Starkissed (4 page)

“Yeah.” I push my stool back, careful to make sure no one is behind me this time, and slide down. As I’m turning to grab my purse, I notice a handful of girls over in the corner anxiously staring at Grant, probably trying to figure out how to come hit on him. Must be such a drag being so gorgeous and desired (sarcasm implied). He notices them too and quickly looks away.

“You know what? I don’t think my friend is going to show. I’ll walk you out.” He takes my hand and smiles. I try not to collapse in a fit of giggles and excitement. The spot where he’s holding my hand tingles and there’s a noticeable uptick in the beat of my heart. As pathetic as it is to admit, this is the first time a guy has held my hand. Okay well that’s not strictly true. I’ve played my fair share of Red Rover…and there was Leo in Junior High, and last week Paul grabbed my hand to pull me into the comic book store. Okay time to shut up.

Grant guides me through the lounge and out into the lobby. I keep flicking my gaze furtively to my hand, then to the back of his head. I swallow a lump of I don’t know what – excitement, apprehension, nervousness – and match my stride to his. It’s even busier in here then when I arrived and when we push through the front doors and step outside, I’m startled to see a large crowd has amassed. A dozen men with large, expensive looking cameras are standing at attention on the sidewalk, eyes trained on a limo pulling to a stop at the curb.

“Shit,” Grant mutters at the crowd and blocked curb, then turns away. He goes for the doors, but there’s someone in the way. He resigns himself to stare at a window, his back to the throng of people.

“I guess it won’t be too easy to get a cab with that thing in the way.” I say.

“Not it won’t,” he agrees, still staring in the opposite direction.

The limo comes to a full stop and the back door swings open. The first to emerge is a young, very good looking guy with a shaved head, pierced ears, and a t-shirt so tight you can see the ripple of every muscle beneath it. He looks vaguely familiar. I think he might be on one of those teen soaps Angelina and Ava stare at every night. But it’s not him that has the photographers rushing forward in a frenzy. Seconds later, a long tanned leg appears, followed by a hand, another leg, then a torso, and head.

Grant turns around slowly, squinting in awe with the rest of us. Well maybe not awe, his brow is furrowed and his lips are pressed tightly together. “Not tonight,” he mutters.

The girl, I know her. That cascade of pin straight blonde hair falling to the small of her back, the delicate star tattoo on her ankle, the slice of her cheekbones.

“Oh my God,” I poke Grant excitedly. “It’s Summer Stone.”

He blinks and then shakes his head. “Her? You recognize
her
?”

“Of course.” I nod, stretching up onto the tips of my toes to get a better view. “Angelina’s a total pop culture addict. God she’s going to kill me when she finds out I saw Summer Stone.”

He shoves his hands into his pockets and kicks a rock resting near his foot. “Trust me, she doesn’t.”

“Right, um,” I mutter, unsure what to say. He seems to have lost all interest in me, instead focusing, with acute attention, on the backs of his hands. I turn away from him and back to the crowd.

Summer wraps herself around the soap star guy and whispers in his ear. The crowd is starting to throb and expand toward us. One of the photographers shouts out “Kiss,” and Summer is more than happy to oblige, practically smashing her face against her dates’. A guy with a massive camera knocks my shoulder and doesn’t bother to apologize, too focused on his shot. The limo slides away from the sidewalk and a cab almost immediately replaces it.

“I guess I’ll grab that one.” I touch Grant’s shoulder and motion that I’m leaving.

“Good idea. Should get out of here.” he nods. I’m a little surprised when he follows me as I take a wide arc around the pack of paparazzi. We reach the side of the cab and I pull the door open.

“So,” I bite my bottom lip. “It was really nice meeting you Grant.”

“Yeah, you too,” he says, but his eyes are darting left to right and avoiding mine.

“Hey wait a minute,” someone calls. “Isn’t that?”

Some of the photographers are backing away from Summer. I peer around, trying to figure out what they’re looking at. I notice Grant’s lips tighten, then his eyes squeeze shut. But a second later his face relaxes and his eyes flutter open and bore down into my own. He reaches his hand toward me and before I know what’s happening, he’s pulling me into him, wrapping his arms around me, and pressing his mouth against mine.

I’m so shocked that my entire body sort of tenses and goes rigid. A second ago I thought he couldn’t care less about me, and now he’s practically inhaling my face. I don’t know what to do with my hands or my tongue. But Grant just doesn’t let up, he presses his body so close to me that there’s a nary a gap between us, his lips are soft and moist and with a little work, pry mine apart. It feels good. Far different from the last time I was kissed. And then I’m not rigid anymore, my hands aren’t limp at my sides, but trailing up his arms, and raking through his hair. I feel a rush of adrenaline push up inside of me as my heart starts to beat faster. It’s fantastic and alarming at the same time. Summer and her boyfriend must be doing something again because when I briefly open one eye, flashes are going off everywhere. It’s like fireworks.

