The ABC's of Kissing Boys (4 page)

My vision was, of course, a gross exaggeration, since Westley and Buttercup were madly in love, and I was just madly committed to fooling Heartless. Still, it was something to aim for—and far better than worrying about a situation I could do very little about.

Knowing that Chrissandra would turn pea green with envy when I lip- smacked with Luke didn't hurt, either. Like so many others, she had it bad for him, and it amazed her that I didn't. I couldn't count how many times she'd asked if I'd accidentally- on- purpose seen parts of Luke I shouldn't have when he'd slept at our house, or if I'd ever overheard what really and truly turned him on in a girl.

Like I'd repeat those things if I had.

But now that she held my fate in her hands, I wished I did have dirt to dish. Anything to make her get behind me again. Because, as part of Chrissandra's inner circle, you were rewarded with unconditional protection from the cruel, cruel world. Sort of like being a goon for Tony Soprano, only with fewer
F
words and no guns. But like with Tony, when Chrissandra turned her back on you, you knew you'd better run.

A voice from my past blew like a hurricane through my thoughts. Something about
What goes around comes around,
but it was gone almost as fast as it had arrived, leaving me with sort of a bad taste in my mouth that might as easily have been from all the Starbursts I'd eaten. It seemed like a good time to put it all aside for a bit and wander downstairs toward the kitchen noise. Maybe dinner would help me feel a little better.

My mother, Joan Stanhope, stood before the open refrigerator in her stocking feet, the sleeves of her white blouse rolled back. She's one of the few grown- ups I've known who truly love their work—she teaches kindergarteners. And even though this week she was only doing classroom setup, it was still her style to give it her all and come home exhausted.

“What's the verdict on dinner?” I asked, and moved in for a fast hug, which included a welcome blast of refrigerated air.

My mother smiled. It was a pretty smile—white and wide. People said I had it, too, but I couldn't see it. “Omelets?”

“Yeah, but isn't Dad weird about having ‘breakfast for dinner’?”

“It's either that,” she said wearily, “or I go to the store.”

“Well, we could tell him that someone from the city was out to inspect the Murphys’ yard. He'll be so overjoyed, he won't notice what he's eating.”

She shot me a look. Ever since my father got promoted to regional manager at his insurance office, she'd instigated this strict “Do not stress out your father; he gets enough of that at work” rule. I'd noticed that lately it had been extended to not joking about him or talking bad about him behind his back, too, as if somehow those negative vibes would find their way to his psyche through the cosmos.

“Just saying,” I said, and shrugged.

She moved the egg carton to the counter and changed the subject to ask about my day. I thought about telling her about the gardeners’ truck, but that circled my thoughts back to the eyebrow kiss and neighbor boy's strange offer to teach me about kissing. Something I did not want to dwell on.

Instead, I talked about my idea for a first- day- of-school outfit (one that I was sure Chrissandra and the girls would love).

“Anna Banana's has this fab- u skirt in the window,” I said, using Chrissandra's favorite word. “Gray, with these ballerina- like frills peeking out of the bottom. With a tank top, and maybe a black cardigan and my rhinestone ballet flats, it could be really cute.”

“ Uh- huh. But how are you going to be paying for that?”

I did the
duh
look. She'd pay—like always. My parents were pretty generous when it came to my clothing allowance. But instead of grinning, she gave me a serious look, changing my
duh
to
huh?

“Where are you standing with soccer right now?” she asked, which seemed like a radical change of subjects but which my heart of hearts told me was tragically related. “Are you still planning to show up for that first JV practice?”

“Yeah,” I said carefully.

“Okay, then. You can use my debit card. But Parker, we've talked about this. Your father and I want you to keep playing, even if it's on JV. Exercise, teamwork and staying busy are important components of high school success.”

Yeah, yeah. I'd heard this several times the past couple of weeks. And filed it away with their other pre packaged lectures about always doing one's best, reaching for the stars, saving oneself for marriage, etc. But this was the first time I'd heard an “or else” attached.

