Kiss Me

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 planned for the pep rally?”



“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 gonna need it. I have no idea what I’m going to say,” Brad says, looking worried.



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, annihilate, win, and GOOOOOO COUGARS!”



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 henna tattoos, and the music was very chill. People smoked from elaborate hookahs and drank different kinds of bold teas. Embroidered pillows were scattered around low tables. There were colored lanterns. I wore a turquoise dress with golden embroidery. I think I was about twelve and I remember feeling extremely grown up.



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 henna painting or drawing characters. I also suggested that each week there is some kind of contest, to get the competitive spirit going, and that each theme we do we have a charity we raise money for. I was also thinking the girls will probably get into it, but I’m not sure about the boys, so maybe the competitions are fun, or somehow sports-related. I told him I would defer to him on that. I mean, even lawn darts and croquet can be highly competitive.



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.



Annie, who has become my official Student Council campaign manager, says, “Okay, so we can start putting up campaign signs Monday morning at 6 am, so we’re going to have to work on signs all weekend. I was thinking we’d do something fun and girly, lots of purples, pinks, silver glitter. But I haven’t come up with a good campaign slogan for you yet.”



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 Annie. “I have a campaign idea. I want to use the school colors. All the signs will be red and yellow, with lots of gold glitter and leopard. I was thinking, Vote for Keatyn Mon-roaaaarrrrr. Like you roar at football games? What do you think?”



Aiden whispers in my left ear. “Rawwwrrr.”



And holy merde. He growls so sexily. The thought crosses my mind that I would like to make him growl for real.



In bed.



Annie says, “That’s such a good idea and using school colors is brilliant. We’ll make some cool signs. I’ve already managed to sneak some wine into my room. We’ll drink, make posters, and watch cheesy movies all weekend.”



“We have the dance team sleepover tonight, but for the rest of the weekend that sounds good.”



Aiden whispers from behind me, “So what about fuck?”



And, for a second, I thought he asked me to, well, you know.



My face gets all hot. I feel like I’m going to faint. The idea of doing that with Aiden is overwhelming. I grab Annie’s diet Coke off her desk and down it.



Regain my senses.



I finally realize that even though Annie and I moved on, Aiden is still talking about dirty French words.



I take a deep, cleansing breath.



“Well, there isn’t just one word. And it sorta depends how you mean it. How do you mean it?”



“Um, what if I wanna tell someone to fuck off?”



“You could say, Casse-toi! which, really, is a nicer way to say it. It’s more like saying, piss off.”



Miss Praline starts class and is blabbering on about French club and not actual French class, so Aiden passes me a note.



Sorta like fate.



2:55pm



I’m looking out at the bleachers filled with students and praying I do well. I would pray that I don’t trip, or fall down, don’t forget a kick, or miss a step, but Mom read some child-rearing book recently and says we aren’t allowed to say don’t or can’t anymore. They say when you tell someone don’t fall down, that’s what they focus on, and that’s what they do. So I’m telling myself, do the routine perfectly, kick as high as you can, have a smile on your face, don’t panic, um, I mean, be calm.



Okay, it’s time!



I run out there, smile big, and do the dance.



And I did it!



I did the routine perfectly—well, not completely perfectly; I was a little late on one kick, but that was because for a second I was blinded by Aiden’s smile.



We jump around with the cheerleaders.



Coach, Brad, and Dawson walk out to huge cheers. While Brad is speaking, Dawson looks over and winks at me.



Afterwards, I head to the library to meet Aiden.



On the way there, I get an email from Sam.



Congratulations. As of the close of business today, you are a new loft owner. I’ve taken care of setting up the insurance, the utilities, cleaning company, and security. You should be all set.”



I message him back a thank you, along with the name of the designer he will be getting a bill from.



Then Brad and Annie text me.



Brad: Your ideas rock. I’ll go with you to talk to the dean about it. This weekend?



Me: Sound good! You’re speech was awesome. Very motivational.



Brad: Thanks :) Your dance was awesome. A lot of the girls messed up. You didn’t.



Me: I was off on one kick, but I don’t think anyone noticed. Kick ass tonight!!



Annie: I have a sample sign done. Want you to see it. Where are you?



Me: Just walking in the library to tutor Aiden.



Annie: Oo la la. Be right there.



Aiden says, “What’s up, B-Moi?”



“You know, it almost sounds like you’re saying be mine.”



“I sorta am, aren’t I? Well, in a more intimate way.”



“Okay, so when we travel to France someday, I’m thrilled that you’ll be able to cuss and get laid, but we need to focus on your vocabulary words for this week.”



“You want to go to France with me, huh?”



“What?”



“You said when we travel to France someday.”



“I, uh, you know what I meant.”



“Yeah, I do.” He gives me a blazing smile. Like, full wattage, bigger than I have yet to see. It radiates up to the top of his blonde spikes. He puts his elbow on the table and rests his chin on his fist. Then he looks at me in his dreamy way. “We will definitely go to France together. Maybe I’ll ask you to marry me there. Top of the Eiffel Tower, sunset?”



“I don’t even like you. Why would I marry you?”



“You love me.”



I laugh out loud and get a couple shushes from the people sitting near us.



“Come on, Boots, you know I’m right.”



“I know nothing of the sort. And you really need to focus, or you will not be passing French, and I’m not the kind of girl that likes to fail.”



“And I’m not the kind of boy who will take no for an answer.”



I let out a frustrated breath of air, which blows my bangs up off my face, and just start French. “Okay, so chicken is what?”



“Poulet.”



“Good. How about bread?”



“Pain.”



“Right, but say it like this. Pain. It’s more like pan, but the N is more nasal sounding.”



“Pain. You’re going to be a pain in the ass, I can tell.”



“Hey, I’m helping you here.”



“How do you know I’m not purposely failing, so you will tutor me?”



“Because last year you almost failed, and you didn’t know I existed.”



He ponders that for a minute. “Naw. I’m good at every class. Straight A’s. All AP classes. How do you say fate in French?”



“Sort”



“Yeah, exactly. It’s sorta like fate.”



“Don’t you need to be getting to football? You know, so you can sit on the bench?”



“Silly, Boots. You’re looking at tonight’s starting Varsity receiver.”



“Oh. Well, congrats.”



“You’re going to be cheering for me.”



“I’m going to be dancing.”



“For me.”



“For the team, silly.”



“We need to dance again. Under my lights.”



“Say it in French.”



“Uh, danse avec moi, um, under lumieres, tonight, um, I mean, noir?”



“Close enough. Good.”



“So is that a yes?”



“Non, I have a dance sleepover.”



“Merde.”



“See you’re learning. And you’re gonna be late. Go.”