Then as quickly as it began, it’s over. Grant pulls away. I stumble back a little and stare at him, lost for words. I struggle to catch my breath. What do I do? Say? I’m so nervous I can barely stand upright. I blink at him and I swallow a thick lump in my throat, then giggle lamely and say, “um, well thanks.” I jump into the cab, toss one look back at Grant over my shoulder, then shut the door and tell the driver to take me back to Alyssa’s.

Chapter Five

IDIOT. I am such an idiot! What kind of loser girl gets kissed by perhaps one of the hottest guys she’s ever met, then runs away without even getting his last name?

Well me. Ugh, I’m so lame.

It’s not like I was expecting it. One second he was acting like I was about as interesting as gum on the pavement, the next he all over me! How else was I supposed to respond? Running was clearly the only choice.

When I get back to the apartment, Alyssa isn’t there. I want to rush in and tell her all about Grant, but when I open the door Steve is waiting for me with an apologetic shrug and giant brown take-out bag full of Chinese food.

“An hour,” he tells me.

I roll my eyes and follow him into the living room.

“She’s really sorry,” he sighs. “She wanted your trip to be amazing. Things aren’t usually like this, but readership is down and the new editor Marcelle is a little particular...”

“It’s fine,” I shake my head and turn for the hall. “I’m going to change before we eat. I don’t want to get sweet and sour sauce on my dress.”

By the time Alyssa finally makes it home it’s a little after eleven and I’m already in bed. She pokes her head into the room and smiles sadly.

“Hey,” I wave her in.

She walks over to me and crawls into the bed. “I’m so sorry Syd,” she wraps her arms around my shoulders and kisses my forehead, making me feel about four years old. “Next time, I promise I’ll be better. I’ll quit my job, or lock Marcelle in a cupboard.”

“Sure,” I nod.

A few minutes later she leaves the room, gently closing the door behind her. I flick off the light and turn on my side, gazing out the bedroom window at the city skyline a billion lights bright. Somewhere out there in that sea of light is Grant. I roll on my back and stare at the ceiling. Despite my confusion at being kissed by someone who I thought couldn’t care less about me, and my annoyance at my idiotic running off, I smile.

***

The next morning Alyssa and Steve take me to the airport. Alyssa hugs me tightly and promises she’ll try and convince Mom to let me come back soon. I wave goodbye to them, then head for security.

It’s still early and through the big windows that peer out on to the vast tangles of runway, I can see the sun as it’s just barely creeping up against the horizon.

Half an hour later I board my plane with a crowd of other passengers, all looking about as tired as I feel. I duck down into my window seat and stare at the polyester chair in front of me. I secure my seatbelt and wait for the roar of the plane’s engines.

It takes me awhile to really appreciate the crappiness of the day. But by the time I’m rushing to make my second connection, I feel a pit of anger and contempt boiling in my stomach and for a second I hate my mother. With another to go, this has to be longest, most convoluted flight plan anyone has ever taken. It would have been a couple hundred bucks to get me from New Mexico to New York and back direct. But no, Mom had to book me on miles and now I’m stuck zig zagging across the country. Thankfully I at least have my iPod, ebook reader, and homework to keep me busy, otherwise the never ending boredom would drive me nuts.

My final flight touches down on the runway in Albuquerque just past midnight. By the time I make it off the plane and through baggage claim it’s past one. My dad, ever so helpful, doesn’t come inside to help me lug my things out, but sends me a text from the car and tells me to come out to the curb where he’s idling happily.

He greets me with a warm, but exhausted smile and climbs out of the car just long enough to wrap his arms quickly around me and haul my suitcase up into the trunk.

The ride home is quick thanks to the fact traffic is pretty thin in the middle of the night. On the way, I try to negotiate some sort of reprieve from school the next day, but Dad shakes his head resolutely and tells me I have to go whether I can keep my eyes open or not.

It’s not so much the tiredness I’m worried about, it’s more of the second half of my homework I neglected to do over break. The weight of due assignments presses annoyingly on my shoulders. So I get home, jump in my bed, and sleep for four hours. At 6:30a.m. I’m following after the senior boys basketball team as they stream into the school for early morning practice. I rush off towards the library once I’m inside. Even though Mrs. Sherbetz, the librarian isn’t there, the door is unlocked and I creep in. I flip on a couple sets of lights and find a corner in the back.

