Damen snorts, looking me up and down again. “I’m going to tell everyone what a little slut you are.”
My heart jumps and a trickle of fear crawls down my spine like a spider.
Jason!
“I hear you’re a cowboy,” I say, thinking quickly. “What a trip that is. Here you’re posing as a surfer when you’d really rather be chewing Skoal and cleaning up bull crap.”
Shock registers over Damen’s features. In his little gray pig eyes, I see a shadow of something. Fear?
“Tell you what,” I say, feigning a bravery that I don’t feel. “You don’t mention our kiss, and I won’t talk about your cowboy hat and tight-ass Wranglers, the ones that accentuate your tiny little nuts.”
Damen gapes at me, slack-jawed. Before he can retort, Miranda shows up. She grabs me, and then we’re running across campus toward our cars.
She’s laughing so hard she can barely breathe.
“That shut him up,” she says when we get to the parking lot. “What a jock-ass.” She guffaws loudly.
I laugh along but don’t feel very light-hearted. If Damen makes good on his promise, Jason will find out about my kissing. I’ve got to find the killer as quickly as I can.
Miranda is still giggling. “You should’ve seen his face. I swear, Winter, that was so funny! I didn’t know you had it in you to say something like that.”
“Yeah, well, he deserved it. He’s not the killer, but he sure is a jerk.”
“You definitely put him in his place. Jason would’ve been proud.”
Oh yeah, Jason would’ve been proud all right.
I drive home, fighting back tears. How the hell am I going to continue? I wish Jason were here so I could feel his arms around me. I also wish I could talk to Annika, just one last time, to ask her if I’m doing the right thing. She would tell me the truth.
But she’s gone, gone forever, and there’s no one else to ask.
14
The next day before first period, I tell Miranda that we have to come up with a different strategy because it’s getting hard to come up with excuses to kiss people.
“I can’t take a chance of this getting back to Jason,” I say. “And it’s going to if we don’t change our approach.”
“Okay,” she says. “Any ideas?”
“I’ve been thinking,” I reply. “What if we did a kissing booth during the school carnival next week?”
“A kissing booth?”
“Yes. We could charge five bucks a kiss and set it up as a way to raise college scholarship money in Annika’s name. We could do it over both days of the carnival, having it be for just the track team the first day. If we don’t find the killer on the track team, we can open it up to the rest of the school the next day. I bet we would find out enough information to lead us to Annika’s killer. Someone out there knows something.”
“That’s a great idea.”
“But do you think it’s wrong to do it in Annika’s name?”
“How else are we going to do it?”
She’s right, and it’s the best plan I have right now. Besides, if Jason finds out, he can’t be too mad when he discovers we did it for Annika.
“I’ll need you with me,” I say. “You can handle the money and stuff like that. That way it won’t seem so weird with just me in the booth.”
She pulls a piece of paper and a pencil out of her backpack. “Let’s make a list of what we need. We’ll need a money box, a poster, maybe some flyers to pass out to the team. We’ll need to get Coach Ted on board. He likes you better than me anyway, especially now that you’ve kissed him.” She elbows me.
“Ugh, don’t remind me.” The last thing I want is to be reminded of Coach Ted’s thin lips or his hairy-faced wife.
“One of us will need to talk to the principal and get the okay,” Miranda continues. “Let’s hope it works.”
***
Later, Miranda tells me that she got approval from the school administrators to have the kissing booth during the school carnival. They liked the idea but right away suggested it be a school-wide event. Luckily, Miranda was able to talk them into starting with the track team the first day and seeing how it goes. I’m relieved. Kissing twenty-seven more people already seems like too many.
I approach Coach Ted with the idea before track practice.
He smirks when I broach the subject. “Sounds like an interesting way to honor Annika,” he remarks. He studies me with glimmering eyes, and I squelch the annoyed disgust that flits across my mind. “Seems you’re quite a passionate young girl, eh?”
I resist the urge to slap him. Go home to your howler monkey.
