17 First Kisses (23 page)

For Megan, it's a little more complicated. But she manages to pull off a public-image face-lift of epic proportions. She talks to everyone in school, even if it's just to say hi and smile, and you can tell by the way their faces light up that it makes them feel so special to be touched by Megan McQueen. She becomes the kind of popular girl that people actually like. And I couldn't be more proud of her.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

M
egan must be crushed after the breakup. But I don't call or visit. If she hasn't called, she's got to be mad at me. I don't know if our usual ice-cream-eating, picture-burning, revenge-plotting session is a good idea. So when her home phone number pops up in my cell window, I'm relieved.

“Hey. Is this Claire?”

“David?” Why is Megan's brother calling me?

“Yeah. Um, can you come over?”

I assume this has something to do with the Luke-Megan semipublic breakup. “Does Megan want me to come over?”

An awkward silence follows.

“She's barricaded in her room. She dropped the bomb about culinary school this morning, and things got ugly, and she hasn't
come out since. She needs you.”

If David is calling me because he's worried about Megan's feelings, things must be serious. David doesn't do feelings. Getting straight As since the beginning of time, research on quantum dots, forgetting how to speak English in front of girls—these are things David excels at. Not feelings. I'm knocking on the front door of the McQueen house before we hang up the phone. David answers, his eyes big and scared.

“I'm so glad you're here. I don't know what to do.”

He watches me, helpless, as I run upstairs to Megan's room. I knock but don't hear an answer, so I go in anyway. Megan sits in a nest of pillows in the middle of her bed, listening to music so loud I can hear it through her headphones. I look at her iPod. It's some scary death-metal song. On repeat.

“That bad?”

“It was horrible.” She pulls off her headphones. “
They're
horrible. They keep trying to figure out ‘why I am this way.' Like if they could figure out the sequence of events that spun me on this path, they could fix me. Like there's something horribly wrong with me. Well, there isn't. I like cooking and cheerleading and being popular. And I'm tired of being treated like that makes me defective.”

I hop into her pillow nest and hug her. “What happened?”

“I told them about going to culinary school and how being a chef is my dream. They blew up. Just because I don't want to go to college. Mom even said I'm setting women back and solidifying gender stereotypes by wanting to work in a kitchen for the rest of
my life. I tried to tell them most chefs are men and the schools I like are super prestigious, but they wouldn't listen. And they won't pay. So I don't see how I can go.”

“They're brain-dead if they can't see how talented you are. You're a badass chef.”

Megan giggles. “You just said ‘badass chef.'” Then a new fountain of tears begins. “This is the worst week ever.”

She pours out the whole story of the fight with her parents—every unfair detail. We throw around ideas about how to change their minds: maybe Megan could introduce them to a standout local chef, maybe she could make them an extravagant dinner, maybe she could pull a David and do a PowerPoint presentation on why she wants to be a chef so badly. It's tough. We're much better at concocting schemes against boys.

Eventually we get around to the breakup too. She tells me what I already heard through the door but mostly cuts out the parts involving me. It sounds like she blames him completely and not me, which makes me feel the strangest combination of guilt and relief. I feel heavy on the walk home. But also glad Megan and I are still friends.

Mama jabbers into the phone with her elbows propped on the kitchen table. She hangs up when I walk through the door, an ear-to-ear smile lighting her face.

“We have to plan a fabulous Christmas dinner this year. It's been too long,” she says. “What do you want to make?”

“We can make anything you want,” I reply.

This is awesome. Oh, how I've missed Christmas dinners. Honey-glazed ham. Squash casserole. Four kinds of pie. Yum.

“And guess who's coming for Christmas!”

“Who?”

“Sarah. And she's bringing her boyfriend.” Mama looks like she might burst from the excitement.

“That's great.” It's been forever since I've seen Sarah. And I can't believe she's bringing her boyfriend. She talks about him all the time (or she used to back when we talked more), but I've never actually gotten to meet him.

A week later, Sarah and Boyfriend arrive on our doorstep, looking so trendy and perky it almost makes me sick. The University of Georgia alums, Sarah with an exciting new job in the fashion industry, Boyfriend with a position at an advertising agency, are blissful as can be. He's very handsome, even if he does look like the kind of guy who plays golf in seersucker shorts. He and Sarah never stop touching. His arm around her waist. Her fingers gently scratching the back of his neck. You'd need Crisco and a crowbar to separate them.

I can't believe how much she laughs, how often she smiles. I wonder if I would look as happy as her if I could wipe the past two and a half years from my life. I drift through the house, checking in on Sarah as she helps Mama in the kitchen, watching her boyfriend play video games with Libby, peeking into my dad's study to see that he is hunched over papers and drawings as always. I just want everything to be okay. Having extra people for the holidays is a change, and we all know how well my family deals with that.

Then Christmas Day rolls around, and I play the happy daughter. And I don't have to try, because I
am
happy to have my whole family together for Christmas, acting almost like we did before. We open presents. We hold hands around the dining-room table while my dad offers thanks for our Christmas dinner. Sarah and Boyfriend gush about their fabulous life in Atlanta. I finally confess about wanting to go to Georgia Tech, and everyone teases me about being the renegade, but no one is actually upset about it. Libby brags about how well she's doing in school now. It is Hallmark-card perfect. You'd have to look really close to see the fault lines.

Christmas with my family was amazing. It really was. But it was also exhausting. I feel like I have to be the one monitoring everyone so I can step in if something goes wrong. The next day, all I want to do is play soccer and blow off some steam, so I text Sam to ask if he can meet me at the park.

I'm in fruitcake leftovers hell,
he texts back.

I try a couple girls from the soccer team. No luck. I think about calling Megan or Amberly, but I need something active. Something physical. I try to think of any soccer guys I know well enough that it wouldn't be weird bugging them the day after Christmas.

