This book is dedicated to Gloria.
You're crazy in the best possible way. I love you.

           "WILL YOU MARRY ME?"

           The entire restaurant gasped as he got down on one knee, looking up at me with something like amazement. As though I was the most beautiful girl in the world, and he couldn't wait to spend the rest of his life with me.

            "Mike Hunt, you didn't,"  I said breathlessly.  

            "I love you, Dixie," he said with shining eyes. "I always knew you you were the one. I've loved you since we were eleven years old and I popped your cherry in Grandma's trailer."

           People at the nearby tables looked up―like deer caught in headlights. 

           There are three things you should know right now.

           1. My name is Talia Decker, not Dixie. 

           2. My best friend's name is Aaron Green, not Mike Hunt.

           3. I need a new hobby.

            The restaurant was called Baton Rouge, a high-end steakhouse in downtown Brooklyn. Golden bars of light were dimmed over the wooden-paneled walls. Each velvet booth hummed with conversation, but at the sight of Aaron on one knee in front of my seat, the chatter died down.

            "Dixie, you are the love of my life. I've never wanted to be with anyone more than I want to be with you. You were there for me when I was arrested for assault, when I broke out of rehab, and even when I got your mother pregnant. You are the only constant in my life, and I can't imagine spending another day without you."

           "Oh, Mikey," I said, holding a hand over my heart. 

           Inside of the black velvet box, there is a curly onion fry.

           In a louder voice, he said, "Dixie Normous, I can't wait a second longer: Will you marry me?"

           By then, we had the attention of the entire restaurant.

           "Of course I―wait, you're not just saying this because I caught you and my mom together last week again, right?"

           Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the scandalized expressions of the family at the table nearby.

           This was always the best part.

           "No!" he insisted. "I love you, and only you."

           I narrowed my eyes with suspicion. "And you're not saying it because I found the bag of weed in your car this morning, right?"

           A waiter, speeding toward the kitchen, suddenly froze.

           My best friend took my hand in his, looking up at me with honey-flecked hazel eyes. "Don't worry, babe. I'm still sober. I don't get high, I'm just a drug dealer."

          A mother shielded her son's ears.

          "Oh," I said, softening. "Well, if that's the case . . ."

          "So what do you say? I have the keys to our minivan right here. I already switched out the stolen license plates."

           I covered my mouth with one hand, teary-eyed. "Mike Hunt, I never thought this day would come! Of course it's a yes!"

          The other customers broke into tentative applause. At the next table over, a little girl bounced in her seat. She tugged on an older woman's hand. "Grandma, what's weed?"

          My best friend rose to his feet, finishing our fake proposal with a tearful embrace.

         "How'd I do?" he whispered, planting both hands on my waist.

        "Probably the best fake proposal in our entire career," I whispered back, slinging my arms around his neck.

         He spun me around, and a few people cheered.

         He did make sure not to kiss me, though. Aaron Green and I had been inseparable since the sixth grade, but our relationship was strictly platonic. 

         To be honest, I had only ever had one boyfriend.

         The point of these proposals was to have fun. To fuck around. To live life. 

         "Ah―congratulations, Mr. Hunt," said one of the waiters. "Do you want your bill?"

         "Of course," Aaron said, setting me down. His hands lingered on my waist for a brief moment.

         Once dinner was paid for, Aaron offered me his arm. We were already at the door of the restaurant when I realized what I was missing. Outside, the sky was kissed in cold grey, threatening rain.

         "Fuck," I muttered. "I forgot my jacket. Wait for me outside?"

         Before Aaron could reply, I kissed his cheek and darted back to our emptied table.

         My jean jacket was right where I had left it―a gift from my grandmother. The sleeves were embroidered in bold blocks of colour, turquoise and violet and pink.

        But as soon as I had slipped it over my shoulders, a woman stopped me.

        "You look a little young to be getting engaged."

        "I'm twenty-one," I lied. I was sixteen.

         Tomorrow would be my first day of eleventh grade.

         The woman had silky red hair, twisted into a bun. Her eyes were the colour of caramel and her skin was as pale as fresh cream. She was wearing a dark golden blouse, and I liked the way the neckline dipped towards the middle of her chest. 

          And I especially liked the way her legs looked in those high heels. Long and lean and―

          Shit. She's still talking.

          "Your fiancé doesn't seem like a very trustworthy fellow," the woman was saying carefully. "If you ever need a lawyer, this is my card."

          Her business card read Cynthia Parker.

          "Thanks, Cynthia," I said. "But―" Why was I suddenly tongue-tied? "I mean, I'm good. Thanks."

          I trusted Aaron with my life―and it wasn't as if he was actually my boyfriend. Our fake proposals were an elaborate game we'd created in ninth grade between our friend group. 

          Basically, it amounted to: Who can get away with the most wild, outrageous things in public? 

          After escaping Cynthia, I stepped onto the sidewalk outside Baton Rouge. 

          The wind was a cold bite against my face, whipping my hair into my mouth.

          Aaron was nowhere in sight.

         "Fucking moron," I groaned. I loved him, but he was a little like a golden retriever with a tendency to wander off. The streets of Brooklyn were busy with the flow of traffic.

