Kissing Brendan Callahan Read Free

holding.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I ask. “Should I give it to someone else?” My mother isn’t judging the contest. The flyer says Peter Boswin, a historian at the college, is the judge. “I’ll bring it over to the college if Dr. Boswin is there.”
    â€œSarah,” says Mom. She has a pained expression on her face as she puts down the dulcimer. “I know how much writing means to you.” Her tone is making me nervous. “But you can’t enter this contest.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œIt would be unethical,” she says.
    â€œUnethical! How could it be unethical?”
    She takes my hand. “It would be unethical for a member of my family to enter.”
    I pull my hand away. “But you’re not the judge.”
    â€œIt doesn’t matter. It would put Peter in a very difficult position. How could he give the other contestants fair consideration when my daughter is an applicant?”
    â€œBut, Mom, his job is to pick the best writer, whoever that turns out to be.”
    She sighs. “Sarah, be reasonable.”
    â€œI don’t want any advantages. I just want a chance like everyone else.” My voice is high and scratchy. “Mom, this contest means a lot to me.”
    â€œThere are other contests.”
    I shake my head. “Not like this one. The winner gets published in the society’s journal and receives two hundred dollars. It gets read at the fair, and the manuscript is displayed in the society’s showcase for a whole year. This is a big deal!”
    Mom pulls at her hair. “Honey, I realize it’s a great contest. I designed it to motivate young writers to improve their writing and research skills.” She begs me with her eyes. “Can’t you see how difficult your entering would be for me?”
    I shake my head, trying to keep myself from crying.
    â€œHoney, I’ll make—” Her cell phone rings and she flips it open. “Joe, just a minute.” She leans in to me. “I’ll make this up to you, I promise.” She leaves.
    I collapse into the window seat. Mom didn’t want me at the newspaper, and now she won’t let me enter her contest. Why is she doing this to me?

THREE
    I find a word in the thesaurus to describe my mood: cantankerous.
    I begin a new story. A woman invents a time-travel cell phone. Hundreds of kids line up to use it, and one by one, she lets them make a call, and off they zip into the future. Her daughter tries desperately to get a turn but can’t get near the phone.
    I toss my notebook aside. I’m too cantankerous to write. After being cantankerous for as long as I can stand it, I do what I usually do when I’m upset. I read Antonia DeMarco.
    I find Enraptured Thorns in My Heart, Antonia’s best book. Antonia DeMarco is one of my favorite writers. She writes about great, heroic women. Mom dislikes Antonia DeMarco. She calls her a “silly romance queen.” I bring the book downstairs, where it’s cooler and where Mom can see what I’m reading. I sit in the living room. It’s an old-fashioned room like most of the rest of the house. I sit on our burgundy velvet sofa and begin to read.
    He draws near and her heart hammers away inside her chest. This is the moment Amanda has been waiting for all her wretched life. But as he hesitates before her, the question remains, will he kiss her and renounce the beautiful but artificial Celeste?
    â€œSarah,” says Mom. “Beth and Brendan are coming over.”
    I continue reading. “You look exquisite,” he says.
    â€œSarah, please don’t be angry with me.” I’ve never stayed angry with Mom for long, but this is different. Very different.
    He caresses her hand.
    The bell rings and Mom goes to the door.
    She tingles at his touch. No one has ever made her feel like this.
    â€œSarah.”
    I look up. Brendan and his mother, Beth, are in the