1 operation stop kiss
How do you stop a guy from kissing you?
I know this sounds like a ridiculous question—obviously there are a multitude of options available to the almost-kissee. But Bradley Scott’s lips were eight inches away from mine and I was seriously in search of an etiquette-appropriate response. Without, you know, resorting to physical shoves, screams, or other emotionally scarring options.
Normally I’m completely on my game when it comes to preemptive measures—that is, avoiding any situation that could lead to a guy going in for some lip action. Stargazing, fireworks watching, or even brief contemplation of a city nightscape has, in my opinion, a Stendhal syndrome–like effect—only, rather than fainting in response to the spectacular scene in front of them, boys seem to fall lips-first in my direction with little to no warning. I can’t count the number of times a fireworks display has forced me to end a night early.
The other key moment to steer clear of is the awkward good-night ritual at the end of a date. Notions of “expected” first moves confuse the male mind, and no matter how clear a stay-away-from-me vibe a girl tries to give out, the majority of the species will make an ill-judged lunge for the lips. I’ve learned that the only way to avoid postdate fallout is to implement an effective avoidance tactic at the good-bye point. Having a person waiting at your front door (ideally giving a big friendly wave to your date as you arrive) works well, particularly if they’re a parental. No teenage boy is going to want to go for the clinch while under keen observation by your relative. My other fail-safe is a phone call received just at the moment of romantic inclination, whether this is in your date’s car or on your doorstep.
Unfortunately, this fail-safe option had fallen through for me tonight. I had sent a panicked text message at the usual spot—as Bradley Scott’s car passed the corner store (exactly five minutes from good-bye time)—to my best friend, Cassie Shields: PUT OPERATION STOP KISS INTO ACTION! But the crucial time had come and my phone was completely silent. It was too late to employ Option 2: Evasive Maneuver (carrying a drink so you can take a sip as the lips approach), because I had no beverage available; and Option 3: Distraction, which involved asking a question (So, how about this election?) or pointing out something important (There’s a spider on your shirt!), was also useless. Nothing would distract Bradley now except a nuclear bomb. No, this was the end of playing it cool and collected. I could feel Bradley’s breath on my face, meaning I had approximately ten seconds before the torpedo hit the target.
As Bradley’s arms moved to encircle me, I lunged for my seat belt, frantically pushing at the release button. The belt slackened and I threw open the car door, tumbling out just as Bradley’s lips kissed the cool air where my lips had been, precious seconds before.
I felt an overwhelming sense of relief for a second—a wondrous second—before I landed with a tremendous splash in the ever-present puddle in our driveway that my father refers to as “Loch Ness.”
The cold water must have shocked me, because I sat there motionless as the brown water soaked through my clothes, watching Bradley react to the disappearance of his hoped-for make-out partner.
He leaped out of his seat and raced around the front of the car. “Aurora! Are you all right?”
I couldn’t speak for a moment. After all, it wasn’t every day I found myself taking a twilight bath in my front yard.
I pulled myself together as Bradley reached down to haul me out of the water. This beyond-cringeworthy situation had only come about because of his darn touchy-feelyness, and I’d had just about enough of it for one evening. Pushing him out of the way (and leaving dirty handprints on his white shirt in the process), I wearily got to my feet, releasing the ten liters of puddle water that my used-to-be-white-before-this-epic-disaster dress had collected. The ringlets that I’d painstakingly created now lay flat and dripping down my back. I was close to tears.
“Bradley, thank you for an interesting evening.” I pushed past him.
“Aurora, wait! Let me unlock your door or find you a towel or something!”
He followed me, right on my dripping heels. I summoned as much dignity as someone with gravel-encrusted knees possibly could and turned to face him. His misty blue eyes were showing complete confusion. Obviously, this wasn’t your run-of-the-mill end to a date.
I forced a smile onto my face. “Really, Bradley, I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” he said, taking in my increasing resemblance to a swamp creature.
My date was now repelled by my physical appearance. Could this night get any worse?
“Uh, yeah, happens to me all the time.”
Was that really the best I could muster?
“For real?” Bradley was staring at his mud-splattered shirt. “I know Leos can be clumsy.”
Oh, no. Now he was back to his favorite topic: astrology. I’d already heard an in-depth analysis of my star sign and his star sign and various planetary influences, all through our meal at La Bella Donna, an Italian restaurant in town. I’d barely been able to appreciate the tiramisu amid Bradley’s insights about my moon sign and its apparent ability to make me an impatient and often selfish lover.
