Speak Your Fantasy.

“I want a crimson kiss,” I whispered into the quiet of the kitchen, feeling more than a little silly.

Step three: See Your Fantasy.

I closed my eyes and pictured myself as Delilah, pictured Grayson sweeping me into his arms, looking lovingly into my eyes, his mouth descending toward mine, his lips brushing against mine, warm and tender, full of smoldering passion….

Oh, yeah. I could definitely see it.

I shook off the shivers, then turned the page and discovered that step number four was: Live Your Fantasy.

Live my fantasy?

How was I supposed to do that?

All the book really offered by way of explanation was, “See it, believe it, live it.”

I snorted and slapped the book shut. What a rip-off!

Then I noticed the kitchen clock.

7:30?

Already?

I flew around the condo getting ready for school, and despite some unintentional banging and clanging, I managed to slip out the door without waking my mother.

I hurried toward school, and as I walked, my flip-flops seemed to slap to the rhythm of the steps outlined in Welcome to a Better Life.

Speak Your Fantasy.

See Your Fantasy.

Live Your Fantasy.

The cadence of it was catchy. Like the chorus of a song.

Speak Your Fantasy.

See Your Fantasy.

Live Your Fantasy.

And as it repeated in my head, I suddenly realized how much my life had been dominated by my parents’ breakup. When was the last time I’d even thought about my own love life?

Speak Your Fantasy.

See Your Fantasy.

Live Your Fantasy.

Maybe it could be that easy. I could just live my own life! Get out from under their dark cloud! Have some fun.

Speak Your Fantasy.

“I want a crimson kiss!” I shouted into the sky.

See Your Fantasy.

I spun in a fantasy dance across an intersection, adored in my mind’s eye by my own dashing Grayson.

Live Your Fantasy.

I hurried onto the Larkmont High School campus. My life was going to change!

3

Adrienne Willow

I MADE A BEELINE ACROSS THE QUAD—hurrying past the outdoor stage, zigzagging between cement lunch tables and across patchy grass—to reach my best friend, Adrienne Willow, who was perched on “our” brick planter, organizing her binder.

I hopped up beside her. “I had an epiphany this morning.”

“Really?” she asked, snapping the rings of her binder closed. “What’s that?”

“I’m done being dragged through the knothole of my parents’ life. I’m going to start living my own.”

She looked up, blinked, then whooped and jumped off the planter. “It’s about time!”

“Do you know how much I’ve missed this year? I didn’t go out for volleyball, I didn’t join link crew or help with the warmth drive… all I’ve done is live under their dark cloud and study.”

Adrienne had been bouncing with excitement, but she suddenly stopped, so I followed her line of sight across the quad.

It was Tatiana Phillips.

“It wasn’t her fault,” I said quietly. “It was her mom’s. And my dad’s. I shouldn’t have let it stop me.”

“From playing volleyball?” Adrienne asked, giving me her trademark squint. “No one could have played under those circumstances!” She snorted. “Her mother and your dad sitting together at games? Please.”

I looked down. Adrienne has an uncanny way of putting her finger on the heart of the hurt.

The warning bell clanged. “The point is,” I said firmly, “I’m through letting it ruin my life. I need to have some fun. I need to shift paradigms.”

“You need to what?”

I laughed, then spread out my arms and looked down at my baggy John Lennon “Imagine” T-shirt and frayed jeans. “I need a makeover!” I caught her eye. “And I need you to help me.”

She collected her things. “Anything,” she said. “You know that. Anything.”

Then she gave me a tight hug, and we hurried off to our first-period classes.

4

Robbie Marshall

FOR THE PAST COUPLE OF YEARS I’ve made a habit of ignoring Robbie Marshall. He’s gorgeous, but that’s exactly why I ignore him.

Like he needs one more girl fawning over him?

We used to be friendly but that was back in middle school. Back when he wasn’t afraid to be smart. Back before he grew into Robbie Marshall, gorgeous jock.

So in first period all the other girls in class paid attention to Robbie Marshall’s biceps, and I paid attention to Mrs. Fieldman’s math lesson. Mrs. Fieldman is a real pro. She’s clear and concise, and there’s no falling asleep in her class—she covers more material in a day than some teachers do in a week, and if you don’t pay attention, you can kiss a good grade goodbye.

After math I continued through my morning classes, slipping into the typical rhythm of a school day. But somewhere in the middle of third period I realized that I was doing what I’d been doing all year: focusing, taking notes, getting a jump on the homework. Fun was no part of the equation. I was certainly not living my fantasy!

So as third period wound down, I did something I never do—I packed up early, and when the bell rang, I bolted out of the classroom.

Apparently I’m a complete klutz at bolting from classrooms, because not only did I hurt my wrist, I managed to slam the door into someone walking by.

Someone who turned out to be… Robbie Marshall.

“Sorry!” I said, turning beet red.

“No problem,” he replied.

And then he smiled at me.

Diamonds seemed to dance between his lips as he gazed at me. His eyes twinkled smoky gray. His hair looked like it had been combed through with sunshine.

Then he was gone.

But just like that, my fantasy found a direction.

A destination.

I staggered to my fourth-period class, out of breath and (granted) out of my mind. Suddenly all I could see was Robbie Marshall’s face.

All through Miss Ryder’s American-lit lecture I fantasized about Robbie Marshall.

His eyes.

His smile.

His lips.

I didn’t concentrate on my classwork, didn’t scrutinize the red comments on the essay Miss Ryder passed back. By the end of class my chance collision with the school’s most gorgeous jock was completely entwined with my newfound desire to live my fantasy

It had all become perfectly clear.

I needed to kiss Robbie Marshall.

About the Author

WENDELIN VAN DRAANEN spent many years as a classroom teacher and is now a full-time writer. She is the author of many award-winning books, including the Sammy Keyes mysteries, Swear to Howdy, Runaway, and Confessions of a Serial Kisser.

Ms. Van Draanen lives with her husband, two sons, and two dogs in California. Her hobbies include the “three R’s”: reading, running, and rock ’n’ roll.

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