Mates, Dates and Cosmic Kisses Read online

  I tried to remember what Nesta’s brother had told us about kissing. Tony fancies himself as the Master Snogger and one time, before he was going out with Lucy, he offered to show me how it was done. I laughed at him but now I wished I’d taken him up on it. I mean, how do you know if you’re a good kisser? I cast my mind back and desperately tried to remember what his snogging tips were. I should have asked Lucy or Nesta before I came out. I know, I thought, I’ll phone them.

  ‘Sure, a walk sounds good,’ I said. ‘But just got to go to the ladies’. Won’t be a mo.’

  I dashed into the ladies’, waited until all the cubicles were empty, then dialled Lucy’s number.

  ‘Lucy,’ I said. ‘I’m with Mark. What do I do if he wants to kiss me?’

  Lucy laughed. ‘Durrh. Snog him back, dummy.’

  ‘But how?’ I wailed. ‘I’m really worried I’ll be useless at it and he’ll never want to see me again.’

  ‘Relax,’ said Lucy. ‘Just take your lead from him.’

  ‘What if he puts his tongue in my mouth? What do I do?’

  ‘Just do what feels natural,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, feeling none the wiser. I phoned Nesta for a second opinion.

  ‘Fresh breath,’ she said. ‘V. important. Otherwise, keep the pressure varied. Soft, medium, hard, and run your fingers through his hair. Boys like that.’

  ‘What do I do with my tongue?’

  ‘Stick it up his nostril,’ she giggled.

  ‘Ergh, Nesta!’

  ‘Izzie, relax. You’ll be fine. Ring me later with all the details.’

  Thanks for nothing, Nesta, I thought as I switched off my phone. Just because she’s snogged loads of boys she thinks it’s really funny.

  I rooted round in my bag and found some chewing gum then put on some lipstick. Oh. Was that a good idea? If he kissed me he’d get it all over him. Maybe I should wipe it off again? God, it was so complicated. We ought to have lessons in this sort of thing at school instead of all that stuff we never needed about how many crops are grown in some remote country I’d never heard of.

  I rubbed my lipstick into my lips so that it wasn’t too shiny then went back out to meet him. Gulp! He was chewing gum as well. Snogging was definitely on the cards. I pushed my gum behind my teeth so he wouldn’t see I was chewing as well. I didn’t want him to think I was expecting it or anything.

  When we got outside, we had a look at what was on at the movies then it started raining so we made a dash for the bus stop. We were the only people there and I wondered if he was going to make a move. Or should I? Or would that seem forward? I was shivering like mad though I wasn’t sure if that was from the cold or nerves.

  After an agonising two minutes, Mark stepped forward and put his arms round me. He felt gorgeous, all warm, solid and safe.

  ‘Freezing, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘Let’s keep each other warm.’

  I went rigid. This is it, I thought. Get ready to pucker.

  He leaned his face towards me and I moved towards him and we banged noses.

  ‘Oops,’ he laughed. Then he leaned in again and kissed me.

  At first it was a shock, feeling soft lips on mine, and all I could think was what do I do with my hands? Run your fingers through his hair, I thought, remembering Nesta’s advice. I reached up to the back of his head but my fingers got stuck. Gel. His hair was like glue. Oh no. And I still had my gum in my mouth. Gulp. I swallowed it.

  Then I wondered what he’d done with his. He wasn’t chewing any more.

  Then I got an attack of the giggles.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ he said, looking taken aback.

  ‘Er, I just swallowed my gum.’

  He looked at me mischievously. ‘So did I.’

  Then he did that staring at my mouth thing again and a thrill of anticipation ran through me. It’s the strangest feeling in the world, like a sweet pain but just lovely.

  ‘Come here,’ he said, pulling me close to him again and putting my arms round his waist. Then he kissed me properly. A lovely soft, deep kiss and this time our noses didn’t bang. It felt perfect. Cosmic. And I wanted it to go on for ever.

  ‘You’re a good kisser,’ he said, pulling back after a few minutes.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, thinking Yippee! I’m a natural! Then I kissed him again. Practise makes perfect. That’s going to be my new motto.

