This is My Message to You

Purple

PURPLE

Connor lost none of his skill and popularity and good looks when he entered high school. If anything, it got worse. Sure, he wasn't the star quarterback or the hot forward on the lacrosse team – for a bit, he was even just a loser freshman on the soccer team – but he still had the irresistible charm in those blue eyes and the happy-go-lucky spirit that kept him flying high.

I fell somewhere in the higher middle of the popularity scale. No one too special, but good enough to make varsity soccer freshman year, so that gave me an in. I preferred using that in versus sucking up to Connor – whenever we did hang out freshman year, he would always ask me why he didn't see me at any of his friends' parties.

"Just drop my name when they ask who you are, they'll know," he would assure me, leaning his chair back on two legs and ruffing his hair arrogantly.

"Who says I want to come to your parties?" I'd reply, snorting. "You're fifteen, Connor, you're not cool."

"One day, Ri." He'd give me that mischievous smile. "You'll see."

While he was off doing crazy crap, I continued my good student thing and concentrated on my classes and on soccer. It paid off, especially in soccer; being the only freshman to make varsity is still one of my proudest memories. I became best friends with Grace, the girl who had a locker next to mine all four years, and I started earning some cash babysitting the neighbors down the street.

Connor finally convinced me to go to one of his dumb parties at the very end of freshman year after our finals. I'd just aced my biology exam, our soccer team was headed to Sectionals, and I figured that one night couldn't hurt anything. Grace agreed to go with me, and we both showed up at some soccer junior's house wondering if we'd applied our eyeliner correctly and what our game plan was if the cops showed up.

The crowded alcohol- and smoke-tainted atmosphere overwhelmed me almost at once. I'd thought that my purple top was borderline scandalous, but compared to some girls' outfits, I felt like a nun. I clung to Grace's arm and she clung to mine, and we wandered as a unit through the house, unsure of what we were supposed to do. We reached the kitchen, where jocky soccer guys ladled mixed drinks into red solo cups and shoved them into our hands.

"Do we drink it?" asked Grace, inspecting her drink warily.

"When in Rome, I guess," I answered and tipped back my cup.

If you've never drank, I don't recommend starting with some hard liquor concoction thrown together by teenage boys. I'd just watched a guy chug a whole cup of that stuff, so it never occurred to me that I should start with small sips. As soon as I tried to swallow my first mouthful of vodka, I began to choke.

A few suffocating minutes later, I stood gasping in a packed hallway of an unknown house with tears streaming down my face, my new purple top now splattered with vodka.

Welcome to high school, Riley.

Needless to say, my first impression of a high school party was pretty crappy. And it only worsened when Connor found me sometime later. He clutched a solo cup – I'd ditched mine somewhere immediately following the choking incident – and he talked as if I were across the room instead of right next to me.

"Riley! You're at a party!"

"Hey, Connor," I sighed, wrinkling my noise as his breath hit me.

"Are you having so much fun, Ri? You look nice – but your shirt is all wet – did they give you a drink? Hi, Grace, didn't see you – come on, let me get you a drink –"

Somehow we let Connor lead us back to the kitchen. Grace hung behind me, looking a little starstruck that Connor Kjellan knew her name (yes, he was that kid by the end of freshman year). She didn't know that even though the other soccer guys were pretty much all douchebags, Connor actually had one redeemable trait: He remembered anything I told him, so he knew all about Grace.

Unfortunately, Connor could also be extremely persuasive when he tried, even when intoxicated. I'd been convinced that I would have an aversion to vodka for the rest of my life, but within a half hour I held another cup of alcohol – which Connor assured me was just lemonade – and within an hour he had me spinning and giggling and dancing to some Bob Marley song that he'd requested.

"You should come more often, Ri," Connor said at some point during the night when we collapsed on a living room couch. "You're having fun."

"No –" When I shook my head, the room spun. "I don't think this is for me."

"You know what I think?"

I met his eyes with difficulty. "What?"

"We should kiss."

Connor's face blurred a little as I tilted my head to one side, considering it. He leaned a little closer, his eyes focused on me, and around us Bob Marley sang and people shouted and lights flashed.

"Okay," I said.

And we kissed.

I'm being honest when I say that it wasn't a big deal. So many people since have tried to tell me there's no such thing as platonic friendships; I just smile and think of how Connor and I started laughing barely ten seconds into the kiss, how we broke apart and fell back against the couch and talked for the next two hours like we were sitting on our back-porch steps.

He wasn't my first kiss, though.

I made sure to tell him that.