The sun had set when I walked home (and I only went after Momma called me and said I had to get on back to do homework). The moon was shadowed by clouds. The streets and sidewalks were wet. Lots of people had turned on their indoor lights. Some left their curtains open. Including at Buddy’s place. I stopped on the sidewalk.
A woman played a huge piano.
A dog sat near her.
“That is one big dog,” I said to no one. And where was Buddy? I stretched this way and that, looking through the picture window for him.
“Hey, Evie.”
This time I kept my yelp under control.
“What are you doing out here, Buddy?” I said. Pleased and surprised all at once. He’d come up close and his arm touched mine. I smiled in the darkness. Turned to look up at him.
Buddy took my hand. “I told you, Evie. I’m coming to kiss you.” His voice was low.
“Good,” I said, feeling brave. “I need the distraction.”
“I intend to be more than a distraction, Evie Messenger.”
Buddy pulled me near.
Bent closer.
His lips found mine.
“Mmm,” he said. Buddy’s arms went around me. Pulled me so tight I thought to push away. But no. I needed this. This hot guy kissing me. I needed Tommie out of my head. And Aunt Odie and Paulie and school and JimDaddy and dead wives and new wives and children, gone, gone, gone. The whole kit and kaboodle.
“Let’s go sit,” Buddy said, and led me across my wet front lawn and onto the porch, where a light flicked on when we got near enough for the sensor to know we were there.
“Can’t kiss in the light,” I said. I was whispering and my lips tingled. No longer numb. Good. “My momma is waiting for me.” We sat on the swing that was damp under my bottom.
Tommie. Tommie. In my head. In my room? Waiting for me?
“I’ve been waiting for you longer, Evie,” Buddy said. He used both his hands to try and tame my hair that had swelled as soon as I walked out of Aunt Odie’s house.
“Have you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He gave up on my hair (I think) and cupped my face in his hands.
“If we don’t move,” he said, “that light might go out. We’re out of range.”
I took his hand in mine. He was so warm. And he smelled like orange rolls. Had his momma made one of Aunt Odie’s mixes?
The porch light went out, and just like that Momma opened the door. “Evie,” she said.
“I’m here, Momma.”
“Who’re you with?”
“Buddy from across the way.”
Momma hesitated. Light spilled out from the house, and she looked dark as a ghoul. Only ghouls aren’t dark. At least not girl ghosts, who aren’t really ghouls at all.
“Fifteen minutes,” Momma said, and shut the door quick.
The spotlight stayed off.
“That’s no time at all,” Buddy said.
“Then let’s not waste it.”
How could I do this?
How could I know how to kiss my across-the-street-neighbor when I had never kissed anyone before? (Not including Tommy Jones, who in first grade said, “Knock knock,” and I said, “Who’s there?” and he said, “Olive,” and I said, “Olive who?” and he said, “Olive you,” and kissed me half on the mouth and half on the nose, for which I slapped him a good one, and AJ Moorman in sixth grade, who caught me unawares in the lunchroom right when I was ready to throw my empty lunch bag away. He tasted a lot like mustard.)
How did I know what to do with my mouth and tongue and teeth? And lips? Can’t forget the lips.
“Evie,” Buddy said. He sounded breathless. “I’ve never kissed anyone like you.”
I’m a natural, I wanted to say. Maybe this could be my age fifteen Gift from the other side. Not the ghost thing. But I didn’t say anything at all, just kissed Buddy those few minutes, like I might never do it again.
“Who have you kissed, Buddy? Lot of girls?” He seemed like a professional.
“I’ve had plenty of girlfriends,” he said. He rested his forehead on mine. “But none kissed me like that.”
Was that a line? I didn’t even care.
“Anyone from school?”
Why was I asking? It’s not like we were going out. Were we? Were we? But that kissing mouth of mine made me ask.
He was so nice to look at.
Was it because it was dark out?
Because the whole place smelled of ocean?
“I’ve only had one serious girlfriend,” he said. Buddy pulled away from me.
I rested in his arms.
“We were young. And knew it.”
He swallowed. Twice. I heard him.
Wait!
“. . . killed . . .”
No!
“. . . in a car accident a few years back.”
Don’t say it!
“Justin?” My voice came out a whisper. “Are you Justin?”
“She lived right here in this house. Off and on.”
Are. You. Kidding. Me?
“Her name was . . .”
“Tommie,” we said together.