“Look, I think the stars have indicated that we should end our date here,” I said, as convincingly as I could.
“My horoscope did say there would be a strong presence of water today,” he mused.
You’d think that, along with all of his other insights into our future, he could have shared that one with me.
“Don’t worry, Aurora.” He grabbed my hands reassuringly. “For our next date, I’ll make sure that Venus is in a favorable position!”
I pulled my hands away. “Great … next time. Call me, okay?”
Bradley wandered back to his car, looking dreamily up at the heavens. I breathed a sigh of relief and hobbled up our too-long driveway. My mother had insisted on its length to give our place “atmosphere” (i.e., it made it look impressive).
What a night. So much for my aim to exude an Audrey Hepburn–like elegance. And why hadn’t Cassie called me? I couldn’t believe she’d failed me.
“Another successful date, hmm?”
Hayden Paris, my neighbor, former childhood playmate, and ever-reliable bane of my life, stood grinning on his side of the not-high-enough fence that separated our properties. His hazel eyes danced with amusement as he spun a basketball between his hands.
Was Hayden to be witness to every embarrassment of my dating life? Just three weeks ago, he’d seen Daniel Benis get stabbed in the eye when I’d employed Option 2: Evasive Maneuver as Daniel tried to kiss me on my doorstep—unfortunately forgetting that my drink had a second straw sticking out the other side.
“At least it was you that got injured, not your date this time, so he can’t press charges.”
Please. Daniel had been such a baby about it. He’d worn an eye patch for, like, six days afterwards. Bravery was now one of the crucial characteristics I was looking for in a date. At least Daniel had been so embarrassed about the cause of his temporary blindness that he hadn’t breathed a word to anyone.
I rolled my eyes. “Funny, somehow I knew I could rely on Mr. Zero Compassion to humiliate me even further.”
“Come on, Princess.” He drummed the basketball against the ground, wearing his constant smirk. “You have to admit it was funny. Bradley kissing the passenger seat while his date tumbles into the water? His ill-judged attempt at chivalry resulting in a mud-covered shirt and a girl scrambling away from him? Priceless! Best part of all? His face when he realized that your white dress is see-through when wet—”
“What?” I screamed, looking down at my dress. The outline of my lacy white bra was plainly visible.
Hayden tossed me his jacket to cover up. “Mr. Bradley Yes-I’m-a-Sensitive-Sagittarius may say he focuses purely on the spiritual things in life, but I’d swear on my unblemished academic record that his mind was very much on physical things at that moment. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind.”
“Enough!” I yelled. “Listen here, Hayden Paris. This unnatural interest in my dating life? There’s a word for it: spying.” I knew I must be turning red. I hated the way Hayden wound me up. It was like every time he opened his mouth I completely lost it. “How would you like it if I made it my special interest to offer a running commentary on your dates?”
Hayden raised an eyebrow. “I have a basketball hoop here, remember?” As if to prove his point, he sent the ball straight through the net. “How can I help it if I’m out here sinking a few baskets and accidentally witness your dramatics, using tonight as an example, exactly sixteen feet away?”
“Accidentally? Who plays basketball at ten p.m.? You can’t even see out here!”
“Your logic’s a little off tonight, Princess.” Hayden sank another basket. “One minute you’re accusing me of spying on you; the next you’re claiming it’s too dark out here to be witness to anything, accidentally or on purpose.” He grinned, his impossibly perfect teeth showing.
“Well, all I know, Paris, is next time you have a date, I’ll be sitting out here on the excuse of catching some rays at ten p.m., okay?”
“I’m afraid you won’t have much opportunity,” Hayden said. “I’m not dating at the moment. You could say I’m hyperaware of the dangers involved, both emotional and physical.” He mimicked Daniel clutching his eye in pain.
I refused to respond to his mockery of my maimed date. “Well, the female populace is safe for now. Excuse me while I spread the good news.” I gave him a little wave and turned and walked away with dignity. Well, as much dignity as I could manage with squelching shoes.
I was almost at my front door when he called after me. “Hey, by the way, Princess? Your mascara’s not waterproof. Just thought I’d let you know.”
“Arrgghh!”
I slammed the front door. I’d never get the last word with Hayden Paris.
