The Last Best Kiss (8 page)

“I didn’t know Eric was coming,” I say.

“Yeah, we were talking at school today about something else, so I said he should come.” She sounds a little too casual about the whole thing. Like she’s trying hard to make it no big deal.

“Cool. I like Eric.”

“Grab the soda for me, will you?”

I put my hands on the Coke bottles and then freeze, listening. “Wait—what is that sound?”

“
That
is the sound of a crazy dog whining in my parents’ bedroom.”

“You don’t have a dog.”

She sighs. “We do now. My mother was walking by a dog adoption fair in some parking lot and said he looked right at her and asked her to take him home.”

“In so many words?”

“My mother is cray-cray, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Phoebe’s mother
is
a little nuts. I’ve only met her a few times, but she’s the kind of woman who takes your hand when she meets you and peers intently into your eyes and says things like,
Thank you for being such a special friend to my daughter
. Squirm-inducing. “Is he cute?”

“Not even a little bit,” Phoebe says with disgust. “I’ve been asking for a pug for years, and Mom goes and picks up this weird pit-bull-mix thing with tiny, mean eyes. It loves
her
—follows her around and sleeps with her. But it growls at me and my dad, and he got so annoyed that he told Mom she was going to have to choose between him and the dog.”

“The dog’s still here,” I point out. “Should I be concerned?”

“Dad hasn’t left yet. But he is pretty pissed.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?”

“It’s a girl but looks like a boy.” Phoebe plucks at a stubborn bit of plastic wrap clinging to a cup. “Which is why I call it
it
.”

“Does she always make that noise?” It’s an unpleasant cross between a howl and a moan.

“It’s mad because I locked it up. Dad said I had to because it snapped at him this morning. He’s worried someone might get bitten tonight, and we’d get sued.”

“Shouldn’t you just return her to the adoption place if she’s that dangerous?”

“You try telling my mother that. She literally said, ‘You don’t give a child back because it misbehaves; you teach it not to.’” Phoebe picks up the plastic cups and a stack of paper plates. “Help me bring everything in, will you?”

I pick up the soda bottles and say, “Uh, Phoebe? I just wanted to ask you—why’d you have Finn pick me up? Lucy said you were going to ask Lily to.”

She looks over her shoulder from the threshold. “He called for my address right after you texted, so I asked him instead. Why? Was there a problem?”

“No,” I say. “I was just surprised.”

Sometimes crazy things happen at the VMAs—like the year Kanye West interrupted Taylor Swift when she was accepting her award and said it should have gone to Beyoncé—but this year’s show is pretty dull, and we end up talking more than watching. Unfortunately I get stuck for a long time on the sofa between Phoebe and Lucy, who decide a party is a good time to discuss the upcoming SATs and proceed to dissect every question they struggled with the last time we all took them.

I’m worried about the SATs too—my first scores were lower than I’d hoped, and I’ve been taking a class on Saturday mornings to try to get them up—but I don’t get why they want to talk about that stuff tonight when the point is to have fun.

Since I can hear them laughing a lot, I assume the other guests—Lily, Finn, Eric, and Oscar Green—are having a much more fun conversation on their side of the room, but after that car ride, I feel like Finn would prefer me to keep my distance. Too bad: Oscar’s one of my favorite people these days. He’s funny and self-deprecating and adorable, and normally I’d go sit with him . . . but not right now.

Lily and Finn are squeezed together in an oversize armchair. It all looks very cozy.

At least Lily’s made me feel less overdressed. She’s wearing a party dress—a
real
party dress—the kind a little girl would wear to, like, a big formal event. It’s a light blue satin, with poufy sleeves and a floaty tutulike skirt so big, it covers Finn’s lap too. It probably
is
a little girl’s dress: Lily’s so small and slender, she sometimes shops in the kids’ department. She’s also wearing knee socks and platform heels and has on some kind of headband encircling her head above spit curls. She looks crazy. Adorably crazy. But crazy.

She’s brought her ukulele, and when Taylor Swift performs, she pulls it out and sings along. We all applaud, and she gets up and curtseys, grinning and bobbing.

“You’re better than she is,” says Finn, and Eric chimes in with his agreement.

When Lily thanks them, she only looks at Finn.

The evening grinds on. Lucy and Phoebe stop talking about the SATs and start talking about grades and college applications. I alternate between sort of listening to them and sort of watching the TV. The others keep laughing.

