What to Say Next(62)

Team David, I think. I’m totally on Team David.





Kit’s head is resting on my shoulder. She is wearing a red dress that makes her look like a mummy. It’s made of supertight blood-colored bandages, the kind of dress that should be illegal for a teenage girl because she looks about twenty-five, not sixteen. I want to touch her. I want to tell her that she is the first girl I have ever loved, since I think that must be what this feeling is. Love.

I have never felt this way before. I’ve never had someone loom so large in my brain that the rest of the stuff gets crowded out. Out here, in this quiet backyard, I can tune out the distant thump of the music. Out here, with her head on my shoulder and the smell of her shampoo—almond and honey—and the feel of her soft hair against my cheek, I can forget that I am David Drucker. I can forget everything. That I’m the kind of person whose mom has to hire a social skills tutor so I can learn how to have a basic human conversation. That I’m the kind of person who routinely receives texts that say things like Die, loser. That I’m the kind of person who would be stupid enough to go into a bathroom stall with Justin because he promised he “had something cool to show me.”

How do I kiss her? Miney gave me a ton of advice, like not to jam my tongue down Kit’s throat or to be too slobbery. She even made me watch YouTube tutorials on technique. But we never got around to how to actually do it. How do I move from us sitting next to each other, ostensibly observing the stars and listening to the eerie creak of the swing set, to putting our lips together?

“Kit?” I decide I will just ask her to kiss me. Or better yet, ask if I can kiss her. Best to be direct and clear. Leave no room for miscommunication, my specialty.

“Hmm,” she says, which I assume means yes.

“How would you feel about me— I mean, what do you think about the idea—” I can’t say it. How would you feel about me kissing you? Can I kiss you? would be better. Yes, that would be more accurate. I want permission, not a complicated discussion of her emotional state.

Can I kiss you? Four simple words. I can do this.

I turn my head again, and as I talk my lips brush her forehead. Almost a kiss. Just seven and a half inches off.

“Can I—?” But before I can ask the question, her head shifts and she leans in and wraps her hand around the back of my neck and closes the gap. Seven and a half inches erased just like that. Her lips are on mine, and we are kissing.

All I can think is Kit kissed me, over and over until I stop thinking altogether.





I am kissing David Drucker. I am kissing David Drucker. I am kissing David Drucker.

I was wrong. I had assumed this would be his first kiss, that it would be fumbling and a bit messy but still fun. No way. Can’t be. This guy knows exactly what he’s doing. How to cradle the back of my head with his hands. How to move in soft and slow, and then pick up the pace, and then slow down again. How to brush my cheeks with even smaller kisses, how to work his way down my jaw, and to soften the worry spot in the center of my brow. How to pause and look into my eyes, really look, so tenderly I feel it all the way down in my stomach.

He even traces the small zigzag scar on my eyebrow with his fingertips, like it’s something beautiful.

I could kiss him forever.

I’m going to kiss him forever.

I am kissing David Drucker, and yes, I’ve forgotten everything else.

Because his lips are back on mine.

Because this, right here, is the best kiss of my life.

—

We kiss and kiss and kiss and only stop when David pulls away, cups the sides of my face with his huge hands, and says: “There are cops here. We’ve got to go.”

Even that sounds romantic. He has morphed from dorky classmate to partner in crime. We hold hands and run to his car and he opens the passenger-side door for me. Offers his jacket one last time.

“I’m okay,” I say. “You kept me warm.” He smiles at me, and even in the dark I can see that he’s blushing. And now I am too. I’m hot all over.

“At least take my scarf.” He pulls a scarf from his jacket pocket and winds it around my neck. Cashmere, as soft as his sweater. Everything he wears is soft. He takes both edges and then pulls me toward him again, a suave move, and we kiss one last time. My chest tightens, my body tingles, and I allow myself to dissolve into him. It seems wrong that we ever need to leave this moment. I want to stay right here.

“Get a room!” I hear Gabriel shout as he walks by, but I don’t care. Team David, I think again. I’m definitely on Team David.

We don’t talk on the ride home. We don’t have to. I feel warm and giddy and like I have a secret that I want to keep all to myself. David Drucker, who is so many different people all at once: the guy who always sits alone, the guy who talked quantum physics even in my dad’s dental chair, the guy who held my hand in the snow. I kissed David Drucker, the guy I most like to talk to, and it was perfect.

—

Four a.m. Alone in my bedroom. The butterflies I have savored all night suddenly turn to bats. My mouth is sour. Everything spins. David’s scarf feels hot and itchy on my neck. Too tight. I feel the opposite of beautiful.

The regrets start singing their cruel song in my ear. Grating and on automatic repeat.

Then suddenly the accident starts playing on my ceiling. Headlights. Screeching tires. My foot twitches slowly. Always too slow.