Page 13 of The Kiss Class

That’s the joke. Our father is of Polish heritage, and their cuisine is not known for being especially spicy, meaning he can’t handle much more than a shishito pepper. Having lived in Los Angeles with its amazing Mexican food, I’ve upped the family heat tolerance on the Scoville Scale considerably. Dad thinks hisKablamski!Sauce is spicy, but it’s negative mild if there were such a thing.

Anna shrugs. “Depends on your taste. Plus, those sausagesDad gets at thePolski Festiwalevery fall are inarguably a tongue burner.”

I groan when another text comes through and take control of my device, not at all wanting to think about mouths or tongues in the context of my sisters matching me with random guys because this could lead to only one thing: Kissing.

Knight in Shining Armor: If you’re a Knights (and corny jokes) fan, I bet we’d make a great pear.

The joke is beyond cheesy, but I get the reference. The fans of some pro hockey teams throw rats or fish onto the ice. Knights fans mainly toss corn cobs, but when those aren’t available, it could range from apples to oranges. After all, beyond the Cobbiton suburbs, it’s all farm country.

Me: Hi again! You seem nice, so I bet you’ll find someone you’d like to see s’more, who’d make your heart skip a beet. A special someone with whom you’re mint to be.

My sisters banter about how I’m impossible.

Ilsa says, “You should’ve mentionedpasta-bilitiesbetween you.”

Anna adds, “And asked what kind of fruit he is.”

“Then you could’ve said—” Ilsa starts.

My hands fly to my hips. “No, don’t say it. I don’t even know what he looks like. You two are taking this too far. I’m going to report this to your husbands.”

Given Cal’s last name being a misspelling of a popular fruit, this silences Anna. Ilsa goes quiet because after she met Kangaroo Jack, she referred to him in code using the pineapple emoji. I later found out this was because she considered him afineapple, a fruit of which we do not speak for reasons not having anything to do with Jack McMann.

Sober-faced, Anna says, “We don’t want you to be late for the blind date.”

“I can’t double date two guys.”

“Technically, you’re going on a date now with Richard and just texting with Nolan. No big deal.” Ilsa shrugs.

Panic seizes me and I flap my hands. “What if I accidentally call him Chard?”

They push me out the door. Then, as if instantly knowing that if I drive myself, I’ll end up cruising around for hours looking at Christmas lights and standing the guy up, Ilsa hollers over her shoulder, “Guys, we’ll be right back.”

Quick and nimble, Anna flies by me and hops in the driver’s seat of the 2002 Dodge Caravan Dadaszek passed along to us when we got our licenses. Yes, it’s called theCaravan, even though I rarely got dibs on it. He happily upgraded to a truck.

“Still runs like a dream,” Anna says, telling us how she had to borrow it a few weeks ago while her car was serviced. “Dadaszek even had me run some hockey errands in exchange for a full tank of gas like old times.”

Ilsa and I can’t help but laugh. During high school, the deal was the three of us had full control over the minivan, and our father would pay for gas if we’d occasionally ferry hockey merchandise around town to various shops that support the Knights enterprise. He said it was good practice for the future, but I wouldn’t touch hockey with a thirty-nine-and-a-half-foot stick. No siree.

Call me the Grinch, but the pineapple reminder on top of multiple Richards makes my heart hard and feel like an empty hole.

In protest of this travesty of blind date injustice, I refuse toget in the minivan. Standing my ground, I say, “I’d rather freeze outside in the cold Nebraska winter.”

My sisters apply various forms of pressure. They know my weakness, mainly in the form of Christmas fudge.

Finally, I give in and say, “But I’m driving myself.”

Ilsa and Anna exchange a measured look. “Fine, but we’re motorcading to make sure you don’t stand Richard up.”

Accepting defeat, I end up following them to O’Neely’s Fish Bowl, a Cobbiton classic in the way the minivan is classic or ambrosia is classic. It’s a hockey player haunt that serves mozzarella sticks, fried pickles, and fights after hours.

“You can’t be serious?” My tone is low.

Gripping the steering wheel, I idle by the curb, refusing to get out of the minivan. Ilsa hops out and gestures for me to roll down the window. The power button is cranky, but I manage to drop it a few inches.

“Parking is around back.” She points.

I shake my head. “I’m aware, but no.”

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