AllFreeNovel
Share Us
DEFINITION OF BAD KISSER: A bad kisser is someone who gets your face all wet, slobbers on you, sticks his tongue in when you’re not ready, has bad breath, OR sometimes there can be kissers whose tongues are all dry and prickly like a cactus but I have never experienced one of those, just heard about them.
7. When do you know if it’s time to open your mouth (thus turning it into a French)?
You will probably feel his tongue touch your lips. If you want to pursue the idea, open your lips a little. If not, keep them closed.
Coming au demain–Chapter II: How to French!!!!
HOMEWORK
Algebra: review questions at the end of Chapters 8–10
English: English Journal: Books I Have Read
World Civ: review questions at the end of Chapters 10–12
G & T: none
French: review questions at the end of Chapters 7–9
Biology: review questions at the end of Chapters 9–12
Wednesday, December 10, 9 p.m., in the limo on the way home from Grandmère’s
I am so tired I can hardly write. Grandmère made me try on every single dress in Sebastiano’s showroom. You wouldn’t believe the number of dresses I’ve had on today. Short ones, long ones, straight-skirted ones, poufy-skirted ones, white ones, pink ones, blue ones, and even a lime-green one (which Sebastiano declared brought out the ‘col’ in my cheeks).
The purpose of all this dress-trying-on business was to choose one to wear on Christmas Eve, during my first official televised speech to the Genovian people. I have to look regal, but not too regal. Beautiful, but not too beautiful. Sophisticated, but not too sophisticated.
I tell you, it was a nightmare of hollow-cheeked women in white (the new black) buttoning and zipping and snapping me in and out of dresses. Now I know how all those supermodels must feel. No wonder they do so many drugs.
Actually, it was kind of hard to choose my dress for my first big televised event, because surprisingly, Sebastiano turned out to be a pretty good designer. There were several dresses I actually wouldn’t be embarrassed to be caught dead in.
Oops. Slip of the tongue. I wonder, though, if Sebastiano really does want to kill me. He seems to like being a fashion designer, which he couldn’t do if he were prince of Genovia: He’d be too busy turning bills into law and stuff like that.
Still, you can tell he’d totally enjoy wearing a crown. Not that, as ruler of Genovia, he’d ever get to do this. I’ve never seen my dad in a crown. Just suits. And shorts when he plays racquetball with other world leaders.
Ew, I wonder if I will have to learn to play racquetball.
But if Sebastiano became prince of Genovia, he would totally wear a crown all the time. He told me nothing brings out the sparkles in someone’s eyes like pear-shaped diamonds. He prefers Tiffany’s. Or as he calls it, Tiff’s.
Since we were getting so chummy and all, I told Sebastiano about the Nondenominational Winter Dance, and how I have nothing to wear to it. Sebastiano seemed disappointed when he learned I would not be wearing a tiara to my school dance, but he got over it and started asking me all these questions about the event. Like “Who do you go with?” and “What he look like?” and stuff like that.
I don’t know what it was, but I found myself actually telling Sebastiano all about my love life. It was so weird. I totally didn’t want to, but it all just started spilling out. Thank God Grandmère wasn’t there. . . . he’d gone off in search of more cigarettes, and to have her sidecar refreshed.
I told Sebastiano all about Kenny and how he loves me but I don’t love him, and how I actually like someone else, but he doesn’t know I’m alive.
Sebastiano is actually quite a good listener. I don’t know how much, if anything, he understood of what I said, but he didn’t take his eyes off my reflection as I talked, and when I was done, he looked me up and down in the mirror, and just said one thing: “This boy you like. How you know he no like you back?”
“Because,” I said. “He likes this other girl.”
Sebastiano made an impatient motion with this hands. The gesture was made more dramatic by the fact that he was wearing sleeves with these big frilly lace cuffs.
“No, no, no, no, no,” he said. “He help you with your Al home. He like you, or he no do that. Why he do that, if he no like you?”
I took “He help you with your Al home” to mean “He helps you with your Algebra homework.” I thought for a minute about why Michael had always been so willing to do that. Help me with my Algebra, I mean. I guess just because I am his sister’s best friend, and he isn’t the type of person who can sit around and watch his sister’s best friend flunk out of high school without, you know, at least trying to do something about it.
While I was thinking about that, I couldn’t help remembering how Michael’s knees, beneath our desks, sometimes brush against mine as he’s telling me about integers. Or how sometimes he leans so close to correct something I’ve written wrong that I can smell the nice, clean scent of his soap. Or how sometimes, like when I do my Lana Weinberger imitation or whatever, he throws back his head and laughs.
Michael’s lips look extra nice when he is smiling.
