Free The ABC's of Kissing Boys by Tina Ferraro Page A

snub. I knew better than to expect sympathy and an invitation back into the fold.
    In other words, Heartless had just given me the one kiss I was betting Tristan could never teach me: the kiss of death.
    Lyric caught up to me. “So, captain and cocaptain,” she said, her tone so flat, her face so frozen, that I didn't know if she was near tears or happier than she'd ever been in her life.
    “Yeah,” I muttered. “ Whoop- de- do.”
    “Hey, at least you're top dog.”
    Sunlight smacked me when I pulled open the gym door. I waited until she'd joined me on the concrete, then turned back to her. “You want it, Lyric? It's yours.”
    Her brown hair bobbed with her head shake. “No thanks. I figure, as cocaptain, if there is an opening on varsity, she'll pick me first. I mean, why promote the captain and shake up both teams?”
    I opened my mouth to laugh, to tell her she was absolutely right, but for some reason, no sound came out.
    All I could think of was how hard I'd worked that morning to get up my nerve to come to school, how I'd convinced myself that effort and a good attitude would pay off. And while most people had basically accepted or ignored me, the few who'd paid me real attention had tromped soccer cleats on what was left of my life.
    •
    I guess it only stood to reason that my father chose that night to freak out over my “friendship” with Tristan.
    Apparently he had seen the two of us drive off on Friday night. My mother told me she'd calmed him down by telling him that I was helping Tristan adjust to high school (which she believed to be true). While my father was decent enough to think it neighborly of me, he had definite lines where his niceness ended and his psychotic behavior began. And as far as he was concerned, I was fraternizing with the enemy.
    After dinner, with Mom chatting away on the phone to Clayton, I made a general announcement into the air that I was going for a walk—and apparently crossed my dad's invisible line.
    “With the Murphy boy again?” he asked, moving into the doorway in what could have been perceived as a block.
    I shrugged. “Yeah. Does it matter? We're just, you know, talking about teachers and stuff.” Stuff like Eskimo Kisses and lean- ins and how we're supposedly in love.
    My dad's heavy brow (which seemed to get heavier with the mention of anything Murphy) lowered. “That's it?”
    “That's it,” I said, crossing my fingers at my side and wondering if eventually I'd have to—God forbid—spread the lie about our “romance” to my family, too.
    “He doesn't ask you questions about … me, about the house?”
    A laugh snaked its way up and out of me (probably not a good move, but you can't always control your reactions). “No. What, you think Tristan is working for his dad to get the goods on you so he can launch preemptive attacks?”
    He glared at me.
    “You think they're going to subpoena me in small-claims court,” I went on, “to testify against you?”
    “That is not funny, Parker.”
    Since my mother was still chatting away, I ignored the implied don't-stress-your-father-out rule and said exactly what I thought. “You're right, Dad. It's not funny. This whole thing between you and his father is so not funny it's embarrassing.”
    Tension clenched his jaw, telling me he was not saying way more than he was saying. “Well, if he does ask you anything suspicious, don't answer right away. Give me a chance to decide what to tell him.”
    Omigod, were we like that Spy Kids family now, all working together to bring down the enemy?
    He glowered, then stepped away from the door. “And just don't you forget whose roof you live under.”
    How could I? It was the one with the gutters so meticulously painted that Mr. Murphy couldn't report us if he wanted to.
    •
    Spotting Tristan shooting baskets in the street moments later made my legs pick up speed. Finally—someone with no agenda, no rules, no hidden knives to slip into my back. I practically skipped