It Had to Be You

  First Kisses

  It Had to be You

  Sabrina Jordan

  This novel is for three very special teachers:

  Mrs. Susan Scroppo, who in fifth grade asked

  me, after reading a short story I’d written, “Are

  you going to be a writer when you grow up?”

  and

  Miss Loretta Ali and Mrs. Joan Porcaro, my

  sixth grade teachers, who always encouraged

  me and always had nice things to say about

  my writing.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  I am a girly-girl.

  Chapter Two

  I always dress to impress.

  Chapter Three

  “Mission accomplished,” I proudly told my father that night, holding…

  Chapter Four

  The following morning Caitlyn and I were among the very…

  Chapter Five

  I never wanted to see a yellow chiffon wrap blouse…

  Chapter Six

  “Bowling is fun, Tommy. You’d like it if you tried…

  Chapter Seven

  The first thing I did when I got home was…

  Chapter Eight

  “How about this?” Caitlyn asked.

  Chapter Nine

  “Let’s check to see if Daisy wrote back to you!”

  Chapter Ten

  “So who do you think she is?” Caitlyn asked.

  Chapter Eleven

  I wanted to disappear.

  Chapter Twelve

  Kyle was Romeo.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I was so angry, I felt like steam was coming…

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nothing hurts more than a broken heart. There’s no way…

  Chapter Fifteen

  Even though the words were right in front of me,…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by First Kisses

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  I am a girly-girl.

  With three older brothers who are obsessed with sports and cars and video games, it would have been easy for me to grow up a tomboy, but I didn’t.

  From the time I was little, I’ve loved being a girl! Dresses with ruffles. Colored tights. Shiny black Mary Janes. I used to wear them all! Very rarely would I wear T-shirts and jeans, but if I did, there was always something feminine about them. Like my jeans wouldn’t be blue. They’d be yellow or purple and trimmed with lace on the cuffs. And my T-shirts would say things like: DADDY’S LITTLE GIRL or SWEET AS SUGAR.

  I used to have tea parties with my stuffed animals and I would serve cakes made with my Easy-Bake oven. Cliché, I know. I even had every Barbie imaginable, including all the accessories, as well as a few Bratz dolls. Confession: I always loved my Barbies more than my Bratz dolls. Barbie just seemed more elegant. And she had her own Dream House!

  I’ve always had pierced ears. My oldest brother, Rob, who’s nineteen and just finished his first year of college, says this is because when I was a baby and our mom used to take me out in my carriage, people would always stop her and say, “What a cute baby boy!” even though I was wearing pink and I had a Pebbles Flintstone hairstyle (a tuft of hair sticking up on the top of my head and tied with a bright-colored ribbon).

  Earrings are fun. My jewelry box is filled with all sorts of different styles. Some days I like wearing tiny hoops. Other days I like wearing earrings that are long and dangling. Sometimes I’ll just go simple and wear gold studs. My mom has a fabulous earring collection and sometimes she’ll let me borrow a pair, but only if I ask permission. Sneaking into her jewelry box is not allowed. That’s because her earrings are made of real gold and silver and diamonds while mine are all pretty much costume jewelry.

  When I was little, my mom used to braid my hair in pigtails. Some days she’d give me a ponytail. But whatever hairstyle she gave me, she always used silk ribbons and cute barrettes and hair clips. My hair is still long and I love styling it in different ways. No short-and-sassy hairstyle for me! My hair reaches past my shoulders to the middle of my back and the color is chestnut brown, although sometimes, like during the summer, if I’m out in the sun for a long time, highlights will appear. My best friend, Caitlyn, is always telling me she would kill to have my hair. I don’t know what she’s complaining about. Her hair is super curly and a gorgeous red color. Not carrot red but a rich auburn. Like in shampoo ads in magazines. But she hates the color and is always trying to straighten the curls out of her hair.

  Caitlyn and I have been best friends since kindergarten. On the first day of school, we both brought our Cabbage Patch Kids to school for show-and-tell. The dolls were identical and we decided that they were long-lost sisters and it was up to us to make sure they stayed in touch.

  Caitlyn practically lives at my house and when we’re not hanging out together, we’re either on the phone or instant messaging when we’re online. We tell each other everything although there’s a secret I’ve been keeping from her.

  It’s not that I don’t want to tell her my secret, but I can’t. I’ve been told that part of the job I’ve just taken is keeping my identity a secret.

  I know this all sounds mysterious and confusing, but it really isn’t. And there’s a perfectly logical explanation.

  This September I’ll be a freshman at North Marshall High School and I’ve been picked to inherit the job of being the anonymous freshman advice columnist, Dear Daisy, for the high school’s website. Daisy has been around forever. I think she was even giving out advice when my parents were both freshmen there! Before websites existed, she had her own column in the school’s newspaper. Every year a new freshman takes over as Daisy, writing the column and dispensing advice.

  Working on my junior high’s newspaper, writing and editing articles, is what got me the job of Dear Daisy. I know the importance of extracurricular activities. Colleges look for that kind of stuff in addition to good grades, so it’s never too early to start participating.

