One Mississippi by Mark Childress

nose. Her face was upturned, her eyes closed in anticipation. I kissed her nose again as if that was what I’d meant to do, then moved to her lips. They were dry and strangely cool. I pressed my mouth against hers. We stayed that way for a while, mouths pressed together.
    There had to be some part of it I was not doing right. This could not be all there was to it. I know you’re supposed to open your mouth, but I was afraid my tongue would touch metal. I held the kiss as long as I could without breathing or moving, then pulled back.
    Dianne opened her eyes. “Oh, Daniel, that was sooo nice. You’ve kissed girls before, huh?”
    I coughed. “Yeah. A few times.”
    “I thought so. That was my first time. I’ll never forget it.”
    Debbie and Tim were really going at it, mouths open, as if trying to swallow each other. Dianne looked shyly at me:
Should we try it like that?
I hesitated. She patted my hand, consoling me, as if she were my mommy.
    I cleared my throat. “Hey you two, break it up! Jeez!”
    Debbie pulled away, laughing. Tim said, “Sorry. We got carried away.” He put the car in gear. The radio was playing “Nights in White Satin” and it all seemed suddenly romantic, the bad parts of this night adding up to one good part. I squeezed Dianne’s hand. She put her head on my shoulder.
    As we swung onto Dorothy Drive she untangled her fingers and moved over by the door.
    “What’s the matter?” I said — then I saw Mr. Frillinger outlined in the porch light. In his hands he twisted the banner from the garage door, like a rope he meant to wrap around somebody’s neck.
    “Oh God,” Debbie said, “he looks mad.”
    I felt a flash of reflex panic before remembering we hadn’t done anything wrong.
    “What time is it?” Dianne held her watch to the light. “It’s only a quarter to twelve!”
    Mr. Frillinger stalked to the car shouting, “Get out! Get out of the car!”
    “Daddy, what’s wrong?”
    “Get out and go in the house!”
    “Daddy?”
    “Deborah Ann! Do as I say!”
    “You better go,” I said. “We’ll see you at school.”
    The girls scrambled out of the car.
    Mr. Frillinger filled the driver’s window. “You boys know what time it is?”
    “Yes sir,” Tim said. “A quarter to twelve.”
    “You were s’posed to have them back here by eleven. Where the Sam Hill have you been?”
    While Tim had his attention I slipped out of the backseat, up front into shotgun position.
    “I’m sorry sir, but you told us midnight,” said Tim. “The prom’s just now gotten over. We brought ’em straight home.”
    I leaned over the seat. “He’s right, sir. You did say midnight.”
    “That’s the last time you take out my daughters, either one of you,” he said. “I’ve a good mind to call up your daddies.”
    “Go ahead,” Tim said, starting the car. “I think maybe you’re confused about what time you said.”
    “Don’t tell
me
I’m confused.” The man leaned close to the window. “Did you kiss them? Did you touch ’em?”
    “No sir, no way,” Tim said. “Let me tell you something, Mr. Frillinger, you’ve got yourself a couple of barking dogs there. I mean
barking.
I wouldn’t touch either one of ’em if you paid me. We took ’em to the prom out of sympathy, okay? No one is ever gonna want to kiss ’em. You’re safe.”
    The man’s mouth made an O. Tim gunned the car backward, slammed it in drive, and screeched off down the street.
    “My God, Tim, did you — I can’t believe you said that!”
    “Did you see his face? Did you see?” he howled. “That old bastard. ‘You kiss ’em? You touch ’em?’ Jeesus H. Christ!”
    “But I mean, one minute you’re like making out with her, then you tell her father she’s a —”
    “Dogwood, relax! It’s over. We don’t have to ask ’em out or even talk to ’em, ever ever again. He’s gonna call up our
daddies!
I don’t know who’s crazier, him or the mother.”
    “Yeah, I know, but . . . oh damn. Never