Freshman Year & Other Unnatural Disasters by Meredith Zeitlin Page A

about Frenching when we were in seventh grade, so I think I know what I’m doing, Kelsey. But don’t worry—I’m happy to practice with you till you feel more confident about your skills.”
    First of all: Did he just say Frenching ? Seriously? And second of all: He’s happy to practice with me? Really? Well, how thoughtful! Maybe I’ll buy him a model-airplane kit as a thank-you for his kind attention to my kissing education.
    Yeah. I’ll get right on that.
    I look at him witheringly for a sec and then say, “Keith, I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be back.” Of course, getting to the bathroom in this place will probably take an hour, which should give me enough time to think of a way to convincingly act like this never happened.
    I wonder if you can decide to be a kissing virgin again. No one saw. What if I pretend I didn’t just have a gross foreign tongue in my intestines and issue myself a well-deserved do-over?
    I shove through a million people and finally make it to what is clearly the world’s longest bathroom line. I take my phone out of my pocket, contemplating sending a text to Em. But what can I say in a text that could possibly convey the level of anxiety I’m currently dealing with? Writing GAAAAAAAAH!!! just about sums up my feelings but might be somewhat unclear. Better to call her later when I’ve figured out what my story is, anyway.
    I look back toward the stage, where the lead guitarist is playing an unbelievable improvised solo. I cannot believe I’m missing it! Stupid Keith. Stupid me.
    I scope out the line again, which is down to about half a million people now. I move forward two inches. My pocket buzzes with a text from Keith, which reads: R U coming back? I respond: Huge line , and snap the phone shut.
    The two girls in front of me start giggling, pointing up at the balcony behind us, and I look up to see what’s so funny: it’s a couple making out like they just invented it. Is that how I looked when I was with Keith? Horrors.
    The guy starts sucking his partner’s neck like a crazed vampire, and one of the girls ahead of me in line snorts derisively.
    “I know, get a room, right?” I say to her. It’s always nice to make friends in the bathroom line.
    “Seriously!” she replies. “I mean, if you’re gonna spend a hundred bucks, it might as well involve a bed, right?”
    I laugh, looking back up at the balcony. Then the stage lights do a sweep over the audience, and for a moment, the girl’s face is illuminated.
    It’s Cassidy. My Cassidy.
    And she’s kissing …
    Jordan Rothman.
    My stomach drops to my knees.

14
     
    I feel like I’m in a vacuum—there’s absolutely no sound. And my eyes aren’t working right; it’s like, instead of being twenty feet above my head, Cassidy’s and Jordan’s faces are right in front of me, kissing passionately in slow motion so I can see every little detail.
    I’m vaguely aware that the girl I was talking to is asking me something like, “Uh, are you okay?” but I can’t pull my eyes away from the carnage of my romantic expectations. I may, in fact, be paralyzed. Except for my stomach, which feels like it’s being kicked repeatedly.
    I am not going to cry.
    How, and in what world, is this even possible? Cassidy has always known how I feel about Jordan. She and I just talked about it on the way here!
    I suddenly have a horrifying realization: My brilliant, hope-filled Jordan-Brooklyn theory is actually true. Only it doesn’t involve me … it’s been about Cassidy the whole time. She lives six blocks away from me with her dad, who is never home. Perfect after-school makeout opportunity. No wonder Cass was trying to steer me toward Keith!
    Then all the little moments from the last couple of months start adding up. How could I have been so dumb? The texts Cass didn’t want to talk about … disappearing at the Halloween party … that’s why I didn’t see Jordan—he was probably in his bedroom with Cass the whole time!