My first kiss was pretty adorable. Fairly innocent. And completely lame. But, hey, he didn't miss. And that's more than I can say for my second kiss.
So, picture. This totally cute ethnic girl sitting in the band room, spending her last moments as a 9th grader in junior high in Choir class tossing year books between her fellow altos. And the colorful drama teacher and student council advisor bellows over the P.A. system in the intended fashion of Alice Cooper, SCHOOOOOOL'S OUT - FOR SUMMER. Our little future coquette gathers her things and strolls across the blue flecked carpeting that still smelled of the cleaner from the room's overhaul during spring break. She is stopped by peers several times to endure hug after hug. Once she believes she's free to leave the school behind and catch her bus home, her plans are suddenly halted by a curious Jazz dancer that pops up in front of her merely feet away from the door to freedom. The beaming smile smile against a dark toned face is more than familiar to her. Ra'shad, was a character to say the least. She opened her arms to allow the expected hug that she was sure was about to be asked of her. Ra'shad envelops her small frame and pulls back. As her arms lower, she hears, but far from registers the words, "Don't I get a kiss too?"
From that moment on, everytime her mother had a little too much to drink she'd be forced to answer what it feels like to kiss a black boy.
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