26 Kisses (6 page)

“Yeah, right. They never go anywhere.” I check to make sure Jeffrey is following us. “Got those pictures posted yet?”

“Yeah, duh. Seventeen likes so far. It’s not possible to take a bad picture in that place.”

I stare up at the brick facade of my dad’s mansion, the edge of Lake Michigan just visible through the carefully pruned shrubs and trees that crowd the yard. It’s a few miles and a world away from my mom’s small three-bedroom, one-bath house with the peeling paint and matted carpet.

I shake my head as Jeffrey pushes past me to climb into the car. Dad always made it pretty clear we weren’t good enough. Even when I got an A on my report card, he wanted an A+. The dishes were never done to his satisfaction; our rooms were never quite clean. Mom used to tease him, call him Mr. OCD. She thought it was funny that they were total opposites, that he used vacuuming as a stress-relieving activity while she could go for weeks without remembering to make the bed.

Everything he’s got looks pretty perfect now. As we’re walking past the manicured flower beds, I step off the path, letting my flip-flop come down on one flawless marigold, smashing its golden petals into the dirt.

As we pull into the driveway at home, Jeffrey slides out of the car and slams the door too hard behind him.

“Hey!” Mel calls out the window. “Show some respect!”

He rolls his eyes and saunters up the driveway, his shorts barely clinging to his hips and showing off a generous amount of his blue plaid boxers.

“Remind me why guys are supposedly so great?” I say.

Mel waves her hand. “Come on. You know Jeffrey doesn’t count. He’s not really a
guy
yet. He’s still a boy.” She glances up into the rearview mirror—checking to see if Seth is home?

I clear my throat, and her eyes flick away. “Hey, do you want to come over to my house?” she asks. “My mom’s making tamales for lunch.”

“Definitely.” It’s a sin to turn down Manuela’s tamales. “Let me just run in and get my phone off the charger.”

I push open the car door and jog up the driveway. Jeffrey has already installed himself on the couch in the living room, the TV blaring and his eyes glued to his phone as his thumbs move over the screen.

“Mom!” I go into the kitchen and find her sitting at the table, still wearing her Prancercise clothes from this morning and eating a bowl of oatmeal.

“Hey,” she says, scraping her spoon across the china. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” I say, unplugging my phone and glancing at the screen. No new texts. I’m relieved and then annoyed. It would have been nice for Adam to at least make the effort, so I could be the one to decide whether to respond. I do, however, have a new friend request on Facebook. From Killian.

Mom pushes the bowl away and reaches for a banana. “Jeffrey was grumbling about something when he came in. He mentioned a party?”

“Oh.” I shove my phone into my pocket. “Dad was just telling us all this stuff we have to do with him this summer. Lila’s having some dumb work thing at their house, and then there’s Kaylee’s birthday, which is fine, obviously. And then Dad’s family reunion.”

“Family reunion?”

“Yep. Next month.” As if it’s not awkward enough that I don’t really get along with my dad as it is, I’ll have to go hang out with him in front of all the relatives I barely know and pretend to be a big, happy family.

“Gosh, already? How often do they do those things, every five years? It seems like we were just there, our eyeballs burning when Uncle Eddie took his shirt off to get into the pool.”

Mom sounds lighthearted, but she puts the banana down, and her smile dims. Five years ago it was becoming obvious—even to twelve-year-old me—that my parents weren’t going to be together for much longer. Dad must have moved out just a couple of months after that family reunion, and then he married Lila a year after that.

“I know.” I shift my weight. “Anyway, I’m going over to Mel’s, if that’s okay.”

“Of course!” Mom flashes a bright smile. “Go ahead.”

I hesitate for a moment, one foot already out the door. “You sure?”

“Definitely,” she says firmly, and I head back out to the car.

Mel’s typing furiously on her phone, but she locks it and shoves it into her bra as I open the passenger side door.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says, but her eyes flick back up to the rearview mirror and I could almost swear I see the curtain in Seth’s bedroom window twitch.

