First Kiss by Deborah M. Prum

My first kiss was planted on me by a seventeen-year-old guy in a gorilla suit. If I were a person who could remember her lines, the incident never would have happened.

I joined drama club in tenth grade. At our first try-out, I impressed the director, Mrs. Sardi, by my ability to read a script. She said “Great job.” Then she gave me a small speaking part.

Thrilled to be assigned a role, I worked hard to memorize my lines. The week before the performance, I recited them at breakfast, in the cafeteria at lunch and even in my sleep, or so my sister claims. By opening night, I knew every one of them cold. Yet, when I faced the audience, those words rose up out of my head and flew off to the furthest reaches of outer space, never to return.

When most actors stumble over a line, all they need is a little prompting, after which they get right back on track. Not me. I tumbled off track and stayed there, from Act I straight to Act V.

In February of my junior year, our drama club performed an adaptation of Edgar Allan Poe’s Murders in the Rue Morgue. I don’t remember the details of the play. We probably took great liberties with them anyway.

Ever the optimist, I hoped to be assigned a good part despite my dismal record. On the day Mrs. Sardi posted the cast list, she gently took me aside.

The woman started out by patting me on the shoulder. A bad sign. Mrs. Sardi said that although my acting could move her to tears, her nervous system could not sustain another drama disaster.

I nodded and began to walk away, but she said, “Wait. I do have a role for you. You’re the perfect size. You’ll get to be very dramatic, but you won’t have to speak a word.”

“No words?”

“No words, but plenty of action. You’ll play the part of a little old lady who is killed by a gorilla, then is thrown out the window.”

I gave Mrs. Sardi an unconvincing smile. “Thanks.” I would be on stage fewer than five minutes and would be dead for a good chunk of that time. What a letdown.

Perhaps to diminish the sting, Mrs. Sardi chose Dave to be the gorilla. Dave stood six feet tall, sported big muscles in all the important places and charmed girls with his pretty blue eyes and curly black hair. I, a lowly junior, was to be carried across stage by the senior class idol. The thought thrilled me.

Mrs. Sardi told me all I had to do was hobble into a room, putter around for a minute, let Dave pretend to kill me, then relax while he carried my corpse to the window and handed me through. She emphasized that Dave needed to use the greatest of care not to hurt me. She said, “David, you must act fierce, but be gentle. Practice!”

We never did practice the “attack and carry” part. Not really. Rehearsal after rehearsal, we went through the motions without touching each other. Dave smiled and winked. “Hey, no prob. We’ll figure it out later.” I never protested. My heart was all a flutter just to have that cute boy smiling and winking in my direction.

Mrs. Sardi never pushed him either. I think she may have been overwhelmed by the confidence that oozed from Dave’s every pore. Too bad she confused confidence with competence.

The set crew worked slowly, not finishing until the dress rehearsal. Even then, they hadn’t quite installed the window in the back wall of the set. So, in addition to never attacking me and never carrying me anywhere, Dave also never had the opportunity to practice handing me through the open window.

Being gorgeous took up most of Dave’s waking hours, so he had little time left to work on Mrs. Sardi’s other requests. She wanted him to practice wearing and walking around in the gorilla headpiece, a large hood-like mask with tiny eye openings. But Dave never bothered to wear it until the day of the performance.

Mrs. Sardi also asked Dave to practice using the stage blood. As he attacked me, he was supposed to squirt a little around to make the scene more realistic. By the dress rehearsal, Dave still hadn’t looked for the tube. Mrs. Sardi told him it was too late. She didn’t want him using a prop without trying it out first.

After a while, rehearsing with Dave began to get on my nerves. His refusal to practice his part and spotty attendance moved him from “idol” to “idiot” status in my book. Yet, deep down inside, I still looked forward to being carried across the stage in his big, strong muscle-bound arms.

The afternoon of our opening performance, I felt nervous. Spring plays were big musical productions, open to the community and given several times over a week-end. But this was a winter play, to be performed at a school assembly. It’s one thing to face a crowd of doting parents. It’s a lot different to look out on an unruly gathering of your rowdy peers.

