Authors: Rachael Allen
17 First Kisses
UNCORRECTED E-PROOFâNOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Advance Reader's e-proof
courtesy of
HarperCollins Publishers
This is an advance reader's e-proof made from digital files of the uncorrected proofs. Readers are reminded that changes may be made prior to publication, including to the type, design, layout, or content, that are not reflected in this e-proof, and that this e-pub may not reflect the final edition. Any material to be quoted or excerpted in a review should be checked against the final published edition. Dates, prices, and manufacturing details are subject to change or cancellation without notice.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOFâNOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
UNCORRECTED E-PROOFâNOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
dedication & acknowledgments t/k
UNCORRECTED E-PROOFâNOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
1
F
inding a guy to kiss in this town is next to impossible. First of all, I have to find a guy who isn't secretly pining over Megan McQueen, the most popular girl in school and my best friend.
And second of all, I live in Pine Bluff. Which would be fine if I wanted to kiss guys who chew tobacco and wear flannel. But I don't.
Tonight, however, I may have to make an exception. I weave through the crowd at Wranglers, a country bar that has teen night once a week, careful not to be taken out by a rogue line dancer in the process. I'm looking for the boy in the white cowboy hat, the one Megan pointed out a few minutes ago. I find him leaning against the rails of the mechanical-bull arena. He's actually pretty
cute, in a Pine Bluff kind of way. The type of guy who would have no trouble getting a girl. I don't see why he had to lie.
I strut right up to him. And lick my finger. And touch it to his shirt. “Let's get you out of those wet clothes.” I wink as I say it.
For a split second he looks terrified, and the words
Abort Mission
flash in my head, but then a lazy smile spreads across his face. I've got him.
“I'm Claire,” I say, unsure if we've ever officially met, even though we go to the same school.
“I know who you are. I'mâ”
I put my finger over his lips, leaning in close so I can whisper in his ear, “I know who you are too.”
I take him by the hand. Lead him to a bathroom that says Fillies on the door.
He stops short. “What if someone's in there?”
“It's empty. Trust me.” I push him in first, locking the door behind us. The telltale ring-shaped silhouette of a tobacco tin marks his back pocket. He dips. Ew, I hope I can pull this off without kissing him.
I press him against a wall of cold tiles, a southwestern mosaic the backdrop to this seduction. Cowboy Hat tilts my chin up, but just before my lips touch his, I pull away.
“I can't do this.”
His eyes are hungry and confused. “What?”
“I can't hook up with you,” I say, tucking my brown hair behind my ears. “I mean, I want to. So badly.” I rake my fingernails down his chest. “But I can't. Megan's my best friend.”
“Megan?”
“Because you guys had sex, right? At Britney's party last weekend?”
That's what everyone's saying, anyway. Even though they were only in Britney's pool house for five minutes. Even though Megan swears they didn't. She has first period with his vengeful now-ex-girlfriend, Amanda Bell, and it's been really awkward.
He glances from side to side like he's expecting ninjas to pop out of the ventilation system. “Amanda said I had to.”
“Sleep with Megan?!”
“No! I was just talking to her about how stressed Amanda's been about homecoming nominations. When Amanda found out, she got so pissed. She said I had to say all that stuff, so Megan would be the Angelina and she could be the Jennifer.”
I frown. “But why would she break up with you if she knows you didn't do it?”
“I think she's going to take me back next week.” He shrugs. “Um, are we gonna hook up now?”
A laugh sputters from my mouth, but before I can say anything, Megan's voice rings out from the handicapped stall. “No. You're not.”
She swings open the door.
Cowboy Hat looks like he's going to be sick. Good thing we're already in a bathroom. “Oh, crap.”
“âOh, crap' is right,” says Megan, pushing buttons on her phone. “Your little confession is going to hit Facebook. Right. Now.”
We run out of the bathroom before he can process what happened.
“You were amazing.” Megan can't stop grinning, and I'm so glad. The last time I saw her this upset was after Chase Collins. She gave him her heart and her virginity on a platter. And he dumped her. She's totally over him now, but still. The Chase-Megan era was epic.
“Well, you owe me. Especially for that âwet clothes' line,” I say.
Then I run face-first into Amanda Bell.
“Slut!” she screeches, throwing a cup of what smells like Diet Coke at me. “I saw you go in there with him.”
Amber droplets soak into my shirt, trickle down my arms. Everyone within a ten-foot radius turns to see what the commotion is. Megan marches up to Amanda, their faces inches apart. She's very intimidating for someone so petite.
