The ABC's of Kissing Boys

by Tina Ferraro

  After an endless moment, she pivoted on one heel. “You're still here?”

  Wow.

  That's when I knew. It wasn't Tristan who'd changed things. It was Rachael. And more important, me. “Oh, Becca,” I cried, my insides churning, “did you wait for me for lunch?”

  Her nonreply spoke volumes.

  “I thought we'd left it open”—my words tumbled out—“like, maybe we'd meet up, maybe not.”

  “You thought. Yeah, I'll bet you did.”

  My stomach hit rock bottom.

  “About as much as you thought about me when we started school here. When suddenly you had all these super-cool soccer friends and no time for me.” Her nostrils flared. “Sorry they up and dumped you now, Parker, but don't come knocking anymore on my door. I'm not a total fool.”

  And then she stormed off, leaving me alone in the bustling crowd.

  Orbicularis Oris: The muscle used to pucker the lips. Keep it

  in shape!

  I hadn't dumped Becca, I mused while my teachers stood at their whiteboards and talked. We'd just gone our separate ways. Friends did that all the time and didn't hold grudges. It was natural selection or survival of the fittest or some sociological term. Right? I didn't have to feel bad about this.

  Much.

  The thing was, in my heart I knew that no amount of analyzing or rationalizing could change the fact that she was hurt. Soccer-cleats-on- flesh kind of hurt. And that Iwas the source of her pain. I had to do something, say something, to make things better. As soon as I figured out what.

  After last bell, I headed toward the locker room, eager to change into my soccer baggies and blow off some tension on the field.

  Passing the staircase, I didn't as much see Chrissan-dra and friends hovering in their favorite alcove as hear them. Elaine was talking about a party, and Chrissandra interrupted with the fun fact that that night would be her and Kyle's eight- month anniversary.

  Whatever. I couldn't focus on what they were leaving me out of. It would only drive me crazy, and maybe on to the place where I got mad—really mad. So I went past them head down, trying not to look or listen (or feel).

  “There's Parker,” Mandy said, so distinctly that even my best efforts couldn't block her voice out.

  Chrissandra piped up. “Where's she off to?”

  “Practice,” Elaine said.

  “Nah, Meeting her baby boy.” Chrissandra laughed. “She must want it baaaad.”

  The blood that had felt icy with guilt all afternoon sharply rose in temperature. Okay, I got that they claimed their disgust over Tristan was all an act, but come on, show's over, girls. They were supposed to be my friends, the people I could spill my guts to and still count on to love me. Not to talk about me, laugh about me, behind my back.

  Why, they were no more my true friends than—

  Oh, God. My heart skipped a beat. Than I've been to Becca?

  Except I'd never actually purposefully been mean to Becca, so maybe she and I still had a chance. As for my varsity friends? I no longer knew. And I wasn't sure how much I cared.

  Minutes later, I was face to face with Hartley, asking if I could slip out early from practice. I admitted that I had some fences to mend with a friend, and from her quick and compassionate nod, I figured she thought it was soccer related (and probably something she had started by keeping me on JV).

  To repay her kindness, I gave special attention to Dayle and a couple of Smurfs, taking them to a corner of the field and running them through some exercises. Focusing on the finer details of the girls’ footwork, I was able to spot their strengths and weaknesses—and, soon, to see some improvements.

  Which was sort of startling, and even fun. I'd never given much thought to my teammates’ abilities before, other than to what they could do on the field to win a game. It was interesting to look at the team as the sum of its parts and to see ratcheting up the muscle in one place could offset power in others, resulting in a stronger unit.

  When Hartley blew a whistle and pointed at me, I knew I'd been dismissed. And that I'd better set my mind on what really mattered: what in the world to say to Becca.

  •

  On the Benvenutos’ welcome mat later, my brain was still devoid of anything but “I'm sorry.” Which I blurted out as soon as Becca opened the door.

  She just stared at me, and I felt my breath catching in my chest. If I could take any behavior back, I would. But all I could do now was hope she'd forgive me.