Once inside, I stopped and did the covert listening thing, praying that the NAD (New Age dad) wasn’t home. As of right now, only three people had witnessed my date-turned-nightmare, and I wanted to keep it that way. Luckily, there was no sign of him.
My dad’s been going through a midlife crisis thing that involves, as he puts it, “a critical examination of my core values and the societal construction of my self-identity.” He told me this when I caught him destroying his interior-designed bedroom and office. He called it “freeing himself from baggage,” which seemed to involve tossing out a large number of personal belongings, including several Ralph Lauren jackets and some Tiffany & Co. cuff links. I’m grateful I’ve been able to keep him away from the rest of the house. I mean, the minimalist look can be stylish, but the NAD’s taking it way too far. Since he stripped his office of all its furnishings, he’s been forced to do any after-hours work sitting cross-legged on a hemp cushion, with his laptop perched awkwardly on his knees. Personally, I consider the laptop to be a complete contradiction of his new philosophy, but when I asked him about it, he muttered something along the lines of “the unavoidability of conformity in the modern world,” while his new CD played soothing whale sounds in the background. Conformity must be the reason he’s still wearing his Armani suits to work at the advertising agency, where he’s a creative director. I’m keeping my fingers crossed the changes are just a NAD fad and everything will return to normal, including the decor.
Seeing the NAD was out, I could dash straight to the bathroom. As I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror, I let out an involuntary shriek. Without Hayden’s jacket, my dress was undeniably see-through, my modesty barely preserved by the sporadic sprinkling of the small pebbles and blades of grass I’d picked up in the puddle. The look was topped off by massive black rings around my eyes. I looked like a waterlogged panda.
When I stepped out of the shower, it was like I’d been on one of those makeover shows, except it was the old me—sans mud and dishevelment—staring out from the mirror.
I generally try not to think too much about my appearance—okay, that’s a slight lie. I am a teenage girl (sixteen and six months, to be exact), so a fair amount of my time is spent on grooming and choosing outfits. But I like to focus on my inner self and improve what really matters—mind, heart, and soul. What’s the point of a fifty-dollar haircut on a fifty-cent head, right? I want to know who Aurora Skye really is.
That’s my full name, and it totally sounds like the NAD was responsible for it, but it was my mother who named me. She likes herself (her name is Avery) and anyone associated with her to stand out from the crowd. Despite the schoolyard teasing that inevitably comes with standing out from the crowd, I like my name. It means “dawn sky,” which sounds very poetic and inspiring. It’s also a great name for an author, which I plan to be. Lately, I’ve been thinking of penning a self-help book for teenage girls, since—as you can see from my sad example—our lives are fraught with peril, and the answers to our most important questions about love, life, and meaning don’t get taught in school.
As I made my way up our thickly carpeted stairs to my bedroom, my presence was met with two meows.
“Hello, my precious pumpkins!”
I picked up Snookums, my marmalade tomcat, and his purr motor started on cue. Bebe, my Birman, wrapped herself around my legs.
“How are you guys doing?”
I worry that my cats, due to being left alone all day, may feel deprived of mental stimulation. I recently saw this great ad for a DVD with over three continuous hours of fish and bird scenes to engage the feline mind. I think it would fast-track Snookums’s and Bebe’s synaptic development, but I haven’t worked up the nerve to ask the NAD for something new at a time when he seems to be parting with just about all unnecessary (in his opinion) material possessions. I don’t want to interfere if he’s at the crux of self-realization.
Snookums (obviously not named by my mother) has been my pal since I was six. One morning I found this tiny bundle of orange fluff meowing his hardest at our front door. We were only supposed to keep him till he could be relocated (as my mom called it), but I wasn’t letting my furry friend go anywhere, and I begged until my mom agreed he could stay, “but only as an outside cat.” Snookums now sleeps in a satin-lined basket in my bedroom. Dad bought me Bebe when he and Mom split up. That was four years ago. One Sunday, Dad and I came home from bonding time at the mall and Mom wasn’t there. I figured she was at Yogilates or the beauty salon or something, but as we found out from our answering machine, she was actually in London. She said she needed to breathe.
It sounds weird, but the first thing to come out of my mouth was, “Couldn’t she just have gone down to the park for some fresh air?”
My dad got the strangest look on his face before he let out an odd, choke-like laugh.
