17 First Kisses Read Online Free PDF Page B

flirt with impunity, there’s a reason none of the girls in seventh are stepping up to fill the vacancy: Chessa. His fourteen-month-younger little sister. She’s always been defensive about anyone liking him, because she’s had girls use her as a way of getting close to him in the past. But when someone started a rumor that Chessa only got picked for the Crownies because the older girls liked Ryan, something inside Chessa snapped. She decreed vengeance on anyone in our grade who would dare have a crush on him, and one time, when Amanda Bell passed him a note in the hallway, Chessa ripped the note into tiny pieces and sprinkled them over Amanda’s lunch. She even did the thing where she pointed two fingers at her eyes and then pointed them at Amanda.
    So if Chessa ever found out I go on an imaginary date with her brother every Saturday morning, I’d probably wake up witha horse head in my bed.
    I lace up my sneakers and, just like I have for the past six Saturdays, I take off running down the quarter-mile loop at the park. I wonder if he’ll be here today. It
is
his last day before he moves. But it’s also our last run, and I hope that means as much to him as it does to me.
    I’m twitchy as I fly past crackling pine trees, hoping every sound will turn out to be his footsteps behind me on the path. That he’ll pull up beside me and grin as he shoots past. That’s how it happened that first Saturday, anyway. And I watched him run and I thought about it, and then I pulled up and passed him with a grin of my own. We went on like that until we were both all-out sprinting and collapsed, laughing, at the finish line. The next Saturday, I ran at 10:00 a.m. again, hopeful, but not really expecting anything. I got the biggest butterflies when Ryan fell into step behind me.
    We did it the Saturday after that. And the next. And the next. And I feel like there’s this connection between us, even though we’ve never even spoken to each other except to yell “Last lap!” before the beginning of our all-out sprint race. Every week, I would tell myself,
If he shows up today, it means he really likes me. This week I’ll do something to show him how I feel.
But every week, I chickened out.
    I plod through my run, feeling more dejected with each lap but still refusing to admit to myself that he isn’t coming. I’m almost done and he still isn’t here yet. As I’m making the curve past the parking lot, I hear what I’ve been waiting for—themagical thump of footsteps against packed dirt. I peek over my shoulder and start to yell “Last lap!” only to realize that the person behind me is an older woman sporting hot pink leg warmers. I slow to what is practically a stop and she gives me a dirty look as she power walks past.
    He didn’t come.
    I walk home with my head down. I’ve probably been imagining this whole thing, probably—
    â€œCJ!”
    There, across the street, is Ryan Bond, holding a cardboard box and trying to wave at the same time and nearly dropping everything in the process. He is as adorable as it gets. I flit onto his front lawn, drawn to him like a moth to a bug zapper. He sets the box down and a football bounces over the side and rolls to a stop in front of the McQueens’ bushes next door. He doesn’t move to go get it.
    â€œI’m sorry I didn’t make our run today.”
    Our run. I love the way it sounds when he says it. It means he did want to be there.
    â€œThat’s okay. I know you guys are really busy.” I glance at the mostly full moving van in their driveway. “I can’t believe you’re really leaving tomorrow.”
    â€œMe neither.”
    He takes a step closer. I wait, hoping something will happen, like maybe he’ll declare his undying love for me. But it’s like every other Saturday together—neither of us makes a move, even though I feel like our shy glances at