Page 2 of The Kiss Class

He lifts his finger in the universal symbol for quiet. “Shh. Don’t tell anyone.”

Grinning, I reply, “Your secret is safe with me.”

I wave goodbye. Once in the hallway, worry creeps through me. I’m not sure how much longermysecret will be safe. If you’re wondering which one, it’s not the never-been-kissed secret. My sisters know, so I don’t think that counts. That also means they probably have a Christmas wish list of guys to fix me up with. They had one last summer when we met at the lake and sent me Valentine’s Day prospects before that.

Can’t say I’m looking forward to their meddling.

The secret that makes me need to reapply deodorant is that I transferred programs without telling my family.

I’m a full-fledged adult, so it shouldn’t be a big deal, but I’ve always been the brains of the bunch. As a triplet, out of the three of us, I’m the academic one, starting with our nursery school teacher telling our parents that I was “gifted.” How could they know that about a three-year-old who still put Weebles in her mouth? I have no idea.

To this day, I’m guilty of gnawing on pen caps, which is why I mostly use pencils now. Graphite is almost as bad as licking an ashtray. Not that I’d know.

Even though I’m the nerdy one, that doesn’t mean I know what I want to do with my life.

After four years, I graduated from Oxford with my bachelor’s, having changed my major the same number of times. I started with anatomy and physiology, thinking I wanted to go into a branch of medicine. Then I shifted gears and focused on pharmacology. Third year in, I took a sharp right turn and went into archeology, where I spent a lot of time, um, sketching artifacts before spending a summer in Greece and graduating with a degree in classics and history.

Suffice it to say, I was all over the place, and that didn’t stop when I received my master’s degree in business. Then, I got into USC Law. They also happened to have a fantastic graphic arts program . . . and I somehow doodled my way out of becoming an attorney and into possibly working as a video game designer.

But no one knows that.

Given the expectations associated with my smarts, I’m afraid they’ll be disappointed. And deep down, if I’m honest, I do feel like a failure even though I was voted most likely to succeed.

For instance, Anna married her high school sweetheartCalvin Bannanna—yes, that’s his real last name—she claims the fact that her first name and his last rhymed is why they became best friends in third grade. It was meant to be. She’s a park ranger at the Lewis and Clark National Historic Trail Headquarters.

Ilsa is a pianist and travels with a worship band all over the world. She’s the spicy firecracker of the family and got hitched last summer to an Australian we call KJ, short for Kangaroo Jack. His real name is Jack McMann and he’s an impermeable wall of, well, man.

Then there’s me.

I’m on track to become a video game concept artist. I think. As a kid, I spent a lot of time daydreaming but got pushed to use my extra active brain for something useful.

While Anna was, and still is, the classic adventurous tomboy and Ilsa was somehow self-compelled to spend hours playing piano (along with the flute, violin, and guitar), resulting in becoming a virtuoso, I read a lot . . . and doodled. I guess I was kind of in my head.

It’s noisy and crowded in here, if you can’t tell.

I race from the campus to the airport. While looping the labyrinthine streets surrounding LAX, trying to find the turnoff for long-term parking, I kind of feel like a headcase. At the same time, my mind gets lost in the whole school-romance-future maze.

Peering through the windshield, I mutter, “Why isn’t there a clearly marked sign?”

I pass a gated area blocked by orange cones for the third time. When I get to an intersection, I spot the detour arrow and follow it again. But I still can’t find the entrance. I see cars parked on the other side of the fence but no way in.

Then I spot the kiosk and gate for the lot, but it’s on the other side of the road. If I drove over the median, I’d be therealready. After I get through security, I anticipate having to run to my gate. “This is what I get for following the rules.”

Los Angeles is a city known for its traffic, so I’m surprised that there isn’t much at the moment. I look around, making sure it’s safe, before flipping a U-turn. Chances are a traffic cam caught it and I’ll get a ticket in the mail, but judging by the skid marks on the asphalt, I’m not the first person who, in a fit of desperation, took their life and the law into their own hands.

After parking, riding the bus to the airport, making it through security, and arriving at my gate, thankfully, everyone still waits in line to board. Right now, I could use a gust of that stiff Nebraska wind that I was all too happy to escape when I left home over seven years ago.

When I told my small-town friends that I was moving to England to attend Oxford, they were full of interest and curiosity. When I transferred to Los Angeles post-graduate, they were wary. They didn’t think a girl like me would make it. They were afraid the city would eat me alive.

With a smile and a proud little jiggle of my head with my jingle bell earrings, I’ve survived. I’ve also won over more hearts than not. Well, as the last triplet standing in her singlehood, that doesn’t include love life hearts. And I wouldn’t mind if that changed STAT.

Anna says I’m looking for love in all the wrong places (books). Ilsa tells me to broaden my horizons (leave the library every once in a while).

They also took it upon themselves to find me a guy. But I have criteria. He has to like books and libraries. Seems simple enough. It’s not. I’ve looked. All the dates they set me up on resulted in me filing the experience away in the #Fail folder.

I don’t want to obsess over this, but I have to prepare myself because my sisters might feel slightly guilty that they’remarried and I'm single, meaning they’ll go to extremes to change my status.

When I board the plane, I struggle to stuff my carry-on into the overhead bin. I’m also the shortest sister by three-quarters of an inch. An attractive guy around my age helps hoist my bag. At the same time, I catch a whiff of body odor and a woman behind me plows into my ankles with her rolling bag.

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