5
I was thirteen years old, when Freddie Frinker, the minister’s son, gave me my first kiss on the front porch of my house. It was squishy and slimy with too much tongue and too little yum. But the worst part was when he pulled back, and I discovered we were still tenuously connected by a little strand of spit. With a tiny rainbow quivering at the center.
I’ve had other embarrassing moments, but nothing that surpassed the horror of making a spit rainbow with Freddie Frinker.
That is until I woke up in my bed wrapped around Kelvin Kapone with a “K.” That he was wrapped around me did nothing to ease the situation. My head ached, and I had the uneasy feeling that the kiss I’d been dreaming about hadn’t been a dream at all. In a moment of mutual consent, we moved apart. My move rolled me of
