KRISTEN’S KITCHEN
Friday, October 9th
7:17 A.M.
“No texting at the table,” Marsha insisted, dumping two spoonfuls of sugar in her red mug.
“I’m not texting, I’m reading. And this isn’t the table, it’s the breakfast counter. And you’re not even sitting with me—you’re standing by the coffeemaker!”
“All technicalities.” Marsha kissed her daughter on the head. “Maybe if you shared whatever it is that has you so captivated I’d understand.” She moved the crumpled New York Times and half-eaten bowl of Cheerios aside to make room for her mug, then sat on the stool next to Kristen. Her nurse’s uniform smelled like antibacterial soap.
“It’s nothing. Just a text from Massie,” Kristen insisted, trying to read. “Just the details for tonight’s sleepover. I guess she forgives me.” She smiled with her entire body. Her mom-approved mustard crew-neck wool sweater stopped itching. And her tired eyes ceased to burn. She had not been exiled from the Pretty Committee! All was forgiven!!!
“I knew she would.” Marsha checked the clock on the microwave. “I better go.” She slung a worn black leather tote over her shoulder. “Does this mean Isaac will be picking you up, or do you need a ride?”
Kristen chugged her orange juice. “Isaac,” she lied, knowing Massie was taking a bad-sushi day.
Really, she was hoping to tag along with Dempsey and ask which girl he liked. But first she needed to change out of last year’s church sweater.
The elevator doors banged shut. Peering through the peephole, Kristen made absolutely sure her mom was gone and then slipped on Massie’s old turquoise-and-brown striped Trina Turk sweater minidress. As luck would have it, her ex-Socc-Hers moccasins matched perfectly. She yanked off the bells, stuffed the “before” clothes in her Hedgehog LeSportsac gym bag, gave Beckham a big kiss on the head, and bolted.
It was a new day.
Dempsey was standing outside her apartment, balancing on crutches when she opened the door. His ah-dorable disheveled-chic cargos, worn-in burgundy Harvard tee, and mirrored aviators caught her off guard. He looked like a J. Crew model without the scarf.
“Ehmagawd, sticks?” She heard herself giggle nervously.
“Yeah.” He blush-nodded. “Ankle fracture. My soccer career is over.”
“Awww, I’m so sorry.” Kristen tried to look sad while her mind filled with questions. Does he think I look cute in this dress? How cute? Sister cute or model cute?
“How are you getting to school?” he asked, pressing the elevator button with the bottom of his crutch. “Wanna ride with my mom and I?”
My mom and me!!!!
“Um . . . I dunno . . . maybe,” she stammered, knowing she’d never pull off a heart-to-heart with his mother around.
The elevator doors squeaked open.
Dempsey hobbled inside and sigh-leaned against the back wall for support.
Kristen quickly pressed L, trying to appear helpful. The elevator began to dip. Impulsively, she darted forward and hit stop. A bell rang, but neither of them looked the least bit scared.
“What’re ya doin’?” he chuckled, amused.
“Um.” Kristen’s dropped her bags on the ground and tucked her blond hair behind her ears. “I kinda need to ask you something.”
Intrigued, he raised his eyebrows like a CW hottie. Cheerios churned in Kristen’s stomach. Why was she so nervous? This was about Massie, Layne, and Dempsey. This had nothing to do with her. Still, she couldn’t seem to come right out and ask.
“So,” she managed to say. “Let’s play a game.”
“You wanna play a game?” he said to the flashing emergency light.
“Yeah, it’s called Who Would You Rather. I give you choices and you tell me who you’d rather lip-kiss.”
“Okay?” he asked like he was helping himself to one of her potato chips.
Kristen wished she had the guts to come right out and ask him. But she didn’t want to know the truth. Not yet. Because no matter who he chose, one of her friends would get hurt. And she’d have to break it to them.
“Serena or Blair?” she asked, hitting snooze on the inevitable.
“Blair,” he stated like it was obvious.
Hmmmm. He chose the brunette. That boded well for both Layne and Massie, though not Kristen. Not that it mattered.
“Hilary Duff or Vanessa Hudgens?”
“Hudgens.”
Another brunette.
“Ms. Dunkel or Principal Burns?” Kristen giggled at her own joke.
“Ugh!” He wince-waved the notion away like it was bad BO.
“You okay in there?” Willard called up from the lobby.
“Yup,” Kristen snapped, annoyed by the interruption.
“The maintenance crew should have you out in a jiff,” he shout-cough-choked.
“’Kay,” Kristen answered. She couldn’t hit snooze any longer. It was go time.
Flashing orange lights illuminated the numbers above their heads, their rhythm frenzied and anxious, just like Kristen’s heart. Still, she glared up pensively, as if pondering something utterly profound. “Hmmmm.” She tapped her bottom lip.
“One.”
Tap.
“More.”
Tap.
“Question.”
Tap. Tap.
“How ’bout . . . uh, I dunno. . . .” Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Layne or . . .” Tap. Tap. “Mmmmassie?”
“Seriously?” He cocked his head in a “do you really mean that” sort of way.
Kristen nodded that she absolutely did.
Her body buzzed with suspense. His answer would be life changing. She wasn’t sure how. Or for whom. Just that it would be.
“Ew,” Dempsey said flatly, eyeing his sock-covered foot.
The elevator jolted suddenly, then began to descend.
“Ew?” Kristen heard herself screech.
“No.” He lifted one of his crutches and poked her calf. “You.”
She peered at the lenses of Dempsey’s mirrored sunglasses, trying to picture Massie and Layne with a guy like him. But all Kristen could see was herself.
The elevator doors opened quickly.
Too quickly.
And there was Dune. Standing there. Looking cozy-cute in a brown Hurley sweatshirt, a black wool cap, and deliciously faded jeans. He was holding a bouquet of crispy fall leaves bound by a shark-tooth necklace and his sweetest smile.