First Kiss Page 4

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it worse.” I also didn’t mean to be giving her a back rub while wrestling half the dress out of the zipper’s beastly jaws.

  “Not to worry,” she replied. “My late husband never could zip me up without it turning into an all-out brawl with the zipper.” She dabbed at an eye. “I miss those days.”

  The material finally pulled free. This time I ignored my fear of her skin and carefully pulled the material out of the way so the zipper could zip freely all the way to the top. At last, I stepped back and studied my work. Before me stood one large, elderly woman now fully clothed in a lovely pink paisley dress.

  “I’m sure he would have liked you in that dress,” I said without thinking.

  She turned and studied herself in the mirror. “He always liked me with a little meat on my bones. And he did always love my summer dresses.” She turned to face me. “I’ll take it.”

  And so, I made my first sale. And discovered that clothing isn’t always about looking good. Sometimes it’s about looking back and remembering how good you once looked. And who was around to notice it.

  That evening, my parents took my brother and me to visit my grandmother in the nursing home. She was as spirited as ever.

  “I’m not staying here another night,” she greeted us as we entered her room.

  I couldn’t really blame her. The nursing home smelled like the inside of my gym locker.

  “Try and be patient,” my father cooed. “It’s just for a couple weeks while they help you rehab your repaired hip. And then you’ll go home.”

  My grandmother scowled. “I’ll be dead in this place before then.”

  My mother sat on the edge of the bed and took one of my grandmother’s hands. “We promise we won’t let anything happen to you here. Just hang in there and you’ll be home soon.”

  “Easy for you to say, you’re sleeping in your own bed in the land of the living. I’m here in the halls of borrowed time. Can you believe they gave me vegetarian lasagna for lunch? What sort of place is this?”

  Clearly, she belonged in our family. My father held up a paper bag.

  “Guessing you won’t mind what I got you here.”

  She tore the bag open. Out came a beautifully cooked chicken leg along with a plastic container filled with mashed potatoes.

  “You are your father’s son,” she said, biting into the chicken leg. “And the best child I never actually birthed.”

  My father beamed. “I think she’s going to pull through.”

  She looked over at me. “So, how’s the store holding up?”

  Better than I was. “I made my first sale today, to Diane.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” she said with real admiration. “That woman is a wonder. Did you know her husband passed away unexpectedly about a year ago? She refused to leave the house for a month. Elsa and I took turns bringing the latest inventory to her so we could check on her and make sure she didn’t stay holed up there forever.” She took my hand. “That’s what customer service is all about. Meet the customer’s need before they know they have one.”

  No wonder Diane thought so highly of her.

  “She said you had the soul of an angel.”

  My grandmother leaned back in the bed. “I can tell you right now I’m no angel.” She tore off another bite of chicken, skin and all. “But I do care about the customers I serve. And they seem to appreciate that.”

  That was for darn sure.

  Saturday morning a chill hung in the store as if the AC had been left on all night. Elsa sat behind the cash register, her usual cheery attitude replaced by a long face not unlike the look she had been wearing yesterday when she returned from the doctor.

  “Good morning,” she mumbled.

  Her gray blouse shouted that the morning was anything but good. She had forgotten to wear something pink. My own polo shirt glowed with all the pinkness of a summer sunrise. Something had to be up. What she needed was a perceptive leading question to help her open up. But I had no idea what sort of perceptive leading question to ask. Instead, I wandered the aisles testing out my new theory that I could make time move faster by blinking.

  Elsa trailed me as I made my way around the store. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was waiting for me to ask her a perceptive leading question. My brain let out an audible sigh.

  “How’s your mom?” I tried.

  And that’s when I learned that asking Elsa a perceptive leading question was less important than asking her any question at all.

  “She’s fine. She spent yesterday telling me about the new blood pressure medication her doctor put her on. And about the arthritis medication she’s refusing to take. And about how her feet keep swelling up at night. And how the other evening when she went out for dinner with friends the shrimp tasted overcooked and her asparagus was stringy.”

  She picked up a blouse from the display on her right and idly refolded it.

  “And don’t even get me started on the earful she gave me about settling down.”

  She unfolded and refolded the blouse again. A follow-up question seemed in order, but I was as good with follow-up questions as I was with perceptive leading questions. I blinked in the vain attempt to hurry morning into afternoon.

  “My mom is so old-fashioned,” she continued. “She thinks all that matters is finding a man, staying home, and pumping out a few kids.” She unfolded the blouse and refolded it for the third time. “My mother never worked a day outside the home in her life. She has no idea what it means to have a career or even to get an education.”

  My blinking theory failed miserably. Time was moving so slowly I’d be old and gray before the clock hit 2:00 p.m.

  “I haven’t even told her I’m going to night school to get a degree in business.”

  She looked up at me with a sincerity that actually made my eyes stop blinking.

  “It was your grandmother’s idea. I never even thought about going to college after high school. But she encouraged me it wasn’t too late and that I could do it. She’s even paying my tuition. She’s like that. She does things for people all the time and never lets on about it.” She wiped away the mascara streaking down one cheek.