“Listen. Claire didn't touch your boyfriend, and neither did I. And your pathetic little plan to win homecoming isn't going to work, so stay away from me and my friends or I will ruin you.”
I'm really glad I'm not Amanda right now. Whenever that tiny wrinkle appears between Megan's eyebrows, it is a signal to be very, very afraid. Don't get me wrong. I love her like she's my sister. But when Megan and someone else want the same thing, it gets . . . ugly.
“Whatever.” Amanda glares at me before walking away. “You're still a slut.”
I wince. I thought I was past this. I've never even had sex.
I've kissed thirteen guys.
Thirteen.
And somehow that makes me a slut for life.
“Hey, you know that's not true, right?” Megan says as she wipes me down with napkins.
I nod.
“Good. But I'm still not letting her get away with it.” She walks over to where Amanda is riding the mechanical bull. In a skirt. “Tell Amanda to check her Facebook,” she says to one of Amanda's friends.
We're about to leave when Megan pauses to pick up a pair of black sandals. The pair Amanda was wearing before she took them off to ride the bull. Megan shoves them into a nearby trash can with a wicked grin.
When I wake the next morning, the trundle bed is empty. Megan sleeps less than any human I know. On my way downstairs, I hear a shuffling in the kitchen. Something smells ungodly good.
“Do you want cream and sugar?” I hear Megan ask someone.
“Yes, please,” Mama answers.
She's awake already. Which means today could be a good day.
I peer around the corner. Mama sits at the kitchen table in an old bathrobe, her hands fragile and jittery. Megan gently sets a mug in front of her, her other hand hovering over my mother's shoulder like she can't decide whether to squeeze it.
The oven beeps.
“I made quiche,” says Megan. “Do you want some?
“I'm not hungry right now.” She's not eating. Which means today could be a bad day. “I'll eat something later when I'm at my group,” she adds.
If she's going to group, it's definitely a good day. As good as it gets anyway.
I walk into the kitchen. “I'm starving.”
Megan and I scarf down plates of her quiche Florentine, which tastes every bit as good as it smells.
quiche Florentine
(noun)
     Â
1: Spinach, onions, Gruyère cheese, and egg baked inside a crust so magically flaky you'd swear it was made by pastry elves instead of my best friend.
     Â
2: Something Megan just whips up for breakfast in the morning. On a whim.
Mama drifts into the living room with her coffee mug and stares out the bay window, a ghost lurking among the curtains.
“How is she?” Megan asks.
I look down at my lap. “The same.”
“We don't have to talk about it,” she says quickly.
I nod, grateful.
Mama used to be like one of those moms from the black-and-white TV shows, the kind that only exist on the TV Land channel and in small southern towns. Sometimes I want to shake her and yell,
Why can't you be like you again?
But we never had the kind of relationship where I talked to her about serious stuff. And
we don't live in the kind of house where you yell and cry about your problems out in the open.
Sometimes I wonder if that's part of the reason she's like this. She kept her feelings hidden, and they ate her from the inside out.
“So, thanks for helping me last night,” Megan says.
“No problem. It's probably the most exciting thing that's happened to me all year. Which is pretty sad. I am literally going to die of boredom.”
“You are not. Hey, I need your help with something.” Megan holds up a couple of shirts that she brought over yesterday with her overnight bag. “Do you think this BCBG top says, âI'm a really good dresser but I'm friends with everyone' or do you think it says, âI'm snobby and I'm judging your ugly shoes'?”
“I don't know.” It's not like anyone at school will recognize the brands anyway. We live in the town that fashion forgot. I mean, yes, we get magazines like everyone else, but looking through them is like trying to read a book in a foreign language. Like flipping through an Ikea catalog and finding that
spoflugin
= coffee table.
“Claire!” Megan snaps her fingers. “This is important! Nominations for homecoming court are tomorrow.”
“You know you have no competition, right? You could show up to school dressed in holey jeans and everyone would be like, âOh, Megan's gone for a distressed look. I wonder where I can get those.'”
She giggles.
“Why do you care what people at school think of you,
anyway?” I ask.
“Because. If I'm going to do something, I'm going to be the best at it.”
I think about soccer. And my grades. I get it.
My grades are my ticket out of here. I know it sounds like a simple thing: Leaving Pine Bluff. Going away to school. But you've got to understand. This place is like quicksand. It sucks people in and never lets them escape. Girls with big dreams find themselves knocked up and married to a construction worker before you can say “dashed hopes.” Even people like my parents, who got out and went to school, came back. I am
never
coming back.
“So,” Megan says, breaking me out of my thoughts. “What you were saying about being bored and all? I think we need to make another pact.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Because I can't handle another year of your whining.”
