Kissing Brendan Callahan Read Online Free Page A

Preservation Society? Will she ever speak to me again? Or would anyone care besides my mother? If a person really, really wants something, shouldn’t she pursue it? What a confusing decision! If only Lynn weren’t so far away.
    Besides, who would I be? Victoria is a name I’ve always liked. It sounds like a writer. Antonia—Victoria. Very similar. I try a few last names. Victoria Summers. Victoria Winters. Or I could use Lynn’s last name and make it Victoria Johnson. It’s not as romantic sounding as Summers or Winters, but Johnson might bring me luck. I compromise and decide on Victoria Winters Johnson. It makes me sound mysterious.
    I ride home feeling happy for the first time in a long time. I should be able to come up with a plot by this evening because I have notebooks filled with ideas. I never have a problem finding something to write about. The only problem I have, and I hate to admit this, is that by the time I get halfway through a story, I start to lose interest and my mind is on to another story. I have a problem with endings. Does that mean I could never be a real writer? No, I won’t let that happen.
    Mom is feeding Jason in the living room. She looks so content, so happy. I think back about a year when she and Dad told me that they were having another baby. I was thrilled, and I think they were a little relieved that I was happy.
    I remember Dad saying that when he and Mom were trying to make the decision, there were a lot of reasons not to have another baby: Mom’s job, Dad’s promotion, more expenses, how I might feel. But in the end, he said, they decided to go ahead and have another baby, knowing that our family has always chosen to accept challenges with bravery, compassion, and strength. My father is one of the smartest people I know.
    I know I must be brave and strong—and enter the contest!

FIVE
    My brain hurts from thinking. It’s been two days since I decided to be bold and I haven’t come up with a single idea for the contest. Yesterday I went to the library and flipped through a few books on Staten Island history. It’s mostly about farming. I made a few notes, but I have no story line. I rode around on my bike to all of Staten Island’s most historical places, like Richmond Town Restoration, the Alice Austen House, and Snug Harbor Cultural Center. I didn’t find anyone interesting to write about. If only a princess or some other royal person had lived here. I’m vexed, exasperated, perturbed, anxious, frustrated, agitated, disheartened, and thirsty!
    I go downstairs for lemonade. Mom and Beth are meeting again about the Preservation Fair. Peter Boswin, the judge of the writing contest, is sitting on my living room sofa. Most of the time, Dr. Boswin looks half asleep, like his mind is off wandering the shelves of the Library of Congress, but today he actually looks animated. Mom is talking in that I-won’t-accept-anything-but-what-I-want tone. I slip into the kitchen and pour lemonade into a glass. Next to the refrigerator is an opened box packed with raffle tickets. I kick the box. I will say no to selling them. I am Victoria Winters Johnson and I am going to write a bold and fabulous historical play, if it kills me.
    The front door shuts with a bang. Seconds later, the kitchen door flies open. Mom marches in, followed by Beth.
    â€œI cannot believe that Peter would do this to us,” says my mother. “He had to have known about it for weeks. He should have told me about it sooner.”
    â€œFinding a replacement took time,” says Beth.
    Mom rummages through papers on the table, desperately looking for something. “What’s going on?” I ask Beth.
    â€œPeter can’t judge the teen writing contest,” she says. “He’s been funded to do research in Tuscany and he’s leaving tomorrow.”
    Mom punches in some numbers on her cell phone. “Hi, Laura. It’s Helen. Can I speak with