  What was with women sniffling every time they talked about my grandmother? Though she did seem pretty saintly the more I learned about her. To be honest, I had never really thought about my grandmother much before. My only impression was that she seemed busy with the store all the time and that every now and then she’d pull out a magic trick that seemed like real magic. Oh, and the holiday money. Not just a card with two dollars inside and a note that read Save this for college, like Ben’s grandma did. My grandma put serious money in her cards.

  “Well, time to get back to things. Thanks for listening to me blubber.”

  The temperature in the store warmed up after that, and the rest of the morning went by quicker than I expected. Maybe the blinking worked after all.

  On my way out, I broached the question that I had been avoiding.

  “Would it be possible to leave a little early tomorrow?”

  Elsa took a sip from her coffee mug. “After covering for me yesterday, I think the least I can do is give you tomorrow off. Whatcha got going on?”

  Hmm … how to answer her question without giving away what was actually happening? “Not much, a family picnic.”

  “Oh, that sounds like fun. Where is your family going?”

  From recent experience, I had learned honesty is the best policy. Little lies had a funny way of escalating into bigger lies that ended with me wearing a potato costume in front of the whole school. “Lake Crescent.” Okay, maybe I didn’t correct her assumption about the picnic being with my family. But technically I didn’t lie, either.

  “Wait, isn’t your mom going to the hospital auxiliary board meeting tomorrow afternoon?”

  Oh, ship. “Well, I’m actually going with a friend and her family.”

  The word her slipped out before I could stop it.
Elsa froze. I could see her mind whirring, piecing together the puzzle. Recognition lit up her face.

  “Is she one of the girls who came into the store Monday?”

  I wished desperately for detachable ears. At the moment, mine were heating up like a pottery oven. “Maybe.”

  “They both seemed like nice young ladies.”

  Obviously, she didn’t know Kirsten. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  The front door opened, and a little lady with a bright red arm bag entered. Elsa headed her direction.

  “Have fun!” she called over her shoulder. “You’ll have to tell me all about it Monday.”

  I could hardly wait.

  At dinner that evening, my father called me over to the BBQ, where he was happily flipping burgers.

  “Your mother tells me you’re going on a picnic tomorrow.”

  Now why would my mother have told my father something like that? “Yeah.”

  “Things are getting a little more serious with this girl.”

  Really, they weren’t. Were they? “We’re friends.”

  He finished flipping a row of burgers, then gave me a raised eyebrow.

  “Your mother says her whole family will be going on the picnic. Is that right?”

  Something about his questions woke a few moths and a butterfly that had been lying dormant in my stomach. “I guess so.”

  He nodded. “Dads can be kinda funny about their daughters. If he asks you any questions, just stay calm and be yourself. You’ll do fine.”

  Questions? What sort of questions? Nobody said there would be an interview portion of the picnic. Up to now, I had stayed surprisingly calm about the idea of spending the day with Becca and her family. But something about my father’s words felt like a warning. “Okay.”

  That night after I crawled into bed, I imagined the cabin in the woods with Becca hiding inside surrounded by zombies. The nightly rescue usually soothed me to sleep. But not this night. This time the zombies were replaced by a creature far more menacing than any zombie I had ever encountered, a creature so fierce I abandoned the rescue and ran screaming until a tree root sent me sprawling to the ground. The creature stood over me, blood dripping from its massive jaws. “I have a few questions,” it growled. “And I expect answers.”

  So much for a good night’s sleep.

  I woke Sunday morning in an upbeat, chipper mood. Not really. In reality, I woke with a stomach full of butterflies that threatened to lift me out of bed and whisk me out my bedroom window. Being whisked away by a mass of butterflies seemed like a pretty good idea. Anything to avoid being interrogated by Becca’s werewolf father for real. Honestly, I did have a way of exaggerating things. The afternoon couldn’t possibly be as bad as last night. Right?

  On the slim chance that the day could be as bad as last night, I pulled out a pen and paper and brainstormed excuses I could use to get out of going.

  “Stu,” my mother called. “It’s eleven. Aren’t you supposed to be at Becca’s house?”

  What? Where had the last two hours gone? I reviewed the list of excuses I had compiled. Because I’m a coward had been crossed off, along with Your father is a werewolf, and not the vegetarian kind, either. That left a blank page full of nothing. I hadn’t thought of a single excuse that Becca would accept.

  It looked like there was only once choice left: join a witness protection program. Ben and I once watched a movie where the main character was given a new identity and relocated to a faraway town after testifying against the mob. If only I knew a crime family I could testify against. Unfortunately, Sequim’s a bit short on gangsters. I pulled on my sneakers and headed over to Becca’s house.

  I found her waiting on the porch.

  “I’m glad you made it,” she said. “I was starting to get a little worried.”

  That’s where our worrying differed. Her worry ended with my arrival. Mine wouldn’t end until either I arrived home safely or was ingested by her werewolf father as a midday snack. “Wouldn’t have missed it.”

  She led me through the house and out back where the rest of the family had already loaded into their SUV. Her little sister, Carly, had already claimed the middle seat in back, which left Becca to sit on one side of her and me on the other.

  “I’m glad you could join us,” Becca’s mother said.