  My guidance counselor, who I met when I went to pick up my class schedule in June, was the one who told me about the Dear Daisy position. He thought I would be good at it, but he also told me that there were five other girls who were just as qualified as I was to take over the column. If I was interested in becoming Dear Daisy, then I’d have to submit a sample column and after all the columns were compared, a decision would be made.

  Naturally, I was interested. Who wouldn’t want their own column? Although I’d be behind the scenes dispensing advice, it would still be a huge responsibility. So I went home with the questions, answered them the best that I could, and sent them back. A week later my guidance counselor called to tell me I was this year’s Dear Daisy!

  “Now remember, Emma,” he reminded me as we were finishing up our call. “Other than your family, no one is to know you’re Dear Daisy. This rule must be followed.”

  “No one?” I had asked. “Not even my best friend?”

  “No one. If people knew the identity of Dear Daisy they might be uncomfortable or self-conscious coming to her for advice that can be personal. At all times we have to be sensitive to their privacy and yours.”

  “That makes sense.” The last thing I wanted was to embarrass a fellow classmate. I was also told that there would be a teacher who would approve all my responses before they got posted.

  So Caitlyn didn’t know that I was Daisy. I’m sure if she did, she’d be very happy for me.

  As for my family…

  Well, my parents were excited, but then they’re always excited when my brothers and I do well at school. They both gave me congratulatory hugs and kisses, and my
mom and I baked a cake in the shape of a giant daisy.

  My brothers were another story.

  Rob, Michael, and Aaron didn’t say anything when they heard my news but that’s not unusual for them. All they did was ask Mom if the daisy cake we’d made was chocolate on the inside (it was) and if they could each have two pieces. I wanted to scream! I’m not a sports buff—I’ll admit that—but they are my brothers and even though they drive me crazy I want them to know that I care for them. So sometimes I’ll go and watch one of their stupid basketball or baseball or hockey games and pretend to be interested even though I’m bored out of my mind. They couldn’t give me a “Way to go, Emma!” or even a “Congrats!” Argh! I wanted to mash their faces into the cake that Mom was handing out!

  They did agree, though, to keep my secret and not breathe a word to anyone that I was going to be Dear Daisy. I believe them. My brothers might torture me at home, but when it comes to the outside world, they can be very protective. I don’t understand why they can’t be like that all the time!

  I’m extremely proud of the fact that I’ve been chosen to be Dear Daisy because if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s give out advice.

  I’m always cool, calm, and collected. I never let my emotions get the best of me (and with the way my brothers drive me crazy, that’s saying a lot). I’m always organized and on top of things. Deadlines matter to me.

  Most important, when it comes to advice and guidance, my girlfriends always come to me first.

  Last fall my friend Gwen asked me how to get the attention of a guy she had a crush on. My advice? Just tell him!

  The next day Gwen called to tell me that my advice had worked!

  My answers are always short and to the point. Why beat around the bush? If you like a guy, but he doesn’t like you, isn’t it better to know sooner rather than later?

  Still, it never hurts to be prepared, which was why I had checked out a bunch of relationship books from the local library: It’s Not You, It’s Me, Why Doesn’t He Like Me?, How to Get the Man of Your Dreams in Thirty Days or Less, Man Trouble: Is He Really Worth It?

  I’m always this way when it comes to projects. First I make a list and write down what my objective is. Next I decide what research materials I’m going to need and then I gather the materials I need to make my project happen. I like to be prepared so I can do the best job possible.

  Last year I decided to take a cooking class on the weekends. I’ve always loved the Food Channel but there’s a difference between watching them make an elaborate meal on TV and then trying to do it yourself in your own kitchen. Trust me, I’ve tried! Disaster! So I figured if I did want to learn how to cook, I should learn from an expert and not try to do it myself.

  The class I signed up for was every Saturday and Sunday afternoon for three hours and taught by a local chef. We learned how to make everything! But I didn’t just limit myself to Chef Unger’s lessons. When I throw myself into a project, I want to give it my best shot. Not 100 percent but 110 percent. I got subscriptions to all the top food magazines. I read lots of cookbooks and I kept practicing in our kitchen. My mom and dad were always great at critiquing my dishes, telling me what they liked and didn’t like. My brothers? Please! They would suspiciously sniff every dish I made and then claim not to be hungry. Those three are walking stomachs. They’re always hungry. If they did eat something I made, they would claim that it tasted awful, which was not the case. They live to torture me!

  In the beginning I stuck with recipes from cookbooks, but now I’m starting to become a little daring and try my own recipes. I’m not saying every dish I make is a mouthwatering success, but it’s fun to experiment.

  Anyway, it was the end of July and I was in my bedroom, giving myself a day of beauty while I was flipping through the relationship books and taking notes. That night Caitlyn and I would be going to the movies and it never hurts to look one’s best! Even though a lot of the guys in my class had gone away for the summer, there were always a few that remained in town. And you never know when you might run into one of them.

