Authors: Robin Mellom
be gentle and when to put on the pressure. I had to know if this would translate into a perfect kissing technique.
A low grumble in my stomach interrupted my Ian daydream, reminding me of another reason I was eager to get to the pre-party: Dan’s parents were preparing appetizers.
I wasn’t sure I could make it until dinner without a quick snack, because without proper food intake I start to make bad decisions.
In addition to the food and the kiss I was going to rock Ian’s world with, I was also excited because Hailey was going to be there, my best friend—my best
girl
friend—and she was Dan’s date. I liked him because he was the second nicest guy on the planet, and also because he had a kick-ass pool and Hailey and I had an open invitation to swim whenever we wanted. Dan always got us whatever we wanted to eat and drink (orange soda and licorice, thank you), then he’d go inside to play video games and let us have our “girl time” by the pool. Fabulous.
But it felt like over the past year Hailey and I had detached from the hips and only saw each other on rare occasions—
those seven minutes when our lunch periods overlapped, the occasional
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
marathon, and when it was warm enough to swim.
And I hadn’t been to a party in months. Operation Lips Locked was in effect, and parties were like crystal meth to a girl in love with kissing. So Hailey partied solo. Lately, since I carpooled to school with Ian, and she drove with Dan, 41
most of our friendship was spent waving at each other from the passenger seats of other people’s cars.
I missed her. But not just that . . . I hadn’t even told her that my feelings for Ian had changed. I wasn’t sure how she’d react. Would she be happy for me? Or feel left out?
“Here’s your corsage.” Ian pul ed out a flower, but it wasn’t a daisy.
It was a rose. Not a white one, for friendship. Not a red one, for love. It was a rose that had been spray-painted glittery blue. The
exact
color of my dress.
“A blue rose?” I swal owed hard. What was he trying to say to me with a blue rose? “For . . . patriotism?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” He pinned it on my dress, then leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Your mom said it had to be blue.”
“My
mom
said?!” I suddenly realized that al this blueness—his shoes, the flowers, the blue purse and watch now laid out on the kitchen table—had been Mom’s doing.
I was an only child, true, but her need to be involved was approaching Creepsvil e. She didn’t need to drape me in matchy-matchy “just like she wore” garb simply because I was her only living offspring. I wasn’t a dress-up dol . Put a sweater on the dog and leave me out of it, for crying out loud.
I quickly pul ed away, searching for a time machine portal—the only thing I figured that might save me—but that’s when the corsage pin, which seemed to be the size of a samurai sword, jammed into my col arbone.
42
It took both my mom and Ian applying direct pressure for five minutes to get the bleeding to stop. But during that time, Mom explained it was true she had looked up his number on my cel and given him a quick cal to explain the beauty of roses that matched a dress.
She actual y said those words.
Beauty of roses that matched
a dress.
“Mom, it doesn’t match the dress. It looks like it’s
part
of the dress!” I lowered my voice and said, “This isn’t your prom, Mom. It’s mine.”
She nodded, looking embarrassed. I felt bad for saying it.
“It’s my fault. I can take it off.” Ian reached out, and that’s when I noticed his face had lost color. He looked mortified. Crap. Whenever Ian makes a mistake he always feels nauseous. One time just before a track meet, he realized he had worn the wrong color jersey, and he puked in the bushes.
Mom didn’t need to cal him and get involved. He didn’t need to feel this way.
This ship needed to get turned around, quick. “I don’t mind. I like it,” I lied. The color slowly came back to Ian’s face. Whew.
Mom went back to stirring her pot of curry. Under her breath she said, “I shouldn’t have gotten involved.” I walked up behind her. “It’s okay, Mom.” But it wasn’t.
“I won’t cal him again,” she said as she blew on her spoon and tasted. “I’l delete his number from my phone. I 43
shouldn’t have it.” When Mom felt forced into a corner she suddenly became the founder of the Melodramatic Moment of the Month Club. Time to pul her back out.
“You should have his number.” I stood behind her, resting my chin on her shoulder and whispered, “For emergencies.
