"My First Kiss"

It is almost nine o’clock and Seth and I are sitting in the den, alone. My talk with Ms. Krantz on romance must have worn her out because she’s fallen asleep at the kitchen table, a pool of drool collecting on a Fabio-inspired face. I actually want to go to bed, and daydream about Anthony Cipriano, but Seth keeps quizzing me about Meeka.


Anthony ran his fingers through my hair at lunch today!


“Wow, your hair’s so soft—like a newborn baby’s,” he said and whipped out a black hairbrush from his backpack. Each stroke sent shivers down my spine. It took a great deal of self-control not to pant.


“All you need is a little spray gel and a flat iron to seal the hair shaft.” He looked into my eyes, really stared at my half-mast eyes and said, “Oh my G-d, you’d look stunning.”


After finally getting up the nerve to call—with lots of wonderful pressure from Meeka—Anthony asked me to “hang out” with him this Sunday. It doesn’t matter that I ended up calling him. What matters is that tomorrow is my first date and with a hunk who thinks that I have the potential to be stunning!


Only I cannot consider what my wardrobe options are when Seth is asking me questions about Meeka that belong on a Scantron test. He wants me to give him black and white, multiple-choice answers; questions that don’t get to the heart of a person: What’s her favorite music? What kind of TV shows does she like? How old is she?


“I don’t know,” I say, because it’s the truth.


“That’s bullshit.” He turns to face me on the couch. “You guys spend like every single day together.”


I could tell Seth that Meeka is a girl who loves her Granny so much it hurts and can read the guts of a person better than anyone I’ve ever met. I can tell him that her money is something she is more embarrassed by than enjoys. Or that she is regularly dueling between fear and love of her mother. Or that she’s as uncomfortable in her own skin as the rest of us. But all of this seems too personal, too incomprehensible for him to know. So I just tell him, “She loves to eat and wear comfortable clothing. Oh, and she lives in an enormous house. But that’s all I know.”


Seth tilts his head back and sighs. He begins to tell me that he figured Meeka loved food by the way she devours dinner at our apartment, but then I begin to tune out what he is saying. I’m too busy wondering if it’s worth calling Deidra again and anticipating her ecstatic screams on the line when she hears about my surprise visit.


I’m going to try Deidra, again,” I say and start to get up from the couch.


But Seth grabs my hand, and I stay seated. “Hello? Come on, Amelia. It was only a question. Just say no if you want to, but at least answer me.” His cheeks are flushed; his dark eyes are looking at me like I hold the keys to the Universe.


“What?” I don’t want him to think I wasn’t listening. “I’m sorry, remind me, again?”


“Oh, you’re really loving this, aren’t you?” He rubs his face in his hands. “Fine…fine…can I kiss you?”


Seth’s face is so close to mine that I can smell the cinnamon from his apple pie breath. If my mind were a railroad, it’d be off the tracks right now. There is no space for logic with my heart pounding in my ears. It doesn’t matter that Meeka has a date with Seth tomorrow. It doesn’t matter that I still think he’s gay. Big Birds like me need to snatch an opportunity when we see one. There will always be a line out the door of gorgeous guys for Meeka. But, I’ll be lucky if someone ever even makes it to my door (Though he’d most likely ring the doorbell and run away!). It was, sadly, now or never.


“Sure,” I say and relish the smile on Seth’s face.


“Thank you, Amelia. Thank you.”


It is strange that Seth is grateful about a kiss—from me. But then his lips are on mine and I mentally tick a check mark next to the words first kiss. When he sticks his tongue between my lips I imagine oysters, fresh from their cold shells, soft, and gel-like and totally disgusting. But I give him my tongue to play with anyway because now I can mentally tick a check mark beside the words first French kiss.


When he draws away there is a fresh ring of saliva around his mouth, and I can feel there’s one on mine too. He wipes his mouth with his sweater and I am grateful because now I don’t look rude when I do the same with my sweatshirt.


“That was…gross,” Seth says and stares past the TV. If eyes could look constipated, his definitely were.


“Thanks a lot!” I punch him in the arm.


“Ow!” He rubs his arm. “No, you’re not gross, Amelia. The kissing was. I mean…”


“The tongue part,” we both say at the same time.


“Exactly,” he laughs. “Was that your first time?”


“Me?” I grunt out a laugh. “Are you crazy? No, no.”


“Me neither,” he clears his throat. “You just always forget how nasty the tonsil hockey is.”


It is so obvious that we are lying. We are Miss Piggy and Kermit the Frog again, virgin kissers on a plaid 70’s couch. I start to crack up from the nerves, from the newness, from the milestone and the visual of the two of us.


“What?” Seth’s constipated eyes laser in on me.


“We are both so full of it!”


“No, I—ok, yeah, yeah, I guess we are…” He shakes his head and looks down at his Converse sneakers as if they hold the answers to successful tonsil-hockey.


“But please, don’t tell Meeka?”


“Of course not,” I choke out. Seth’s question is a fist in my throat.


“Amelia, you’re awesome.” He rubs the top of my Velcro-head like I am a player on his football team and not the girl he just French kissed. I think of the women on the Jerry Springer Show whose boyfriends cheat on them and suddenly feel their plight.


“Thanks for helping me, you know, practice. I think you’re just incredibly cool.” He leans back on the couch and studies me. I am so off the radar of his romantic interest that he can sit with me and not feel incredibly awkward and eager to leave—as I do.


“Hey, that’s what friends are for,” I say and smile so wide it hurts