The Escapist's Tale

Special - The Kiss

It is my reluctant confession that I've never been kissed. Excluding gentle pecks on my cheek from my father, the Justice, or the sloppier sugars of my Aunt Ada, I've spent the majority of my fifteen years terrorizing anyone of the opposite sex. Of course, there are some girls who seem to have a preference sitting on the other side of that table. Hats off to you. I can respect anyone who lives life by their own rules.

Setting all that aside, I've never begged so desperately for the lips of a man.

"Blasted novel," I spit, setting Lucy Maud Montgomery's maddening masterpiece of adolescent attraction aside. "Why won't he just kiss her already? Clearly, he's crazy for her."

On a whim I picked up a worn copy of Anne of Green Gables from Mac's library, and now I regret it. As much as I want to slap Anne, I am fully dedicated to her life at Avonlea as I grip the age-worn pages and scan page after page. I am so caught up in the tale, my lip has been chewed absentmindedly until it's chapped.

Avonlea. Can anything sound so romantic?

Raising his eyebrows with a suppressed yawn that nearly drops his cigarette, Mac regards me with eyes like spring. "What's that?" As usual, curls of his hair stick up in all directions. He looks like he's rolled fresh out of bed.

"Gilbert Blythe."

"Ohhh, yes, Mr. Blythe." Focusing his attention elsewhere, Mac begins to scrub his shoe with a toothbrush and polish from Viccy's Leathers next door. Vain man. I suppose a lawbreaker does have to keep his image sharp.

With a groan, I retrieve the book, planting my face between the pages. "You're not even listening."

"You're an only child, aren't you? I heard you clearly." raising his voice to an annoying whine, he sings, "Gilbert Blythe, kiss her already!"

"Oh, shut up." I set the book aside. Mac and I are sitting cross-legged among a mountainous pile of books. A collection of words printed on spine-bound paper that smells like manilla and must. This must be my favorite smell.

An idea occurs to me, "Mac?"

Mac exhales. He's rarely frustrated with me, or perhaps he never shows it, but I can tell the activity of shining his shoes is more important to him at the moment. I was frustrated before, but now I'm on fire. I want to press all his buttons, and rip them off, too.

Hiding behind a curtain of black and white text, I form a plan. My attack must be swift and brutal. I set the novel aside. With his attention focused on the shoe, I place my hands on the floor and shift my weight onto my knees, veiled in a jade skirt. My hands are like claws on the hardwood floor. I begin to inch forward.

The yellow lamplight does not do justice to Mac's copper hair and it looks closer to a shade of brown. Cracks in the dingy apartment wall frame an innocent face, busy minding the polish-crusted bristles in his grasp. He stinks of cigarette smoke, but I can tolerate that.

I'm a little closer, and moving closer still. A demonic smile cracks my face as I move in for the slaughter. As I said, I've never been kissed, so I press my lips into an O. Pucker up.

Ker-thunk. Something awfully cool is on my face. There's no warmth, no stench of cigarettes. I'm staring at the immaculate sole of one sparkling dress shoe. My lips are clenched against the rubber and Mac is snickering so hard I can see ripples in his shirt.

I've kissed a damned foot-holder.

I yank the shoe out of his grip, thwacking him upside the head a good three times. It does nothing to heed his laughter.

"I hate you!" I scream.

"You can hardly expect me to allow that." he scorns, "You're no better than a child."

"A- a child?! I'm fifteen."

"Fifteen years too young, I'm afraid, but feel free to try again when you're twenty."

I can practically feel my jaw hit the floor.  I stutter, "Wha- that will never happen! Mac- Macmillan- Mac-whatever your name is! I would rather die than kiss you!"

Mac yanks his shoe free of my grip, "Go on, answer the door."

"Why should I?"

"Someone just knocked."

"Well, I didn't hear anything." I dust off my skirt, trying to regather my pride. "Besides, I'm a guest. You answer it."

"Fine, stay put."

Seething, I snatch Anne of Green Gables off the floor. He won't be getting this literary treasure back. I tuck it in the tail of my skirt, throwing my cardigan over it to keep it concealed.

At the door, Mac's back is turned to me and I can hear peals of laughter from outside. Finally, he opens the door wide and a young woman with a waterfall of chocolate hair tik, tik, tiks into the bachelor's apartment in a pair of velvet heels. She's a lovely woman of nineteen, and married to boot.

"Agatha Coil?"

"Henrietta Stover?"

Suddenly, I feel a strong wind at my back, only it's not wind. It's a hand. Mac's hand. Though I put up a fight, he ushers me out the door.

His fingers brush the book at my back and he clucks his tongue. Within seconds, I'm standing on the porch.

"Stealing, Agatha? After today's show, you can keep it."

Henrietta stands at his side, watching me with a triumph look. I want to take her pretty, porcelain face and shove it in the mud. My cheeks are beet red, and the heat keeps me warm despite winter's frost outside. "You- slut! She's married."

"Goodbye, Agatha. See you tomorrow."

Click.

I hate men. I do. Truly.

Sighing, I hop down the stairs and kick a bit of loose grass free of the earth. It's dark early and a dusting of stars is barely visible through the haze of lights from the town square to my right. Gilbert Blythe and Macmillan can go to hell, I think, as I cross the street. My feet move one in front of the other until I hear a whimper.

"Hey, cutie. Come here, mangy." I coo in my sweetest voice. A mop-haired dog as dark as the shadows clambers over a pile of trash, wagging his tail at me with a slobbery smile. Staining my skirt in the mud, I stretch my arms and beckon for the pup. "Come here and give me a kiss."

A slick, hot tongue scrubs against my cheek. His breath is a hair worse than cigarette smoke. Now, I just have to find a way to sneak him home. Father won't approve.

Worth it, I think.