The boy and I were sitting in his basement and listening to the Smiths when I got about six thousand phone calls to come home. I asked for a ride please from his mother.
We got in the back of the minivan. It was getting kind of dark and I needed to be home soon to babysit my little brother while my granddad took my sister to dance practice. The car came to a halt.
“Bye,” he said. No. I liked hanging out with him. I didn’t want to say bye.
“No, come out, I want to tell you something.”
“Walk her to the door,” said his mother. She thrives on politeness.
As we approached the door, my grandfather and my sister emerged from it.
“Bye,” he said again.
“Wait a second,” I said.
We watched them get into the car and drive off.
“Wait,” I said again, and I kissed him. And then he tried to kiss me and missed and tried again.
We hugged for a minute, and I said, “I really like you,” and so did he. And our arms unhinged and he said “thank you” or something.
I went inside to call my friends. Most of them seemed surprised that I could kiss someone without having a panic attack or prediscussing hygiene. A few said “Ugh, now I’m going to be the last one to have a first kiss.”
He called me, and we talked about nothing for a long time. I think he’s going to ask me out. I like him a lot. ♦