  “You're only here because Chrissandra won't speak to you anymore,” she said, getting straight to the point.

  “No, I'm here because I now understand what a terrible person I've been. Which, yeah, I probably wouldn't have realized if Chrissandra hadn't decided I was a loser. But in any case, I'm here because I'm sorry.”

  Her gaze bored into mine; then she stepped away. I fully expected the door to close in my face. But she backed into the entryway and shook her head at me. “Well, are you coming in or not?”

  I breathed in sweet relief.

  Over Oreos and milk at her kitchen table, I told the story of the past two years, how flattered I'd been that someone of Chrissandra's stature had made room for me in her world but how I'd honestly thought that she— Becca—had moved on to new friends, too.

  “I did—eventually.” But the flatness in her tone told a different story. “Only no one who meant all that much to me.”

  Ouch. For lack of a better response, I continued with my story, bringing her up to the posting of this year's team rosters and how Chrissandra and the girls were now keeping away from me “for my own good.”

  “Sounds like you're finally getting a taste of the Chrissandra Hickey the rest of us see,” she said, and scraped some Oreo icing off her cookie with her bottom teeth.

  I shrugged. How could I explain that I'd always kinda seen it but it wasn't until Chrissandra had basically red- carded me from her circle that I'd felt it and cared? That was so shallow I even had trouble admitting it to myself.

  “And you know what they say,” Becca went on. “What goes around comes around.”

  I remembered that very phrase thundering through my head the other day and knew she was the one who'd used it. For fair- weather friends.

  Like I'd turned out to be.

  “Eventually Chrissandra will get hers,” she continued, seemingly oblivious to my internal cringing. “I just hope it's in the next couple of years so I'm around to see it.”

  I smiled and nodded while pondering the best way to earn her faith back—and to redeem myself.

  What could be better than bringing her into the secret vault of what was truly happening? I was 99.9 percent sure I could trust her. But if she ratted me out and blew the Plan wide open? Well, I supposed I'd have to live with it. The way she'd lived with what I'd done to her. Fair was fair, right?

  So I took a quick breath and told her what Clayton and Luke and I had put in motion. And how I'd “hired” Tristan to teach me how to kiss.

  Her mouth curved into an oval. “So, the two of you, the big scandalous romance, it's all bogus?”

  “As fake as CeeCee Stevens's boobs.”

  Becca's grin widened. “So now I don't have to go ahead with the intervention, getting your friends and family together to try to talk you out of throwing your life away?”

  I rolled my eyes—which was way better than admitting that, at this point, she was basically my only friend, anyway. “You're off the hook.”

  She did an exaggerated wipe of her brow.

  “And to be honest,” I said, and glanced at her wall clock, “he and I have another lesson planned for today, before our parents get home. I think he's probably waiting.”

  “Then you'd better get going. Can't dis a froshie.” Her eyes twinkled. “Just tell me. Are we on for lunch tomorrow?”

  “You know it. Even if Prince Harry comes for me in a gilded carriage.”

  “Prince Harry? You're still into him?”

  “Yeah. I may lose my way now and
then, but deep down, I remain loyal to those I care about.”

  She looked hard into my eyes. I know she got my meaning. Then she walked me to the door, and for a second, we just sort of stood there awkwardly. Then I reached out to hug her. After a long moment, she squeezed back—in what I hoped had the makings of someday again being a BFF hug.

  •

  When I finally banged on Tristan's door, I was huffing from the brisk run.

  “Come on,” he said, whisking me inside. “ My father will be home any minute. We'll have to make this fast.”

  “ ‘This’?”

  “The Steam Kiss.”

  My brain circled back to that first day in the street, when he'd challenged me to define certain kisses. I'd secretly freaked when he'd said that the Steam Kiss had to be done indoors, envisioning something risqué. But because he hadn't overstepped any personal boundaries, even though I'd given him total permission to kiss me, and because this was apparently my afternoon to trust people, I decided to go with it. Plus, I was more than a little curious about this Steam Kiss….