Then I think of Luke.

Before I can angst out over whether or not I should be doing this and what his spectrum of possible reactions might be, I've already typed the message.

Need a break from the fam. Want to meet at the park for soccer?

I hit send and watch my phone like I'm expecting it to explode or something. It beeps a few seconds later.

Sure. Half an hour?

I change into workout clothes. I tell myself I'm just going to play soccer with a friend, but I know it's a lie. I wouldn't be putting on mascara if I were meeting Sam. I throw my hair in a ponytail, slip on a jacket, and step outside. The weather is perfect. Too cold for standing around, just right for playing soccer. The wind slips under my jacket collar and chills my neck as I jog to the park, but it feels great. Every footfall invigorates me.

Luke is already there, lazily stretching. He looks different now that he's not my friend's boyfriend. Or, rather, I can look at him differently. I've been keeping up a careful guard for so long. Making sure not to flirt with him. Trying never to look at him
that way
. But now that guard is down. I devour his dimples, his blue eyes, his masculine hands.

“Claire.” He waves. “How's it going? Did you have a good Christmas?”

“Yeah. It was good. I mean, my big sister is home, and my family is all together, so really everything is great. I just,” I trail off and stare at the field. It will sound so stupid if I start complaining—it's too complicated to explain.

“You'd rather do anything but talk about Christmas and your family?”

“Yes. Can we just play soccer for a while?”

Luke and I play against each other on one half of the field, taking turns trying to score on each other or defend the goal. We don't talk. We play a physical game with body checks and slide tackles and hands on each other's backs as we mark each other. I'm reminded of when we first met, although thankfully there are no bloody noses this time. I get a rush every time he touches me, even if it's just him throwing a forearm against my chest to fend me off. At the end of an hour we're panting and sweaty, so we collapse on the ground with our feet pointing in opposite directions but our heads right next to each other.

“I feel so much better!” I squeal.

“Good.”

“So, how was
your
Christmas?”

“Pretty good. My parents haven't gotten in a fight yet.” He fiddles with the zipper of his jacket. “I had to take Megan's present back to the store today. That was weird.”

I prop up on my elbow and face him. “I'm really sorry. About the whole breakup.”

“It isn't
your
fault.”

“But if Megan never found us in the office like that, you might still be together.”

“It was going to happen eventually. You didn't do anything wrong.”

But I did. I liked you. I wanted you even though you were dating my best friend.

“Yeah, and I think Megan believes that, but she still broke up
with you. I don't understand why she would do that.”

“I do.”

Now Luke sits up too. We're so close that when he breathes cloudy puffs into the air, I can feel the warmth of it on my cheeks.

“I like you,” he says. “And I wasn't doing a very good job of hiding it.”

At first I feel like flying. Luke likes me! Finally, a boy I like, a boy I can really talk to, likes me back. I can't believe he chose me over Megan. That's when the truth hits me like a sack of cement. It doesn't matter that he likes me. He's my best friend's ex-boyfriend.

“This isn't fair.”

Luke snort-laughs. “Not the reaction I was expecting.”

“I mean, we can't date or anything. You and Megan just broke up, and she's my best friend.”

“So you do want to date me?” He smiles, and his dimples pop up and say hi.

I can't help it. I blush. “It doesn't really matter what I want, does it?” There is no way,
no way
this can end well. I shouldn't even be considering it.

“Just give me one date,” he says. “We can see if it would be worth all the drama.”

I shake my head. “Someone at school will see us. They probably have gossip phone trees set up for situations like this.”

“We'll go on a date in another town. I promise no one will see us. What do you say? One date?”

I'm all ready to say no, but he's looking at me so hopefully.

“One date.”

Kiss #14 xoxo

I need to meet Luke for our super-secret date in fifteen minutes. At the soccer field. We decided he couldn't pick me up at my house. Megan might see his car. I don't want to get sweaty on the walk over, so I pop into the kitchen, where my whole family, plus Boyfriend, picks at Christmas leftovers for lunch.

“Can I take your car to the park?” I ask Mama. “I'm going on that date, so it'll be a while.”

Before she can answer, Sarah jumps up. “I'll take you.”

“You don't have to do that. It's fine if I just take Mama's car.”

“I know. I just want to.”

I shrug and follow her out the front door to her sparkly new BMW. Everything is so easy for her. She got to go away to school and start a new life just when things were getting bad. Part of me hates her for abandoning us like that. The other part of me is jealous.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “You've been kind of quiet. Or tense, maybe.”

“Oh, sure, I'm fine.” I fidget with my lip balm, popping the lid on and off. “It's just . . . I just get so worried, you know? This was our first Christmas now that things are getting better, and I wanted everything to be great.”

“It
was
great. Don't worry so much. Do you know what Mama says? She says, ‘I don't know if I ever could have made it
through without Claire.'”

I drop the lip balm. “She said that?”

“Yes.” Sarah pats my leg with her flawlessly manicured fingers. “She's so proud of you. I am too.”

I feel my cheeks get warm. “Thank you.”

But I don't really know what else to say, so we're both pretty quiet until she eases the car to a stop in front of the park. “Hey, have fun on your date. Are you sure you want me to just leave you here?”

“Yeah.” I open the door and brace myself for the blast of cold air I know is coming.

“Okay. But call me if you need me to pick you up.”

I nod and wave good-bye as she reluctantly drives away.

I have been told to wear “those black legging things that girls wear,” tennis shoes, and warm clothes, which I decided meant my down jacket. Other than that, I have no idea what we're doing today. Right now I'm standing by the soccer field at the park and feeling very silly, but I only have to wait a few minutes before Luke arrives in a banged-up Jetta.