy) called the city zoning office about the height of our cinder- block wall. It turned out we were eleven inches over code, and we'd had to remove one block all around the wall.

  My father had been furious, and since then, when he wasn't doing outdoor improvements, he was standing like a sea captain at the highest point of our front yard, his hand blocking the sun, surveying every visible inch of the Murphys’ property for code infractions. Or calling Clayton, asking him to check the university's law texts for special variances and loopholes.

  All I could say was thank God our street dead- ended, which kept traffic to a minimum, so only the neighbors saw his insanity, not all of DeGroot.

  Mr. Murphy, who hotly denied being the whistle-blower, was quick to bad- eye my dad right back and now claimed to have the zoning office on speed dial to report us for any violations.

  Never had two yards been tidier, better landscaped, or two houses more freshly painted. It had long gone from get- a- life Dad to get- a- grip Dad, but I realize now that there's just some crap in your life you have to roll your eyes at and accept.

  Not including my JV status.

  I found the spade easily and headed back outside.

  Tristan was ripping open the bag of candy with his teeth. “I've been meaning to talk to you about the gutter on the north side of your house,” he said when I got within earshot. “Some of the paint is chipping.”

  I arched a brow.

  “Someone could report you.”

  “Someone,” I said flatly.

  “Just saying.”

  “No one that you know? That you're related to or are descended from?”

  He grabbed a Starburst square, then handed me the bag. I set it on the curb.

  “And if we fix it?” I went on, squatting down to scrape at a stubborn patch of smashed grass. “If we repaint? You won't call the city?”

  “Not me. But I'm cool like that.”

  I wasn't sure if he was playing with me or giving me a legitimate warning, but I knew I'd be checking out the gutter when I got home. In any case, I had to give him some credit for humor and any steps he was taking to keep our dads’ turf war from escalating. I glanced up to give him a full- on smile.

  Only to see him pulling a Starburst wrapper off his tongue.

  Chills: Don't be afraid to experiment.

  Chills will rush down his spine when you gently

  lick his lips.

  “How… where did you learn to do that?” I tried to keep the surprise out of my voice but had no idea if I was actually successful.

  He dropped the wet wrapper into the green waste. “Camp.” He stared at me like I should know what that meant. “I was gone most of the summer, Parker. I was a counselor at Etiwanda.”

  “Oh,” I said, and nodded like I'd noticed he'd been gone. Maybe that explained how I'd missed his growth spurt? “Sure.”

  “Not much to do there after lights- out. So the counselors got together in our cabins for some fun and games. You know?”

  “What do you mean, kissing games?” I asked, sort of shocked at myself for getting so personal, and horrified at the prospect of what he might say.

  He screwed up his face into a look that read: Uh … yeah. “Seven minutes in heaven, spin the bottle, truth or dare. And some I'm not even sure had names.” He studied my face. “Why? You think that's stupid?”

  “No!” He gave me a “What's your problem?” look, so I took a breath and continued. “No,” I said again, calmer. “I don't suppose you know how to make a loop with a cherry stem, too?”

  “Why?”

  “Just asking.”

  He pointed at my supermarket bag. “You got cherries in there?”

  I nodded.

  “I set the record. A loop in forty- eight seconds.”

  Jeez, what kind of camp did he work at? And was it too late to sign up?

  He leaned against the broom handle. “What's with the sudden interest in camp? Or, should I say kissing? Is your boyfriend complaining?”

  I choked out a laugh. “No. No complaints.” From any guys. Yet. “Just—well, I mean, who couldn't stand to get a little better?”

  He held my gaze long enough for me to realize that his eyes were dark blue—like the deepest part of a lake or the sapphire birthstone I was hoping to get set in my senior- class ring. But I couldn't decide if that color looked good in a person's face or not….

  “You want me to show you my cherry looping?”

  I considered it. Then I realized I wouldn't be able to see anything but the end result. So I shook my head, then shrugged as if this had been a silly conversation anyway and went back to my scraping.

  He clearly got the message that we'd moved on, because he laid down his broom and set off toward his garage. Moments later, his return was announced by the rolling of trash- can wheels. Stopping in the street, he scooped a clump of grass into a dust pan, chucked it in the trash, then turned to me.

  “So who is he?”

  “Huh?”

  “The new guy. When I left for camp, you and your boyfriend had broken up. Or so people were saying. Who's this one? A senior?”

  I just stared at him.

  First of all, incoming freshmen were talking about my love life? Really? I mean, I knew playing soccer gave me a certain visibility, and being friends with Chrissandra Hickey was only good for anyone's rep. But the idea that stats on my life had trickled down to the middle school level astonished me.