I get up to pour myself some more Diet Coke, but the bottle is empty. I call over to Phoebe, who says to get another bottle from the kitchen.

I find the Diet Coke in the refrigerator, and I’m turning around with the bottle in my hand when I stop, because there’s a dog in the doorway.

Her eyes are narrowed, and her head is lowered. She’s pretty big. She’s growling at me, lips pulled back from the sides of her mouth, showing her teeth.

And, Granny, what big teeth you have.

I like dogs. My parents refused to get us one—or any pet—because they didn’t want to be “even more burdened than we already are,” but a lot of my relatives and friends have them and I’ll pet and cuddle and throw balls with pretty much any sweet dog I come across.

But I don’t like
this
dog. Mostly because she already seems to have decided that she doesn’t like me.

“Good doggy?” I suggest hopefully.

Good Doggy’s upper lip twitches up to show a fraction more tooth.

“Just let me get by you, okay?” I say. She growls deeply in her throat.

I can’t remember if you’re supposed to look an angry dog in the eyes or
not
look it in the eyes. I try looking right at this dog, and she instantly narrows her eyes so malevolently that I quickly look away again. I take a step toward the door, thinking maybe she’ll move aside—maybe she’s just fooling around—but instead she lowers her shoulders into what looks like some kind of pre-lunge position, and I step back.

I want to yell for Phoebe, but I’m seriously scared that shouting will make this dog attack me. So I say, “Uh, Phoebe?” very quietly into the empty air. Maybe she’ll hear me. “Your dog is kind of blocking my way. She’s kind of terrifying me. Like I think she might kill me.”

I can hear the sound of applause and music coming from the family room. The TV’s on really loud. No one’s going to hear me talking that quietly.

“Okay,” I say to the dog. “It’s just you and me. And I really want to get out of here. So you’re going to let me. Right, doggy? Nice doggy?” Trying to keep my voice soft and gentle, I take a careful step toward the door. The dog holds her ground but doesn’t do anything else. “That’s right. Good dog.” I take another step. And another. I’m almost there—

And that’s when she starts barking—so sharply and furiously that I instantly cringe back. “Stop it!” I say. “Just stop it!” And since I’m shouting, anyway, I scream for Phoebe. Possibly a little hysterically.

The dog crouches, ready to spring at me—at least I think she is—so I back up, my arms going up to shield my face, but before she can move, she’s suddenly pulled back. She turns her head, snapping furiously at whoever’s got her—which is Finn. He’s
there
, in the doorway, dragging the dog back, and while he’s wrestling her, he manages to get out a panted and urgent, “Are you okay?” and I say, “I’m fine.” He yells over his shoulder for Phoebe to help him control the dog, and she appears, shoving past the other kids who are piling up in the hallway to see what’s going on. She says, “Stop it, Rowley! Stop it now!” and the dog seems to respond at least a little bit to her name, because she stops snapping and just glares at everyone and especially at Finn, who’s desperately trying to keep hold of her without getting bitten. “Little help here, Phoebe?” he says urgently. She reaches down, and he transfers the collar to her with an audible sigh of relief, backing quickly away.

He says to me again, “Are you okay?” and again I tell him I am.

“Someone must have let it out,” Phoebe says. The dog ducks her head and pulls, straining against the collar, and Phoebe says, “Stop it, Rowley!” I have a feeling she says that a lot to this dog. “Who went into my parents’ room?”

We all shake our heads.

“She must have gotten out by herself,” Lucy says.

“How? She can’t turn a knob. No opposable thumb.”

“Maybe she bribed a guard,” Oscar says.

“Come on,” Phoebe says to the dog. “You’re going back in. Stay away from my parents’ room, guys.” She drags the dog by her collar down the hallway.

“You okay?” Lucy says to me.

“Fine.” Now that I’m safe, I’m also embarrassed. “I’m sorry I screamed. It’s just—it kept blocking my way. And growling at me.”

“That is one scary-ass dog,” says Eric sympathetically.

“You should have seen Finn when you screamed,” Lily says. “He was out of the room before the rest of us even realized it wasn’t coming from the TV set. Total hero.” She takes his arm. “Come on, hero. I’ll buy you a drink.” He laughs and willingly follows her back down the hallway. The rest of us follow. I’m still clutching the Diet Coke bottle to my chest. In the family room, I pour myself a cup with shaking hands.