“So you're saying,” I said, and let out a laugh at the unfairness and sheer irony, “if I quit JV, no more new outfits?”

“I'm reminding you that your father and I have certain standards for you and your brother, and the ‘extras’ only come after you've met them. Cute outfits are extra.”

I felt my jaw drop to my feet. If I stayed on JV to please my parents, I could have a great wardrobe—and no friends. If I quit to try to get my friends back, I'd have to wear last year's rags, which would
so
not fly with Chrissandra. She'd give me the boot anyway.

The muscles in my shoulders and neck felt like they were creeping together to form one long, angry knot. And a wave of anger and panic and probably some other emotions I was too upset to identify swept me toward the back door. I grabbed the handle.

“Dinner's going to be ready in fifteen minutes.”

Like I could think about eating.

“Parker, where are you going?”

“Out,” I said, and slammed the door behind me.

Somewhere. Anywhere.

I stomped across the side lawn, the pressure of my footsteps reverberating in my head. I looked to see the white two- story house across the street, all pristine and perfect, thanks to my father's revenge obsession.

Cringing at what I suddenly knew I needed to do, I crossed the asphalt to go knock on the door. I needed to apologize for the rude way I'd left things before and see if Tristan was still game for helping me.

Because right now, Tristan Murphy seemed like my best shot at saving what remained of my life.

Eyes
:
Closed is the preference of
sixty-six percent of kissers.

A
s if things weren't weird enough, Mr. Murphy answered the door. He was tall, like Tristan, but with less hair and more nose. And, incidentally, without the red horns that Dad seemed to think he hid under his Twins baseball hat. After a cursory glance at me, Mr. Murphy arched a brow.

“Tell your father I've got the sprinkler heads on order and that County Ordinance Six Sixteen states I have thirty days to comply.”

“Uh … I don't know anything about that. I'm here to speak to Tristan.”

“Tristan?” He shifted his weight. “You know Tristan?”

I guess he didn't remember that long- ago summer barbecue. I nodded. If I got my way, I was about to know his son a whole lot better.

Mr. Murphy backed away, and in as little time as it took to clear my throat, Tristan filled the doorway. He wore a gray T-shirt that said “DeGroot High School Water Polo” and a curious expression. Fleetingly, I wondered what he'd had on earlier and realized that all I could remember was how nicely he had filled out. I'd mostly been looking away—or close up, into his eyes. Could this
day get
any more bizarre?

“Parker,” he said, sounding remotely amused.

“Yeah. Uh, you up for a walk?”

He nodded as if it was the most normal thing he'd ever been asked and followed me outside. In unspoken agreement, we headed toward the street corner, which led out to the harbor.

“So how come you're not riding that high- tech bike tonight?”

I shot him a look. I knew I deserved at least one jab for my behavior earlier, but if Tristan and I were going to work together—especially with him in the leadership role—I was going to have to keep a strong upper hand.

“I thought I'd rely on my own two legs this time,” I told him, then offered up a sweet smile. I'd seen Chrissandra wrap guys around her little finger a million times, so, while bald- faced manipulation didn't come naturally to me, I had studied at the feet of the master. “And my big mouth—to say sorry about before. I know I kind of went off on you.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Kind of.”

“I'm under a lot of pressure right now.”

“ Uh- huh, I know—trying to get your hands on that new guy.”

Wow, he wasn't going to make this easy. But I no longer had time for games. This was about life and death. At least of my social life.

“Look, I came to apologize.
And
to ask for your help. When Luke Anderson buys a kiss from me at the sports-fair kissing booth, I need to make sure he publicly gets his money's worth.”

“Huh?” He stopped midstride. “Luke Anderson? Oh, the prom king. The college guy. I see…. So you're playing in a whole new league.”

“It's actually way more complicated than that.”

He fell back into step with me, and we crossed the grassy knoll that overlooked the harbor. An older couple sat on a bench, looking out at the choppy waters, while a little kid from the end of our street walked his dog.