          I looked up at the sky right as it began to rain. I love New York. 

          "Aaron?" I called out. My phone was dead, but he couldn't be far. "Dipshit!"

          Behind the restaurant, I heard the sound of a crash.

          And the sickening sound of a crunch. 

          Beside the alleyway, I just had time to notice the sleek motorcycle tilted against the brick wall. 

          "Hey!" I was breathless, flushed from the cold. Hurrying towards the back of the restaurant, where there was only empty parking lot, I froze in my tracks at what was in front of me. "Are you o―"

          A fight.

         There was a man with a bruised, handsome face. I recognized him as one of the waiters in the restaurant.

          He was panting, and at the same moment I arrived, his opponent struck him with a right hook.

          Blood leaked onto the collar of his white shirt.

          In the blur of the rain, I couldn't quite make out who his opponent was.

         "Hey, stop!" I said. "Hey―"

          I took a step closer. I could see the fight clearer now. The man was up against a tall, lean girl with a high ponytail and tattoos on her knuckles.

          "Stop!" I shouted, as she pulled her arm back for another punch. "I'm going to call the police!"

          My phone was dead.

          Surprisingly, it was the man who squeaked, "No!"

          What? 

          Why wouldn't he want the police?

          With the dark promise of a smile, the girl crossed her arms. The waiter swallowed, taking it as an opportunity to stumble away, rain and blood clinging to his shirt, his skin.

            "You can't just―" I tried to focus on the girl, but I had to cover my eyes through the pouring rain. "You can't just go around hitting people, you know!"

            "He deserved it."

            It was all she said.

            Blinking the rain out my eyes, I could finally see her.

           She was . . . she was . . . fuck.

           There was a dark, restless energy around her, as if she still had energy to let loose. Her knuckles were covered in blood and ink, and as she undid her ponytail, shaking her black hair free, I suddenly lost the ability to speak.

           Her eyes were green. It was the first thing I noticed. And they were so striking against her skin, contrasted with her straight black hair, that my mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. What was I going to say? 

          "Go home," she told me, straightening the cuffs of her leather jacket. Her voice was commanding, leaving no room for doubt.

         She seemed so familiar.

         I crossed my arms. "What if I don't want to?"

        "It's not safe in the city."

        "Yeah, well, you look like the most dangerous thing around," I shot back.

         At that, her eyes widened. Her lashes were black, framing those pretty emerald eyes, and I got to see a moment of surprise flash across her face before her head tilted in cool calculation.

          "You're right about that," she said softly.

          For just a heartbeat, the rain stopped entirely.

          The parking lot shone with a reflection of the darkening city. There was still so much distance between us. 

         She's not safe, I told myself, even as I resisted the temptation to move closer. To get a better look at her.

          She. Is. Not. Safe. 

          She looked like the cliché of a bad girl.

          All that was left now would be for her to hop on a motorcycle, gun the engine, and ride off.

          "I should call the police," I said. "You were about to beat that man to a pulp. You . . ."

          But her head was still tilted. Confident. Cocky.

          She couldn't be more than a year older than me.

         "Talia!" 

        Aaron. I had forgotten about Aaron. 

        "Talia!" he shouted again, and I turned around.

         Aaron was making his way towards me. It had begun to rain again. "What are you doing back here in an empty parking lot, you idiot?"

          Numbly, I shook my head.

          "And why are you all alone?"

          I'm not alone, I almost said, turning back around.

          But the girl was gone. And somewhere down the street, I heard the telltale rumble of a revving engine. 

          A motorcycle. 

         What were the odds that it was her riding it?

         Slim to none, I told myself.

         A week later, I would realize I had been wrong.

          "Come on," Aaron said, urging me back towards the crowded edge of the city. With one arm, he tucked me into the warmth of his chest. "It's a school night."

          I thought about the prospect of starting eleventh grade tomorrow. 

          We were going to be juniors.

          "What if we run away, forge some new identities, and start our lives again in Southern Italy as flower shop owners?"

         "Or," Aaron suggested, "I can take you home, and tomorrow we can bully the little grade nines and tens?"

          I considered it. "Done."

         "I love you, you know that, Dixie Normous?"

         "Shut the fuck up. I'm still mad at you for wandering off." My eyes rolled skyward. "But I love you, too, Mike Hunt." 

         "Aren't you glad I got to pick out our names this time?"

         "Not particularly. You have the humour of a sixteen year old boy."

         "I am a sixteen year old boy."

         "That's the problem." I shuddered in mock disgust. "Boys." 

         "You are aware that you're straight, right?"

         I shrugged, shuddering. "I know, but―boys." 

         I was pretty sure it was normal. Or, at least, maybe that was how most girls felt inside. I'd already had a boyfriend, so it wasn't like I wasn't straight. I just accepted the fact that boys were―well, a little distasteful.

         For some reason, I couldn't stop thinking of that green-eyed girl. And the way her lips had looked, curved into a wicked smile.

        I didn't know her name, then.

        But in one week, I would hate Monroe fucking Kingston with all my heart and soul.

>>>

So...welcome to Shut Up And Kiss Me. 

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From the moon and back,
Sarai