Okay?”
She blinked repetitively, which meant she was thinking.
She stirred. Blew. Tasted. Then said quietly, “Just for emergencies.”
I grabbed Ian by the arm and told him we needed to go, that we didn’t want to be late for the pre-party, and promised Mom, again, that I’d be home by two, and reminded her to put Sol in the backyard or else he’d pee on the carpet.
Mom always chose his warmth and coziness over his bodily functions.
“But he’l get cold,” she complained. “We’l both be gone for most of the night.”
“Even if you come back by ten, he stil needs to be able to pee, Mom. Leave him in the backyard. Lock the gate.” I couldn’t believe Sol’s wel -being was always in my hands.
And I couldn’t believe we were having this discussion in front of Ian. Like he wanted to know these details.
My face flushed. I reached up and touched my cheek and realized what was happening . . . I was embarrassed!
It didn’t make sense. Talking about pee was making me embarrassed? Before tonight Ian had farted and burped in front of me countless times, and I may have done the same 44
in an emergency moment here and there, but neither of us hardly even blinked.
Except we had now clearly moved past the Just Friends stage, because my face flushed when I discussed dog pee in front of him. Oh, lord. There was no going back.
“I worked at the dog pound one summer,” Ian volunteered. “So be sure to lock the gate. I spent most of my summer chasing down lost dogs who got out because of a gust of wind.”
“Now see”—Mom sunk her chin into her hand—“that is such a fulfil ing job. Taking care of others.” She was looking at me as if I were supposed to respond,
Yes, he’s perfect. Let’s
gift wrap him.
But I already knew that. I didn’t need her approval on this one.
I real y couldn’t stand and watch her dote on him anymore.
Especially because I knew if she got any more comfortable, she might start in with her story about—
“Did I ever tel you I was elected prom queen?”
“Mom, no.”
Ian’s face lit up. “Oh, you
were
?” I held my hand up. “Don’t encourage her.” He ignored me and slid into a kitchen chair. “Go on.” Ian has this thing with listening to people’s stories.
He loves it when people talk about their past—it utterly fascinates him. Like if we are in a coffee shop, nine times out of ten he is able to strike up a conversation with a random stranger and get them to tell some bizarre story about how 45
they once sat next to an NFL quarterback on a plane, or how they single-handedly got an entire room of stockbrokers to strip and sing show tunes. The stuff he found out about people was always random.
When Mom started up with her “I was elected prom queen” story, Ian beamed like Rudolph on Christmas Eve.
And so Mom went on with her old, sad story about how she was chosen prom queen, but when she went up on stage she grabbed the microphone and made a public service announcement about the benefits of using public transportation and riding bikes, but this was the generation of the V-8 Trans-Am with gold trim, so the only applause she got came from the chaperones.
Ian turned to me, smirking, which meant a setup. “What are you going to say in your acceptance speech tonight?” I tilted my head and played right along. “My fel ow students, as your prom queen, I declare that al future proms wil be bonfires on the beach with veggie burritos.” He shook his head. “According to your definition, we had prom last weekend. And the weekend before that.”
“Exactly. I’m a warm sweatshirt and bonfire kind of prom queen.”
He looked me up and down, then raised an eyebrow.
“Not tonight.”
Toe-dip.
Mom cleared her throat. “You were nominated for prom queen, sweetheart?”
46
“I nominated her,” Ian explained. “And so did Hailey, but Justina forced us to take her name off the bal ot. And I mean
actual
force. Her nails are pointy. She broke skin, Mrs.
Griffith.”
Oh lord, he was cute.
But being prom queen was not an item I wanted to check off on my Things To Do Before I Die list. Queen of the Daisies? Queen of al Black Boots? Now that I could handle.
Even though deep down, deep in the dirty soles of my crusty boots, I secretly did want to wear that prom queen crown. Only because I wanted Ian and me to be the couple that slow danced together while everyone watched and swayed along and said longingly, “Oh my god, they are the cutest couple.”
