Kissing in Cars (Kiss and Make Up #1)

Kissing in Cars (Kiss and Make Up #1)

Sara Ney



Chapter One





MOLLY


"The best feeling is when you look at him, and he's already staring. On second thought, that can be kind of creepy..." - Jenna, best friend.



First off, I want to say how bored I am just sitting here.

There are a million things that I could be doing right now (such as homework) but honestly I don't have the motivation. For the sake of argument, we'll call it a run of the mill case of boredom... and, for a good solid twenty minutes I've done nothing but stare at the large industrial clock on the wall, listening to the faint tick-tick-ticking sound.

You know that saying "like watching paint dry?"

Yeah. This is worse.

This is like waiting for your second topcoat of nail polish to dry. You know, when you can't do anything but just sit there waiting and waving your hands in the air, trying to make wind because you need it dry now but don't want to smudge it.

Time just isn't drying it fast enough but you have stuff to do...

I shift in the stiff wooden chair, slouching down behind the table because my left butt cheek is beginning to fall asleep. Could I be any more uncomfortable? I mean, if they had these crappy chairs in the library explicitly to torture us, it is definitely working. It's 90 degrees outside, and not much better inside even with air conditioning (because the school is so old) and I'm wearing a short jean skirt today: a huge mistake with this humidity. No doubt my rear is going stick to the seat when I get up.

Ugh. There's nothing worse than a sweating, sticky, skirt butt. Well, or shorts. Have you ever been in a car with leather seats on a hot day, and you stick to the seat? That's what my thighs feel like right now.

It's so gross.

The library is quiet, and because it's Friday no one else in study hall seemed to be focusing either. Ericka Pierce, a freshman sitting at the next table, is texting (which is, hello, strictly forbidden) under her Geometry book. The tapping from her phone is almost making me insane.

Tap.

Tap tap tap.

Every so often she looks up at me. Frowns. Than starts feverishly texting again.

And I'm over here like, 'Um, okay...'

I literally cannot tune the sound out!

In front of me is a hot pink 3-ring binder and thick AP European History textbook that was open to the chapter on Rome. Why am I taking AP European History my senior year? Dear lord, don't ask me why! I must have slipped into a coma the day we registered for classes, because: 1. I hardly study at all for this class, and

2. I have absolutely no interest at all in European History (sorry Europe).

I tap my boring yellow number 2 pencil and blow the bangs out of my eyes from the side of my mouth, pull out a sheet of loose leaf paper, and start doodling.

Heart.

Star.

Square box.

My initials, M and W, which stands for Molly Wakefield. Then I write "Molly (Heart's) Boys". Unfortunately, there is no one particular boy I'm doodling about. My best friend Jenna says I have the worst luck because I'm too picky. I'm not sure what that is actually supposed to mean, considering my dating pool is basically a group hormonal high school boys who think it's funny to burp the alphabet. Example: Last week in biology this guy named Brad Bosner actually made a spit ball and blew it at the substitute. He's seventeen years old, for crying out loud - who does that?!

So obviously, you can see what are my options are.

Not. Good.

I have no doubt "Spit ball Bosner" would take me on a date in a heartbeat, but do I want him to? Hell no. In my opinion, he's a good representation of what I had to work with.

So no. I have nothing to doodle except hearts, boxes and my own initials.

Here's the thing: I'm not at all unfortunate looking. I definitely lucked out in the looks department, and guys actually do find me really attractive. But let's be perfectly honest: guys aren't tripping over themselves to take me out. And I seem to have one other problem - the wrong guys find me attractive.

I pat down my auburn hair, which my mom says I've been blessed with (if you want my opinion, auburn is just a fancy name for "almost red"). It's long, glossy, and hangs just past my shoulder blades and if I'm lucky it has a natural wave. Today I'm wearing it down, but normally I keep it pulled back in a ponytail because I'm lucky enough to have parents that bought me a Jeep Wrangler (thanks Mom and Dad) on my sixteenth birthday, and let's face it - it's easier to drive that thing without hair whipping in my face. So yeah, my hair is almost always in a ponytail.

I have clear green eyes, a pert nose, and of course, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose.

Beautiful? No.

Pretty? Debatable.

Cute, yes.

At least, that's my opinion of myself.

Once again, I hear the tap, tap, tapping from Ericka's phone. Seriously? Ugh. I want to lean over, smack the phone out of her hand and send it sailing across the library. Normally I don't have such intense thoughts about people, but this chick is pushing all my buttons and she doesn't even realize it - which is super annoying. Shaking my head in disgust, I lean back and put my hands behind my head, lacing my fingers together for support. My tan - and yeah, sweaty - legs are crossed under the table and as I point my toes to stretch I can feel my already short skirt hiking up my thighs.