  We must have stood there for ages. About half a dozen buses came and went and we were still snuggled up to each other, snogging away.

  ‘So we should do this again, huh?’ Mark asked, as another bus arrived at the stop.

  I nodded.

  ‘Oi! You getting on or not?’ called the bus driver as the doors opened.

  ‘Better had,’ I said to Mark, after checking my watch.

  ‘I’ll call you, then, Izzie Foster,’ he grinned, and off he went.

  Cosmic Kisses

  by Izzie Foster

  I’m sending you cosmic kisses straight from my heart;

  A planet collision won’t tear us apart.

  The distance between us is never too far;

  I’ll hitch a ride on a comet to get where you are.

  In a moment a glance became a kiss,

  In a heartbeat I knew my world had changed

  For better, forever there is no other,

  You’re one in a million, of that I’m sure,

  One in a million and I’m feeling so secure.

  Cos I’m sending you cosmic kisses straight from my heart;

  A planet collision won’t tear us apart.

  The distance between us is never too far;

  I’ll hitch a ride on a comet to get where you are.

  Chapter 11

  What Fresh Hell Is This?

  Last week of term. Teachers are relaxed, school is decorated for Christmas, with a huge tree in the hall, and generally everyone’s in a good mood.

  Except me. I’m Scrooge. Bah. Humbug. Pooh.

  For our last English class, Mr Johnson asked us all to take in our favourite book of the year and pick out a quote from it to read to the class.

  Half the class brought in the Harry Potters, a few brought in one of Philip Pullman’s trilogy and Mary O’Connor brought a book called Angus, Thongs and Full-frontal Snogging by someone called Louise Rennison. It’s the confessions of a fourteen-year-old girl and it made everyone laugh (even me, despite my current mood) when Mary read out a section. I took my book by Dorothy Parker as I’d read all of it now.

  ‘Izzie, let’s hear your quote,’ said Mr Johnson.

  ‘It’s only a short one,’ I said. ‘By Dorothy Parker.’

  Mr Johnson raised an eyebrow. ‘Fine. Short is good,’ he said. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘What fresh hell is this?’ I read from my book.

  Mr Johnson looked taken aback. ‘Why did you choose that, Izzie?’

  ‘Seemed appropriate,’ I said.

  Mr Johnson creased up laughing. ‘Trust you to be different, Izzie.’

  It really did seem appropriate. Just as things were going swimmingly and I thought I was Snog Queen of North London, I’m into a whole new layer of torture in the boy/girl thing. Mark said he’d phone. And I was so sure he would this time. Positive. I mean, after all that fab snogging, how could he resist?

  But he did. Resist, that is.

  I’d wanted to phone him the minute I got home from our date just to hear his voice but when I reported back to Nesta and Lucy, both of them said I mustn’t. I have to give him space.

  ‘But I have his number now,’ I said.

  ‘I spoke to Tony about it,’ said Nesta, ‘and he agrees. Let Mark phone you.’

  Tony? She’d been discussing me with Tony?

  ‘But surely now, now that we’ve snogged and everything. Surely it would be OK to get in touch?’ I said to Lucy on my next call.

  ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I’ve been reading all about it in my Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus book. It says men fear intimacy and yo
u mustn’t pressurise them or they run away into a cave or somewhere. You have to pretend that they’re like a rubber band. Let them expand as far as they want, then thwang, they come back to you. Nesta agrees with me. Don’t call him.’

  I couldn’t believe it. Everyone’s been discussing me. They’ve probably posted a site on the Internet: www. whatdoyouthinkIzzieshoulddonext?.com.

  My private business.

  What. Fresh. Hell. Is. This?

  As the days went by and no call came, the temptation of having his home number was too much to resist.

  One night, I rang his number (but not before dialling 141 first, so he wouldn’t know it was me, I’m not that stupid) but all I got was an answering machine. I put the phone down quick.

  The next night, I phoned again but chickened out before anyone picked up. Maybe Lucy and Nesta were right. I must be patient.

  Patient. Patient. Patient. Not.