Mel clears her throat and starts the car, backing quickly down the driveway. “So have you changed your mind yet?” she asks as we’re driving through my neighborhood.

I frown and pull out my phone, dragging my finger across the screen. “Changed my mind about what?”

“Vee! Making a summer romance plan. Taking charge of your future. Scouting out hot guys to hook up with. Whatever you want to call it.”

I scratch a mosquito bite on my ankle. “No, I have not changed my mind. And by the way, Adam has not texted, which is not helping to make me feel any better about the situation. I mean, he said he was going to call. So not even texting makes him a total ass, right?”

“Hmmm.” Mel furrows her eyebrows. “Maybe he’s busy today. Or,” she points out, “he could still be asleep. I wish I were.”

I sigh. “You know, I just don’t see how kissing a million different boys is going to make me feel better about Mark dumping me and triggering my OCD about an uncertain future, and dying alone and unloved.”

Mel glances at me. “Didn’t you feel awesome last night when Adam kissed you? Like you were maybe ready to start thinking about moving on?”

“Yes,” I admit. “But I don’t feel ready now. I feel pathetic. And desperate.”

“Vee.” Mel pounds the steering wheel in exasperation. “
Desperate
is sitting at home for the next three months, regretting the past three years of your life.
Desperate
is stalking Mark’s social media and obsessing over what he’s doing right this minute.
Desperate
is clinging to the idea he might someday want to get back together with you, and putting everything on hold until that day arrives, except it probably never will, and then you
will
die alone and unloved.” She pauses. “Except for me, of course. I’ll still love you.”

“You know,” I say slowly, “someone else actually has kissed me since Adam did last night.”

Mel gasps. “What? Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” I grin. “You missed it, but my dad gathered up the courage to actually touch me, and I think his lips may have made contact with my head.”

“Oh, come on,” Mel says. “That doesn’t count.” She goes quiet for a moment. “But actually . . .”

“What?” I ask.

“Shut up for a minute. I think I have an idea.” She turns up the radio and refuses to say anything more, a mischievous smile on her face.

It’s not a long drive to Mel’s house, but our neighborhoods are so different, we might as well live twenty miles apart. My subdivision is newish, cheap, and cookie-cutter. Hers is old, picturesque, and quirky. Just a few blocks from downtown Butterfield, the Flaherty home is a small cottage with a peaked roof and a yard that’s almost entirely filled up with Manuela’s vegetable garden. Beans, peas, and even cucumbers grow up giant trellises nailed to the wooden siding, zucchini and squash plants flop their giant leaves over the ground, and lettuce, carrots, and radishes fill the spaces in between.

“Pepper?” Mel grabs a tiny jalapeño off a plant near the front door and holds it out to me, then crushes it between her teeth when I shake my head. I love her mom’s food, but I don’t have the same kind of heat tolerance Mel’s Mexican side has built into her.

“So tell me your big idea.” I cross my arms over my chest.

Mel takes another exaggerated bite of jalapeño, grinning. “Actually, I think I’ll just keep you in suspense for a while.”

I swear she enjoys torturing me. “Mel—”

“
Mija!
And Veda!” Manuela pops out from behind a tall bush, watering can in hand. Dirt is streaked across the front of her white T-shirt, which pulls tight across her chest and stomach, and her smile grows even wider when she sees Mel chomping on the pepper.

“
Tienen hambre?
Do you want something to eat?”

“No, Mamá.” Mel pushes open the front door and motions me inside. “We’ll eat later, at lunch.”

“You sure?” Manuela’s eyebrows dip, unwilling to believe we’re not starving to death and in desperate need of a full meal at ten thirty in the morning.

“I’m fine, thanks.” I wave as Mel yanks my arm and pulls me through the door and into the riot of color that is her living room. Bright yellow walls, a tufted turquoise sofa, and a green-tiled fireplace fill the space, and about a dozen mirrors bounce the color and light streaming in from the giant windows around in a million different ways.

“Come on,” I say, hands on my hips. “Spit it out. You’ve built up the suspense long enough.”