  The first rule of a day of beauty is that I’m allowed to look my worst. If I’m going to be slathering my hair and face and nails with all sorts of creams and lotions and oils, I don’t want to ruin my clothes. Usually I’ll wear my rattiest pair of jeans and an old T-shirt that I’ve swiped from one of my brothers. Today I was in a pair of cutoff jean shorts and Aaron’s VOTE FOR PEDRO

  T-shirt from the movie Napoleon Dynamite.

  I always start my day of beauty by shampooing and conditioning my hair with my favorite products. I swear by Garnier. Then after I’ve rinsed my hair, I add an extra-deep conditioner—Pantene this time—and wrap my hair in a towel, turban-style, for forty-five minutes. Then I move on to my face, applying a blue mud pack. This isn’t one of those masks that’s thin and elasticky, like chewing gum. It’s the kind that dries in layers so there’s a thick mask on your face.

  While my hair is conditioning and my mud pack is solidifying, I move on to my toes. First, I insert wads of cotton between my toes. Then I strip my toes of my old polish with nail polish remover, dry them, and paint them with a new coat of color. Because it’s summer, I had decided on a color called Pink Lemonade. It looked pretty in the bottle, so I was hoping it would look pretty on my toes. Colors can sometimes be deceiving—what looks good in the bottle doesn’t always look good on your nails. Caitlyn and I learned this lesson the hard way last fall. We’d bought a color called Passionate Plum. In the bottle it looked all nice and purply. But after it got on our nails? Yikes! Once the color had dried, it looked like we had painted our nails black! We’d instantly taken the polish off, but not before Aaron got a peek at it. For weeks he kept calling us Goth Girls and asking us where our coven was.

  What I liked about the brand I was using today—Revlon Nail Enamel—was that after the polish had dried, it still had that “wet” look.

  I had just finished polishing my toenails and was buffing my fingernails with an emery board when the doorbell rang. Being that I was in my bedroom on the second floor and all three of my brothers were on the first floor, I ignored it, thinking that one of them would answer it.

  Ha!

  They didn’t.

  And so the doorbell rang again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Both my parents were at work, so unless I said something, that doorbell was going to keep ringing and ringing.

  “Will someone please answer that?” I called out as sweetly as possible. After fourteen years of growing up with my brothers, I knew if I sounded angry or upset, I wouldn’t get them to do anything.

  Total silence.

  No one answered me.

  And the doorbell rang again.

  I tried hard to ignore the ringing but it was driving me crazy. The three of them were downstairs in the family room, watching a movie, and I was one floor above them. They were closer to the front door than me!

  And what was with the person constantly ringing the doorbell? Why hadn’t they given up and left? What was so important that they had to keep ringing our doorbell?

  The doorbell rang for the sixth time—I was keeping count!—only this time the ring seemed longer and sharper.

  Was the person now keeping their finger on the bell before letting go instead of just giving a quick press?

  It was probably a salesman. I guess he or she could tell we were home because my brothers had the TV on in the front room.

  I vowed that I was absolutely, positively not going to answer the front door but when the bell rang again, I couldn’t stand it anymore.

  I got off my bed and hopped into the hallway, trying not to smudge my toenails. But Aaron had left his skateboard in front of my room and I almost slipped on it. While I stumbled and tried to catch my balance, my perfectly polished toes—which were still wet!—dragged against the floor, getting all smudgy. I’d have to redo them. Not to mention clean the polish off the floor before Mom came home from wor
k!

  Since I didn’t have to worry about my toenails any longer, I stomped down the front stairs just as the doorbell started ringing again. By this point, I was beyond angry. Whoever was standing on the other side of the door was going to get a piece of my mind.

  A big piece!

  I flung open the front door.

  “What is it?!” I snarled. “Whatever you’re selling, we’re not interested so you can just go! Just…”

  The rest of the words died in my throat.

  Instead of the pushy salesman I’d been expecting to find waiting on our doorstep, there was a guy my own age standing in front of me.

  Correction: a very cute guy.

  I started to smile until I realized I couldn’t. My mouth wouldn’t move. It was frozen in place.

  And then I remembered.

  The mud pack!

  Yikes!

  My hands flew to my face and then to the turban on my head.

  Suddenly I remembered the way I looked.

  The way I was dressed.

  I was a walking disaster!

  I was the Before girl in all those Before-and-After ads you saw in magazines and on TV.

  On the other hand, the guy standing across from me was cute, cute, cute! He had sky blue eyes and wheat-colored blond hair that he wore in a summer crew cut that was just starting to grow out. He was wearing a bright blue tank top, white surfer shorts, and sandals. I couldn’t help but notice his feet. Unlike my brothers’, his toenails were buff and shiny and not grody with dirt!

  After staring at each other in silence, he finally stuttered, “Um, does your bell not work?”

  “What?”

  “I—I—um—never mind,” he said somewhat warily, like he wasn’t sure if he should stand in place or try to make a run for it.

  Then he held a pie plate out to me. Actually, he stretched his arm out as far as it would go without actually moving forward.