  And then there was the problem of how to respond. There was no new guy. Luke didn't count. He was just… Luke. And no way was
I explaining about Heartless and varsity. “I can't really talk about it,” I finally said, and did a Chrissandra- like hair toss that I hoped would shut him up.

  “What, it's in the works?”

  I frowned.

  “You're trying to steal a guy away from someone?”

  Wait a minute—I didn't want that kind of gossip going around about me. But would it really be worse than the plain truth? I just shrugged. Not a yes, not a no.

  “You can probably pull it off.”

  I didn't know how to respond to that, so I was just as happy that he kept talking.

  “If you're looking to make real points with the guy, I can fill you in on some things. You know, like different techniques—Caterpillar Kisses, Butterfly Kisses. And the Steam Kiss—”

  “Whoa,” I said, putting my hand up. It was starting to feel like he was the one about to be a junior all of a sudden, and I was the know- nothing ninth grader. Even if I did know nothing about these things.

  “Oh, do you know all this stuff?” he asked, his gaze challenging mine as he rested his broom against the trash can.

  “Sure.” I stood up to look him in the eye. I might have been a few inches shorter, but I'd had two years of drills from Heartless on how to stare down your opponent.

  “Yeah, so what's a Steam Kiss?”

  A no- brainer (probably). “A kiss that's so hot that imaginary steam comes out of your partner's ears.” Did I just say that?

  He made an irritating sound like a game- show buzzer. “Wrong. What's a Caterpillar Kiss?”

  I had to admit my confidence was slipping. All I could think was, two people lying stomach- down on the ground with their heads up so their mouths could meet.

  Tristan must have seen the confusion in my eyes, because the next thing I knew, he was in my face.

  “Tell you what, Parker. I'll show you.”

  “Show me?” I wasn't at all sure I liked where this was going.

  “Don't worry, our lips won't even touch. Just stay where you are, and don't move.”

  I wanted to move, all right, to thrust my palms forward to keep this neighbor- boy froshie out of my body space. Who did he think he was?

  But I was also hungry for knowledge. So I did a quick scan to make sure the street was empty and there would be no witnesses. And I told myself that as long as our lips stayed apart, it wouldn't count as an official kiss, which could come back to haunt me. Right?

  I locked my limbs in cautious anticipation and looked up at Tristan Murphy's dark blue eyes as he stepped in closer. And closer.

  He must have bent his knees, because his eyes suddenly were level with mine. Then his hands secured themselves on my upper arms, and he leaned in until his eyebrows were pushed up against mine. I thought I might laugh—not that anything was funny—but steeled myself into paying attention in case I decided to use this on Luke.

  Tristan tilted his head so that our foreheads touched, then started this gentle crisscross motion, rubbing our eyebrows. It kind of tickled, and made me want to laugh, or at least smile—if not at the sensation, then at what we were doing.

  But it also felt good—silky and soft. Making me forget the silliness, making me want to get closer, to snuggle up—

  Wait. What was I thinking?

  I should be pushing him back onto his property. Because—gah!—what was I doing in a face smush with the Murphy kid?

  He must have sensed my change of heart, because he pulled back. Or maybe he was just finished.

  “That,” he said, like some sort of campus professor on the subject, “was a Caterpillar Kiss. It's all about the eyebrows. And a Butterfly Kiss starts out the same, but it's the bringing together of eyelashes.”

  “I'll take your word for it,” I said, shuffling on the pavement to regain my full balance. And to take back the power.

  “And the Steam Kiss—”

  “Enough,” I said sharply.

  “Okay, well, we couldn't do that one outside, anyway.”

  Something strangled in my throat. What? Like we'd only do it behind closed doors? Omigod, this was moving into out- of- hand territory. I shook my head and composed myself. “Look, you can finish up here without me, right?”

  He shrugged.

  “Because I gotta go.” I was suddenly incredibly uncomfortable.

  “Okay,” he answered, as if he knew something I didn't. “But if there's anything I can do to help you with this guy, just ask. You know, I can be discreet.”

  “Don't tell me,” I said flatly, “—you're cool like that?”

  A frown settled slowly into his brow, and for a long moment, he just stared at me. “What, you're mad now? You're the one who brought the cherries and the Starburst over. You're the one who wanted to know about camp and kissing games.”

  Crap—he was right. “Yeah, well,” I said, pulling my bike off the curb, “I guess I thought it was sort of cute. You know, how freshmen fill their time while waiting for their lives to begin.” I didn't intend to be mean; it just sort of spilled out of my mouth.

