Kiss & Sell (9 page)

“Whoa, Xena,” Phin said, covering his face with his hands. “You may be a bad-ass, but you’ve gotta put in some extra training if you’re gonna be pulling moves like that.”

“Oh, I’ve got moves you’ve never seen before, Phin-ster,” I said in my best flirty voice.

“And suddenly I’m not hungry anymore,” Phin said, clutching his stomach in mock disgust.

I punched him playfully in the arm and pouted a little.

“Omigosh!” McCartney exclaimed suddenly. She crossed the room, laptop in hand, and sat down between the two of us.

She turned to me as she fired up the computer. “You remember when I told Dan this afternoon that I’d read something that proved what a slimy slug he is?” she asked, her eyes growing mischievous.

With everything that had been going on at the time, I guess my brain had glossed over that part of the convo. I shook my head and McCartney continued.

“Well, I was sort of telling the truth—and sort of not,” she said. She typed on a few keys and then swiveled the computer so both of us could read the page. The website was called “HesaJerk.com” and on the main page were a few pictures of guys around our age, as well as little bios on each of them.

“Type Dan’s name in the search box,” McCartney prompted.

I did what she said and then watched as another page popped up with a picture of Dan and his name in bold black letters. I began to read aloud.

“This is Dan Stevenson. He’s a junior at Ronald Henry HS. And he is a dog. Look out for this jerk, girls. He’s been known to take ladies out for the sole purpose of trying to lay his not-so-smooth moves on them, and then spread false rumors about them around school.

To this creep, accepting an invitation to a movie or a bite to eat means that you, in turn, are expected to make it worth his while. And we’re not talking just buying the tub of popcorn and soda at the theater. We’re talking—well, use your imagination.

So, if you’re asked out by this slimeball, I’m warning you—Just. Say. No. Otherwise, before the date’s even begun, you might have agreed to something you never signed up for. Oh, and he also has bad breath.”

I looked up from the screen, my jaw dropping open as I stared in disbelief at my friend.

“You wrote this?” I asked, incredulously. “How did you even find this site?”

“I’m going to plead the fifth to your first question, on account of not wanting to incriminate myself,” McCartney answered slowly. “But if I
were
to have something to do with this, I may have heard about the site from a cousin of mine who had a run-in with a player at
her
school last year.”

“Can you
really
do this?” I asked, feeling a tad bit guilty at the thought of tarnishing someone else’s rep. Even if the victim in question
was
a dirt bag like Dan. “I mean, is this sort of thing legal?”

“Freedom of speech,” she replied, shrugging. “Besides, more than one girl left messages under Dan’s profile. So, it’s not like I’m making it up.”

I scrolled down the page and sure enough, there were at least another half a dozen entries by different girls recounting their negative experiences on dates with Dan. A few of them even said things I would have been embarrassed to read out loud. After reading all the testimonies, I didn’t feel quite so bad about what McCartney had written.

“But, bad breath? I never told you that,” I sputtered, scrolling back up to the top of the page.

“I never said I was a
nice
girl,” McCartney said devilishly. “Besides, no one trashes on my girl.”

“Have I ever told you that you’re a great friend?” I asked, leaning over and giving McCartney a tight hug.

“Yeah, but it never hurts to hear it again,” McCartney answered, laughing.

There was a knock on the door and teddy came in with our snacks. She placed the tray of goodies down on McCartney’s desk where her computer had been a few minutes before, but now lay between us.

Phin jumped up and practically attacked the food. “Thank God, teddy. I think the estrogen in here was beginning to kill off my total manliness,” Phin said, shoving the food into his mouth.

“You were manly before?” McCartney asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Why do you think we keep you around, Phin?” I added. “You’re like one of the girls.”

“Take it back,” Phin said, stopping mid-chew.

I smiled at him innocently.

“I hope you two know that I have guy muscles, and guy sweat, and plenty of girls don’t think of me as ‘just one of the girls,’” he said, narrowing his eyes at us.

“Okay,” McCartney answered.

“Whatever you say,” I said, nodding my head.

Phin could hear the sarcasm in our voices. “You guys suck.”

Teddy snickered as she left the room, closing the door behind her. We made our way over to the food and brought it back to the bed.

“Now, on to more pressing matters,” McCartney said, dipping a chip into the salsa and popping it into her mouth.

“Such as?” I asked.

“Well, the Homecoming dance is coming up,” she answered. “It’s our freshman year, so we have to decide whether we’re going to be making an appearance or not. And if we’re going as a group or with dates.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, girls,” Phin said, quickly. “But there’s no way I’m not getting asked. And as I’ve learned by hanging out with you two today—three’s a crowd. And so is four.”

“You know we were just joshing you before, Phin,” I said. “You’re the manliest man around. Really. You’re more guy than Bradley Cooper. Man sweat and all.”

“Now say it once more with a little
more
feeling,” Phin answered, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest.

“So, does that mean, we’re voting on the side of going to the dance?” McCartney asked, ignoring Phin’s show of masculinity.

This was a good question. on the one hand, going to a high school dance had been something that the three of us had been talking about ever since Phin’s older sister had bragged about it while we were in grade school. But on the other hand, who needed the added stress of finding the perfect dress, bagging the perfect date
and
having the perfect time while trying to dance around in heels?

Still, I already knew what Phin and McCartney were thinking, so I sighed loudly.

“Okay. I’m in,” I said. “I’m not promising I’m going with a date, though. It’s enough that I have to deal with this whole kissing thing. There’s no way I want Homecoming to turn out to be like another date with Dan.”

“Fair enough. Let’s just agree to go, with or without dates,” McCartney said. “We’ll all share a limo no matter what, and no one’s ditched or left behind.”

