First Kiss Page 6

  That night at bedtime my mother stopped by to tuck me in. She still gave me a hug and kiss every night even though I had been trying for months to put an end to the practice. However, since she happened to be sitting on the edge of the bed, it seemed like as good a time as any to ask the embarrassing question that had been plaguing me ever since the picnic.

  “If you were getting a birthday present for a girl, what would you get?”

  That stopped my mother cold. She straightened up and pursed her lips as if trying to decide whether to answer the question or go back to pretending her little boy was still five years old.

  “Well, that’s not a question with an easy answer. Is this about Becca?”

  Why does a simple question always have to be made into something more complicated? “Maybe.”

  “I see. How soon is her birthday?”

  “August.”

  “Well, at least you’re getting started early.”

  She rested her chin on her hand.

  “Hmm … you haven’t been together for very long, so this is not the time to break the bank and get something extravagant.”

  That was a relief. But since I didn’t know the difference between extravagant and non-extravagant girl gifts it didn’t really answer the question. “What sort of gift did Dad get you?”

  She stifled a laugh. “Your father fancied himself a romantic. He used to write me poems.”

  Hey, that’s what Mrs. Helperdin said her husband did. “Do you remember any of them?”

  A blush crept up my mother’s face.

  “Not any I’m going to repeat to you.”

  She tousled my hair, then stood and headed for the door.

  “If I think of any ideas I’ll let you know.”

  I lay in bed and thought about Becca’s birthday. Both my father and Mr. Helperdin had written poems. Maybe that was the answer. After all, I had written loads of words on paper. And had made up rhymes mocking the size of Ben’s head lots of times. How hard could writing a poem for Becca be?

  The next morning, I found Elsa hunched over the counter next to the cash register with a pad of paper in front of her and a pen dangling from her fingers. She looked like she hadn’t slept.

  “Hey, Stu,” she said.

  I hated to ask the obvious for fear of being forced to listen to the answer, but I had learned Elsa wasn’t the type to keep anything secret. I was going to hear about it whether I wanted to or not. “What are you working on?”

  “I stopped by and visited your grandmother last evening. I think it was right after your family had been there.”

  She stared down at the blank sheet of paper in front of her.

  “We talked a lot about the fashion show and how quickly the date is coming up. Your grandmother gave me a lot of input on what needs to be done to get ready.”

  The pen clunked onto the counter.

  “I should have taken notes. Now I can’t remember anything we went over.”

  She tried to take a deep breath, but the air caught in her throat. I had never really thought about how adults can be given assignments in real life just like kids are given in school. And apparently they can feel just as confused and overwhelmed. I reached over and picked up the pen and notepad.

  “Maybe if you talk it out I can write down notes for you.”

  The idea popped out of my mouth before I had time to think through the consequences. The all-too-eager look on Elsa’s face made it clear I couldn’t go back now.

  “That’d be great!” Elsa enthused. “I can’t seem to think and write at the same time.”

  Every English paper I had ever been assigned jumped to mind. “Yeah, I feel you there.”

  Elsa spent the next hour bubbling about the fashion show. Whatever she lacked in event-planning skills she more than made up for with enthusiasm. My hand got tired from scribbling notes.

  “And at the end I’ll have your grandmother come up onstage and say a few words. I’m hoping the show can coincide with her returning to work. The audience will go wild when they realize she’s all healed and back to stay.”

  Elsa leaned on the counter, panting from the exertion of talking nonstop for so long. I stretched my aching fingers, then dropped the pad on the counter next to her.

  “I’m not sure I got everything you said or whether you’ll be able to read my writing. But hopefully it helps.”

  She scanned the pages of notes.

  “It’s perfect. Everything is here. I just need to organize it and make a plan of action.”

  “Right. While you’re working on that, I’ll get to work on the boxes in back that need to be opened.”

  I spent the next two hours blissfully slitting tape while Elsa remained hunched over the counter, editing my notes and humming gleefully to herself.

  About the time my fingers went numb from holding the box cutter, a thunderous rumble rolled up the street. A moment later, the bell on the front door jangled. I peeked out from the backroom to discover my dad’s best friend, Harley, standing in the entry holding a brown paper bag. He seemed out of place in a store filled with pinks and yellows and reds. In contrast, he stood tall, broad shouldered, dressed all in black, with black greasy hair, and a black handlebar mustache.

  Elsa approached cautiously.

  “May I help you?”

  Harley caught sight of Elsa and froze. I could see his lips trying to move but no sound came out.

  “Um—I—uh—”

  For a moment, I thought he might be having a stroke. But there was something strangely familiar about the look on his face and the way his words came out all jumbled.

  “Hey, Harley,” I said, joining them.

  The moment he saw me, his face relaxed. It was as if seeing me broke some sort of spell he was under.

  “Oh, hey, Stu.”

  He held out the bag.

  “I was just visiting your dad at the butcher shop, and he asked me to bring you this.”

  Inside the bag, I found a ham sandwich on wheat bread with mustard oozing out in all directions. My mouth salivated.

  “Thanks! This is awesome. I’m starving!”