  “Thank you for inviting me,” I replied with all the politeness I could muster.

  “Hmpth,” Becca’s father said, shifting into gear.

  We headed out of town on Highway 101 with the windows down and a song from the ’80s blaring on the radio. The singer kept repeating “I can’t drive fifty-five.” Apparently, Becca’s father could. The last time I was in a vehicle going this slow was the bumper cars at the Irrigation Festival’s carnival. The memory brought a shiver.

  “Does your family go to Lake Crescent often?” Becca’s mother yelled over the music.

  “No,” I yelled back. “I’ve only been there a couple of times.”

  “Oh,” she said. “We think the lake is the most beautiful spot on the Peninsula.”

  “Becca likes you,” Carly chimed in.

  Becca jabbed Carly in the side with her elbow. “Shut up.”

  Becca’s mom turned in her seat.

  “Remember what we talked about, Carly. You are to conduct yourself like a mature young lady.”

  Carly beamed up at me with innocent eyes.

  “Sorry.” She lowered her voice just enough that the music prevented anyone else from hearing her but me. “I like when Jackson comes over. He brings me pictures he’s drawn of ninja kittens and stuff.”

  Her words struck me like a zombie slap in the face. Jackson had been over to their house? The zombie warlord pounded to get out, probably so he could slap me, too. Here I’d spent the night worrying about her werewolf father when I should have been worrying about a far more sinister creature from the deep, one with real biceps and a lone chin hair.

  The rest of the ride was pretty much the worst. How was a guy supposed to enjoy a summer outing with his girlfriend when he wasn’t even sure she was his girlfriend? My mind whirled with the possibilities. Had she and Jackson been secretly dating? Or were they openly dating and no one had thought to tell me? Or could there be a bigger dating conspiracy going on involving dozens of my classmates bound by secret handshakes and techno cool spy gadgets? Okay, that idea sounded a bit wacko. But if something was going on, where did it leave me? Was I just the guy Becca felt too sorry for to tell the crushing truth? No, she would never lie to me. Or would she? Truth be told, I might have set a bad precedent in the spring. But she wasn’t still holding that against me, was she?

  The car came to a stop in the parking lot next to the Lake Crescent Lodge.

  “We’re here,” Becca’s mother announced.

  We climbed out of the SUV and took a collective moment to ooh and aah at the lake. Before us Lake Crescent stretched for twelve miles surrounded by evergreen wooded hills with the Olympic Mountains rising in the background. The setting reminded me of photos I’d seen of the Scottish lochs, except no castles or Loch Ness monsters here.

  We walked out on the dock in front of the lodge. The water was so clear you could see submerged logs lying at the bottom. You could also see how the bottom dropped from shallow to scary deep in the matter of a few steps. Scientists had calculated the deepest point at over six hundred feet, but rumor held that the real depth was more like a thousand. I could believe it. From the end of the dock, the lake looked bottomless.

  “The water is clear because it lacks enough nitrogen for algae to grow,” Becca’s father said.

  Becca and I reached down and touched the water with our fingertips. Even in the summer, it felt ice-cold.

  “Anyone want to go swimming?” Becca’s mother asked.

  “No,” Becca said, shaking her hand dry. “You’d have to be a polar bear to swim in this lake.”

  “I left my polar bear suit at home,” I added.

  We sauntered back and unloaded supp
lies from the SUV for our picnic. Becca’s family knew how to do a picnic right. They had blankets, camping chairs, beach toys, baskets of food, and a cooler with wheels that I pulled behind me until we found a perfect spot on the lawn not far from the lodge.

  “Can I wade in the water?” Carly asked.

  “Just for a few minutes,” Becca’s mother replied. “We’re going to eat soon.”

  I busied myself watching Becca and her parents set up camp. I would have gladly helped, but I had no idea how. They worked in unison, as if going on a picnic were some sort of elaborate folk dance.

  “Wow,” I murmured.

  “Do you like it?” Becca asked, surveying their work. “I made sure we brought things you would eat.” She pointed to the sandwiches. “Half are peanut butter. And we also brought deviled eggs, and potato chips, and your favorite”—she pointed to a bowl of fiery death—“Joe’s Smokin’ Peas.”

  “Love those smokin’ peas,” I agreed, feigning I was about to vomit.

  “Carly!” Becca’s mother called. “Time to eat.”

  We gathered in a circle on the blanket like the lords and ladies the picnic demanded. I even placed a napkin in my lap on the off chance I remembered to use it. This was what picnicking was meant to be. Gourmet food, a comfy blanket, and a leisurely afternoon spent with friends and family. I raised a deviled egg in toast, then jammed it into my mouth.

  “So, what are your plans for the future?” Becca’s father asked.

  The deviled egg lodged in midswallow. The last thing I needed was another explosive food spewing moment like the day I first met Becca. My father’s warning returned to mind. Stay calm and be myself, that’s what he’d advised. Which made sense if only I knew who I was and how to stay calm in the presence of a werewolf masquerading as Becca’s dad.

  “Mbtthf,” I sputtered. The strangled sound was both all I could force past the egg and all I knew of my future plans.

  “Bill,” Becca’s mother said. “Is this really the time?”