17 First Kisses (25 page)

“I knew it!” she screeches. The entire party goes silent. “You've been hooking up with my boyfriend. I never should have believed that bullshit lie you told me at Britney's party.”

“We didn't hook up at Britney's party—”

“Just like you didn't hook up in the bathroom just now? Stop lying! You're a slut. And a bitch. And the worst best friend ever. You should leave. Now. No one wants you here anyway—all you do is act like you're better than everyone else.”

She pauses to gulp back some tears, and Buck takes the
opportunity to yell, “Yoko is back!”

Megan laughs a cold laugh. “Yeah. She is. So much for wanting to get away from your rep as the school slut.”

I'm shaking and seconds from a sob. Everyone stares. I can feel their eyes like a million barbs catching my skin. I run out to the front porch to get away from it all, and Luke appears seconds later.

“Do I really act like I'm better than everyone else?” I blurt out.

Luke frowns and takes a long breath before saying, “That's the part that bothers you the most?” He's avoiding the question.

“So, that's a yes,” I say.

“Only a little. And you are better than the people in there, so don't worry about it. Come on. Let me take you home.” He puts his arm around me and kisses the top of my head. “I know what it's like to be on the receiving end of a public Megan meltdown. And just so you know, you're worth the drama.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I
f you got caught kissing in Naples, Italy, in the sixteenth century, you could receive the death penalty. Given what is in store for me when school starts back up, I think I'd rather be in sixteenth-century Naples. Megan wasn't home when I went by (her brother said), and she hasn't answered my phone calls (no surprises there), but neither have Britney and Amberly. And it's not just them. When I get to school, I realize the entire cheerleading squad is out to get me. Even though they go through drama with one another on a weekly basis, now that someone from the outside (me) has wronged one of their own, they've developed some sort of weird cheerleading solidarity.

While I'm drinking from the water fountain just after first period, two cheerleaders I barely know slut-cough me.

      
slut-cough (verb)

      
To cough into your fist while simultaneously saying the word slut, so that the word is disguised poorly, if at all.

      
(noun)

      
An act of slut-coughing

      
(synonym)

      
Whore-cough

While I'm walking to lunch, Amanda Bell bumps up against me in the hall, sending my books and papers flying.

“Oops,” she giggles.

She's clearly loving this. After years of fruitless scheming, she finally has a spot at Megan's lunch table. My spot. I don't try to sit with them. I sit with the soccer girls, who are all pretty nice about things. The minutes tick by with excruciating slowness, though, and I eat my lunch on autopilot.

I pass Amberly and Britney on the way back to class.

“Hey,” I say.

No response.

“Hey, Amberly.”

This time her shoulders tense slightly, so I know she heard me.

“Seriously, can't you just talk to me?”

She turns and opens her mouth, but Britney stops her.

“No, she can't. Because she doesn't understand how you could do something like this to Megan. Don't expect anyone to be on your side.”

She flips her brittle blond hair in my direction and stalks away. Amberly gives me this
I'm sorry, my hands are tied
look and follows behind her.

I go to soccer practice thinking the worst is over. At least none of the girls on the team have been sucked into the drama. The girls' locker room smells like the weirdest combination of overripe bananas and feet. The rusting lockers that no one even uses and the old wooden benches bolted to the floor are in sharp contrast with our crisp new Adidas duffels, the results of two car washes and a bake sale. I throw on my shorts and then my sports bra and T-shirt.

“Um, Claire?” Our goalie stares at me with a sad, uncomfortable look on her face.

“What is it?”

She points at my shirt. Other girls are looking now. Scrawled across the front, in what looks like black permanent marker, are five letters.
W-H-O-R-E.

“Oh.”

I try to pretend like it's not a big deal. I keep my chin up as I peel off my shirt and put it back on inside out. I only cry a little when we're out running laps and I don't think anybody will notice. I may not have proof, but it's obvious Megan's behind this. I don't understand how she could do this to me. She's my best friend. I knew she would be hurt, but this is more than just the silent treatment. This is wrong. And the worst part is I've lost more than my best friend. I've lost everyone. I keep thinking of Amberly turning away from me in the hall. If I had trusted her, if
I had let her in more, I wonder if she would have been standing with me instead of with Britney.

No one wants you here anyway—all you do is act like you're better than everyone else.
Is that the real reason I don't confide in Amberly? Because I think I'm better than her? I've never felt like I fit in in Pine Bluff, but does wanting bigger things mean I think other people are smaller? I shake my head and run faster, but I can't get away from it. Megan said it, and everyone else thinks it. Even Luke agreed. But I don't know what to do about it, so I just keep running.

Things go on like this for the next few weeks. I'm dropping my book bag on my bedroom floor after another stellar day at school when I notice it. A sniffling just loud enough for me to hear in my bedroom. I tiptoe into the hallway. And there, at the end of the hall, the door that is always closed has been slung wide open. I walk toward the open door, toward the quiet weeping.

Timothy's room looks almost exactly the same. His choochoo-train wallpaper chugs its way around the room. Baby-sized corduroys and T-shirts hang in his closet next to a rack of impossibly small shoes. His crib is still made up with green-and-blue-striped sheets and bumper pads. Like any second now he'll be back to take a nap.

Mama sits hunched over in a chair, sobbing into her kneecaps. Another relapse, or will it be permanent this time? I can't ever be sure, and it kills me. Why didn't I spend more time with her when everything was okay? I stand in the doorway, frozen like
a statue, taking in the horror of it all. Mama looks up.

“Oh, hi, sweetheart, I didn't realize you were there.” She blows her nose and pats the ottoman in front of her. “Come sit down.”

My legs move toward her coaxing as if independent of my brain. I sit stiffly.

“I was watering the plants today when I realized Timothy's tree had a flower,” she says.