The answering machine message was followed by a series of postcards from various points across the globe, with hastily scribbled explanations such as I felt stifled or Being a wife or a mother never came naturally to me. None of those statements—totally at odds with the cheery scenes depicted on the postcards’ fronts (Greetings from Ibiza!)—made my dad or me feel any better or any less confused, but perhaps they helped Mom to heal. For ages after she left, I had this weird fear that one day I’d come home and my dad would be gone, too.
Anyway, a month after the Answering Machine Incident (as it became known), Dad came into my room holding Bebe, a purebred seal point Birman (a beautiful longhaired cat with chocolate tips and white paws). She was crazy expensive—a fluffy guilt gift, I guess—but taking care of her resplendent-bordering-on-excessive hair and making sure she was happy (she’s a very fussy cat) was an effective distraction. I slowly stopped feeling so sad. After all, my mom had never been very maternal. Most of the time she’d been preoccupied with new home furnishings.
After she left, Dad replaced just about everything in our Spanish-style house. Freedom Furniture’s profits must have soared that year, since every time the thought of my mom crossed his mind we’d head on down there and load up a new couch or lamp. Now, four years later, my mom had returned with a Spanish boyfriend, and Dad, the NAD, was off-loading everything.
Despite the attentions of Snookums and Bebe, I was starting to feel a tad down after my disastrous date. I was thankful when the phone rang.
“So, did it go fabulously? You have to tell me every single detail, okay?” Cassie cried, before I’d even said hello.
I sighed. “Does that include an unwanted kiss, an almost-drowning, and an ego-crushing run-in with Hayden Paris?”
“What? I thought you guys were planning to go to La Bella Donna. How’d you end up at the beach with Hayden?”
“The beach? All of this happened in my driveway!” I briefly filled her in on the night’s unfortunate events, knowing her to be the soul of discretion. “Where were you, Cass? What happened to Operation Stop Kiss?”
“Where was your text? I was watching out for it, but it never arrived, so I figured your date was a true meeting of souls.”
“You never got my text?” A feeling of horror ran through me. “Oh god. If it didn’t go to you, who did it go to?”
It had been nearly impossible to see in the car, and I’d been trying to be discreet while Bradley jabbered on about astrologically favorable locations.
I rifled through my still-damp evening bag. My cell lit up with ONE NEW MESSAGE.
“Please let this be non-Operation-related,” I whispered as I pressed OPEN MESSAGE.
No such luck.
Operation Stop Kiss? How about Operation START KISS? Oh baby!
Great. Ryan Danfield, whom I’d brushed off two months ago because of his unappealing thriftiness (our finest dining experience was at McDonald’s), had taken my text as fresh encouragement. I’d only just managed to get free of his endless phone calls and e-mails.
“Arrgghh!” I sank back into my chair. “Why Ryan?”
“Don’t worry. Ryan may be worryingly cheap, but he’s harmless enough,” Cassie said. “What was wrong with Bradley Scott? Bradley could totally take on Zac Efron in a hotness contest. And he’s deep—look how he’s always talking about destiny and the meaning of life!”
“He got a little too deep when he claimed he was actively practicing astral travel in the hope of achieving greater intimacy with intergalactic beings.”
“What?” I could hear the giggles rising up in Cassie’s throat.
“Evidently I don’t hold much appeal, if Bradley’s prepared to travel several light-years to find a better match.” I burst into laughter. “I wanted unique, and I certainly got it!”
Uniqueness is one of the qualities I deem necessary in a prospective partner, and I’m always really careful to make sure that potential candidates possess it before saying yes to a date. I’d said yes to Bradley Scott because he was always talking about the stars and the universe. Little did I know he viewed it as a galaxy-wide dating pool equivalent to match.com. I’d been impressed that Daniel Benis wrote poetry, although I discovered later that this consisted purely of odes to his new Ford Falcon. And Ryan Danfield had seemed like the strong, silent, Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights type, until I realized the reason for his silence was a lack of activity in the cerebral area.
“Oh, Cass,” I said, turning serious, “I really am tempted to call off the search for a while. I think my soul mate is a long way from Jefferson High.”
“Aurora! You’re always telling me that it’s only possible to find your true love if you put in the dedication, right?”
“Right…”
“So now is not the time to give up! You know what they say about frogs and princes.”
“Huh?”
“You fell right into the home of the frogs tonight—literally! Prince Charming must be within sight. He’s probably calling out for you right now!”
I could almost hear something!
“Cass,” I said dreamily, “there is a sound.”
“Do you mean that buzzing noise?” she said.
“Yes!”
