The ABC's of Kissing Boys (2 page)

Butterfly Kisses:
When two people put their open eyes close
together and flutter their eyelashes.

S
ince I was in the neighborhood, I made a pit stop at my brother's dorm. I found him on the side patio, slapping a coat of paint on a chest of drawers I recognized from our attic. I knew he'd said he wanted his dorm room to have a cleaner look this year, but I had thought he'd simply meant getting the pizza boxes and dirty clothes off the carpet. Good to see him really stepping up.

“Luke's in,” I told him, balancing the bike and myself on the pavement.

With golden curls he hadn't cut in ages and bushy blond eyebrows, Clayton had started to look like the Cowardly Lion from
The Wizard of Oz.
Especially when he smiled and his cheeks puffed up, like now. “I knew we could count on him.”

“But he says I have to work on my kissing skills, that I have to make it look real.”

He paused mid- brushstroke and glanced up at me. “He's probably right. But just an FYI? Brothers don't generally like to talk about their sisters kissing people. Even when it's business rather than pleasure.”

“Oh, are you suggesting I take this little problem to Dad?” I asked in mock innocence.

Paintbrush firmly between two fingers, Clayton flung his arms up over his head as if a bomb were about to fall from the sky. I couldn't help but laugh at his expression.

“God, no!” he yelled, then chuckled and dropped his arms. “I'll let you take care of that kissing stuff, Parker, while I keep my mind on the legal angle and how we're going to hang your coach with her own words.”

“Sounds fair.” I grinned and hopped back on my bike.

What was that saying about all being fair in love and war? Well, this qualified as war.

Minutes later, I was in a nearby supermarket checkout line, my head down, mentally willing the lady ahead of me to hurry. I'd been embarrassed buying feminine-hygiene products in the past, but that was nothing compared with buying an economy- sized bag of Starbursts and a basket of bing cherries. If Luke's ex knew they were good kissing- improvement devices, others had to, too, right? I mean, come on, who buys bing cherries?

I half expected some idiot to notice and toss me a tube of Chap Stick or the address of a support group for bad kissers. What I didn't expect was to recognize the cashier. With her trademark thatch of dark hair and the Madonna- like beauty mark on her cheek, my middle school best friend and current
ex–
best friend, Becca Benvenuto, was unmistakable.

We'd met the week before seventh grade, grabbing the same size- four extralong jeans in Anna Banana's Boutique in Old Town. Then, recognizing each other in class, we'd started talking and became friends—soon, best friends. And by eighth grade, we had this thing going where we'd simply sign notes “Your BFF.”

But high school has a way of steering people in different directions, and while I'd fallen in with the soccer girls, she'd gone … well, somewhere else. I mean, whenever I saw her in the halls or cafeteria, she was with people.

“Hey, Becca,” I said, smiling big to will her attention to my face and away from my odd purchases.

“Parker.” She nodded, reaching for my family- sized candy bag. “What are you doing all the way over here?”

My brain reeled. I didn't want any “proof” of my planning meeting with Luke. “Visiting Clayton at school,” I said, only half lying.

“What's he now, a junior?”

“Sophomore.”

But instead of keeping up her end of the conversation, she just grunted and read me the total. Fine by me. I sooo wanted this over. “Okay, then,” I said, a little loud, as I paid. “Uh, have a nice end of summer. See you at school next week, huh?”

Becca looked at me, straining, as if a reply was circling in her head but couldn't find its way out. I was so sure she was seeing through my purchases. And how embarrassing would that be? Then all she did was say “Uh- huh,” hand me my sack, and turn to her next customer.

As I left, I told myself I was paranoid. It made sense that a stud like Luke and the girls he'd go for would be wise to things guy- girl intimate. But that didn't necessarily hold for the average person. Like, look at Chrissandra, who was totally popular. And … Mandy and Elaine and me. We held our own in the status-sphere, but even in all our sleepover chats, we'd never talked about cherries and Starbursts.

My secret was still safe.

Traffic was backed up along the cobblestone- edged streets of Old Town, so I cut over to the industrial district. Aside from getting my fair share of exhaust fumes and hey- baby toots from truck drivers—I'd learned a long time ago that lecherous guys go for tall blondes—I made good time, even crossing the Aerial Lift Bridge to our Lake Superior island without having to wait for the bridge's midsection to rise to let a trawler or high- mast sailboat through.

I decided these were good signs, proof that everything was moving with me now rather than against me. And surely our neighbors’ gardeners, whose wooden-slatted truck had spit out freshly mowed grass onto the street that morning, had come back to clean up. I'd chased the truck down on my bike, soaring through two stop signs to make up for the fact that my wheels only went a fraction as fast as theirs.

They'd pulled their rickety truck over and listened while I'd huffed out my request. I knew I'd come off like a crazed neat freak, but the gardeners didn't work for my dad or Mr. Murphy, across the street, and didn't have a
clue
the can of worms they'd be opening if they left that mess in the street between our houses.

Rounding the corner of my street, I kept my gaze low, looking for residual blades of bright green. But my attention was quickly stolen by the tall, broad figure in the center of the street, pushing a broom. I realized with a sinking feeling that the gardeners had laughed at the silly girl on the old bike and driven off.

And that my across- the- street neighbor, Tristan Murphy, was taking matters into his own hands (literally) to help keep the peace.

I had to thank him. Which was even further out of my comfort zone than buying learn- to- kiss items. I mean, aside from the proximity of our houses and the fact that our fathers were embroiled in a ridiculous, unreasonable and thoroughly embarrassing feud, Tristan and I had nothing in common. We passed silently, like ships in the night, sometimes while he was shooting baskets in his driveway, sometimes waiting for the bridge to rise, sometimes in town. And breaking that silence would be awkward, to say the least.

I was two grades ahead of him in school, although he'd told me at a neighborhood barbecue when he and his dad had first moved to DeGroot that he'd started school late because of a fall birthday. I had a fall birthday, too, and over Orange Crushes, guacamole and chips, we'd calculated that he was only 364, days younger than me.

But whatever. For the past couple of years, he'd been at the middle school. And now it was almost worse. He was a freshman at DHS. And
freshman
was a very dirty word to me right now. It went arm in arm with
JV
and “friends nervously avoiding me.” I didn't want to admit freshmen existed, let alone speak to one. God, I felt like a loser.

Reasonably, I did know it wasn't his fault that Heartless had lost her mind. And he
was
out here doing reconnaissance to prevent World War III from breaking out on Millard Circle, so breaking our silence was the least I could do.

“Hey,” I said, my brakes squeaking to a curbside stop.

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.

“H
ow… 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?”