Don't Kiss Him Good-Bye

Don’t Kiss Him Good-bye 
Sandra Byrd

London Confidential: Book 3
Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Byrd. 
All rights reserved.
Cover photo of girl taken by Stephen Vosloo. Copyright © by Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.
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Designed by Jennifer Ghionzoli
Edited by Stephanie Voiland
Published in association with the literary agency of Browne & Miller Literary Associates, LLC, 410 Michigan Avenue, Suite 460, Chicago, IL 60605.
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and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
ISBN 978-1-4143-2599-6 (sc)

Some Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

Some Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible,
New International Version
,
®
NIV.
®
Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com.

This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Byrd, Sandra.
Don’t kiss him good-bye / Sandra Byrd.
p. cm. — (London confidential ; #3)
Summary: Seattle fifteen-year-old Savvy Smith feels like the only girl in England with no date for the traditional May Day Ball, but when she meets a boy with a reputation for trouble, she struggles to follow her own advice.
[1. Schools--Fiction. 2. Advice columns—Fiction. 3. Christian life--Fiction.
4. Balls (Parties)—Fiction. 5. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 6. Americans—England—London—Fiction. 7. London (England)—Fiction. 8. England—Fiction.]
I. Title. II. Title: Do not kiss him good-bye.
PZ7.B9898Dnn 2010
[Fic]—dc22 2010025039

For Samuel Byrd,

The son every mother hopes for.

A good boy who grew into a good man.

Chapter 1

It was just a kiss. I saw him give her a simple kiss, a quick kiss, an innocent peck . . .
because they were saying good-bye and no one was watching.

But someone
was
watching them—me. Not that I’d meant to. I didn’t know why the kiss troubled me, but it did. I hid it well, though. Or so I thought.

“Hey, Savvy.” Penny waved as she walked toward me, while her boyfriend ducked into his classroom at our school, Wexburg Academy, just outside of London. I’d left Seattle for England less than a year ago, but I was already starting to feel both American
and
British. Some things were very different here—people ate foods like blood sausage and jam butties, and of course there were the school uniforms. Some things were the same here and in the USA, though. We all spoke English, for starters. Classes weren’t all that different, and no matter where you were, the high school world pretty much revolved around friends and social groups. And girls in both places had boyfriends. Some did, anyway. Like my new best friend, Penny.

“Hey, Pen,” I said. “Good weekend with Oliver?” I nodded toward the door her boyfriend had just walked through.

She blushed, realizing, I supposed, that I had seen
the kiss
. “I went over to his house and helped him with history, and he helped me memorize Spanish phrases.” She slung her book bag over her shoulder as we headed down the hall toward our first-period classes. “Oh, and we decided on our colors for the May Day Ball. His mum made the most fabbo biscuits, but I only ate a few. I don’t want my dress to be too snug.”

“What?” I knew I sounded stupid, but I wasn’t sure what she was talking about.

“Biscuits, you know,
cookies
.”

“No, no,” I said, “I mean, about the May Day Ball. What is it?” We stopped in front of her first-period class, which was a few doors down from my class, maths.

“Oh, that’s right—you haven’t been here for a May Day Ball yet. Well, it’s a big event that’s held on May 1, kind of a British tradition to welcome spring and all. It’s a really big deal. Everyone dresses up and we rent limousines and have dinner together, and then there are events the day after. It’s brilliant—everyone makes sure they have a date months and months in advance because no one wants to miss out. . . .”

She stopped talking then, realizing, I suppose, that
I
was going to miss out, as
I
had no date. Actually, I had never had a date of any kind, although I felt certain that my parents would have given the stamp of approval for me to go to a school-sponsored dance. If someone would have asked me, that is. Months and months ago, of course. The warning bell rang; we had one minute to be in our seats.

“See you at lunch?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I’ve got to get to the library to print a paper that’s due today. I forgot to print it out at home this morning.”

“I’ll meet you there afterward, then.” She threw me her friendliest smile, trying to make up for her faux pas about the May Day Ball.

Chin up,
I told myself.
Mustn’t grumble. Be British. Or at least British-American.

I ran to maths and slid into my seat just before the bell rang. I gave a little wave to Hazelle—my sometimes friend, sometimes enemy on the newspaper staff. She ignored me. I looked sideways at Brian, my gum-chewing buddy. He smiled at me, and I smiled back. While Mr. Thompson droned on about domains, reference functions, and formulas, I clandestinely checked out Brian from the corner of my eye.

A few zits—but otherwise a pretty fair complexion. No one I’d jump off a bridge for, but a decent guy, a good conversationalist. He might look awkward in a suit, and I couldn’t say for sure if he could dance, but he was a friend who would be fun to spend a few hours with.

At a May Day Ball, of course.

Chapter 2

I headed into the library at lunch. All the computers were taken, so I hung out and waited until I could get one and print out my paper.

One guy seemed like he was ready to wrap things up, so I positioned myself kind of close to his computer. I must have kept glancing over his shoulder to see if he was almost finished because he finally turned and said softly, “What do you think of it?”

I stammered, “Um . . . what do you mean?”

“You’ve been standing so close for so long, I assumed you must be interested in what I’m writing. Or in me.” He flashed a smile—one that disarmed me and drew me in but also felt just the tiniest bit too charming.

“I’m sorry. I just need to print out a paper that’s due after lunch.”