Confessions of a Serial Kisser by Wendelin Van Draanen Read Free Book Online Page A

WERE EIGHTH GRADERS , we had four out of six classes together. When we moved up to high school, we had only two classes the same, and we thought it was torture. But as sophomores we were down to one class (P.E.), and now we have none. We do have the same teachers for American literature and world history, but they're at different times, so that's only useful for comparing homework answers.
    We used to walk to school together, too, but that was before the separation. Now, instead of living a block away from the Willows, I'm at the condo, over a mile away. And this year, while I had my nose in a book (either text or romance) or was killing time at Groove Records, Adrienne was getting more and more involved in school. Newspaper production, which she has first period (and, it seems, at lunch and after school), and choir now ruled her life. If she wasn't rushing off to meet some deadline for the
Larkmont Times,
she was catering to the demanding whims of Mr. and Mrs. Vogel, her choir teachers.
    So not seeing her in the quad the morning following the gazebo disaster was nothing unusual.
    Her not having called me back the night before was.
    Where was she?
    I was in the middle of a kissing crisis!
    I needed my best friend!
    I tried the newspaper production classroom and asked the advisor, Ms. Pickney, if she'd seen her.
    "Not this morning, no." As I turned to go, she called, "But when you find her, tell her she should be here! Her page is still half empty! Our deadline is Thursday!"
    I waved an acknowledgment, then walked over to the Performance Pavilion, trying to ignore all the couples sucking face in alcoves along the way.
    One of the back entrances to the theater was unlocked, and I entered to the sound of angelic voices and a tinkling piano. I found a seat in the shadows and watched as Adrienne and about twenty other singers did vocal gymnastics while Mr. Vogel waved a baton around like he was fending off a swarm of bees and Mrs. Vogel played with exaggerated drama at the baby grand. (They both always dress and act like they're giving the performance of a lifetime. Swooping bows, flowing scarves, polished dress shoes...even their hallway "good mornings" are overly theatrical. It's really quite exhausting being around them.)
    After a while I found myself watching a tall blond who was standing in the row behind Adrienne. His name was Patrick or Patton or Peyton or...some other P name...and he was obviously very serious about his singing. Big oooos, wide eeeees...He was handsome in a choirboy sort of way and had, I decided, a very expressive mouth.
    The warning bell rang, and after a brief pep talk from Mr. Vogel about the "fast-approaching spring choral performance," the choir dispersed.
    "Adrienne!" I called, hurrying up to the stage.
    "Evangeline!" she called back, her cheeks glowing from her early-morning vocalizing. She scampered down the side steps and said, "I'm so sorry I didn't get back to you last night. I fell asleep at eight o'clock, if you can believe that! I was just exhausted." She grabbed my arm and whispered, "So what happened? Did you meet Justin? Did you get your crimson kiss?"
    I scowled. "I was so wrong about him. It was a disaster."
    "See ya, Adrienne," the blond choirboy said as he went by. "Hey, Evangeline."
    "Hey," I said back, racking my brains for his name.
    "See ya, Paxton," Adrienne said, her cheeks still glowing.
    I did a mental snap of the fingers.
Paxton.
    Adrienne called, "You sounded great today!" after him, then latched on to me again and whispered, "Why was it a disaster? Tell me! Tell me everything!"
    "He's allergic to perfume. Or flowers. Or both! He was late, he sneezed all over the place, and get this--he brought Blaine and Travis!"
    "No!"
    "Seriously. How mature is that? They were spying from his car!"
    "Get out!" She gave me a friendly shove, then started making a beeline toward her first-period class. "So...no kiss?"
    "Not even close." I cut away from her, saying, "I gotta go. Fieldman's the