  Harley continued to stand in place, his eyes locked on Elsa. The goofy look on his face returned. I suddenly realized Elsa had a similar goofy look on her face. What was going on here?

  “Elsa, this is my dad’s friend Harley.”

  A blush crept up her face that threatened to catch her whole head on fire. She shyly held out a hand.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” she said, her eyes all dreamy.

  “Y-yes,” Harley stammered, taking her hand in his.

  The truth hit me like a rotting zombie arm to the head. They liked each other. Yikes. Were adults as awkward as kids about this sort of thing?

  “Would you like to see the store while you’re here?” Elsa asked.

  “That’d be fine, real fine,” Harley replied.

  He followed behind her like a six-foot-five handlebar-mustached puppy.

  “Maybe you’ll find something for that special woman in your life,” she said, catching his eye.

  Even I knew where that was going. Harley blushed. Seriously, I didn’t know a guy so tall, dark, and mustached could suddenly look so little and awkward. Whatever hold Elsa had on him was for real.

  “I’m afraid there is no little lady in my life,” he replied in a voice so shy it could have passed for my own.

  I turned away. I couldn’t bear to watch someone I idolized melt into such a pathetic puddle.

  Unfortunately, the store wasn’t big enough for me to avoid overhearing them while eating my sandwich. I learned that Harley grew up in Sequim while Elsa had only moved here a few years ago. I also learned that neither of them had dated in a long time and both enjoyed the weather in Sequim and the friendly, small-town attitude of the people. All the pleasant talk was enough to ruin my perfectly good ham sandwich. And then things took a really crazy turn.

  “So, like I was telling you,” Elsa babbled away, “I’m in charge of t
he fashion show this year with Rosemarie still recovering from her hip surgery. I don’t know if I can do it. Rosemarie makes stuff like this look so easy. But I don’t know how I’m going to get everything done on my own.”

  That’s when the real shocker happened.

  “Well,” Harley replied, “I’d be happy to help.”

  My sandwich landed with a thud on the floor. Had Harley just offered to help put on a women’s fashion show? My head swam from the implications. On the one hand, having Harley around the store would be great. He had a way about him that always made me feel better about myself. On the other hand, whatever was going on between the two of them would likely continue, and I’d be an innocent bystander forced to watch.

  I picked up what remained of my sandwich and tossed it in the garbage. So much for my appetite.

  That night I buckled down to get some real work done, real poetry work that is. The task seemed easy enough. Write a poem that delicately acknowledged my feelings for Becca while maintaining a manly sense of cool. Oh, and bonus points if it included the words happy birthday tucked neatly inside one of the lines.

  I sat on my bed with my notebook and wrote whatever came to mind. Actually, nothing came to mind. Every time an idea started to work its way into my brain, I quickly squashed it, positive that it was the worst idea ever. This method led to a lot of squashing and very little writing. The longer I racked my brain for an idea, the more I became convinced that the only ideas my brain could muster were perfect for making fun of Ben’s head but absolutely terrible for making Becca’s birthday special.

  In desperation, I resorted to the old standby roses are red and violets are blue. Maybe not the most original idea, but at least it gave me the first two lines. The remaining two lines were mine to fill in as I pleased, so long as the last word rhymed with blue. All I needed were approximately seven words to convey my heartfelt feeling that she was pretty much the coolest girl on the planet. Like a major-league pitcher, I wound up and threw out my first pitch.

  Roses are red

  and violets are blue.

  I think you’re really cool,

  coo coo ca choo.

  I read back what I had just written. My hand reflexively slapped my forehead. Coo coo ca choo? Where did that come from? A kindergartner could write better than that. I closed my eyes and tried again, this time slowing my mind and trusting my instincts. When I’d finished, I opened my eyes and read the words that had oozed straight out of my subconscious.

  Roses are red

  and violets are blue.

  If I had a dollar

  I’d give it to you.

  What the—? What sort of pointless drivel was that? My other hand slapped my head. There was something seriously wrong with my subconscious. How was a guy to write the perfect poem if his subconscious was out to get him?

  I forced myself to relax. All I needed were two perfect lines. In fact, I’d settle for two reasonably decent lines. Even two not-completely-dorky lines would be okay. It couldn’t be that hard. I just needed to be confident in my poetic skills. No frills, no games, just two heartfelt lines that captured the entirety of my feelings. My hand pressed down, and words flowed freely as if some inner magic had been released.

  Roses are red

  and violets are blue.

  You have nice hair

  and good teeth, too.

  I ducked to avoid both slapping hands. After three pathetic attempts, I was forced to admit I had the poetic sensibilities of a plastic garden gnome, which was unfair to plastic garden gnomes. How could I give Becca a poem if the best I could do was remind her she had good teeth?

  “Stu!” my father called from downstairs. “Harley is having a get-together at his place tomorrow night for the Fourth of July. Tommy and I are going to get some fireworks. Want to come with us?”

  Hmm … let’s see. Stay here and continue to slap myself silly trying to write a poem that can’t possibly be written. Or go with my father and brother to buy fireworks.

  The notebook landed on the floor next to the pen. Maybe tomorrow I’d have better luck. For the moment, buying sparkly exploding things seemed like just the distraction I needed.