“It all comes down to the fact,” I said, and took a deep breath—it would never be easy to say—“that I didn't make varsity soccer.”

Even though he looked confused as to what varsity had to do with kissing a prom king (as well he should have), his tone softened. “That's gotta suck.”

“Yeah, and since there's a player limit, Coach says my best bet's to sit tight on JV and wait to see if there's an opening.”

“Wow, a junior on JV. That's got to be about as embarrassing as kissing your sister.”

I laughed; I couldn't help it. He pretty much hit that on the nose. Then I regrouped. “Sadly, I just found out that my parents are all for that, too. And my friends aren't helping any. They're basically ignoring me until I get moved up.”

He made a sympathetic noise.

“The only other person who has done anything to help is my brother. He's come up with a crazy- but- just-might- work plan and talked Luke into jumping on board.”

Wind whipped off the water, tousling Tristan's hair and blowing mine around my head like a turban. I pushed some strands away and saw the baffled look on his face.

“So, what?” he asked, his brow wrinkled. “I'm not really getting the connection here.”

“It's more straightforward than you'd think,” I said. And then, as we strolled the walkway along the harbor's edge—under the bridge, across the jetty, toward the lighthouse—I spelled out the specifics.

“Actually,” I concluded, pausing against the concrete along the wall of the jetty, “I think it might work. It's a little crappy, since it
does
involve someone getting bumped off the team, but I'm hoping Hartley will take care of that herself.”

Tristan did a “not bad, not bad” purse of his mouth, adding that he'd heard how important prime parking spaces were at DeGroot High School.

“But what I don't get,” he said, his back pressed against the wall and his eyes on me, “is where I come in. How can I help you?”

My lungs suddenly felt tight. I didn't want to have to say it out loud, but no one had ever said this would be pretty. “I want you to show me what you learned in camp. Like before. Only … you know, everything, so I can choose what will work best with Luke.”

I thought he might laugh or maybe even make a lips-first lunge at me. I mean, freshmen aren't exactly known for their maturity and patience, right? What I did not anticipate was a creased brow, followed by a slow shake of his head.

“You mean your ex didn't show you all you need to know?”

Ugh—that again. I think Tristan thought more about my ex than I did, and he'd never even met the guy. “He lived an hour away.”

“Still …”

I shook my head. “Even when we were together, we didn't have much, you know, alone time.”

“The guy didn't make it his mission to find times and places to be with you? Good thing you dumped his ass.”

The breakup was mutual—something had just flickered and died out—but it didn't serve my purposes to go into the details. Tristan needed to think of me as a take-charge person.

“Look,” I said instead, “this arrangement has to be a total secret. If anyone finds out about these ‘lessons,’ the whole thing blows up in my face. Like, nuclear, don't-even-
bother
-trying-to-get-my-friends-back big.”

He shrugged, like,
Well, duh.

“And remember,” I went on, “this is work. And nothing to do with fun or taking things any further.”

“Work,” he repeated, looking out at the water. “So what's in it for me?”

I felt my jaw drop. What—making out with a popular (or at least formerly popular) junior wasn't “payment” enough? Thankfully, I managed a more politically correct response. “Well, since Luke's got all my money, I'm broke. But I suppose I could pay you a hundred bucks. In installments,” I added.

“I don't want your money, Parker.” The light in his dark eyes seemed to flicker, then return in full wattage. “I'll tell you what I do want.”

I bit back a smile. Oh, I knew what he wanted, too, and I had to give him credit for dreaming so big! But the good news was that his alleged desire for my bod shifted the power right back to me. Where I wanted it. Where it belonged. (Chrissandra would be proud of me.) So I smiled and I wagged a finger. “Careful, Sparky. Don't say anything you're going to regret and ruin this thing before it even starts.”

“What I want is for you to acknowledge me in school.”

I studied his face.
Huh?

“Say hello when we pass in the hall. Pause when I'm talking to a bunch of guys, and ask or tell me something. Show people I am worth knowing.”

Wow.
My head was spinning. This guy was unpredictable.