  I could see anger spark in his eyes. “Like you can talk. Sixteen and never been kissed.”

  “I've been kissed!” Suddenly I was okay with mean. I found my balance and set off on my bike, not even bothering with my helmet.

  “The back of your hand does not count!”

  I circled back around, not entirely sure what I was going to say, hoping it would somehow be brilliant.

  But his voice cut through the air. “You'd better find someone to teach you this stuff, Parker, if you're ever going to keep a boyfriend. Because it sure won't be with your sparkling personality!”

  I pedaled fast in a full circle, pretending not to hear. Little did Tristan know that keeping a boyfriend was the least of my worries. All I was concerned with was keeping my friends and my place on the team alongside them.

  As well as keeping my cool. And the last thing I needed was my own neighbor feud.

  Diversify: Vary the tempo,

  intensity and duration of kisses to keep

  things interesting.

  I parked my bike in the garage, then circled around to the side of the house to check the gutters. Cupping my hand against the sun, I saw that they were perfectly, flawlessly, don't-mess-with-me painted.

  Looked like the frosh had just been messing with me. As if I needed more drama in my life.

  Upstairs in my room, I flopped onto my bed and considered quitting high school. Going for an equivalency diploma would certainly save me from taking this whole Heartless heartache to heart, and from having to learn about kissing. Plus, it would make things right with my friends. I mean, if I wasn't at school, why would they have to worry about watching their mouths to protect my feelings?

  Yeah, it was the answer. If you didn't take into account that (1) my parents would go postal, (2) a GED wasn't exactly the fast track to the kind of university I was targeting, and (3) it was pointless to get my friends back if I wasn't at school to hang out with them.

  After a long sigh, I dragged myself over to my computer to see what the word kiss brought up in a search engine. I mean, was there a book called Kissing for Dummies or something?

  I signed on to IM and saw a few people on, including Chrissandra.

  Before I got the chance to double- click on her name, the house phone rang. I felt my breath catch as I rushed to grab the old- fashioned princess extension in my parents’ bedroom, hoping desperately it was for me.

  “Hello?” I said, willing Chrissandra's voice to respond.

  “Parker,” she said. “I saw you come online.”

  I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Hearing her voice again was just so great. Cheddar- cheese- popcorn-and-Drew-Barrymore-movies-at-two-a.m.-in-our-sleeping-bags great.

  “Hey!” I said, practically yelling, I was so happy. But that was okay, because this was Chrissandra, and clearly things were getting back to normal.

  “You have to promise not to tell anyone I called,” she said, her voice dropping.

&n
bsp; What? No Hey, how have you been, my best friend Parker? I felt myself slowly going numb, from the inside out. “Okay. Why?”

  “I'm not supposed to tell you—it kind of defeats the purpose. But when you see us from now on—Mandy, Elaine and me—we're not going to welcome you with open arms or anything. That's why I'm calling—we've decided to cut you loose.”

  If complete and utter horror made a sound, I swear, I made it.

  “It's because we love you, Parker,” she added quickly. “Since you're on JV again, you need to be free to hang out with your new teammates.”

  Oh, God.

  The thing was, despite the fact that Chrissandra came off as a queen bee, those who buzzed around liked to think it was pretty much an act. That deep down, she was thoughtful and caring, and she wouldn't do anything she didn't honestly think was right. At least, anything that had to do with us.

  “No, Chrissandra,” I said, wrapping the phone cord around a finger and hearing the pleading in my voice, “I am not one of them. I don't belong on JV. It's only because that awful Rachael came back and that other girl transferred in from out of state.”

  “We know that. But solidarity is the key to winning, after all, so you have to stay with your team. Just like we have to stay with ours.”

  With fear constricting my throat, I did not respond.

  “We know we're going to come off like total bitches to everyone else, but we need you to know the truth. That it's not personal, okay? And we really hope you make varsity soon and can come back to us.”

  My brain reeling, I spoke with as much dignity as possible.

  “Well, what if I quit soccer? Altogether?”

  She was silent for a long moment, then finally said, “Don't you think that's overkill?”

  Wait—like I was the drama queen? With her theatrical temperament, she had commanded JV soccer, as well as the freshman/sophomore corridors. As her grateful hangers- on, whatever Chrissandra did, Mandy, Elaine and I did. Whatever she wore, we wore. Whatever she thought was cool, we thought was cool. We even dug deep for authentic- sounding enthusiasm for yet another viewing of Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes as Romeo and Juliet, when what we really wanted to see again was Bend It Like Beckham.