But the title of prom queen was always reserved for the most undeserving—whoever was enjoying the biggest scandal at the time would take the crown, it seemed. And I had my bet on Al yson or Brianna. Or possibly Trina because there was that recent champagne incident that ended up in her arrest. Al yson wore fake hair extensions, and Brianna was a bit of a rude slut, so the prom queen bar wasn’t raised very high at Huntington High.
So maybe I
would
make a good prom queen. But then again, if I did win, the entire school would be looking at me in this dress and these shoes. I glanced down at my outfit and suddenly became overwhelmed by my own blue-i-ness.
I was an Oompa-Loompa in formal wear.
47
This may have been a very bad mistake.
I pushed the crazy talk out of my head—literal y. . . . I pressed on my forehead with the palm of my hand to make the thoughts disappear. A technique that usual y worked, but not always. And not in this instance. Dang it. But the night had already started—there was no do-over. Sometimes you just have to work with what you have. Thankful y I had watched enough
Project Runway
to know that.
I quickly snatched my purse and looped my arm through Ian’s. “Let’s go, Stainfighter.”
We waved to Mom as we headed down the driveway. She stood watching us, stil pressing her lips together tightly to stop the quiver. She didn’t even notice Sol licking the spoon in her hand.
That’s my dog. Badly behaved, but a resourceful little sucker. He’s not just a dog to me, he’s people. “Good boy, Sol.”
Just before we got to the car, I turned to Ian. “You didn’t
have
to get me a blue corsage just because my mom cal ed.
You could’ve said no.”
“Like I’m going to say no to your mother. She’s your mother. She’s Peg Griffith! Phlebotomist of the year!” I shoved him. “Shut up, goof.”
“I’m not saying no to Peg. Even though I wish I would’ve said no to that curry.”
I smiled. “She was never going to give you a choice. Peg is eager.”
48
Which was exactly why I looked like the Uni-Color-Bomber on my prom night.
“Can I talk now?” He was bouncing on his toes.
I folded my arms, preparing for what he was about to say, then nodded.
“Two things. One, we’re going to dance to a Journey song tonight—I don’t care how much you protest, I will dance you into submission—and second, I brought you a peanut butter cookie in case you get hungry and turn al old-man cranky on me.”
This made me smile. I liked that he was prepared for my low-blood sugar moments. It made me happy with my decision to make this the night we would final y kiss.
“Oh wait,” he added. “There’s a third thing.” I looked up.
“The color.” He gently lifted my skirt up high, but not
too
high, then let it fal back softly onto my thighs. “You look . . . nice.”
Nice. Did he say
nice
?! What does that mean? Boring?
Uninteresting? A dirt clod? A lentil?!
He must have sensed my raging silent monologue, because he grabbed my hand, led me to the car, then leaned over and said in a very luscious (in my opinion) voice, “You’re not like any other girl, Justina. Thank God.”
Oh my word, I have been kiss-deprived long enough.
It was time for me to put Ian in his correct kissing category. Most people would only put this much forethought 49
into losing their virginity, but I knew what a kiss would mean for Ian and me. We wouldn’t be friends anymore. And there would be no going back. But I was ready. Hopefully he was too. And I knew the exact moment and place it would happen.
Next to Dan’s pool, in the far corner, was a hot tub. It was surrounded by ferns and sweet-smel ing gardenias. It was lush. It was quiet—other than the sound of bubbling water, but water features are total y romantic. It was perfect. My plan was to take him out there to discuss something, maybe tel him a story about my childhood, like a good Christmas story because he always seemed to love those, then we’d stare at each other for an awkwardly long moment, but neither of us would look away, and then we’d step closer to each other, tilt our heads in opposite directions, and at precisely the right moment, our lips would touch, and
whammo
! I’d have my answer.
But, of course, that’s not what happened. I did manage to get out to that beautiful spot by the hot tub. And I stood next to the lush ferns and sweet-smel ing gardenias.
And I got kissed.
But it wasn’t by Ian.
50
3
Corn Dog
“WAIT. YOU KISSED another guy?!” Gilda is poking at the hot dogs as they rotate on a greasy conveyor belt.