Hogan - The Serious Kiss

THE SERIOUS KISS

SIMON AND SCHUSTER

First, thank you, Mom and Dad, for being
nothing like the parents in this story!
My deepest gratitude also goes to the seriously
talented people who helped create this book:
Venetia Gosling, who taught me how to speak English;
Amanda Maciel, for her wit and insight; the agent of any
writers dreams, Laura Langlie; and Deborah Jacobs from the
Scripps McDonald Centre for Alcoholism and Drug Addiction.
Love and endless thanks . etc.

SIMON AND SCHUSTER

First published in Great Britain in 2005
by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, a CBS company.
First published in the United States in 2005 by
HarperCollins Childrens Books, a division of HarperCollins Publishers

Copyright 2005 by Mary Hogan
Cover illustration 2005 Fiona Hewitt
www.maryhogan.com

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
All rights reserved.

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
222 Gray's Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 1 416 90140 X
eBook ISBN: 9781847388995

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either
products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events
or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Typeset by SX Composing DTP, Rayleigh, Essex
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire

For Bob Hogan,
who makes it possible for
me to do what I love

Chatsworth

My dad drinks too much and my mom eats too much, which pretty much sums up why I am the way I am: a knotted mass of anxiety, a walking cold sweat. Three weeks ago, when I entered my fourteenth year of existence, I realised the only stable, solid truth in my universe: Being me isnt easy.

Dinneroo! Mom yelled down the hall like she always yells down the hall each night as she comes home from work. Her perfume instantly gave me a headache. The slamming of the front door and the jingle of her car keys woke Juan Dog. Yip. Yip.

In a sec! I yelled back, but I didnt move a muscle. Dinner scares me. In fact, all meals and most salty snacks freak me out. They trigger an inner horror movie: Attack of the Killer Fat Cells. Its not that I hate food. I love it. Whats better than hot bread slathered in melted butter? Or, Doritos with an extra blast of nacho flavour? My mouth is watering just thinking of it. But, given my genetics Moms size has never even come close to my age and Dad wouldnt need any padding to play Santa Claus I realise that letting my guard down, even once, is an invitation for my fat cells to puff out like blowfish. Im definitely pre -fat. And food is simply too hard to control, too easy to send your whole life careering out of control. So, when Mom called me for dinner, I ignored my growling stomach, lifted the phone back to my ear, wiggled my shoulder blades into the comfy warm groove of my bed, and kept talking to my best friend Nadine.

So whatd he say? Then whatd you say? Uh-huh. Then whatd he say?

Through my closed bedroom door I heard one of my brothers playing with his Game Boy. Get him! Get him! Get him! I smelled the Mackey D fries Mom had brought home.

Dirk! Mom yelled. Dinnerooney!

My eleven-year-old brother, Dirk, is three years younger than me, but light-years from maturity. Hes not what youd ever call a high achiever. Hes forever stalling for time, saying Huh?, scratching his nose, and slurping back the pool of drool that builds up behind his hanging lower lip. Juan Dog the chihuahua is almost my age, which, in dog years, means hes like ninety-eight. Juan is what youd call highly-strung. He yaps so much he levitates his tiny, quivering body all the way off the floor.

Dirk! Mom shouted. Shake your fannywannydingo! Did I mention my mother adds cutesy suffixes to words? She thinks its youthful and snappy. I happen to know its too embarrassing for words. One time, about a month ago, she called Juan Dogs business a poopadilly. Outside in front of everybody.

Mom pounded on my bedroom door. You still on that thing? Like she hadnt clicked in on the extension twice already. Dinners on the table.

Ill be off in a minute! I said. Then to Nadine: So whatd he say?

Rif! Mom screeched. Where the heck is Rif?

That was a no-brainer. Rif, my sixteen-year-old brother, is never around. He hides cigarettes in the tight curls of his ashblond hair. When no one is in smelling distance, he lights up, takes a long slow drag, then smothers the end with two spit wet fingers and tucks the cigarette back into his hair.

Who needs a nicotine patch? he says. I got my own method. Whatever that means. One time, about a year ago, the right side of Rif s head started smouldering while he sat in the family room watching MTV. Mom was like, Call the fire department! Dad was like, Isnt there a football game on? My parents have never seemed like they belong together. And Ive never, ever felt like I belong in this family.

Now, Elizabeth, Mom pounded my door one last time. I groaned.

I gotta go, Nadine, I said into the phone. E-mail me later?

Yeah. Later.

I hung up, fluffed my flattened hair, and walked down the hall to the kitchen. Rif slithered in behind me, smelling of burned hair gel.

Its Libby, Mom, I said, rolling my eyes.

Whatever, she said, rolling her eyes right back at me. Mom shoved a stray strand of her cottony overbleached hair back into the cat fight she calls a hairstyle. She tugged on her too-tight orange skirt, applied a new layer of magenta lipstick over the faded old one, removed black eyeliner goop from the corners of her green eyes, and tottered around the kitchen on spiked heels way too high for a woman of her age and heft. Im not talking stare-at-you-in-the-mall quantities of fat, but my mother definitely hasnt seen her feet, or how sausage-like they look shoved into those strappy high heels, for quite a while. Its hard to believe I came out of this person. My hair is long and brown and shiny. My eyes are blue. Ive never worn any make-up, unless you consider Vaseline lip gloss.

My brother Rif once graded my looks a C.

Who asked you? I asked, visibly hurt.

Whats wrong with a C? he protested. Its average!

Which hurt even more. Who wants to be average ? Mom stepped in for support.

With a little makeover, honey, Im sure I could turn you into a B.

Like I said, being me isnt easy. Isnt your own mother supposed to think youre an A even if youre not? While Im at it, arent your parents supposed to set a good example? Im not saying that my mom and dad are bad influences its just that they havent exactly set the family bar very high. I cant remember the last time I saw my mother pick up a book or my father put down the remote control. Moms idea of the perfect family vacation is Las Vegas, primarily for the cheap all-you-can-eat buffets. Dad dreams of staying home alone with several six-packs while we all go somewhere that has no cell service. Once, he actually said to me, You know what the worst thing about having kids is? Theyre always there.

Of course, I took it personally. Rif is never there and Dirk is still young enough to be ignored. I asked my dad, Where do you expect me to go? but he just shrugged and turned up the volume on the TV.