The Kissing Dare

By Laura Schiller

My friend Jean and I were on our way home from college, sitting next to each other in the front of a big blue-and-white city bus, when she had her crazy idea. It may have been due to a sugar high (she was eating a bag of M&M’s all by herself) or the aftermath of stress from the mathematics exam we had just passed. It started with the two of us arguing, as usual, while Jean crunched her way through the M&M’s and her voice grew shriller by the minute.

“What do you mean, you won’t go?” she asked, referring to the new sushi place which had just opened near our apartment. “How can you say you don’t like sushi if you’ve never tried it?”

“I just don’t, okay? It’s...I mean, cooked fish is nasty enough. But raw? Are you out of your cotton-pickin’ mind?”

She laughed briefly at my fake Southern accent, then resumed her tirade. “It tastes delicious, you know. And it’s good for you. If you weren’t such a stick-in-the-mud, you’d realize it.”

“I am not a stick-in-the-mud,” I repeated, rolling my eyes, for what felt like the hundredth time or so.

She snorted. “Yeah, right. You were an old lady since the day you were born. You’ve even got the same haircut as in grade five.”

I ran one hand over my ear-length bob and shrugged. “So what? It’s practical. And at least I never tried to dye it pink.”

“Don’t remind me,” she groaned. “But you see, at least I went out and did it, instead of sitting around forever asking, What if? Because unlike you, I’m not afraid to take a chance.”

Why do I hang out with this obnoxious girl, I wondered silently. Besides the fact that we’re neighbors and best friends, of course.

I was so busy thinking that I never noticed the cunning, mischievous look in her eye until she spoke up again.

“Hey, Laura?”

“Hm?”

I turned to look at her and, recognizing the face she made when she was about to drag me into the worst kinds of trouble, felt my heart sink into my shoes.

“I’ve got a great idea,” she began.

I lifted my hand to stop her, but she waved it away, smirking. “Listen! The next guy under thirty who steps onto this bus – I dare you to walk up to him and kiss him. On the lips.”

For the first few second or so, I was too stunned to react. Also, part of me couldn’t help but love her – she positively sparkled with glee over her idea, like a little girl with a new toy. The rest of me was, understandably, outraged.

“Are you – “ An elderly woman across the bus glared at me; I lowered my voice from a shout to a hissing whisper. “Have you gone absolutely crazy? Okay, that’s it.We’re getting off at the nearest mental hospital.”

“Chicken,” was all she had to say.

“I’ve got common sense, that’s all! Besides, you just don’t go around kissing total strangers. It’s – “

“ – improper?” She raised an eyebrow at me.

“Yes – no! Wait, you make it sound so – “

“We’re not living in nineteenth-century P.E.I. anymore, babe.,” she said. “L.M. Montgomery’s dead and buried and so is that prissy attitude you caught from her.”

The reference to my favourite writer irritated me even more.

“Now, the reasons why this is a good idea,” she went on briskly. “Number one: I’ve been listening to you complain about your nonexistent love life ever since you got your first bra. You’re seventeen and never been kissed, so it’s about time. No, shut up. Second, you’ve got nothing to lose. If he likes it, great. If he doesn’t, who cares what some stranger on the bus thinks. Third – “ She covered a snort of laughter with her hand “I can’t wait to see his face, whoever he is! It’s gonna be so funny!”

The last reason, I suspected, was her real motivation.

“I’ve got forty bucks says you can’t do it,” she concluded triumphantly.

I had never thought of myself as particularly easy to bribe, but as soon as she said ‘forty bucks’, I couldn’t help the possibilities from popping into my mind. In a matter of seconds, there was a ring of glossy new books, CD’s and DVD’s floating around my head like a halo, whispering: “Buy me! Buy me!” and consequently, I caved.

“You’re on,” I said without half meaning to, and immediately regretted it.

Please, please let him not be ugly. Or be disgusted by me.

Jean’s mouth fell open in astonishment; she blinked, shook her head, then settled into her seat to wait for the next stop.

Several minutes passed without any new passengers as both Jean and I grew more and more anxious. I began to wonder if even the entire first season of The Road to Avonlea was worth this, but decided it was. Jean squirmed.

“You don’t have to go through with it,” she blurted out, so quickly I almost didn’t understand her. “I was only kidding, you know.”

“Now you tell me,” I said in my driest voice. “A bet’s a bet. I want my forty dollars so I don’t go through all this for nothing.”

“Okay.”

The word was barely out of her mouth before the bus suddenly slowed down. We were both thrown forward due to inertia; the old vehicle wheezed, coughed, and came to a slow, shuddering stop in front of the local mall.

The doors opened with a hiss; the new passenger stepped on and dropped a few loudly rattling coins into the till. It was a man, and definitely under thirty. Tall, thin, wearing a brown leather jacket, and with bright red-orange hair tied back in a long ponytail. I slumped into my seat with relief; he wasn’t ugly. In fact, the closer he came, the more interesting he looked, with a pale, intense face and deep blue eyes.

Jean’s sharp elbow poked me in the ribs; when I turned around, I noticed she was grinning again. Two bright red spots had appeared on her cheeks.

“You can thank me later,” she whispered. “Just go!”