A little while later, Lucy says she has to go home to work on an English paper, and I hitch a ride back to my house with her. Some nights you just want to have end.

I try to get out of eating dinner at the Swan on Saturday night with my father, Lizzie, and Ginny Clay.

I know. Poor me. Having to eat at one of the newest, fanciest restaurants in all of LA. But honestly I would rather eat at a fast-food place. The food at these gourmet places is never worth the pretension and the endless discussion about it.

Dad says I have to come. “It’s Lizzie’s last night at home.”

Lucy had told me I could use her as an excuse—that I could say she was having some sort of emotional crisis. (“Which I am, you know,” she said. “I’m freaking out about the SATs.” And, yes, even dealing with
that
sounded more pleasurable to me than this dinner.) So I try that, but Dad says, “Your friend will survive for four hours without you” and refuses to hear any more arguments. It’s fine when
he
wants to withdraw and ignore the demands of family, but when he decides we should be together, I don’t get a say.

Dinner turns out to be just as delightful as I’d anticipated.

The waitress has committed the horrible crime of not being super thin, and every time she stops by the table and leaves again, Lizzie murmurs something like, “She’s heading back to the kitchen. They’d better hide the bread.” Ginny Clay opens her big green eyes wide at every comment and covers her mouth with her hand, laughing and protesting.

“You’re terrible!” she says with delight. “Stop making me laugh! I feel awful laughing!” Then she laughs some more.

The couple sitting next to us—whose only sin was picking this restaurant for a romantic dinner—are also considered fair targets for Lizzie’s delicate wit.

“Should we tell her her boyfriend’s gay?” Lizzie asks, jerking her head toward their table.

“Oh, I don’t know,” my father says with a wink. “Ignorance is bliss. Maybe the situation works for them.” Dad’s looking handsome tonight in a jacket and tie. He likes to dress up for dinner out. I’m wearing dark jeans and a leather jacket over a silk top, Lizzie is wearing black pants and a tight sweater, and Ginny Clay is wearing a narrow skirt and a brightly colored, flowing top with a wide neck that shows the lacy camisole underneath.

“Now you two stop that!” she protests with a giggle. “They’re just having a nice date!”

“Ginny, Ginny.” Lizzie shakes her head fondly. “You are so innocent. You probably still believe in the tooth fairy.”

“Oh, is that who that guy is?” says my father with a nod toward the next table. “The tooth fairy? That explains everything.” And the three of them laugh while I check my texts under the table so no one will notice.

Dad calls the waitress over and tells her that Ginny needs a refill on the white wine that she and Lizzie both ordered. (Lizzie’s still six months shy of her twenty-first birthday, but the waitress didn’t ask for ID.) He orders himself another scotch while he’s at it.

Lizzie says, “I like your pants,” to our waitress, who thanks her for the compliment. After she’s walked away, Lizzie whispers, “That’s because they make me think of sausages and I love sausages!”

Ginny slaps her wrist. “You’re awful! So terrible!” Then she turns to Dad. “Thank you for ordering for me. I love being taken care of.” Dad smiles magnanimously as she goes on with a pretty little flutter of her hand. “Although I really shouldn’t have any more wine. I’ll get tipsy. And in front of one of my students!”

“I’m not actually one of your students,” I say.

She brings a slender-fingered hand to her chest. “Maybe not officially, but I feel like I’m mentoring you.” She turns to the others. “Anna has so much talent.” She touches my father lightly on the wrist. “But you already know that—there is no way she could have gotten this far without a supportive parent.”

“I try,” he says. Which is debatable.

“I’ve just been urging her to push herself a little more.” Ginny taps her chin thoughtfully. Her blond hair is piled on top of her head, and tonight she’s wearing the kind of small black glasses that pretty young women wear to make themselves look like pretty young
intellectual
women. “She needs to spread her wings artistically, but I think she’s scared of stepping out of her comfort range.”

My father peers at me. “Anna, I hope you’re not going to be one of those people who goes through life crippled by the fear of taking risks.”

I roll my eyes. “Really? But that sounds like such a
good
plan.”

“If I could wish one thing for my girls,” Dad tells Ginny, “it’s that they have the courage to take chances in life. That’s how you succeed.”