Kissing Kate

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  After

  “Ben? Lissa, Ben and I broke up. Didn’t you know that?”

  Something lifted inside of me. “You and Ben broke up? What happened?”

  “He got drunk at Terri Anderson’s party. Started dancing around in this hideous robe he found in her mom’s closet. And then he ended up in a corner with Alice Spradling. End of story.”

  “What—they were fooling around?”

  “Yep.”

  I stared at my jeans. The lightness I’d felt was gone. “Funny how that happens, huh? Get drunk, fool around . . . end of story.”

  “What are you talking about, Lissa?”

  I gripped the phone. I couldn’t believe I’d said that, and now I didn’t know how to take it back. And part of me didn’t want to take it back, wanted Kate to hear it and respond and . . . and just talk to me about it.

  “I thought we decided not to fight anymore,” Kate said. Her voice was cool.

  “I’m not fighting. I just . . . I think we need to talk.”

  “About what? There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Kate, come on.” My heart pounded. “That night? At Rob’s house?”

  There was a long silence.

  “We were drunk,” Kate finally said.

  “You were. I wasn’t.”

  OTHER SPEAK BOOKS

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  First published in the United States of America by Dutton Books,

  a member of Penguin Putnam Inc., 2003

  Published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2004

  This edition published by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2007

  Copyright © Lauren Myracle, 2003 All rights reserved

  The excerpts and references on pages 25, 26, 45, 47, and 74 are from

  Lucid Dreaming: The Power of Being Awake and Aware in Your Dreams,

  by Stephen LaBerge, Ph.D., published by Ballantine Books, New York.

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE DUTTON EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Myracle, Lauren, date.

  Kissing Kate / by Lauren Myracle.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Sixteen-year-old Lissa’s relationship with her best friend changes

  after they kiss at a party and Lissa does not know what to do,

  until she gets help from an unexpected new friend.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-17668-9

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any

  responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  FOR JACK, WHO FLIES ME THROUGH KISSES

  Thanks to the following, whose encouragement and response helped shape the book:

  Brock Cole, Sharron Darrow, Karen Hollenbeck-Wuest, Shawna Jackson, Jill Greene,

  Christine Kechter, Tom Kechter, Chuck Kechter, Jackie Owens, Julianne Sanders,

  Maggie Adams, Virginia MacKinnon, and the faculty and students of Vermont

  College’s graduate program in writing for children and young adults.

  I especially thank my dear friend Laura Pritchett, who talks to me about writing and

  children, children and writing. Her example gives me strength.

  I am grateful to my family for their steady and loving support: my mother, Ruth

  White, for never suggesting I choose a more practical career; my fathers, Tim White

  and Don Myracle, for, respectively, helping me navigate the streets of Atlanta and

  encouraging an early love of books; and my sister, Susan White, for inspiring me,

  advising me, and making me laugh.

  A thousand thanks to my editor, Susan Van Metre, who is amazing beyond words.

  Thanks, too, to her assistants, Susan Finch and Caroline Beltz.

  And finally I thank my husband, Jack Martin, who makes it all possible.

  CHAPTER 1

  IT WAS TINY, NO MORE THAN A LINE of blood bubbling up at the base of my finger, but the knife clattered to the counter and I sank to the floor, sucking my hand and crying as if I were six years old instead of sixteen. The linoleum was ugly, and I could see dust and crumbs scattered beneath the cabinets, and it occurred to me that if this was how I was going to feel for the rest of my life, if slicing a bagel could bring me to tears, then I’d have been better off not knowing Kate at all. And then my head grew light, because how could I even think such a thing?

  I take it back, I prayed. I squeezed my eyes shut and wished I could take it all back, everything that had happened, so that Kate and I could return to being friends like we used to be. I felt wrong inside without her, weepy and miserable and pathetic. And that was the part I didn’t get, because didn’t she feel that way, too?

  We’d been best friends since we were twelve, long enough that our names were paired in everyone’s minds: Kate and Lissa. Always her name first, not that I cared. If anything, I still felt surprised we’d been linked at all, that she’d picked me when she could have chosen anyone. Although really, it was our seventh-grade gym teacher who did the choosing.

  “What was that teacher’s name?” Kate asked just last month. “The one whose P.E. class we were in, the one who assigned us to be partners?”

