Confessions of a Serial Kisser Read Free

geometry...which can get a little tricky when you're facing the mirror image of yourself, trying to get the scissors to go the right way.
    I always do my own hair dry, which isn't the best, but I seem to be able to see what I'm doing better that way. And I usually just trim little bits, but now after a few timid snips, I let the spirit of Bowie's "Changes" take charge of the scissors.
    I took a deep breath and started
cutting.
    All through "Suffragette City," "Ziggy Stardust," "The Jean Genie," and "Rebel Rebel" I cut in layers. I cut off length. I gave myself long side-swept bangs and a cute shaggy flip at the nape of the neck. It was a style that cried out for oversized hoop earrings, eyeliner, and go-go boots!
    Ch-ch-ch-changes!
    I felt good!
    Mom called as I was mixing up the highlighter. "Evangeline, honey. Would you mind vacuuming the carpets tonight? I didn't get to it this morning, and they really need it." She sounded tired, like she always does, but this time I was feeling so good that it didn't bring me down.
    "Sure," I said brightly. "Anything else?"
    She hesitated, then said, "Thank you. I needed that. But no. Unless you want to wipe up that old orange juice spill in the fridge."
    "Will do!"
    I hung up and got busy streaking my hair.
    Bowie sang "Ashes to Ashes," "Fashion," and "Under Pressure."
    I shouted along.
    And while the highlights timer ticked and radical chemicals bleached streaks into my hair, I vacuumed crumbs and fuzz and a month's worth of dust out of the carpet, singing along when "Let's Dance" came on.
    My dad called as I was putting the vacuum cleaner away.
    "How are you?" he asked.
    And just like that I was back under the cloud.
    I wanted to say, "Better than I've been in ages! I'm moving on, Dad. Moving on!" But what came out of my mouth is what always comes out of my mouth when my dad tries to engage me in conversation. "We're sorry, you've reached a number that has been disconnected. Please hang up and
don't
try again."
    My highlights timer dinged as I hung up the phone.
    So I cranked up "Dancing in the Street," then went to the sink to wash out my hair.

7
    Emergence
    A DRIENNE ABOUT FELL OVER when she saw me the next day. "Who did your hair? Whose jeans are those? I love the eyeliner! Wow, you look gorgeous!"
    "I did it myself." I turned around for her. "How's the back?"
    She fluffed my hair with her fingertips. "The back is fantastic! How did you
do
that?"
    "I just went for it."
    "No kidding!"
    "You want me to do yours?"
    "Wow." She pulled a scared little face. "Maybe...?"
    Resident jock Stu Dillard--also known as Studly--walked by, giving me a double take
and
an exaggerated once-over. "E
van
geline!" He held a finger out toward me. "Tssss!"
    I tried to be cool as I nodded an acknowledgment, but broke into giggles after he was gone.
    "Stu Dillard just called you hot!" Adrienne whispered, her eyes enormous. She shook her head a little. "Wow. Wow, wow, wow."
    "Well!" I said, trying to contain the complete bubble-up I was feeling inside. "We are off to a promising start!"
    Unfortunately, during first-period math that promising start came to a grinding halt.
    Robbie Marshall didn't notice anything different about me.
    Correction.
    He didn't notice me at all.
    That might have been because he wasn't in the habit of noticing me, or, more likely, because it was Thursday.
    Every girl on campus knows (as do the boys, but they wouldn't be caught dead admitting it) that on Tuesday and Thursday mornings Robbie Marshall's arms are glorious works of sculpted art.
    It's not that they're not impressive during the rest of the week; it's just that every Tuesday and Thursday he does an insane morning workout that leaves his biceps bulging, his triceps ripped, and his forearms looking like superhero sledgehammers.
    And since he hasn't cooled down from his workout yet, first-period math is the place to be if you want to admire Robbie Marshall's arms. Tank tops, muscle shirts, tight T's...he wears as little as he