“Worth a shot,” I say and hope Kayla’s in a good mood.
I walk up the hall to Kayla’s room. Anita Baker’s “Sweet Love” floats through the door. Kayla still records the Quiet Storm from the radio to a cassette tape. She’s probably listening to one of her mixes. I bang on the door.
“Who is it?” she asks over the music.
I roll my eyes. She knows who it is. Our parents aren’t here and only the good Lord knows where Keith is. You can bet Friday’s paycheck it involves some fast tail girls and a six-pack. He’s got no business messing with either, which only makes them both more appealing.
“It’s Whitney Houston. Who do you think it is? Can I come in, Zee?”
The door flies open unexpectedly and I stumble forward, head first.
“What do you want?” Kayla asks, arms folded under her breasts barely contained in a skimpy tank top. “Is it time to go already? I thought the dance doesn’t start ’til seven.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” I take my life into my hands and sidestep her, entering her inner sanctum. “I was hoping you could help me with my hair?”
She tilts her head, eyes narrowing in assessment. Anita Baker serenades us while I wait, tensed and ready for rejection, until she finally shrugs.
“Meet me in the bathroom.”
Thirty minutes later, not only has she restored my curls to their former glory, but she’s even applied a little makeup for Mona and me. Mama still doesn’t like me wearing makeup yet, but one night won’t hurt.
“This red looks good on you, Tru,” Kayla says. She pops her lips at me. “Do like that.”
I imitate her lip pop and glance in the mirror.
“Wow.” My eyes, fringed with mascara-lengthened lashes and lined with black pencil, look bigger. Darker. Older.
“Right?” Kayla leans back, studying her handiwork. “You gonna kiss it all off tonight?”
Even though I know a blush wouldn’t show through my skin, I’m still glad for the color she applied to my cheeks.
“Um, I dunno.” I shrug. “Maybe.”
“I bet Jeremy will want to,” Mona sing-songs. “He’s kissed a lot of girls in our class, and they all say he’s great at it.”
“You’ve kissed a guy before, right?” Kayla asks, staring at her reflection in the mirror and combing her eyebrows.
“Not exactly,” I mumble, rubbing my lips together. The glossy color feels sticky now and I’d love to wipe it off.
“Shit.” Kayla goes still, her hand pausing mid-air, her eyes shifting to me. “You never been kissed, Tru?”
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, defensive. “Lots of girls in eighth grade haven’t.”
“Have you, Mona?” Kayla asks.
“Yeah, last year.” Mona slides an apologetic look my way and shrugs. “Sorry.”
“So this Jeremy will want to kiss you,” Kayla says. “Let me show you the basics.”
My sister instructs me on French kissing using her hand, doing weird things with her tongue, moaning and closing her eyes in fake rapture. I just stare at her, confused and slightly alarmed and probably traumatized.
Fast tail.
The doorbell saves me from more fake French kisses.
“That’s probably Ez,” I say. “Lemme go put my dress on.”
I leave the bathroom and dash to my bedroom.
“I always thought Ezra would be her first boyfriend,” I hear Kayla telling Mona.
A scene plays in technicolor through my memory. Ezra and me in his backyard when we were six years old. He’d been to a wedding the week before and decided we should get married. Being Ezra, he had memorized all aspects of a Jewish wedding, and we reenacted them under his elm tree. When we got to the part where the groom could kiss the bride, he pecked me on the lips and we both giggled. My heart aches a little for that day. We’re only thirteen and I know there is a lot more innocence to lose, but somehow, I, too, thought we’d save all our firsts for each other. I blink back hot tears thinking of him kissing Hannah tonight with her freckles and long, curly hair. I run a careful finger under my eyes so I won’t mess up Kayla’s hard work and head downstairs.
“Forget you, Ezra Stern.”
Chapter Six
Ezra
This is the worst night of my life.
I take that back. The night they called to say Bubbe died—that was the worst. We knew her time was near, and Mama wanted to go to New York right away, but Dad had a meeting and asked if we could wait one more day. Through the wall, I heard Mama crying, yelling it was his fault she didn’t see Bubbe one last time. I know she was just lashing out, but I know it hurt Dad, and after a few minutes of her shouting at him, he started shouting back.
Yeah, that night was definitely worse, but this one’s bad, too. Neon strobe lights illuminate the dark school gymnasium, and inflated rainbows dangle from the rafters. I guess there’s a theme, but I wasn’t exactly on the decorating committee so I have no idea what they were going for.
Tacky teenage?
Nailed it.
Chaperones and tables of punch line the edges of the room. I press my shoulders harder into the wall at my back, unable to tear my eyes away from the dance floor.
From them.
Mona settles on the wall beside me. “They look good together, right?”
Dragging my gaze from Jeremy dancing with Kimba, his hands resting low on her hips, I shrug. Arms folded across my chest, I pull one knee up and dig my heel into the wall. I sat in the front seat with Kayla when she drove us here, and Mona sat in the back with Kimba. Maybe I’m wearing my invisibility cape over this stupid shirt and tie because they definitely forgot I was in the car. They coached Kimba the whole ride here on how to kiss Jeremy. I dropped my forehead to the cool car window and tried to block out phrases like “his tongue in your mouth” and “just suck on it.”
I glance over at Mona and notice for the first time she’s got one of those weird haircuts that’s longer on one side than the other.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asks, a knitting between her pencil-darkened brows. Why do they always think layers of paint and stuff make them look better? I do have to admit Kimba looks really pretty tonight, though I like her lips without the red stuff. They’re naturally this brownish-pink color. I stare at them all the time.
“I’m not looking at you any kind of way,” I lie.
“I got lipstick on my teeth?” she asks, running her tongue over them.
“No.”
I can’t not look any longer, so I find Jeremy and Kimba on the dance floor again, still swaying back and forth. If I’m not mistaken, his hands are a little closer to her butt now.
“Ooooooh.” Mona nudges me, her sharp little elbow punching my ribs. “Kyle is over there all by himself.”
She pats the longer side of her hair and tugs at the hem of her short dress. “I’m going to ask him to dance.”
I wish I could be that bold—could just walk out onto the dance floor and tell Jeremy to let Kimba go. I’d remind her that when we were six years old, she married me, and that it should count for something. Even though everything’s different now, and we’re about to enter high school, and our bodies are changing and I feel weird around her most of the time, some things should always remain the same.