Don't Kiss Girls and Other Silly Stories by Pat Flynn Page A

walking past a dog kennel. The thing is …
    (Turn to page 83.)
    (Go on. Do it!)
    (Else I’ll kiss you.)

Don’t Kiss Girls
    My favourite sport used to be cricket, now it’s pashing my new girlfriend, Ashleigh. Her lips are softer than Kleenex and redder than Mr Relf’s face when he’s skitzing. We kiss in the back row of the movies and the back seat of my car. But only when Dad’s driving ’cause he never looks in the rear-view mirror.
    The toughest part is finding some privacy, so I can’t wait for tonight ’cause we’re babysitting together while Mr and Mrs O’Connor go to the opera. Ashleigh says that the opera lasts a really long time ’cause people clap so much. I’m bringing a DVD, though I don’t think we’ll get to watch much, if you know what I mean. The O’Connors have got this real comfy couch and we’ll snuggle into it once we’ve put the kid to bed early. We don’t want no baby sitting beside us all night.
    When I meet Ashleigh out the front of the O’Connors’ place, she looks different. She flashes a smile and I notice that her teeth are blue. I’m sure they weren’t blue last time we kissed, which was yesterday. ‘Like my braces?’ she says.
    â€˜Not bad,’ I reply. And it’s true. Ash’d look good in a gorilla suit.
    We shove the kid in bed with a quick story and a carton of flavoured milk, head back to the couch and put the movie on. We don’t even make it to the end of the opening credits. Our lips entwine and I get ready for the sweet, sweet taste of Ashleigh.
    Instead, I’m hit with something that tastes worse than brussel sprouts. It’s like kissing a fish that smokes.
    I pull away and say I have to check on the kid because I think I can hear it crying. In the kid’s room I steal some chocolate milk and the kid almost does start crying. I try to figure out what to do.
    â€˜Tone?’ Ash calls. ‘What are you doing?’
    What I’m doing is panting, trying to blow the bad taste out.
    â€˜My lips miss you,’ she says.
    I can’t think of anything to say, and I can’t go back out there. Not unless I’m wearing an oxygen mask and I don’t think there’s one in the kid’s room. I’ve already checked.
    I take a peek out the window. I’m on the second floor and it’s a long way down.
    â€˜Tone? You there?’
    â€˜Just a second,’ I say.
    Maybe I can make the kid go nuts? Then we’ll have to phone the O’Connors and they can come home and save me. I start pulling faces, the sort I make at Belinda when she’s talking to her boyfriend on the phone. I reach under my arms and start scratching, like a monkey. ‘Ooh, ooh, ooh!’
    The kid smiles.
    I change into a tiger, pretending to eat him. ‘Raahh!’
    Now the kid giggles. This is not working.
    I take another look out the window. Maybe I can lower the kid out and we can spend the rest of the night chasing it?
    â€˜Tone, can you get me a drink?’ Ashleigh calls out.
    Then it hits me. The perfect plan. I go into the bathroom and find what I’m looking for – bright g reen mouthwash. In the kitchen I open the pantry and spot a bottle of lemon cordial. I mix them – two parts cordial, one part mouthwash – like I learnt in science class, right before I spilled acid on Vanessa Lowry’s dress.
    â€˜Here you go.’ I give the glass to Ashleigh.
    She pats the couch and I sit. ‘What is it?’ she asks, nodding at the drink.
    â€˜Lemon, lime and, umm, bitters.’
    â€˜Interesting.’ She holds the glass up to the light, and then puts it on the coffee table without taking a sip. ‘I feel like some dessert first.’
    â€˜I’ll get it,’ I say, standing up.
    She grabs my arm and pulls me down. ‘You are dessert.’
    We kiss and I do well not to puke. Ashleigh tastes worse than ever. I