I stood up, clinging to the steel pole next to the seat, and fought to keep my balance as the bus started up again. A wave of bus smells – gas, cigarettes, plastic and someone’s flowery perfume – hit me squarely in the nose. My stomach rolled; I swallowed hard. The last thing I needed was to be sick.

The stranger was standing opposite me, holding one of the loops with his right hand and staring absently out the window. I walked up to him and cleared my throat.

“Um...excuse me...”

His eyes focused directly on my burning face. The Baltic Sea, on a clear day, is exactly that color. I held on to another pole with both hands.

“Just for the record,” I said breathlessly, “This is nothing personal. I made a bet with my friend over there and she’ll think I’m chicken if I don’t, so – “ Before I lost my nerve – and before he asked what the hell I was babbling about – I put my hands on his shoulders and gave him a quick peck on the lips.

It was softer and warmer than I expected. I let go as quickly as possible, lurched back to my seat and buried my face in Jean’s purple down coat. She hugged me and ruffled my hair, shaking with laughter all the while. She tried to hold it in, but it burst out anyway, and before I knew it, all three of us were laughing like idiots – Jean, the stranger and I.

“That must be the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me on a bus,” he said conversationally, sitting down opposite us as if we were old friends. “D’you girls often do that or is this an exception?”

“It’s an exception,” said Jean.

“We’re really sorry,” I added quickly. “I didn’t mean to harass you – “

“If that’s harassment, I’ll take it any time,” he said, with a cute mischievous smile. “So what’s your name?” he asked me. “I like to know the names of people who kiss me.”

“I’m Laura, and this sugar addict is Jean,” I said quickly. “It was her idea.”

“Ah.”

“And you are?”

“Mark.”

There was a brief, awkward pause; then he cleared his throat and said, “So are you in high school or college?”

I sat back and waited for Jean to answer – she was good with small talk and that sort of thing – but to my surprise, my friend simply sat there with a mysterious look on her face, as if she knew something I didn’t. I was going to have to talk to him myself.

“College,” I answered. “John Abbott. I’m studying Liberal Arts and Jean’s in Science. What about you?”

“I go to Vanier. I’m in Media – I’d like to be a filmmaker later on.”

“That’s really cool,” I said, and could have bitten my tongue a second later. I sounded much too admiring – wouldn’t want him to think I was drooling over him like a silly fangirl. “I have no idea what I want to do later.”

“She draws,” said Jean suddenly. “Sketches of people, nature, everything. She’s really good.”

Mark whistled. “An artist? I’m impressed.”

He was? I glanced at Jean, who was looking inordinately pleased with herself, trying to decided whether to hug her or strangle her once we got off.

“I can’t draw my way out of a paper bag,” Mark quipped. “Just doodle on windows. Like this.”

Since it was winter, the bus windows were heavily fogged up. He took a navy blue wool glove out of his pocket, put it on his left hand and began to trace shapes on the window: a plump little sun with thick rays, a wide smile, and glasses. A sun with sunglasses. He raised an eyebrow at me; I laughed.

Next came a crescent moon with a frowning, turned-down mouth right next to the sun.

“Aw, he doesn’t like her?” I teased. “Too bad.”

What he did next was completely unexpected and I didn’t know what to make of it. He drew a capital letter M...then an L...then a tiny plus sign in between them.

“Who’s ‘L’?” I asked, and my voice came out hoarse and uncertain.

“Take your pick, Laura,” was all he said, and quickly changed the subject.

As in the good old expression, time flew – I was so absorbed, I almost didn’t notice when our neighborhood came into view through the windows.

“I think our stop’s coming up,” I said regretfully. Usually I was happy to get home, but – did this mean I was never going to see him again?

All of a sudden, it was my turn to have a crazy idea. I had never done anything like this before, but, like with kissing, there was always a first time.

“Listen,” I said, “Would you like to go hang out some time? Have coffee or something? I’ll treat you with my bet winnings,” I added lightly, smiling at him.

He made a clicking noise with his tongue and pointed an affirmative finger at me. “That,” he said, “Is not a bad idea. A kiss and a double espresso? It must be my lucky day. Come here,” and he took out a black marker from his pocket and took my hand in his, to write his phone number on the back of it. I realized I was blushing again.

Jean and I stepped off the bus, waving to him through the window. A beam of sunlight was on his face, making his hair shine like copper. He raised his hand and smiled; if Jean hadn’t had her arm around my shoulders, who knows if I could have stayed on my feet. I was still high from my success. His lucky day? I felt so lucky I was seeing four-leaf clovers dancing in front of me. Or was it stars? Never mind.

“I’ll never complain about the bus again,” I said out loud.

“Way to go, girl,” said Jean, shaking her head admiringly. “I take back everything I said. Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the one who kisses you next time.”

“You think?”

“For sure! Poor old Montgomery must be rotating in her grave.”

“Actually in one of her books, there’s a girl who asks a guy to marry her,” I said defensively. “And he says yes. So she’s not that prim and proper.”

We debated fiercely about it for the rest of the way. From time to time, I looked down at my hand, remembering how he’d touched it and how the cool ink had felt writing out his phone number. I could hardly wait to dial it and give him a call.