"Just don't give him any kissing lessons," Lonnie puts in. "He doesn't need those."
This hits way too close, but we all laugh.
Things have never felt more strange between the three of us.
. . .
The decorating committee does a good job at the Fall Dance. The school gym looks appropriately autumnlike—it's filled with
pumpkins, hay bales, gourds, cornstalks, scarecrows, and chrysanthemums.
I arrive with Marsha Peterman clutching my arm in a death grip. She looks unbelievable. She's wearing a tiny orange dress
that she says is a color called sienna. She says she bought it just for me. Me! All I know is it's practically painted on
and my eyes keep drifting to it.
She's already lunged at me twice—once on her doorstep, once in my car. To be honest, I feel like I've stepped into an old
sci-fi movie called
Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
The real Reed Walton—the poor, clueless, dorky kid who screws up nonstop with girls—is bound and gagged with strong duct tape
in some broom closet somewhere. The guy passionately kissing Marsha Peterman—being lunged at by Marsha Peterman—is a slick
impostor masquerading as me. How else to explain these astonishing changes?
I like kissing Marsha. But she isn't my first choice, of course. And yet, I can't help feeling that I've put myself in a very
stupid, impossible situation. Here I've got this goddess whose idea of a good time is attaching herself to my face—and I'm
not happy with it.
No wonder people like my parents have jobs. They'll never go out of business.
So what if Marsha treated me worse than dirt in my dork days? So what if she tortured me when I asked her out four years ago?
And stomped away when I dared say "trout" in her presence a month ago? She isn't doing that now. She can't keep her hands
off me. Maybe it's time to forgive her for her past sins against me. Maybe it's time to give her a second chance. After all,
didn't I yearn for a night like this one? With her? As recently as a month ago?
Still, I can't help scanning the crowd for Ronnie as Marsha and I dance to the first slow song of the evening. I must stare
across the room for too long, because Marsha promptly pulls my head down for another kiss-a-thon.
The girl's a make-out addict! Not that I'm complaining. But who knew I'd be her drug of choice?
I spot Ronnie at last and she spots me, and I realize she's probably witnessed every detail of my furious lip-lock with Marsha.
I feel confused and confounded.
Lonnie and Deena edge up to us.
"How's it goin'?" Lonnie asks with a wink.
Deena and Marsha giggle like crazy.
"Time to powder our noses," Deena whispers to Marsha in some mysterious girl speak I don't understand. They head off to the
bathroom.
"You're a kissing fiend," Lonnie says after they've gone.
I clear my throat. "She's like a leech."
"I feel for you," he says. "Mouth getting a tough workout and all."
"I'm not complaining," I say.
"Good, 'cause I'll knock out your genius brains if you do."
We decide to get something to drink. On the way to the refreshments, we pass a bunch of girls. Lonnie wanders off to look
for ice. I pour myself some soda and inadvertently overhear their conversation. I guess they can't see me because of the giant
potted palms between us.
Girl #1:
You're so lucky, Marsha, snagging that hottie, Reed.
Marsha (giggling):
I know. He's amazing.
Girl #2:
Is he really a phenomenal kisser?
Marsha (in a serious tone):
He is, like, the best ever. He's some kind of genius. If only I'd known earlier . . .
My ears actually ring.
Girls talking about me? And the stuff they're saying?
It's unreal. It's
history.
But I wonder. Would Marsha really have gone out with me earlier if she knew about my kissing talents? I doubt it. I don't
believe for a second she would have gone out with me when I was a Card-Carrying Dork—no matter how skilled I was in the kissing
department. Maybe she just likes the whole new package she's getting now.
On the other hand, I really shouldn't talk. I mean, would I have asked her out in the first place if she weren't so cute?
Would I be with her now? The truth, I realize, is that I'm no better than she is. All this time, I thought I was somehow nobler,
but I'm not. I'm as shallow as everybody else.
Lonnie returns with the ice, saving me from too much heavy brain lifting.
"You're going to need a tip list tonight, Reed.
How to Be
with a Girl Who's Boiling-White-Hot for You."
I spit out my soda.
Lonnie pats my back. "Chill, Reed. I was kidding. You won't need a tip list."