  Kate couldn’t call it up, but I remembered exactly. It was Mrs. Klause. I remembered everything about that day, even its lousy start. I was running late because I couldn’t find a permission slip I was supposed to turn in, and on top of that, my Uncle Jerry picked that morning to cough and tug on his ear before finally suggesting that perhaps I should wash my new bra since I’d worn it for a week straight and didn’t I think maybe . . . ? Only he didn’t call it a “bra,” he called it an “upper undergarment,” and he about died getting those words out. We both did. I’d bought the bra on my own, which meant that Jerry must have noticed the outline of th
e straps beneath my T-shirts or felt them on one of the rare occasions when he gave me a hug. For him to mention it at all was astounding.

  I swear, I think back on Jerry during moments like that and I’m amazed he’s survived as well as he has. That we all have. Jerry moved in with us when I was eight, after my parents were killed in a plane crash, and he’s been taking care of me and my little sister, Beth, ever since. It hasn’t been easy.

  Anyway, I’m sure he didn’t mean I should wash it right then. His worried eyes said as much when I dropped my books and fled back up to my room. But he was right about how long it had been, and my first class was P.E., which meant changing into my P.E. uniform. I’d avoided putting my bra in the laundry hamper out of normal, twelve-year-old embarrassment. (Jerry did the wash, and I didn’t want him running across it.) But the thought of the girls in the locker room smirking as I pulled off my shirt was a million times worse.

  I washed my bra in the sink, then blew it dry with my hair dryer. By the time Jerry dropped me off at school, it was 8:15, and I had to go to the office for a late pass.

  “Better hurry,” the secretary said. I grabbed the pass and ran to the gym. I had the locker room all to myself—wouldn’t you know it—and I changed in record time and dashed to the basketball court, where Mrs. Klause had already unrolled the cushiony, blue floor mat. The other girls sat in a circle at her feet, and their heads swiveled my way as I darted across the floor. Mrs. Klause gave me a disapproving stare, then continued with her instructions. “You’ll need to master the headstand, handstand, and arabesque for our unit on balance,” she said. “Today, we start with the headstand.”

  She squatted, then placed her hands and head on the floor and tipped her lower body above her hips, first resting her knees on her elbows and then straightening her legs into the air. Her gym shorts bunched around her bottom, making some of the girls snicker. She lowered her legs and stood up.

  “That is the correct position for a headstand: knees locked, toes pointed, no swaying back and forth. Any questions?” She scanned the circle, daring anyone else to laugh. “Good. Amy, why don’t you work with Elizabeth; Karena, work with Maggie; Jody, you work with Rebecca—”

  I drew my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around my shins. I hated it when she made us work with partners. I was neither cute nor outgoing, and most of the girls groaned when they were paired with me. During our unit on calisthenics, I’d been assigned to work with Callie Roberts, who begged me to go to Mrs. Klause and ask to be switched. I wouldn’t, and Callie marked me down as having done only ten jumping jacks when really I’d done twenty-five.

  “And Kate, let’s see, why don’t you work with”—her eyes landed on me—“Lissa.”

  I ducked my head, resting my chin on my kneecaps. Kate was small and blond and pretty, and she had a laugh like an open present. Compared to me, she was a goddess. Plus, she was a gymnast. I’d seen her practicing after school. She wouldn’t want to work with me. She’d think I was a big, dark clod.

  Mrs. Klause clapped her hands. “All right, girls. Get to work!”

  I stayed where I was. A pair of sneakers entered my line of vision, and I lifted my head to see Kate gazing down at me.

  “Ready?” she said.

  “You already know how to do a headstand,” I said.

  She shrugged. “Do you?”

  “I know how—I just can’t do it. But you don’t have to help me.”

  “I don’t mind.” She knelt beside me. “Try one, and I’ll watch.”

  Great, I thought, I’ll fall on my butt and you can watch. But she was looking at me with her wide blue eyes, and if she was being mean, she was doing a great job of hiding it. I got on my knees and put my head on the mat, but when I tried to lift my lower body, I tipped forward and rolled onto my back.

  “I feel like a bug,” I said, staring up at the high ceiling.

  Kate smiled. “Try again.”

  This time I got my knees onto my elbows before teetering sideways and landing in a heap.

  Kate covered her mouth with her hand. “Whoops.”

  “You do one,” I said.

  She put her head on the mat and pushed herself up, extending her legs and pointing her toes in the air. She stayed like that for a couple of seconds before bending her knees and rolling forward in a somersault. “I think it’s the way I put my hands,” she said. “I think you’re putting yours too far apart.”

  I put my hands closer together, but I still tipped over. “I can’t do it.”

  “Yes, you can. Put your hands on the floor, okay?”

  I did as I was told.