Mel shakes her head. “Hang on. First you have to listen to this,” she says, pushing me back against the sofa so my knees give way and I fall onto the squashy cushions. “I think it’s really good. Like, really.” She drops her guitar strap over one shoulder and sneaks a glance at me, her hair falling over one eye. “Ready?”

I sigh. “Ready.”

She hesitates for a moment, her fingers poised over the strings. “I need you to tell me the truth, okay? Don’t be afraid to say if it sucks.”

“It won’t suck,” I say automatically, which earns me another long look. “Okay,” I finally say, pulling my knees up and tucking my feet under me. “I promise to tell you if it sucks. Even though it won’t.”

Mel nods and hunches over the guitar, avoiding my eyes as she picks out the first chords. It sounds like the same song she was playing at my house this morning when I woke up, but rounded out and filled in. My annoyance melts away as her fingers fly over the strings. Her head drops lower as she strums, humming a melody over the top of the chords that reminds me of the way sunlight sparkles on Lake Michigan on a perfectly cloudless day, or the sound of Kaylee laughing as I tickle her. Or the way I felt when Mark first held my hand.

I don’t realize my eyes are closed until the music stops.

“Well?” Mel’s voice is soft.

I open my eyes, and she fixes her gaze on the wall behind me.

“You can tell me if it’s terrible. Please tell me.”

“Have you played it for Seth?”

Mel’s shoulders jerk, and she sets the guitar down quickly. “Why would I play it for Seth?”

I narrow my eyes. “Um, because you and Seth play all your songs for each other.”

“And for you,” she says.

“I guess.”

There’s an awkward pause, and Mel stands up, brushing her hands off on her shorts. “Whatever. It’s terrible. Just forget about it.”

“Hey.” I reach over and grab her hand. “It’s not terrible. And you should play it for him.”

She hesitates for a moment, then shrugs and pulls away. “I actually am kind of hungry. You want something to eat?”

As soon as Mel opens the refrigerator, Manuela’s sixth sense kicks in, and she comes bustling in from the yard, wiping her dirty hands on her shorts. “No, no, no,
mija
, let me get it for you.” She nudges Mel away from the fridge and begins pulling out plates of food and jars of condiments.

We eat chips and salsa, and then some fruit salad, and Manuela is about to force a plate of homemade cherry bars on us when Bob comes rushing into the kitchen, his arms full of clipboards and folders bursting with paper.

“Here’s my favorite one.” Manuela plants a kiss on his cheek. “What’s going on?”

Bob tosses the papers onto the counter, nearly knocking over a jar of extra hot salsa. “Heather quit.” He shoots a look at Mel, who shrugs.

“Told you she would.” She picks up a chip and takes an exaggerated bite. “You should have listened to me.”

Bob slumps against the counter. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I need someone else out there.”

Mel glances at me and opens her mouth, but I kick her leg, and all that comes out is a little yelp.

He rubs his eyes. “You girls don’t happen to know anyone looking for work, do you?”

“No,” I say firmly, just as Mel says, “Yes.”

I glare at her as Bob looks back and forth between us.

“Vee needs a job,” Mel says finally.

“Weren’t you working at the movie theater?” Manuela asks.

“I quit,” I say, pushing my crumb-strewn plate away. “Long story.”

“Well . . .” Bob bows his head and laces his fingers together in mock prayer. “If you wanted to, Veda, it would be a huge help. You know the job—driving the canoes back up the river, hauling inner tubes. Killian would be working with you, so he can do the heavy lifting. Nine dollars and fifty cents an hour.”

Mel wiggles her eyebrows and mouths,
Killian
, at me. I try to ignore her but feel my cheeks heating up.

“Take a couple of days to think about it,” Bob finally says, although I can tell it’s costing him everything he has not to keep pressing me to accept then and there.

Mel leans over and gives me a light punch on the shoulder. I shift away from her and rest my chin on my hands. “No, I don’t need to think about it. Of course I’ll do it, Bob. Thanks so much for the offer.”