Later, though, I’m reluctantly grateful to him when he makes an announcement about the booth during practice, yelling into his megaphone that he’ll give extra credit to every person who participates in Annika’s memory. He seems to be trying. After all, I’d seen in his thoughts that he was distraught over Annika’s death, and doesn’t that count for something?
***
The first day of the carnival, I’m filled with nervous energy. I take my seat behind the white painted plywood decorated with pictures of Annika and the words, “Scholarship Fundraiser! Track Team Only.” The booth is covered in real kiss-marks—Miranda’s idea that she carried out with a variety of brightly colored lipsticks. I close my eyes, saying a silent prayer that all will go well, and that I’ll find the killer and get this over with.
People are starting to line up, money in hand. On the table there are the essential items: a metal money box, a jar of anti-bacterial hand wipes that I’m going to make everyone use on their mouths first, a few tubes of lipstick, a computer list of names, and a large plastic bowl of chocolate kisses that we’ll give to people afterwards. Miranda has tied a note to each one of the chocolates that says, “In memory of Annika.”
Coach Ted walks the line, reminding people that this is for a good cause and to take it seriously. “Remember, participating in charities looks good on college applications!”
Members of the track team mill about, discussing this unusual carnival stand, so different from the run-of-the-mill dunk tank or ring toss booths. Guys jostle each other, smirking and laughing. The girls look doubtful, standing with their arms crossed. They want to help, but this seems an odd way to do it. They look at me warily.
“I’d rather there was a guy in the booth,” one of them says to the coach. “I want to do something for Annika, but I really don’t want to kiss a girl.”
As if I want to kiss you, either!
A high jumper nudges her, grinning at his friends. “But we want to see it.”
The guys laugh.
I cringe. This is not going to be easy.
“There’s a dead student and we need to honor her,” Coach Ted barks. “Do you have a problem with that?” He glances back and winks at me. God, he’s too much!
The girl mumbles something and shakes her head.
While many people are embracing the peer pressure to participate in this fundraising kissing booth experience, others act as if it’s another “to do” on their long list of high school tasks. Charity participation for their college application, check. Extra credit, check. Their fingers peck away at their phones, thumbs moving rapidly to text away the time while they wait. Some even yawn in boredom.
Some of the frosh guys, though, seem a little too giddy as they posture and horse around with a heightened energy. I cringe at the thought of kissing them, of seeing into their little dweeb-brains. Ack.
Miranda and I have decided that I’ll say, “For Annika,” before I kiss people so she’s fresh in their minds. As I look at the line snaking out in front of me, I wonder if the killer is out there, clueless. Smug and secure in his thoughts, thinking that he’s snuffed out a life and gotten away with it.
I take a deep breath, willing myself to be calm, Zen-like.
“Here goes,” I say.
“Just get it done,” Miranda says encouragingly. “Power-kiss through it. It’ll be over bef
ore you know it.”
Just like a gyno exam.
I cover my lips with thick purple lipstick—three layers in all—to protect myself from the germs of others. Still I can’t overcome the ickiness that settles over me as I look at the long line of strangers I’m about to kiss. I find myself studying their lips—large ones, small ones, fleshy ones, shiny wet ones (gross!), thin dry ones, pink ones, scaly ones, dark brown ones. I hope to God I don’t get mono. Or something worse.
I grab on to Miranda’s hand for support.
She squeezes my hand encouragingly. “People with great gifts are often given great responsibility. You know, for the common good.”
I stare. Sometimes she says the deepest things, right out of the blue.
She meets my eye and grins, shrugging. “I think Ghandi said that. Or maybe it was Kim Kardashian.”
I roll my eyes.
The first guy approaches. He’s a shy, pimply freshman. He hands a five to Miranda who checks his name off the list and puts the money in the box.
“This is for Annika,” I say, and quickly peck him. Just the usual teen boy thoughts are there: computer games, comic books, food, girls, action films, and masturbating.
Masturbating?
Gross! Definitely TMI.
The boy grins, takes his chocolate, and disappears.