Why'd he have to go and bring this up? I may be okay at kissing, but I don't know how to do anything else, and now I'll be
dealing with it all night long. He must sense my panic, because he tries to make a joke.
"It's cool, Reed, just tell her you have a headache."
I smile feebly. From across the room, Rhonda Wharton approaches the refreshments. Lonnie goes off to find something to eat.
"Hey, Rhonda," I say, still feeling funny about what happened at the mall.
"Hey," she says softly, giving me a small smile.
I grasp for safe topics to bring up. I can't think of anything. Maybe I should leave. Instead, I ask, "Are you here with anyone?"
"Myself."
"Oh." This makes me feel odd, even though it has nothing to do with me. Right?
"Would you . . . like to dance?"
I don't know why I ask her this. Maybe because I feel bad. Or maybe because I want to dance with her. Or maybe because I want
to give her a chance to turn me down. To even things out between us.
But she nods. I take her hand and lead her to the dance floor.
Once we're there, she asks me, "Are you and Marsha . . . going together?"
"I don't think so," I stammer. "Not really."
How lame! But I guess I don't really know. I didn't think so until this point, but what does Marsha think? When you kiss a
girl that much, does that mean you're going with her? Is it wrong of me to kiss her like that and not go out with her?
Rhonda's face brightens. She doesn't say anything else, but she doesn't have to. It's pretty obvious, even to me. I want to
shake my head. Girls fighting over me. Gorgeous goddess girls fighting over me!
Me!
Unreal.
When I get back home tonight, I'm going to look for the gagged and bound version of myself in all the closets in the house.
'Cause the guy at the Fall Dance sure isn't anyone I know.
When Marsha spots me dancing with Rhonda, she glides over and doesn't just butt in, but takes my face in her hands and plants
the mother, father, grandmother, and grandfather of all lip-locks on me. I don't resist, argue, or go after Rhonda. I am,
after all, technically here with Marsha, who is obviously more territorial than a saber-toothed tiger. In fact, I feel like
I should have a giant M branded on my forehead:
Marsha Peterman—Property Of.
Make-Out Marathon Currently in Progress—Please Do Not Disturb.
Mine! Keep Your Hands Off!
I'm flattered, really Isn't this what I've always wanted? Dreamed of? Craved?
Besides, what difference does it make?
Marsha.
Rhonda.
The person I really want to dance with is being manhandled on the dance floor by a dumb, furry primate. I look in Ronnie's
direction, but Marsha turns my head and gives it to me again. The girl's got inner radar about this stuff!
At midnight, a bunch of us decide to go to the Marlborough Diner for breakfast. It makes as much sense as anything else. I
go to the coatroom to get our stuff. That's when I hear crying. I part a row of coats and find Ronnie curled up in a ball
on the floor.
"Ronnie? What are you doing here? What's wrong? Where's Jonathan?"
I lower myself next to her and she puts her arms around me and asks in a shaky voice, "Can you take me home, Reed?"
"Of course," I say softly. "Here—give me your cell." I'm probably the only guy in the Northern Hemisphere without a cell phone.
I call Lonnie on Ronnie's cell, even though he's right in the next room.
"Yo," he answers on the third ring.
"It's Reed. Listen. Can you tell Marsha I had to go? Can you take her home for me? Can you tell her I'm really sorry? I'll
explain later."
He's silent for a long time. "Are you okay? Is everything okay? Where's Ronnie?"
"She's fine. I'm fine. She's with me. I'll explain tomorrow. Okay?"
He hesitates. "Okay," he finally says.
I hang up and help Ronnie to my car. She's limp and lethargic. Her eyes are bloodshot. I want to know what happened to her.
But I know I shouldn't push it. She's upset enough as it is. If she wants to tell me, she will.
When we arrive at her house, I walk her to the front door.
She asks me to come inside, so I do. The house is dark and quiet. There's only a dim lamp on in the living room. She flings
herself onto the sofa. I sit down next to her.
"Jonathan broke up with me," she says.
I gather her into my arms and she rests her head on my chest. "You're better off without him. You were too good for him."
She starts to cry.