  He led me into the kitchen, where rays of late-afternoon sun competed with yellow countertops. I spotted a kettle steaming on the range top, sitting half a foot away from a coffee mug and an ice- filled glass.

  “What's your pleasure?” he asked, grabbing the glass and filling it with water. “Hot or cold?”

  It took my brain a moment to process that this Steam Kiss was going to be scientifically literal. I shrugged.

  He handed me the beaded water glass, then poured some boiling water into the mug. “I'll go with the hot,” he said, a wisp of a smile touching his mouth. “And be the strong, manly man.”

  I laughed. “As opposed to the little runt that you usually are?”

  He ignored that crack, took a careful sip, blew out some breath and went at the cup again. In turn, I slurped down some ice water—which was actually refreshing, after the run from Becca's house. I waited until he'd taken a third, then a fourth, sip and took another drink myself, and then, following his lead, leaned in for a kiss.

  Our lips met and parted. His tongue felt hot against mine, in a startling, pleasure/pain kind of way, but before I could decide if I liked it or not, he pulled a few inches back.

  “Huff out a breath,” he told me.

  We both did. A few times. But no steam appeared between us.

  “Let's try it again,” I said, more interested in resuming the tongue action than in what swirled in the air.

  But the sound of a car pulling into the garage put the kibosh on that. Tristan slammed down his mug, grabbed my glass, then cupped my elbow and escorted me to the front door.

  “To be continued,” he said as he unlocked the dead bolt.

  “Yeah, but what I don't get is the odds that Luke and I will have a boiling- hot drink and an icy one at the sports fair.”

  “Next to none.”

  “Then why are we messing with this?”

  He pulled the door wide open, a smile in his dark, dark eyes. “Why not?”

  Surprising myself, I stretched up and planted a kiss on his lips before rushing through the open door.

  •

  I came upon my mother at the kitchen table, wringing her hands. Or more specifically, wringing the letter in her hands.

  “George Murphy has done it again,” she said, lifting the letter over her head. “Reported us to the city.”

  I thought of our perfectly painted gutters, of how Dad used a precision edger on the lawn and bushes and swept the sidewalks pristine. “No way! What now?”

  “The width of our driveway. Can you believe it? If it comes up too narrow, it'll cost us thousands in man-hours, masonry and repaving.” She let her head fall into the arms she'd crossed on the table. “I don't know how much more of this I can take. I mean, it started so innocently—we really were over code with that wall, and we fixed it—but it's become the monster that won't die. The paperwork, the appointments, the expense—the added stress on your father.”

  Not to mention on her.

  “I'm just sick about this,” she said, and drew in a gurgle like she might burst into tears.

  Seeing her about to lose it did paralyzing things to my insides, like in one of those dreams when you desperately want to run but you can't make your body move. I knew I had to do something, so I patted her shoulder. “Clayton will help. He'll find out how to file an injunction or something.”

  “He's nowhere near ready for anything like that.”

  “Well, we'll put our heads together and come up with something else, Mom.”

  But she just stared forlornly into space. Wasn't she supposed to get all jazzed up about mother- daughter solidarity?

  “Well,” I said, grasping at straws, “I could talk to Tristan.” Ignoring the fact that his dad had scowled at me, yelled at Tristan for hanging out with me and—oh, yeah—called the city on us again.

  Mom's face contorted into a pretty good scowl itself. “It seems to me you've been with that boy every evening, and things have only gotten worse.”

  Ouch.

  But she wasn't saying anything that wasn't true. And maybe because I was already feeling vulnerable, or maybe because all the lying was catching up with me I felt my face grow hot. The embarrassed, guilty kind of hot. It was one thing to play up the relationship among people my own age, to pretend to be in love with Tristan. It was another to play it down with my mom, to act like he was still just the stupid kid across the street from us.

  Because he wasn't. And I had a feeling that when all this was over—after a respectable, make- believe I-won't- speak- to- you period—we might actually acknowledge each other and maybe hang a little. I mean, let's be honest. He'd surprised me with his maturity and his sense of humor. And while I was readying myself for the “breakup,” I didn't exactly feel ready to give the kid the boot.

