Even I could hear the smack smacking sounds over the music, and the sound was beginning to annoy me, especially since that last comment I just had to answer with, “How ridiculous. You are only allowed to control other people if you don’t succeed. What, you’re just allowed to try? How does that even -”
“Focus on your kissing,” Ziggy said.
I huffed. I crossed my arms. I stopped kissing Paul, who then took my chin, held it up, and looked at me with those big brown puppy eyes.
I leaned over and lay down, feeling the sticky vynal pressed up against my cheek, and putting my feet on his lap. He immediately took off my — what shoes was I wearing. I couldn’t remember. By the feeling of them coming off I guessed they were the Beatle boots Sherry and I had bought at the Beatlemania festival. They were so uncomfortable. And they had this spiky heel that made it impossible to walk, and the sides went way up past my ankles making it hard to bend them, and digging in to my lower calf. He started rubbing my foot.
“Oh, man that feels great,” I said.
And they turned the radio completely off, not just down, and stopped all their regular hum of their conversations up there. And I saw Ziggy’s face, because he had turned around, put his hands over the top of the seat and was now staring down at me.
“What,” I looked up and said, rubbing my eye.
“You look like a raccoon.”
I rubbed them some more.
“Look at her Paul, she looks like Gene Simmons of Kiss.”
Gene Simmons of Kiss! I sat half up, like a forty five degree triangle, suddenly thinking of the chess club, because I remember him saying that to me then too.
Paul looked at me and laughed.
“It’s your eyes,” Paul put his finger on my lids, and under them, trying to wipe some of it off. “Did you deliberately do that?”
“Do what? Oh that? That’s my mascara. It rubs off sometimes.”
“I thought you said you didn’t wear make up.”