Miranda looks at me, I give her a slight shake of my head—no murderer—and she marks the paper.
“Next!” she calls out authoritatively.
Kiss after kiss, I discover the private thoughts and lives of each of my teammates. I see their hopes, their worries, their pressures, their dark secrets. I learn about their crushes (surprisingly, a few guys have crushes on both Miranda and me), their difficult relationships with their parents, their childhoods, their drug use, their sex lives—or lack thereof. Some of the things I see are weird, like how Jana Ciriacks eats nothing but fermented cabbage for breakfast and dinner, or how Jake O’Brien still sleeps with his childhood teddy bear.
Mostly, though, I learn about how the murder has seeped into people’s psyches. Despite outwardly going on with their lives, everyone is unsettled by Annika’s unsolved murder. She was an enigma, but they had classes with her or saw her around campus. She was one of them, and now she’s gone. People are still stunned, but most of all, frightened.
“This is for Annika,” I repeat again and again as each student approaches. Some of the girls who peck me, amidst catcalls from our male teammates, have recurring nightmares they’re going to be murdered next. Olivia Robbins keeps her eyes open during showering—even though she gets stinging soap in her eyes—because she imagines she’ll be strangled from behind by a black twisted towel. The Cheng sisters smuggled mace cans onto campus, hidden tightly in their socks, until one of them accidentally sprayed herself in the face while tying a shoe. Most of the girls won’t go to the bathroom alone now—did they ever?—and always take a friend. Samantha Fleming is so afraid that she even urinates behind a bush behind the gym wall to avoid going in the ladies room. She even did Number Two there once when no one was around. Disgusting!
Many girls have the security guard or their boyfriends walk them to their cars, but nothing alleviates their jumpiness. Unease is palpable in their minds, as tangible as the plum-colored lipstick mark I leave on their tightly pursed lips.
The guys aren’t so much afraid as they are suspicious. They all look at each other, secretly wondering if one of them—their buddies—could have done it. They look for any strange signs in each other that could point to a murderous mind. They joke around in the locker room, prying, trying to find out if someone knows something. But so far, no one has a clue as to who did it.
At the end of the day, I’m emotionally exhausted and still no closer to finding the killer. Miranda and I close up, gathering the money box, bowl of chocolate kisses, and our backpacks. We head to my car. I walk slowly, so tired that I don’t care if I’m scuffing my shoes on the asphalt. We still have half the team left to kiss tomorrow.
“So what did you see?” Miranda pries.
I sigh, so mentally worn out that I can hardly focus. “Just the usual teenage stuff. People are complicated. Vulnerable, too.”
“Did you see anything about Annika’s murder? Even something small? Any leads or possible suspects?”
I shake my head. My brain is throbbing, an impending migraine nipping around the periphery.
It’s too much.
“I don’t know if I can do this anymore,” I say. My voice sounds distant, hoarse. I hold the chocolates in one arm and unlock the trunk. My hands tremble and I almost drop the bowl. I reach down and slowly gather up the sign and my backpack, going through the motions of loading the car. I’m drained of energy and completely wrung dry. My knees wobble, and I lean against the trunk for a moment, gathering myself.
“Don’t forget to bring the kisses into the house when you get home or they’ll melt,” says Miranda.
I nod, open my car door in slow motion, and slide slowly onto the seat. I hope I have enough energy to drive myself home. It’s as if a train has run me over, leaving me emotionally and physically flattened.
I don’t know if Miranda heard me, so I repeat myself. “I don’t think I can continue the kissing booth. It’s taking too much out of me. I literally feel sick.” Tears well up. I can’t explain how difficult it is to be in everyone’s minds, to see all of their lives flashing before me. The hardest part is that I also feel what they feel. It’s so intense that it scares me.
Miranda looks concerned. I can see the outline of her pregnant belly below her loose, billowing shirt. At this moment, she looks very maternal.
“Whatever you want to do. Maybe you just need some rest. Go home, take a break, and regroup. Maybe after a good night’s sleep, you’ll be ready to start again tomorrow. I hate to push you, but you really have a responsibility to find out who the murderer is.”