I manage to get through my essay on Karl Marx just before the first morning bell sounds two hours later. I shove all of my books into my bag and stumble out into the hall, wishing I’d thought to text Caroline to bring me some coffee before she got here. Her Starbucks addiction would be helpful right now. Too little, too late.

Maybe I’m hallucinating due to exhaustion, but I swear on my life that the moment I step out of the library and into the crowd of students rushing to their lockers, people start looking at me. At first it’s just a handful of stares, a ninth grade girl here, a teacher there. But then more and more people start looking. Their eyes follow me down the hall, up the stairs, and even on the second level. And are people poking their friends and pointing at me?

Something must be on my face. I quickly jab my fingers into the creases of my eyes, searching for globules of sleep goop mingled with day old mascara, but there’s nothing.

Okay, now a bunch of cheerleaders are staring at me. What’s on earth is going on?

I reach my locker and spin the dial. The door pops open and I quickly shove my bag inside. I look into the magnetic mirror hanging at eye level on my locker’s door. I turn my head this way and that, wondering if maybe my hair is sticking out at some unnatural angle, but I look fine.

I look down at my clothes. Dark boot cut jeans and a purple, button up, plaid shirt. There are no ink or coffee stains. All my buttons, at least the necessary ones, are done up. As is my zipper. There are no holes in my knees, or God forbid butt. Nothing.

I’m about to slam my locker door shut when I see Caroline rushing toward me, a look of gleeful panic stretching her eyes wide open.

“Oh. My. God. There you are!” She squeals, coming to a halt so quickly she nearly falls into me. I expect her to wrap me in a huge hug and tell me how much she missed me, but instead she clenches her hand into a dainty fist and punches me in the shoulder.

I massage the aching spot she hit and stare at her, flabbergasted. “What the hell?”

“What the hell me? What the hell you? Why didn’t you call me? I’m supposed to be your best friend and you totally didn’t call me!”

I blink at her. What is she talking about? I called her on Saturday when I was shopping.

She leans in close and narrows her eyes. In a hushed, but forceful voice she goes on. “I had to find out like everyone else. I mean I’ve been pretending like I know all about it, because I mean, what would people think if I didn’t? But come on Sydney. How do you not tell your best friend first about something so huge?”

“I’m lost. Slow down. Breathe. Now what the hell are you rambling on about?”

“Oh come on. Everyone knows. The pictures are everywhere.”

“Pictures? What pictures?”

Caroline steps back and stares at me. “Wait a minute. You
don’t
know?”

“What don’t I know?” I screech.

She ticks her head back and forth a bit, like my lack of knowledge on this particular subject, whatever it may be, is astounding. She reaches into her front pocket and slides out her phone. Her fingers graze quickly over the touch screen. Then she shoves it into my hands.

“Look.”

The screen is so small that I can barely see the headline, but I can tell she’s navigated to her favorite gossip blog.

“What about it?”

“Look at the first article!”

I touch the screen. The page zooms in. The headline of the first entry appears –
Zombie Boy in Love?

“I’m still not getting it.”

“Pictures! Look at the pictures.”

I drag my finger so the article scrolls down. The first photo shows two people embracing, barely any aspects of them visible.

“That picture came out yesterday,” Caroline says. “But you can’t really tell from it.”

“Tell what?”

“Keep going.”

The next photo is the same couple, but the girl is less obscured. Her hair is soft brown and she’s wearing a shimmery green dress. The fabric looks familiar.

Another photo down, the couple is starting to pull away from each other and you can get a good look at the guy’s profile. There’s something very familiar about him. Eerily familiar. But what’s his picture doing on a celebrity site?

Holy crap. The next photo – you don’t just see him, but the girl is visible too. The waves of brown hair brushing her shoulders, the pale white of her skin, the heated flush of her apple round cheeks. And the sparkle of her confused, but delighted, kelly-green eyes.

“That’s me,” I whisper. This is impossible, I mean. I didn’t kiss anyone famous. They have me confused with someone else. A strangled giggle escapes my throat. I quickly clamp my lips shut and press my fists against them.

“Um yeah it is,” Caroline looks damn right astounded by my confusion now.

I stare closer at the picture filling the tiny screen. What the hell am I doing on this blog? And if that’s me, then that means Grant is...I scroll down to the text of the article, my fingers clutching the phone so tightly the tips are starting to turn white.

Hollywood’s favorite Zombie Hunter, Grant West, finds new love with unnamed beauty. He was spotted Saturday night outside LIMA restaurant, leaving with his new squeeze (pictured above). Coincidentally Summer Stone arrived just as he was taking off, her new beau in hand as well. Needless to say, chaos ensued, but not before the papz could snag a few photos of the new couple engaged in one very hot goodbye kiss.

Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap. My heart throbs to the point of impending explosion and my breath wheezes in and out. I lose balance and sag against the locker. This isn’t happening, this can’t be happening. I look at Caroline, she’s watching me closely, too closely.

No. No. No. No. No. I can’t think of anything else to say. Oh wait. “SHIT!”

Everyone around us who wasn’t already staring looks over as my voice echoes down the hall. Caroline’s mouth forms a large ‘O’ and from behind me I hear a low voice rumble. “Pardon me?” I turn around slowly and find myself face to face with Mr. Turnbull, the vice principal. I swallow. I should say something, apologize, excuse myself, give him some sort of explanation, but there are no words. All I can think is:
Shit. Grant West. Shit. I kissed him. Shit. My picture is on the internet.
So I just stare at him, my mouth opening a closing, doing a pretty good imitation of a goldfish.

Caroline slides forward. “Mr. Turnbull, Sydney is so sorry, she just found out something rather,” she looks at me, words failing for a moment, “upsetting I guess, and well...”

He purses his lips and folds his arms across the breadth of his barrel-like chest. “Choose your words more wisely in the future Miss...Sydney was it?”

Kudos to him for remembering my name, but I don’t really care. I nod, barely. He seems satisfied and continues on his path down the hall.

Caroline spins to face me. “What the hell is going on?”

I press my hands against my cheeks, squishing my lips together in a fleshy bud. “I have no idea.”

***

Caroline hates to miss first period on Mondays. We both have P.E. and so does Liam. He’s been known, on a daily basis, to remove his shirt halfway through class. But despite the call of Liam’s sweat glistened chest, Caroline decides we’re ditching class and drags me to the senior lounge. I’m more than happy to be dragged, seeing as I can barely think for myself right now. At this point I probably wouldn’t be able to find the gym without Caroline’s help anyway. Everything around me is a blur. I just keep seeing Grant’s face in my head, his lips coming at me.

This can’t be happening. It just can’t. I’m not that kind of girl, the kind who kisses boys she barely knows on sidewalks. And certainly not the kind that gets photographed and has her picture splashed across tabloids.

“Tell me everything!” Caroline shoves me into the senior lounge, a cramped, closet-like space filled with old furniture and a decrepit microwave.

“We’re not supposed to be in here, we’re juniors…” I say quietly, unsure why I’m pointing this out. I have bigger problems right now.

“Screw that! I want details.”

She leads me over to the sofa and pushes me. Thanks to my otherwise occupied mind and an already precarious sense of balance, I tip like a drunk girl in stilettos and drop down onto the springy surface of the couch. I wince as my shoulder hits the cushion-less backrest. Instead of looking at Caroline, I run my hands over the upholstery and grimace. It’s old, pilled, and smells. There are stains all over it too. An ink blotch by my left knee and something vaguely orange and tomato scented by my right thigh.

Grant West touched that thigh, in the middle of our kiss, letting his hand slowly creep down my side, brushing his finger tips so lightly...

The sound of the door slamming forces me back to reality. Caroline is securing the lock and yanking down the blind that covers the window.

“How could you not tell me you met, no kissed, Grant West? You know how much I love him! I’m not jealous, I swear, but how could you not call me?”

I try to stand up, but the couch is too low and my legs are too weak. I merely flail a little before giving up. “I didn’t know!”

“You didn’t know? What the hell does that mean?” She looks down at me. Despite the fact that she’s technically half a foot shorter than me, and a good twenty pounds lighter, I feel utterly miniscule beneath her furious, questioning gaze.

“It means I didn’t know who he was.” I fling up my arms and glare at her. I know I shouldn’t be getting mad at her, it’s not her fault. But I can barely deal with my own confusion, let alone hers.

“But...but he’s Grant West. How could you not know? And all the cameras? You had to have wondered what they were there for?

“I didn’t recognize him...and the cameras were all taking pictures of Summer...” I rub my right eye with the heel of my fist.

“You didn’t recognize him? God Sydney, that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Everyone recognizes Grant. My four year old sister knows who he is.”

I shrug.

“You make no sense. Tell me everything. Start from the beginning.”

I sag back into the couch and glare at the ceiling. It’s easier not to look at Caroline directly, what with the gymnastics routine her face keeps doing every time I say something she doesn’t get. “We met at this restaurant. I was supposed to be meeting Alyssa but she flaked again. So I was sitting there and I dropped my phone, and when I went to pick it up, I kind of hit him with my chair.”

“You hit him with your chair!”

I nod. “And my forehead.”

“What?”

I look at her. “Well after that we both bent down to get the phone at the same time, and I knocked his forehead with mine...”