  I rang again the next night. This time he picked up. I panicked when I heard his voice and slammed the phone down. He was there. He could have phoned me. What was he doing that was more important?

  Maybe I’d said something that had annoyed him. I went over every bit of our conversation in my head, trying to see what it might have been. Was it because I’d caught him out about his mobile phone? What was it? Didn’t he fancy me any more? Or was it because now we’d snogged, he’d made the conquest and there was no more challenge?

  Maybe, oh no, maybe he’s met someone else.

  The next night, I planned exactly what I was going to say. Bright, breezy, casual.

  I got the answering machine again.

  ‘Er, hi. . .’ I said. ‘It’s me. Just wondering what’s happening.’

  I put the phone down. Just wondering what’s happening? What’s that supposed to mean? Happening as in on the planet? Or he might think I’m doing a heavy, like what’s happening with us? I didn’t mean it like that. It was meant to be cool, like durrh, what’s happening, dude? He’ll think I’m a dork. Then I remembered I’d said, ‘It’s me.’ He might wonder who me is.

  I called again.

  ‘In case you’re wondering who me is. It’s me, Izzie.’

  Oh pants. My brilliant speech had gone. I put the phone down. Now he’d definitely think I’m desperate. Too eager. Oh why didn’t he call me? What’s wrong with me?

  In RE on Friday, we had poor Miss Hartley again. It was our last day before the Christmas break and everyone was in a giddier mood than usual.

  By now, I think she’d had enough of us and had come up with a way of making us shut up. Or so she thought.

  ‘OK, class, as we’ve been taking a look at religions and God over the last few weeks, I thought we’d do something practical for a change. We’re going to look at prayer and meditation.’

  Brill, I thought. Just what I need. Something to still my mind and all the voices in my head driving me mad. Phone. Don’t phone. Phone. Don’t phone.

  ‘First you have twenty minutes to write a prayer,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry, we won’t be reading them out loud. They’re just for you.’

  Good, I thought. I have a few things I want to say to God. I got out my paper and started writing.

  Dear God

  I know you’re busy doing a million things, spinning planets, keeping it all in balance and all, but please could you spare me a moment?

  But then, you’re omniscient, so you probably know what I’m going to say anyway. So maybe I shouldn’t waste your time.

  But then again you live in eternity, so you have all the time in the world. God, it’s confusing.

  Anyway. Could you . . .? Of course you could, you’re omnipotent as well. Maybe I shouldn’t ask for anything. You know best really. Maybe you should let me know what to pray for because sometimes I don’t know.

  PS Please could you make Mark phone me or else stop me feeling as mad as I do lately.

  PPS Please could my bum stop growing now. I think it’s big enough.

  PPS Let there be peace and everybody be happy with no wars.

  That is if that’s all OK with you and doesn’t interfere with your plans. Amen.

  With love, Izzie Foster

  After twenty minutes, Miss Hartley started up again.

  ‘See, we are called human beings,’ she said, ‘but when do we ever be? We’re always human doings, dashing about doing this and that. We never stop to just be.’

  I liked the sound of that. To be a human being. Cool.

  ‘Anyway, as prayer is talking to God,’ she continued, ‘so meditation is listening. The idea is to find a quiet place within yourself and let the silence speak to you. Try to imagine that your mind is like the sea. On the surface are all the waves of thoughts, up and down they go. But if you go deep, deep, fathom deep into the sea, you’ll find stillness no matter what’s happening on the surface. It’s the same with our minds — thoughts, feelings, all bounce about on the top, but if you go deeper, then there’s stillness.’

  Perfect, I thought. It’s a shame everyone gave Miss Hartley such a hard time. She talked a lot of sense to me. I couldn’t wait to try it.

  ‘Now different methods work for different people,’ said Miss Hartley. ‘I want you all to make yourselves comfortable and then close your eyes and focus inside. Some people find it helps to have something to concentrate on, like a mantra. Does anyone know what that is?’

  I put up my hand. ‘It’s a word, miss.’

  ‘That’s right, Izzie, a popular one is “Om”. What you do is think about the word “Om” and say it over and over again, silently in your head. Right, let’s begin. Eyes closed. Let your mind go still. Meditate.’