  “Parker, you all right? You looked flushed.”

  I let out a poor imitation of a laugh and dismissed her words with a wave of my hand. “I've been running around a lot today. In fact, I'd love to take a shower before dinner,” I said, then made a fast break for the stairs. “Do I have time?”

  Mom sighed. “Considering I'm too upset to cook? I'd say you have all the time in the world.”

  Partnership: It takes two

  for a good kiss. Choose your partner wisely.

  I took a long, hot shower, letting the water hammer my muscles. Then I toweled my hair dry quickly, threw on my comfy jeans, a tank top and sneakers and reluctantly made the trip back downstairs.

  My dad was home. He'd loosened his tie and was now at the kitchen table, popping open a pizza box. I was pleased to see a heap of steaming cheese and veggies, but given my mom's wounded look and the frown dug into my dad's brow, I figured this meal would be less about having a pizza party and more about taking care of hunger.

  I scarfed down a couple of slices; then I drifted to the front window to look for Tristan.

  Only to get the shock of my life—Chrissandra marching up the walk.

  Talk about timing. Before she could ring the bell and alert my parents to her arrival, I was at the door. “Hey,” I forced out, along with a tentative smile.

  “Hey yourself. You doing anything? You want to come for a drive?” she asked, jangling car keys. Like everything was same old, same old.

  I resisted the urge to slam my head against the door-jamb to see if I was dreaming, then shouted a few words at my parents and followed her out. Bracing myself for a final death sentence. Or worse.

  But when I got a good look at her face, it was all relaxed and controlled and, well, Chrissandra- like. After a long moment, she even smiled. Okay, what was up?

  “So how's everything with Romeo?”

  “Uh, great,” I said. Because it was. If you overlooked technicalities like the whole thing being a ruse and a scam.

  She playfully punched my arm. Ouch. “I'm totally jealous, you know. I mean, not that you're with him,” she said, “but that you've found true
love.” She thumbed her keyless entry remote. The car lights flashed and doors unlocked with a click. “Not that Kyle isn't my everything. But sometimes I think he needs a bit of a wake- up call that I'm his.”

  She laughed, while I think I just stared and gaped. It wasn't like her to admit that areas of her life needed work. She was all about being fantastic and making sure those around her knew it. Now I really wondered what was going on.

  “But that's not what I'm here to talk to you about,” she said as we both climbed into her red hatchback, a birthday present. “It's about soccer. We've got a … situation on varsity,” she said, and put the car in reverse. “And Elaine, Mandy and I think you're the one to take care of it.”

  Tension electrified my legs and arms—it was like that fight- or- flight thing you hear about when people are on the verge of being attacked by a bear. But I knew staying cool around Chrissandra was essential. She could sense fear, and she'd eat you alive. “Oh?” I managed.

  “Yeah, which is the reason we decorated your locker a second time and have been bad- mouthing you. It's a cover so no one will suspect we're working together.”

  “Working together?” I repeated. I had to hand it to them for creating camouflage so effective that even I couldn't see through it.

  “It's about AJ,” she went on, referring to the senior who'd had knee surgery. “I saw her pour some pills out of a prescription bottle before practice on Monday. And they weren't antibiotics or vitamins, if you get my drift.”

  We rounded a corner, to see the bridge's traffic gates rising. Figured. I always had to wait for trawlers and sailboats to clear the bridge, but everything about Chrissandra's life seemed perfectly timed.

  “When AJ went to the water fountain to knock them back,” she continued, “I got a look at the label. Vicodin. For pain. Which, of course,” she said, and made an el stu-pido face, “is against school rules. And also tells us she's a disaster waiting to happen on the field, that her knee is not at full strength.”

  I didn't get what this had to do with me and quite frankly was a little afraid to ask.

  “Mandy thought I should go to Hartley directly,” Chrissandra pushed on, her tone loud to drown out the rhythmic ka-thumps of the tires against the bridge's metal seams. “But you know how Hartley sometimes gets weird about my help?”