  “Hang on! Don’t go without me!”

  A Fourth of July get-together at Harley’s was a bit like a church picnic crossed with a firefight. People had brought more food than could possibly be eaten. And enough fireworks to burn the town down twice. Revelers wandered the yard eating BBQ and commenting on what a lovely summer it had been so far.

  I found the meat float crew huddled together near the barn reminiscing about the good old day, and I do mean day, when they were the hit of the festival parade.

  “Remember when I wound up with the bat and knocked the living daylights out of that papier-mâché bunny?” my father’s friend Joe boasted. “Red licorice exploded all over the crowd. It was awesome, man!”

  Having been on the parade float with him when it happened, awesome is not the word I would have used. Disgusting maybe, deeply disturbing perhaps, but not awesome. I’m pretty sure there were kids in the crowd still in therapy after being sprayed with what looked like licorice blood from an exploding bunny rabbit.

  “Yeah,” my dad quipped. “The crowd pretty much went nuts for us. The store has been hopping ever since.”

  True, once I took the bat away from Joe, the crowd pretty much did love us. There are probably photos of me in my rack of ribs costume and Tommy in his chicken leg costume on refrigerators all over town. Speaking of disturbing.

  I edged away from the group and went to meet my friends, who were just piling out of Ben’s SUV.

  “Hey, dude,” Ben said, giving me a fist bump.

  “Hey, dude,” Kirsten said, imitating Ben and also giving me a fist bump.

  “Hey,” Becca said.

  In the sunset orange glow, her hair shimmered all orangey golden as if it had been woven from a real orange and real gold.

  “Hey,” I replied, suddenly feeling stupidly shy around a girl I had been around lots of times by now and should be well past the point of feeling shy around.

  “It was nice of Harley to let us come to his party,” Becca said.

  “Yeah,” I replied. “He’s pretty cool.”

  “Where’s the fireworks?” Ben interrupted.

  I pointed to a chest-high mound of fireworks piled next to the driveway.

  “That should make a pretty good show, don’t you think?”

  “Whoa,” he said, drawn to them like a moth to the proverbial flame. “Let’s toss a match into the middle and see what happens.”

  I gently confiscated the lit match in his hand and blew out the flame.

  “There are hot dogs on the grill,” I suggested. “And root beer in the cooler.”

  Ben wandered off, still clutching a box of matches in one hand. Now I understood why Ben’s parents didn’t keep matches in their house. Or piles of fireworks. Kirsten followed after him like a parent watching over a curious puppy.

  “I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt himself,” she called back to us.

  “He’s a funny boy,” Becca observed.

  “Funny isn’t the word that usually pops to mind,” I clarified.

  My train of thought suddenly stopped short as my mother walked out of Harley’s house followed by none other than Elsa.

  “Stu!” she cried, heading over to us.

  Whatever I thought had been going on between Harley and Elsa at the store seemed confirmed by her presence at his party. “Hi, Elsa.”

  “And I remember you from the day you stopped by the store,” Elsa said, addressing Becca. “You must be Becca.”

  Becca took Elsa’s outstretched hand and shook.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  Elsa simply glowed with enthusiasm. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  That seemed like a bit of an exaggeration. The sort of exaggeration bound to set my ears burning. Seriously, are detachable ears too much to ask?

  “Hey,” Harley said
, joining our little group. “Fireworks are about to start. Grab some grub and find a spot to watch the festivities!”

  He turned to Elsa. “I’ve got a couple chairs set up right over here if you’d like to join me to watch the show.”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Harley’s ears, what little I could see poking out from his greasy locks, were glowing red-hot. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who’d benefit from detachable ears.

  “I’d love to!” Elsa gushed.

  He guided her over to a couple of lawn chairs set slightly apart from the others.

  “Looks like Ben and Kirsten already found a spot,” Becca said, pointing.

  We found the two of them huddled on a blanket within easy reach of the fireworks pile. Kirsten had positioned herself between Ben and the fireworks, presumably for the safety of others.

  The next hour went by in a colorful blur of exploding patriotic mayhem. The rockets’ red glare was for real, along with bombs bursting in midair. Everyone under the age of eighty got a chance to light a few fuses along the way and ooh and aah at their own destructive power. Even Ben was entrusted with a handful of matches. He stole the show by twisting the fuses of three rockets together so that he could light them simultaneously with one match.

  “You the man,” I said as he sat back down.

  “More than the man,” he snapped back. “The rocket man.”

  Ben was nothing if not humble.

  Becca leaned close. “Do you know where the restroom is?”

  “There’s one in the house next to the kitchen,” I replied. “Or one in the barn next to Harley’s workshop.”

  “Which is closer?” she asked.

  “The one in the barn. Want me to show you where it is?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Becca and I slipped through the crowd and across the gravel driveway to the barn. In the dark, the barn looked a bit like something from a horror movie waiting for two young teens to enter and never be seen again.

  “Maybe we should go to the house?” Becca suggested.

  I opened the door next to the barn’s rolling doors and flipped a light switch. A single bulb flickered an invitation to enter.

  “See? Nothing to be frightened of.”