As the curtain rose, a thick fog enveloped the stage. Mrs. Sardi had persuaded the chemistry teacher to create a spooky setting. I’m not sure how he did it. But I do know that the auditorium, the stage, and our bodies were drenched in heavy moisture. The general fogginess resulted in low visibility for both the cast and audience.

Our play cruised along just fine. People walked on stage when they were supposed to. No one muffed lines. Even though the fog was hell on some lungs, the mistiness added an air of scary suspense. At the end of each act, the audience clapped with great gusto. Mrs. Sardi’s face seemed relaxed and happy.

At the last scene, I finally got to hobble onto stage. This being my one moment in the spotlight, I hobbled for all it was worth.

Well, Dave didn’t bother to let me walk around and putter a bit. Our hero jumped the gun and began attacking me way too early. He also didn’t remember the “gentle” part.

Dave caught me off guard. Forgetting that I was supposed to be old and frail, I gave monkey boy a run for his money. We battled for several minutes, looking more like a World Wrestling Federation match than the scene Mrs. Sardi may have had in mind.

Finally, Dave hissed, “You gotta die!”

Ah, yes…the play…we were acting in a play!

At once, I gave up the ghost and collapsed in a heap at his feet, motionless, except for a little asthmatic breathing. That fog was getting to me.

Maybe the passion of the moment overcame Dave. Or maybe it was his idea of the perfect revenge for a scene gone awry. Instead of following the script, Dave leaned over and kissed me—a big smooch right on the lips.

Kissed by the school hunk! Now, if Dave had kissed me in September, before the rehearsal fiascoes, I would have swooned with delight. This was a whole different story.

Although I was supposed to be dead, my first instinct was to sock Dave square in the jaw, knocking his gorilla mask askew. Now, only one of his eyes could peek through the edge of one eyehole.

Perhaps in retribution for the punch, Dave began squirting me with stage blood. Apparently, he had found the stuff and decided to use it without telling anyone. The tube happened to be industrial-sized, big enough to portray the battle of Gettysburg. Dave blasted away for a very long time. I wound up drenched from head to toe.

Sensing that the play had wandered into uncharted territory, the audience cheered with approval.

Then, with a low growl, Dave tossed the tube over his shoulder. He hoisted me into his arms (not the thrill I was expecting) and staggered to the back of the stage where he thought he remembered the window.

Dave’s memory did not serve him well. The fog and the misaligned mask further hindered his efforts. On his first attempt, Dave missed the opening entirely. He rammed me into the wall of the set, causing the window to drop shut.

“The window! The window!” I yelled.

“Shut up. You’re dead!” Dave brilliantly replied.

He felt around with one paw and located the bottom of the sill. Then Dave threw me with great abandon toward what he assumed was an open window.

My body slammed against the glass (yes, real glass, not Plexiglas). The wall teetered, then fell back. I went with it, landing on top of the shattered window.

Mrs. Sardi managed to jump away from the set wall as it fell. When the dust settled, all she saw was me, covered with fake blood and lying in a pile of wood and broken glass.

She started screaming, “Ambulance! Ambulance!” as the stage crew pulled the curtains closed. Thunderous applause roared through the auditorium. Apparently, the blood and violence held great appeal for the adolescent barbarian hordes.

Amazingly, Dave never got into a bit of trouble. I emerged from the rubble with only a scratch or two. However, the event ended my theatrical career. Before school was out that June, Mrs. Sardi called me to her office. “Debby, I think you ought to find another club to join in September. Nothing personal,” she assured me.

So, that next year I became editor of the school newspaper. I began dating the photographer for the paper, a fellow senior who took pictures at all the sports events. Bespectacled and pudgy, Larry would never win any beauty contests, nor could he carry me anywhere, let alone across a big stage. However, he always showed up when he said he would. And, one thing I can say for certain: my second kiss turned out to be far better than the first.