I realize that's probably not what she wanted to hear. After all, she and Jonathan were together a long time. She really liked
him. What she probably wants me to say is, I'm sure he'll call tomorrow to apologize, I'm sure they'll get back together,
I'm sure this is nothing. After all, Ronnie broke up with him a zillion times, but they always got back together.
But I don't want to say those things. What I want to say is I'd be the best boyfriend in the world if she'd give me a chance
instead of him.
She hiccups. "Oh, Reed, I'm so sorry I yelled at you the other day. You didn't deserve that. And I'm also sorry I forced you
to do this
Girlfriend Project.
I hope you can forgive me. You're such a great friend. You've always been such a great friend."
I hug her close. I kiss her hair, her neck, her cheek. Then I stop. She's broken up with her boyfriend and is obviously unhappy
about it, she just told me what a great friend I am, and here I am pawing her.
She stares at me for ages. Then she kisses me on the mouth, just once, soft and sweet. I close my eyes with a sigh, wishing
for more, but knowing what I want will probably never happen.
But I'm wrong. She kisses me again, and even though I can hardly believe it, the next thing I know, we're making out like
crazy.
It's fantastic. I have one arm around her waist and the other threaded through her hair, and I feel filled up with the scent
of her, the feel of her. I'm having trouble breathing. Her arms are around my neck, her hands twirling the hair at the back
of my head, something she's always done, something I've always liked, except now we're kissing while she's doing that. We're
kissing!
She finally pulls away and I brace myself for the inevitable: It was a mistake, she got carried away, it's time for me to
go now, thanks for the ride home, she won't tell Jonathan about this, have a nice life.
Instead, she says with a sly smile, "So the rumors were true."
I start to smile, then stop. Is
that
what this is? Yet another test-drive? Like Rhonda at the mall? Ronnie stepping up to the Kissing Booth?
I'm so ticked off I can barely think straight. I'm about to get up, but Ronnie says, "We should've done that a long time ago,
Reed."
What?
"I'm a yutz," she goes on. "I'm the mystery girl, aren't I?" I nod slowly.
She rubs her nose against mine. "Well, mister, we've got a lot of catching up to do."
I smile. "I'm here for you anytime, Ronnie, you know that. Just say when."
"When."
I kiss her again, and again, and again.
. . .
I'm on her doorstep the next morning with a bouquet of yellow roses. I hope what happened last night wasn't a figment of my
imagination, but I brace myself again for the inevitable. I know these things have a tendency to wilt in daylight.
But when she sees me at the door, she jumps into my arms and gives me a slow, sweet kiss that leaves me breathless.
"Oh, Reed," she sighs. "You're incredible."
I grin. "Can I take you out for breakfast?"
She laughs. "Why not?"
How perfect is this?
I've got the girl next door.
. . .
We decide to go to the Perkins in Hazlet, a few towns over, instead of the IHOP in town or the Marlborough Diner. Things feel
very secretive.
Ronnie shoots me nonstop glances of delight as we drive over. "So, you always liked me, Reed?"
I smile at her. "Pretty much since kindergarten."
"Why didn't you ever tell me?"
This line of questioning makes me uncomfortable. "I thought you'd crush me like a grape, Ronnie."
"What? Why would I do that?"
"Because I wasn't the 'better specimen' I am now," I say, throwing her words back at her.
"Reed! I didn't mean any of that applied to me!"
"Honestly, Ronnie? If I'd told you last year? The year before? When I was a freshman? When I was a full-fledged Dork of the
Lowest Order?"
"Reed! I would've done the same thing I did last night—jumped you. You've always been a great guy—freshman year, sixth grade,
third grade. Have I ever treated you differently? Do I treat you differently now?"
"Well, you did kiss me. Quite extensively. Last night. Remember? On the sofa in your living room."
She grins. "Because you kissed me quite extensively."
I shake my head. "I don't know."
"Why don't you believe me?"
"Because all the evidence is to the contrary."
"You mean because of Marsha and Rhonda and all that?"
"Yeah, all that," I say. "Maybe this is a survey question for the site."
Her eyes widen. "You don't want me to shut down the site?"