Sloppy Firsts Read Online Free

intelligent, and all-around awesome conversation of both of our lives. Then, after a brief silence, he says,
     
    "So is this still the worst birthday you’ve ever had?"
     
    And I say, "No, not anymore."
     
    And he says, "I can think of one way to make it even better."
     
    And then he slowly walks over to me, cups my (totally zit-free) face in his hands and ever so gently kisses me on the lips. We break away for a brief moment, look each other in the eyes, and smile. We start kissing again, but with more passion. Then we tumble onto the gymnastic mat that is conveniently lying on the floor and have the sweetest sexual experience ever to occur within the hallowed halls of Pineville High.
     
    What’s even more twisted is that I believe if I pray, acknowledging that I know it will never happen, it will somehow up the odds that this dream will come to fruition.
     
    I am hopeless. (Ha. In more ways than one.)
     
    But I don’t need demented daydreams to tell me that my obsession with Paul Parlipiano has gotten out of control. Today at track practice, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was jumping over hurdles. He was all smoothness and grace. He made it look easy—a sign of pure genius. OneTwoThreeAIR … OneTwoThreeAIR. I got so distracted by his poetry in motion that I wasn’t ready when my track teammate Carrie P. came at me in a full-on sprint to hand off the baton. She crashed into me and I dropped it. Coach Kiley was pissed. Thank God Kiley thinks he can’t scream at girls, otherwise Paul Parlipiano would have heard his embarrassingStop gawking at the guys!lecture.
     
    Later, in the locker room, Carrie P. brought me back to reality in the straight-talking way that only she can.
     
    "Jess, if you keep torturing yourself, I’m gonna kick your fucking ass."
     
    I think maybe she should. Kick my fucking ass, that is. I am hopelessly in love with a guy I barely know. If this doesn’t qualify me for an ass-kicking, nothing does. As a senior, Carrie P. has seen this kind of lame behavior a bizillion times before. I suspect that she’s figured out how I feel about him even though I’ve never said a word about it to anyone but Hope. In accordance with alphabetical destiny, Paul Parlipiano and Carrie P. have sat by each other in nearly every class since seventh grade, so I can’t ever confirm her suspicions.
     
    "I have no idea what you’re talking about," I said.
     
    the eighteenth
     
    I got in trouble today (technically,yesterday—but until I fall asleep, my day isn’t done). This was a big deal. I can remember every time I’ve been so much as reprimanded by a teacher.
     
    1. First grade.I’m running back to Miss Moore’s class from my accelerated reading group. I’m in a hurry because it’s Thanksgiving and we’re making mini-turkeys out of apples, toothpicks, marshmallows, and gumdrops. I’m about halfway there when I’m stopped by Mr. Buxton, whose villainous handlebar mustache automatically makes him the meanest teacher in school. He tells me that running isn’t allowed and asks for my name. I can barely say it because the snickering sixth-graders are so grown-up and intimidating. He writes my name down on his calendar and tells me that if he stops me again before he turns the page, I will have to take the late bus home. (The late bus is a pretty hefty threat because it’s forbad kids .)
     
    I cry all the way back to my classroom, where all the kids are making mini-turkeys and singing songs about Pilgrims and Indians. Miss Moore asks me what’s wrong and I tell her that I don’t like books anymore. For a while after that, I pretend to forget how to read so I won’t have to walk all the way to Mrs. Steinbeck’s third-grade class and miss out on all the fun my first-grade friends have with Miss Moore.
     
    2. Fifth grade.Someone has writtenJess D. Is A Bitch in pencil on the door to the middle stall in the girls’ bathroom. This really upsets me. Bridget—who at this point in time is