“Sounds like a plan, stan,” Phin said, hopping up from the bed. He crossed the room and picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder. “Gotta jet. Mom’s cooking lasagna tonight. See you two chicks later.”

And before we could say goodbye, Phin had ducked out of the room.

I shook my head and laughed as we listened to him lumber down the stairs.

“So, we’re Homecoming-bound?” McCartney asked me, holding out her hand.

I rolled my eyes and then shook her hand. “We’re Homecoming-bound,” I answered with a groan.

“This is gonna be awesome, arielle. Just wait,” she said, tossing a chip in the air and catching it in her mouth. “Totally
epic
.”

BY THE TIME
I got home that night, the table had already been set and dinner was beginning to cool.

“Sorry I’m late, Mom. We were hanging over at McCartney’s,” I said and let my bag fall to the floor before slipping into one of the empty seats.

“And how are things over at the Janning’s?” Mom asked, placing a heaping spoonful of what appeared to be tuna noodle casserole onto my plate.

“Fine. The usual,” I answered and poured myself a glass of milk.

“And where are McCartney’s parents this week?”

“Um, I think Paris, maybe,” I said, scratching my head. “Or maybe it’s China. I can never keep track.”

“Well, you guys let me know if she needs to stay here for a few days,” she answered, taking a bite of her food.

“Thanks, Mom, but it’s not exactly like McCartney’s
alone
in the house,” I said, my mouth full of cheesy goodness. “She’s got teddy, and like, three other housekeepers hanging around 24/7.”

“I know, but it’s not the same as having family around,” Mom started to lecture.

“Mom. That
is
her family,” I tried to explain for about the hundredth time. We were constantly having this same conversation. Mom feeling bad over the fact that McCartney was basically raising herself, and me insisting that not only was McCartney used to it, but she preferred it that way. Changing the subject, I added, “Speaking of family, how are things going with you?”

If all else failed, ask people about themselves. People
love
talking about themselves.

As I thought this, Mom smiled at me as if I’d just announced that I decided to run for Daughter of the year.

“Thanks you for asking, Arielle. That is so
Thoughtful
,” Mom said, placing her fork down on her plate. “I just got another client today. And this couple is a doozy. I can’t tell you who it is, but I
can
tell you that they’re in the entertainment industry. It’s going to be a challenge with these two, because neither have really had successful relationships in the past and their lives are
so
public.”

My mom must have thought I never turned on the TV or walked past those gossip mags, because if she did, she wouldn’t be giving me such easy clues as to who her newest famous clientele were. I was already making a mental list of who she could be talking about as she continued to chatter on distractedly.

“I mean, after my book came out and I started doing guest appearances on talk shows, I began to realize what these celebrities’ lives must be like. To lose your anonymity like that…” she said thoughtfully. “But, oh well, that’s the life that I chose!—I guess giving up some of my privacy to the public is a small thing compared to
helping people
.”

I began to tune her out, since this was also a conversation we’d had before—that is, if you could call my mom rambling on while I stared off into space a conversation. My attention was piqued though, when I heard my name.

“I just want to make sure that you understand what being in the public eye could mean for you. Before you decide whether to agree to this or not,” Mom was saying.

“Huh? Agree to what?” I asked, my forkful of food stopping halfway to my mouth.

“The interview. With
The Kennedy Daily?
” she said. And then she narrowed her eyes at me like she was just realizing I hadn’t actually been listening to her after all. This was her biggest pet peeve and I wasn’t about to endure another lecture about being a mindful conversationalist. So I played along.

“Oh, yeah, that,” I said and coughed a few times.

My mom sighed, like she wasn’t up for the lecture either. “I was just telling you that a reporter from
The Kennedy Daily
left a message, requesting an interview with you for her column,” she explained for the second time. “But I want you to
really
think about it before deciding what you want to do. If you say yes, it would mean making your personal life public knowledge. Everyone in town would know
everything about you. And I mean,
everyone
. Your neighbors, your teachers, the kids you like, the kids you hate—they would all know your personal business. Your life would be on display.”

Though I wasn’t exactly thrilled to know that my loogi-snorting math teacher might read all about my non-existent love life in his morning paper, I had to admit, I was intrigued.

“Who wants to do the interview?” I asked, running through a mental list of the columns that were usually published in the paper.

My mom got up and walked over to the pad of paper we kept near the phone, so that we could write down messages for each other. My mom of course, was the only one of us who ever remembered it was there. It was like I had this strange mental blank spot when it came to passing things along. Somehow my mom’s obsessive Compulsive side hadn’t extended to me. Thank God.

“It’s a woman named Sylvia longood,” Mom read off the scrap of paper. “She writes a column called…”

“Sylvia’s secrets?” I asked, surprised. Sylvia’s column was basically our town’s equivalent of “Sex & the City.” only with a lot less sex and even less city. McCartney and I had been reading the column since we’d discovered it back in middle school.

“Yeah. She says she’s doing a piece centered around dating and wants to talk to you about your fundraiser,” Mom said, handing the slip of paper over to me.

“It could be cool to at least
meet
with her, I guess,” I answered, trying not to sound as excited as I felt. “I mean, it would be rude not to.”

“You know I’ll back up any decision you make, honey,” my mom began, “but I don’t want you to feel at all pressured to bend to the will of the media. And if you
do
choose to meet with her, I need to know you understand what you’re getting into.”

“I appreciate that Mom, but my privacy was sort of taken away the day I decided to put my first kiss up for auction on the internet,” I answered. “People at school already know what’s going on, and I was mentioned on the radio the other day, so I’d say the word is already out. Maybe it’s time I told my side of the story.”