17 First Kisses by Rachael Allen Read Free Book Online Page A

list.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â 
He’s hot.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â 
He plays soccer.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â 
He’s taller than me. (Which is rare when you’re a five-foot-ten athlete!)
    Â Â Â Â Â Â 
He’s in AP English, so he’s probably smart.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â 
He has dimples.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â 
He’s REALLY HOT.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â 
He’s the most interesting person I’ve met in as long as I can remember, and for a fleeting moment in front of his house I didn’t feel so alone living in our town with my messed-up family.
    I look over the list one more time and then I shred it into tiny pieces, because there isn’t enough candy in the world to bribe Libby with if she found it.
    While this is an impressive array of qualities to observe in a single specimen of boy, I’m going to back off and let Megan have him. Even though I saw him first. Even though it’s obvious we have way more in common. Even though I’m bored out of my cotton-picking mind. Because my best friend likes him
a lot
, and I’m not sure I like him
enough
.

    Â 
    Kiss #4 xoxo
Seventh Grade
    Absolutely ridiculous. That’s how I look in this dress. I pull it over my head and add it to the ever-growing pile of silver, magenta, and lavender on my floor.
    I grab another dress, a knee-length blue one Sarah swore would “make my eyes pop.” It’s no use. I look like a phony. Like when I was little and I stomped around the house in my mama’s high heels. It’s not that the dresses don’t fit me. They’re my size and everything. Maybe it’s because I don’t have boobs yet. I look from my ponytail to my unpainted toenails in disgust. How am I ever going to find something to wear to the Winter Wonderland Dance?
    There is nothing like standing in front of a floor-length mirror and trying on dresses to make you scrutinize everything you like or don’t like about yourself. I’m tall—way taller than most of the boys in seventh grade—so dances are pretty stressful for me, or would be if I actually slow-danced with boys. I have long, dark brown hair with natural auburn highlights that my sister Sarah says she would kill for and a tiny sprinkling of freckles across my nose and cheeks. I love my freckles. They’re the cute, tiny, tan-colored kind. Cinnamon-sprinkle freckles. The freckles combined with my round blue eyes give me a wholesome, all-American look, like I should be in soap commercials or something.
    But don’t get me wrong: I’m no knockout. I have all the curves of a celery stick. That means no boobs. None. My feet are too big, and my eyebrows are like two woolly bear caterpillars, but I’m scared to do anything about it lest I end up like Amanda Bell, who showed up to school with half an eyebrow after an unfortunate experiment with her mom’s waxing kit.
    But the worst thing about my looks, the thing that just kills me, is that I look like a boy. I’m serious. I have entirely too many muscles for a girl. It’s probably why all these dresses look awful on me. I’m just about to take off the stupid blue dress in defeat when the doorbell rings.
    â€œHey, girls. Megan, it’s so good to see you,” I hear my mother say.
    Why is Megan McQueen at my house? Did she finally decide it’s time to hang out? It’s been a few weeks. I run downstairs. It isn’t just Megan. Amberly and Britney are with her too. The entire Crown Society crew, minus Chessa. They’re decked out in their dresses already with matching crown necklace charms that signify their supposed superiority over the rest of us.
    â€œCJ, look who’s here!” Lord, she’s fawning all over Megan like she’s the queen of England instead of the queen of seventh grade. “Can I get y’all a glass of sweet tea? Or maybe some lemonade?”
    â€œThat is so sweet of you, Miss Lily, but we