“Oh, that’s just Andrew. Mom and Dad have left me in charge again, but there’s nothing I can do to stop him joyriding up and down our street.”
Cassie’s brother recently saw Rebel Without a Cause and was so inspired he started up his own neighborhood motorcycle gang.
“I don’t know why your parents don’t just take the bike away from him,” I said.
“They’re proud that he’s showing some leadership qualities.”
Cassie’s parents are psychologists; hence the interesting parenting philosophy.
“Oh no, I’ve got to run,” Cassie added. “Old Mrs. Barker’s yelling again—I think the guys just knocked over her garbage can.”
“Cass, first day back at school means the opportunity to meet Potential Princes. Remember to wear your best!”
“Gotta go!” she cried, as the buzzing in the background got even louder.
Thank god I’m an only child.
Cass is the only person who knows my deepest, darkest secret, one that could make me the laughingstock of our entire school. I’m sixteen and I’ve never been kissed.
It all has to do with Sleeping Beauty. Yes, the fairy tale. When I was five, I was completely obsessed with it—partly because the princess and I share the name Aurora, but mostly because of how romantic it is. A beautiful maiden, asleep in a crumbling, rose-filled tower, waiting for love’s first kiss. A prince fighting through a forest to get to her, then falling madly in love within seconds of beholding her. And then that all-powerful kiss—able to bring the princess back to life, to transform her, to awaken her. Even at five, I realized that locking lips was a very powerful thing.
And so, ever since, I’ve saved my first kiss for my Prince. I’ve opted out of truth or dare, spin the bottle, and all other lip-orientated high school games, and I’ve ducked and maneuvered my way out of a multitude of good-night smooches. It hasn’t been easy. Most guys try to make a move on the first date; thus the creation of Operation Stop Kiss. The only problem is, my dedication to saving my first kiss for my Prince seems to be leading to no end of embarrassing situations.
I groaned, thinking again of tonight’s near miss. If only boys would give you a little more warning of an imminent kiss. A yell of “Incoming!” or something.
It was getting late. I fed Snookums and Bebe their evening meal, then traipsed back into my room. I reflected on my conversation with Cassie. As always, she’d restored my peace of mind and strengthened my focus, like only a childhood bestie can. Dating can certainly drag a girl down, especially if the pressure is on to set an example for others.
I haven’t told you yet about one of the most important aspects of my life: the Find a Prince™ program (FPP). It’s a self-help program for teenage girls, which I designed myself. Over many years of negotiating the minefield that is the high school dating scene, I’ve seen girls get their hearts maimed by boys left, right, and center. Consequently, I decided that any investment of my heart had to be soundly investigated beforehand. Call me calculating, but I want to invest my time and emotions in a guy who thoroughly deserves them. Aka a Prince.
Now, many girls would probably get sarcastic at this point and say that the whole idea of Prince Charming is ridiculously outdated. However, my Find a Prince™ program has nothing to do with glass slippers, poisoned apples, or talking woodland animals. It’s about us girls valuing ourselves and saying no to guys who use or abuse us. Guys who play around with our feelings like it’s a form of sport. Guys who consider a relationship to be code for gaining a more intimate knowledge of our bra size. It’s about realizing we deserve better. The FPP’s chief decree is that every girl deserves to be treated like a princess. And who better to do that than a Prince?
A Prince:
• has Principles. He stands up for what he knows to be right instead of going along with the crowd.
• Recognizes your worth. He understands how special you are and treats you with respect and kindness.
• possesses Integrity. He’s genuine with his feelings and won’t mislead you for underhanded or selfish purposes.
• Never doubts that you’re the only one for him.
• is Constant. He stands by you through the sunshine and the shadows.
• possesses Endurance. He’s willing to overcome considerable obstacles to win your affection.
This list might sound slightly full-on, but I don’t think any girl should compromise when it comes to how a guy treats her.
That’s not to say we should lie around waiting like some damsel in distress. Part 2 of the FPP is realizing that a modern princess makes her own destiny. I always keep my eyes open for Potential Prince candidates (PPCs) and take advantage of dates to assess a guy’s prospective princely qualities.
So far, only Cassie and I are following the program, though I plan to take it to the next level once we’ve gotten results. It’s taking some time, which I put down to the often abysmal choices provided by high school boys, who, sadly, have their minds on spitballs instead of soul mates. I hoped that this year, heading into junior year, things would be more promising.
