From Butt to Booty by Amber Kizer

now—no, we all agree, there’s nothing wrong with you.”
    “Thanks.”
    “And Gertie, the tongue thing is great with the right person.”
    “You’re sure?”
    “Yes, someday there will be a boy whose tongue you want in your throat. Not to mention his—”
    I cut him off. “That’s strangely comforting.”
    “Go eat more ice cream.” Adam hangs up.
    He always makes me feel better.

Kissing. I’m talking good kissing. Ice-cream-melting, toe-curling, tingling, don’t-want-to-stop kissing. I want some of that.
    There are whole websites devoted to the healing properties of kissing. It’s been known to cure cancer and at the very least brighten a clinical depression.
    It’s a hobby. It brings people together. I want it. I want the kiss that lasts forever. Okay, I’d like bathroom breaks and neck-sprain breaks and probably occasionally might want to do something else, but mostly I just want the feeling of a kiss that could last me a lifetime. That lost, dreamy, creamy feeling of being in the moment with one other person. With a manly-boy.
    I don’t think that’s asking too much. Is it?

“I’m … going … to die.…” My face is so hot it’s melting off my skull. I can hardly breathe. I lean against the auxiliary gym wall like a gargoyle in heat. I don’t care how pathetic I look. I don’t. I’m sure I won’t survive these tryouts and then people will never say a bad thing about me again. Because you don’t say bad things about dead people. Unless they’re serial killers or something. And I’m not.
    Tangent: sorry.
    “Gert, we just walked over here.” Clarice is looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.
    “I’m practicing.” Okay, so I’m not on my deathbed yet, but it’s out there. I can see it coming. “Why are we doing this, again?”
    “It’s our only opportunity to be jocks.” Maggie keeps picking at her shorts and T-shirt like she’s never worn anything with fewer than five layers.
    “Winter sports, ladies?” What was I thinking? I don’t care about being a jock. I want to ride the away bus with Lucas. I’ve heard things about the away bus. “It’s outdoor soccer in January.”
    “Technically this is just tryouts.”
    “Maybe we’re not destined to be jocks. Has it occurred to any of us that we aren’t genetically equipped for this activity? Do you even know what a soccer ball looks like?” I ask my compatriots quasi-seriously.
    “It’s black and white, right? With shapes on it?” Panic blooms on Maggie’s face for a minute before she quite stoically brings herself back under control.
    “Listen up, people.” A lanky guy with calves the size of Montana loops a whistle around his neck. “This is tryouts for girls’ soccer. This is the first year it’s been offered, but that doesn’t mean it’ll be easy to make the team.” He puffs up his chest like we’re an incoming class of wannabe Navy SEALs. “We have a freshman squad, which will also be the junior varsity squad, and then room for the varsity ladies. My name is Mack. I’m going to be your head coach, but just call me Mack. No mister. Mack. Got it?”
    I’m still looking at his knees. They have amazing definition. All sinew and muscle. I will have to take the magnetizing mirror to my knees when I get home. I don’t think mine look like that.
    “Where are my student coaches?” Mack asks.
    I straighten. This is where Lucas comes in. I begin to panic when I can’t locate him casually. He’s the entire reason I am doing this. He must be around here somewhere.
    “Mack. We’re over here.” Lucas and three other guys I’ve never seen in my life part the crowd like Moses and the Red Sea. I swear a collective sigh and hair toss moves across the girls like a wave at a football game.
    The guys all slap hands and thump each other with their shoulders. A bigger display of masculine preening you’ve never seen—not even on Animal Planet. Not to say I’m immune. I’m not. Look at that smile. That hair.