Ki$$ & $ell

Ki$$ & $ell: Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

“That tool-bag!” McCartney exclaimed, as I relayed all of the sordid details from my disaster date. We’d barely even stepped onto campus before I’d begun telling them all about it. Starting from the moment I’d opened the door and saw Dan standing there, straight through to the point when I’d called my mom to pick me up a couple of blocks away from the theater.

            “Yep, pretty much,” I nodded.

By the time I’d gotten home, I was practically shaking, I was so angry. After putting on my big, red, padded boxing gloves and punching the bag that was hanging up in the corner of my room for a half hour, I finally started to feel a little less homicidal. Not only was the punching bag a good workout, but it was one of my favorite ways to de-stress. And picturing Dan’s face as I took each swing was a great motivator. It was a win-win situation.

            “Wait,” Phin said, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jeans. “He took you to the movies and just expected you to fall all over him? Even I know that you have to work a little for it.”

            McCartney and I looked over at him and made faces.

            “Please! Not the evil death stare!” he said, shielding his eyes. “All I meant is that it doesn’t matter if you’re Dan Stevenson or Orlando Bloom…you still have to put some effort into a date if you think you’re going to be able to make a connection that will end in a kiss.”

            “Nice save,” McCartney said, sarcastically. Then she turned back to me. “And really? A horror film? That’s about the most unoriginal idea for a date. They’re all about some girl, running through the woods, half-naked. Then, she trips and falls over some imaginary branch or tree trunk or heck, maybe even over her own clumsy feet. And as the killer gets closer, she doesn’t even bother to get up. Really, if you trip while running half-naked through the woods and don’t get up, I’m sorry, but you deserve to be chopped to bits.”

            I laughed despite myself, as she vented. I’d heard this same complaint from her many times before, and didn’t miss the irony in the fact that McCartney rarely missed a scary movie—no matter how awful or clichéd it was.

            “I think you’re missing the point of my story,” I finally said. “The bottom line is: Dan only asked me out because he thought it would be cool to be the first one to bag me. Like, he’d win some prize or something for getting to me first.”

            “Well, he kind of would have,” Phin said. Holding up his hands in surrender before we could glare at him again, he added, “I heard the radio spot with DJ Dave last night. You’re becoming quite the local celeb. He may be high school popular, but being your first could’ve made him real-world popular.”

            “That’s lame,” I said.

            “But it’s also sort of true,” McCartney said sympathetically. “Sorry, girlie, but some guys are only into what will help their reps, and right now you’re the hottest thing at RHHS.”

            “Even I didn’t think it would get this big,” Phin admitted. “I looked up your listing last night and you’re up to $175.”

            I was so shocked, I almost choked on my own spit, and then broke out into a coughing fit.

            “What?!” I exclaimed when I’d regained control over my breathing and could talk again. “Someone wants to pay $175 to kiss me?”