  “See how your fingers are pointing straight out? You want them to point more to the middle, like this.” She adjusted my hands with her own, angling my fingers inward. I thought of the way her spine straightened as she did her headstand, and I wondered how it felt to be so lovely.

  My cut had almost stopped bleeding, and I made myself go to the bathroom for a Band-Aid. I washed my hand, then tore off a piece of toilet paper and pressed it against my finger. A small red dot soaked through, and my tears welled up all over again. Such a dumb thing, a cut on my finger, and yet here I was sniveling like there was no tomorrow.

  Kate would never fall apart like this. Even in seventh grade, she’d been sure of herself. How could she not be? At school she roamed the halls with the cheerleaders and the members of the pep squad, and during lunch she ate with the most popular kids. Until that gym class, I’d never spoken to her, not really. That’s why I was so startled when she came up to me after school that day. I was sitting on the curb near the faculty parking lot, waiting for Jerry to pick me up, when out of nowhere Kate plopped down beside me.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Uh, hi,” I said. I glanced around, but there was no one else nearby. “What’s up?”

  “Not much. Just killing time before gymnastics practice.” She leaned back on her elbows and crossed her feet on the asphalt. “Coach Greer has a meeting, so we’re starting late.”

  I nodded. She wore a thin silver bracelet on her left arm, and it glinted in the sun. Her wrists were tiny.

  “Does your head still hurt?” she asked.

  It took me a moment to get what she was talking about. Then I remembered: the headstands.

  “Only if I press it on the ground and put all my weight on it,” I said. I made a face. “Which, you know, I like to do a lot.”

  She laughed. “You did get better, though. You almost had it those last couple of times.”

  “Yeah, because my head was dented in by then. By the end of the unit, I’ll be like Barney Rubble, with a big, square head.” I imitated her position, leaning back on my elbows so that the concrete dug into my skin. “It must be fun to be good at that stuff—headstands and cartwheels and all that.”

  “I guess.” She glanced at me. “What about you? What do you do?”

  “What do you mean, what do I do?”

  “You know, what are you good at?” She said it so easily, like everyone was good at something. But I wasn’t on any teams, and in P.E. I was one of the last people picked, even for something simple like dodgeball. I didn’t play the piano. I didn’t draw. What did I do?

  Karen and Elise, two girls from our grade, came around the corner of the school. They stopped when they saw us, and their eyebrows went up.

  “Hi, Kate,” Elise said. “Hi, Lissa.” She turned back to Kate. “We’re going to walk over to Dairy Queen and get a Blizzard. Want to come?”

  I focused on the pavement. The lines marking the parking spaces were faint and needed to be repainted.

  “Nah,” Kate said. “Y’all go on. I’ll see you in practice.”

  “You sure?” Elise’s eyes flicked to me. “Well, whatever.” She nudged Karen and they walked away. Karen said something in a low voice, and the two of them broke out laughing.

  “Why didn’t you go with them?” I said. It came out sounding snotty, and I blushed. I sat up and wrapped my arms around my legs.


  “I don’t know,” Kate said. “I’m not hungry. And Elise can be kind of a pain sometimes. Anyway, I know both of them already.”

  I sat still, feeling the sun on my neck. I wanted to say something witty, something to prove I was worth getting to know, but the words wouldn’t come. I felt that way a lot, like I had thoughts within me but it took a long time for them to bubble to the surface. By that point, most people had lost interest.

  “You never told me what you like to do,” Kate said.

  “That’s because I can’t think of anything.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “I’m serious. I can’t.”

  She looked at me, then gave a funny half-smile. “I bet you’re good at tons of things. You’re just being modest.”

  That’s when I felt it. It was her expression more than anything, as if she’d summed me up and actually liked what she saw. But that was four years ago. Now when Kate looked at me, which didn’t happen very often, something in her eyes wouldn’t let me past.

  I asked her once why she had come up to me that day, why she had decided to be so nice.

  “Oh, you know,” she teased. “I was bored, I had nothing else to do—”

  “Come on,” I said. This was when we were still friends, so I grinned and shoved her shoulder.

  “Well,” she said, “part of it was that you seemed so solemn, like you had some great secret or something. But you were funny, too. You made me laugh.” She looked at me, one of those penetrating gazes that made me feel special. “You were different from what I expected.”

  “Oh, great,” I said.

  “In a good way, Lissa. You know that.”

  But I didn’t, not anymore. Not since two weeks ago in Rob’s gazebo, when Kate leaned in to kiss me and like an idiot I kissed her back. All I knew now was that nothing lasted forever, even a friendship, and that being “different” felt the same as being alone.