I nod, thinking of Annika. “I’ll let you know how I’m doing in the morning,” I say. “Right now, all I want to do is sleep forever.”
***
A black towel slowly twirls around my neck until I’m gasping for air. I claw at it but it tightens. Then the black towel slips from my fingers and I realize it’s not a towel at all, but pink silk underwear, embroidered with a large “W” for Winter. A hand clamps over my mouth, and as I look down, I recognize the mottled, sun-spotted hand of Coach Ted.
I jolt awake with a start, the fragment of a scream on my lips.
I look around, disoriented. I’m in my bedroom and late afternoon sun is streaming through the blinds.
What time is it?
I grasp for the clock. It’s 2:30 P.M. I’ve slept the whole day away and missed all of my classes. The only period left is track. If I rush, I can still make it to the after-school carnival and finish with the kissing booth.
I text Miranda, telling her I just woke up. The fragments of the nightmare are still with me, making me jumpy and uneasy. What if the killer is Ted? Is there something my subconscious knows that I don’t? What if the thoughts and memories I see when I kiss people are not the whole picture? Are people somehow able to filter what I see? It’s too frightening to consider.
Miranda texts back, asking if I’m doing the booth. I reply that I’m committed to seeing this thing through, even though it’s extremely difficult. I’ll finish up kissing the rest of the team. If I don’t find the killer today, then I’ll need a long break to regroup. This marathon kissing takes too much out of me.
Miranda replies that she understands. She says I’d better hurry, though, so I can set up in time. She texts that there are still a lot of people left to kiss, including Kirby Cahill and others. Miranda warns that kissing Kirby might be tricky since Darcy Latimer approached her and threatened, “If Winter Reynolds kisses my boyfriend, I’ll kick her ass.”
When I read this, I rub my head and groan. Just what I need.
Someone knocks loudly on the front door.
Who could it be in the middle of
the day? Maybe it’s the UPS guy, although Mom rarely orders anything on the Internet.
I go to the front door and look through the peephole.
Jason is standing on my doorstep, his face twisted and confused.
15
“I drove back because I needed to find out if it’s true,” Jason says, pushing his way past me into the living room.
Since Mom is at work, the place is quiet enough to hear the sound of my heart drop through the floor.
“What?” Blood rushes in my ears. My mouth is dry, as if stuffed with cotton wads. My mind races.
He must have heard.
“I’ve been getting texts and emails that you’re some kind of slut,” he states. “People say you’re doing some random kissing booth and you’re going around kissing guys, including Damen Ratliff. Is it true?” His brown eyes search mine. They’re spilling over with a haunted mixture of confusion, anger and pain. But I can see in them the desperate hope that I’ll prove him wrong. He’s still giving me the benefit of the doubt.
But he wants me to explain.
Now.
I open my mouth to say something—anything in my defense—but no words come out. I want to tell him about my power and trying to solve Annika’s murder, but I can’t. He’ll think I’m coming up with weird, lame excuses. He won’t believe me, I know he won’t. Besides, if there’s ever going to be any chance for an honest, normal relationship between us, it’ll be without me reading his mind. Neither of us is ready for that step yet.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” I say, stammering. “It was to raise money in honor of Annika.”
“So it’s true?” he says, his voice rising. He looks completely betrayed. His face hardens into a mask of anger. “Why, Winter? Why, when you wouldn’t even kiss me? I thought it was for moral reasons, but now I can see that’s not the case!”
“I did it for Annika,” I say, trembling. It sounds lame, even as I say it.
He stares at me with such stunned, pained eyes that it’s as if he’s been slapped. Or punched.
“Jason, please . . . ” I can’t take that look in his eyes. A tear splashes onto my sock. I didn’t even know I was crying. “We had a booth to raise money for a scholarship and . . .” I avoid his eyes, stumbling over my words, trying desperately to explain myself. When I look up, I’m stopped short by his dark expression.
PANDORA Page 67