  I did as I was told and tried to make my mind go blank.

  Thought 1: My mind is blank.

  Thought 2: It can’t be. You just thought that thought.

  Thought 3: What thought?

  Thought 4: The one about being blank. If you were really blank, you wouldn’t think anything.

  Thought 5: OK. Try again.

  Thought 6: I could kill Nesta for telling Tony my business.

  Thought 7: Why oh why hasn’t Mark phoned?

  Thought 8: I’ve been an idiot. I shouldn’t have called him.

  Thought 9: But why can’t a girl phone a boy?

  Thought 10: This isn’t helping at all. OK. Be quiet again. Try the mantra. Om. Om. Om. Om. Om. Oh pooh. Pooh. Pooh. Got an itch.

  Thought 11: How many people are there in my head? I think I may be going mad. Om, om, ommmmmmmm.

  Thought 12: I think I’ll just have a peek to see how Lucy and Nesta are getting on.

  I opened one eye and had a quick look around the room.

  Most people were sitting quietly with their eyes shut. Candice Carter looked as though she was asleep as she was nodding forward and any minute now her head would crash into her desk.

  I glanced over at Lucy. She had one eye open as well. Our eyes met and we giggled.

  Then someone started at the back of the class.

  ‘Kneedeep.’ A frog sound.

  ‘Tweet twoo.’ Someone did an owl sound.

  ‘Meeow.’ I did a cat.

  ‘Mooooo.’ That was Lucy.

  The whole class joined in with animal sounds until it sounded like a farmyard.

  ‘Girls, girls!’ cried Miss Hartley. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing?’

  By now, we were all laughing our heads off.

  So much for Christmas meaning goodwill to all men and schoolgirls. We all got detention and had to stay in at lunch-time. Detention. On the last day of term? Bah. Humbug. But I was feeling marginally better. Perhaps prayer and meditation do work after all.

  Then maybe so does a good laugh.

  In detention, Miss Hartley gave us instructions to write out hymns.

  ‘Now I’m going next door to the staffroom,’ she said. ‘And if anyone speaks, there’ll be another fifteen minutes’ detention.’

  We all did a few lines, then I got bored so I wrote a song about boys not p
honing. Then I had an idea. Miss Hartley said if anyone speaks we’d get another fifteen minutes. She didn’t say anything about singing.

  It is Christmas after all. I started up a hymn and soon everyone joined in.

  ‘We Three Kings of Orient are,

  One in a taxi, one in a car,

  One on his scooter,

  Tooting his hooter,

  Following yonder star.’

  At last, term was over. A Merry Christmas one and all.

  Cut the Connection

  by Izzie Foster

  You think you’re going out tonight, but you’ll be staying in,

  You’ll sigh, you’ll cry, you’ll wonder why the phone will never ring.

  You know he’s playing games like every other boy,

  But you don’t care though you’re aware he treats you like a toy.

  He says he’ll be there for you when all the chips are down,

  But he’s said the same to every girl in town.

  He doesn’t care you’re in despair as tears burn in your eyes.

  You’ll sigh, you’ll cry, you’ll wonder why all he says is lies.

  Cut the connection, turn off the phone, grab hold of life and you won’t be alone.

  Believe in yourself and no one else and you’ll find that you have grown.

  So cut the connection, turn off the phone, grab hold of life and you won’t be alone.

  Chapter 12

  Happy Eater

  The next morning, Mum was up early and decorating our Christmas tree in her usual immaculate manner. White and silver, each bauble placed with precision and each necklace of tinsel making a perfect circle round the branches. What a contrast to the tree at Lucy’s, I thought. Theirs looks like someone got out a box of coloured balls and tinsel and threw it at the tree. Mum’s does look nice though, elegant, very Homes and Gardens.

  ‘Want to help?’ asked Mum.

  ‘Not really,’ I said, flopping on one of the sofas. I knew from past experience there wasn’t much point. She had it very clear in her head what she wanted it to look like and I’d be bound to put a star or something in the wrong place.