Kiss Me

They think I’m go

After the meeting, Peyton pulls me aside. Whitney is standing next to her, scrutinizing her manicure and pretending to be bored.

“Just how did you get on this committee? You aren’t really in anything yet.”

“I got nominated by a teacher. Same way that you got on.”

“You’re supposed be nominated by being a leader in the classroom. Pretty unusual to get nominated after only two weeks of school.”

I shrug my shoulders at her. “Yeah, well, someone needs my help on something, and this is sorta my reward.”

“That’s bullshit. The rest of us had to work for it,” Whitney pipes in.

I turn around and face her. “You had to work to get nominated by a teacher? You’re not president of anything either, Whitney. Wonder what you had to do for it?” I raise my eyebrows at her and smirk.

She fumes and Peyton says, “Why would a teacher need your help?”

“I’m fluent in French.”

“So?” Whitney scoffs.

“She asked me to tutor your brother,” I say directly to Peyton.

Her face goes white.

I believe she is now between what is called a rock and a hard place.

So I continue. “You know, I can always change my mind. He could probably get another tutor. We can work together and do some really cool stuff, or I’ll quit both this and your brother. I’ll leave it up to you.”

Brad says from across the room, “Hey, Keatyn, come walk with me. I want to talk to you a little more.”

“As long as you’re walking straight to coffee. I’m in dire need of some caffeine.”

“Dude, me too,” he says.

We’re standing in line for coffees when Dawson comes up from behind me, grabs me around the waist, and kisses the side of the neck. “Damn, Keatie, looking good.”

I giggle. Dawson says to Brad, “Hey, you got a good speech pla

“Speech?” I ask.

Dawson says, “Yeah, the football captains have to speak today. I’m offensive captain, and Brad is the defensive captain. We gotta get everybody pumped up for the game.”

“Wow. Cool. Good luck.”

“I’m go

I think back to one of Tommy’s movies. He played a seemingly average football coach, who was really a kick-ass espionage spy.

“Aw, that’s easy,” I say. “Just remember these words: kill, kick ass, destroy, a

Dawson grabs my ass. “I think maybe we should just let her talk for us.”

“Or bring her out there with us. No one will even be looking at us.”

I roll my eyes at them. “You’re silly. I gotta get to class. Nice meeting you, Brad. I’ll email you some ideas.”

During first period, I ask Riley what he thinks of the idea of themed weekends.

“Sounds like a lot of work,” he replies.

I frown, so he adds, “But fun. Very fun.”

I start an email and brainstorm ideas. Let’s see, what were some parties I’ve been to?

There was a Moroccan themed bash, complete with belly dancers. How fun would that be? Have someone teach us to belly dance. There was great food, lots of pretty, brightly-colored fabrics, oh, and someone was doing he

Then there was the classic beach luau Tommy and Mom had at our house in Malibu. Drinks served in pineapples, floral leis as everyone arrived, tables laden with exotic fruits and flowers, a whole pig roasting in a pit in the stand. (Truth: it was a fake pig, a stage prop, not sure how it was flammableish, but whatever. Mom is a big supporter of animal rights and although she eats meat, seeing it roasted whole in front of her was not appetizing.) There was a combination of Hawaiian music and beach boys. Surf boards out front. Surfers were “performing” as in surfing before sundown, the beach was lit with tiki torches, hula girls were dancing, and there were some big sumo wrestler-looking guy who could eat fire on a sword or a stick. I’m not sure. I couldn’t watch. I think this theme would be good when we are all sick of the snow. Guests wore bikinis, floral shirts. It was chill, laid back.

Mom did a Parisian themed baby shower for her best friend, Millie Rodriguez. Wandering artists in berets, a chocolate replica of the Eiffel tower—a little overboard, if you ask me—pink and black awnings, amazing French food, cigarettes in long holders, waiters in black tails. Old black and white French romance movies playing on a big screen across the back yard.

Then I think about other themes, like toga/Greek, the 70’s and other eras, Harry Potter, Safari, Aliens, Masquerade.

I send my ideas in an email to Brad. I even suggest that we get other clubs involved. Like maybe let the art department, either teachers or the art club, raise funds by he

If nothing else, I told him, it will look great on our college applications, and we’ll have some fun doing it.

She likes to knock boots.

French

I plow through the rest of the day, buzzed on caffeine and getting surprisingly nervous about the pep rally. I’m not even nervous to go to French today. I mean, I tutored Aiden without letting his lips touch mine.

I can, however, feel the exact spot where his touch practically burnt my skin. It’s right here, at the top of my pinkie and across to my middle finger. There’s no noticeable scar or anything, but I can still feel it.

He is pleasant during class, but then he makes me worry. “Don’t screw up at the pep rally today. My sister said you guys don’t really have the dance down very good.”

“I have the dance down just fine. I won’t be screwing up.”

I hope.

Oh. I should have paid better attention yesterday. Damn him for distracting me when with his, It’s tutoring with food crap.

A

From behind me Aiden says, “How about Vote for Boots. She likes to knock boots.”

I turn around, so totally and completely offended.

My face is probably screwed-up looking, but I don’t care.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, that’s probably a bad idea. I was thinking like knocking boots, as in kicking a soccer ball with the boots, not, uh . . .” He runs his hand through his beautiful, dark blond hair in frustration. “Gosh. I’m sorry. Shit.”

“Merde.”

“What?”

“It’s shit in French. At the very least, I hope I can teach you to cuss properly. Whatever.” I turn to A

Aiden whispers in my left ear. “Rawwwrrr.”