I stare at her blankly. Then I realize there's a black-and-white photograph in her lap. An extreme close-up of a single white cherry blossom in a sea of gray-black leaves.

“It's beautiful,” I say carefully.

She smiles. “When I saw it, I ran inside to get my camera. I took a whole roll and printed this one out immediately.” She runs her fingers along the edges of the photo. “I thought about where I wanted to hang it, and only one place seemed right.”

“So, you came in here to hang that picture?” I'm still not sure what kind of sadness this is. I don't know what I'll do if it's the old kind.

“To figure out where to hang it once it's framed. But while I was looking around, I realized it's time to pack up his room now. And, well, I don't think that's something I can do by myself. Do you think you can get Dad and Libby and Sarah to help?”

“Of course.” A deep breath floods my lungs, and my blood starts to move in my veins again. This is normal.
She
is still normal. And normal people sometimes shed normal tears when they're sad.

I jump in the chair with her and hug her so tight she lets out
kisses a little gasp. “Are you okay?” she asks.

“I'm fine,” I say into her shoulder. “Everything is fine.”

I make minute adjustments to the place settings at our dining-room table. I fuss with the vase of tulips on the buffet, even though two minutes ago Mama declared them “fabulous.” I am an idiot. I never should have let Luke talk me into this. But I did. We were sitting on a rock at the park, and he asked if he could come over for dinner this Saturday, and then he ran his hand up and down my arm, and I stammered “yes.” Idiot.

Maybe it will be okay. Sarah brought Harrison (who is a nice enough guy to deserve an upgrade from Boyfriend) here for four whole days, and their relationship is still intact. And my family acts normal, like, at least 80 percent of the time now. So the chances of Luke making it through this meal unscathed are pretty good, right?

I scurry back to the kitchen to check my eggplant lasagna. The entire house smells like basil, and the cheese is just brown around the edges. Right on time. Mama and Libby chop vegetables for a salad. My dad hasn't emerged from his office yet. Everything seems fine, but I'm still wary.

“Luke will be here in fifteen minutes,” I announce. “I think we need to have a debriefing or something. I'll go get Daddy.”

But before I can leave the kitchen, the doorbell chimes.

“Crap. He's early.” Why did I ever think this was a good idea?

“Sweetie, everything is going to be fine. Relax,” says Mama.

I open my mouth, but she puts her hands on my shoulders.

“Relax.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to get the door or should I get it?”

“I'll get the door. You get Daddy. And tell him he has to talk during dinner.”

Mama hides a smile. “I'll tell him.”

It's going to be okay.
It's going to be okay.
Libby hasn't done anything feral in at least a month. Mama is dressed like a Stepford wife right down to her pink peep-toe pumps, which means she's having a good day—she's nearly always having them now and it's almost too wonderful to believe. As long as my dad isn't silent, we're good. I open the door.

Luke is wearing khaki pants and holding a bouquet of sunflowers.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hey. Come on in.”

I usher him into the kitchen, where my mom is picking lint off my dad's shirt until she sees us.

“This is Luke,” I say.

My parents introduce themselves, Mama with exclamations over the flowers, Daddy with an awkward, no-eye-contact handshake.

“Wow, you don't look old enough to be Claire's mom,” Luke says.

I can't believe he went with such a cheesy line, but of course my mom gobbles it right up. He's been in my house for less than two minutes, and he's already gotten her approval. Maybe I was
worried over nothing. At least one of my family members is on Luke's side, and we haven't even started eating. Libby peeks around the corner at us, and I wave her over so I can introduce her. Luke shakes hands with her like she's a grown-up.

Dinner runs as smoothly as if I'd scripted it myself. The food is delicious—points for me. Luke asks Mama about her photography, and we chatter away without any lulls—points for him.

“What grade are you in, Libby?” he asks.

“Second.”

“Really? I thought you were going to say third.”

Libby sits up a little taller. Man, is he good with the ladies. Even ones who are eight years old.

“How do you like it?” he asks.

“It's pretty good. Except for this girl Kenzie. She's always making fun of me.”

“Aw. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay.” Libby pops a bite of lasagna in her mouth. “I'm going to put chewing gum in her hair.”

“You most certainly are not,” says Mama. “We are going to get through the rest of this school year without another in-school suspension.”

Luke leans toward Libby. “You could put a cricket in her lunch box, and if you're stealth about it, no one would know it was you,” he whispers. “I can pick some up from the bait shop.”

She grins from ear to ear. He's got Libby. Now all he needs is Dad. His chances don't look good, though. My father has spent most of the meal with his eyes on his dinner plate, speaking only
when Mama and I address him directly and give him pointed looks. If I were Luke, I wouldn't bother. But he seems determined.

“Claire tells me you're an architect.”

It takes my dad a second to realize this requires an answer.

“Oh. Yes. Yes, I am.”

“I think architecture is a fascinating field.”

“Thank you.” Dad chews a bite of garlic bread with an agitated look on his face. “So, you're Claire's boyfriend?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'm just asking because I could have sworn I saw you with Claire's friend, Megan, who lives across the street. In her driveway.”

What is he doing?! Of all the things I wouldn't want to talk about at dinner. There's a silence longer than the Mississippi during which you can hear bites of salad being chewed and silverware clinking against plates. I start to mumble a reply when Luke cuts me off.

“Megan and I used to date. I wanted to be with Claire since the day I met her, but Megan can be, well, persuasive. I'm so glad Claire's my girlfriend now.” He holds my hand under the table. “I'm a lucky guy.”

Then he flashes a dimpled smile at Mama and Libby, and they sigh in unison. My dad merely grunts and shovels in another bite of lasagna.

The rest of the meal passes without incident. We eat some key lime pie. Luke thanks my family for having him. I walk him to the door.