Page 6 of That Time I Kissed My Brother’s Best Friend

Beau Slater?How could he be here?

The guy is a big shot photojournalist traveling all around the world now. Not that I ever asked about him. Or looked him up on social media. Or paid attention to his whereabouts. Why would I do that? I can’t stand him. Okay, I might have checked to be sure he was going to be far away this summer, taking very important pictures with his very expensive camera. All alone, by his very horrible self. So why is he in Abieville?

Oh no.

Either that’s my heart pounding in my ears, or somebody is in our kitchen. My dad could be back from Auntie Ann’s with the butter. Or maybe Auntie Mae showed up to cook the ribs and corn. Either one of them might’ve come in from the back porch. In Abieville, no one locks their doors. We don’t even have fences in this town. Just backroads and lots of trees and a lake and—

The refrigerator slams shut. So does my throat.

What if Brady’s the one in the kitchen? What if my brother stopped by to let my mom know he finished washing out the kayaks? What if he brought Beau Slater with him?

I’ve got to get out of here. Faster than STAT. I dart my eyes to the stairs. The safety of my bedroom calls to me. I could just run up there now and camp out for the rest of the week. That wouldn’t be weird, right?

Sorry, family. I flew all the way across the country so we could be together for the Bradford sisters’ Christmas in July, but if you need me, you’ll have to visit my room. I’m the one hiding under that Pottery Barn Jr. quilt I got for my thirteenth birthday. And yes, that’s a One Direction poster taped to the ceiling. And a Nicolas Cage pillowcase on my bed. KGP: Kasey Graham’s Pillow—Do not touch. Poke me once to say “I missed you.” Twice for “You’re a lunatic.”

Totally normal, right? Yep, that’s me. Totally. Normal. A kitchen cabinet opens and shuts.

Run, Kasey! Run!

Stumbling up the stairs, I pass the shrine of school pictures on the wall. The earliest ones are full of missing teeth and frizzy hair. Then came the braces and acne. After I discovered conditioner and Brady discovered weights, we got a few decent shots in high school. Finally, miraculously, the trail ends with our senior portraits. Brady first. Then me.

My brother, who’s only eleven months older, graduated one year before me. As with everything else in life, I was stuck following him. I was also stuck in the same class as Beauregard Slater. If Abieville itself is small, our K-12 school is even smaller. There weren’tthatmany kids to be friends with. So even though they were a year apart, Brady and Beau buddied up. BFFs. No sisters allowed. That’s when my brother stopped playing video games with me. Then he stopped hanging around the house.

For the rest of our time under the same roof, Brady was either at golf meets or basketball games. Soccer or baseball practice. And Beau Slater was always with him, his best friend and teammate for every season. Have I mentioned how much I hate Beau yet? Okay. Maybe hate’s too strong a word. But I definitely feel for Beau Slater what anyone would feel toward someone who stole everything that mattered to her.

What exactly did he steal, you ask? First, as I’ve already mentioned, he stole my brother’s attention. Maybe not literally, because attention wasn’t something Brady loved giving me in the first place. But after Beau came on the scene, my brother’s pranks really kicked into high gear.

I became the butt of all their jokes. Peanut butter on my bicycle seat. Purple hair dye in my shampoo. I never knew what fresh torment was on the horizon. So, yes. Beau Slater stole my brotherandmy ability to open my locker without a bullfrog jumping out. Then there were the really big things Beau figuratively stole.

Like my dreams.

Thanks to my dumb brother, Beau knew it was my goal to go to college and study journalism. He also knew that on the road to that goal, I desperately wanted to run our school’s newspaper. He knew that when my interview with the paper’s advisor was still three months away, I’d already started a countdown on my calendar. In Sharpie. I meant business.

But you know who went after the job of editor and got it over me? You guessed it. Benedict Beauregard. Don’t worry, though. Two can play at that game. I got my revenge when I was picked to be in charge of our school’s yearbook. I applied becausehisplan was to be a photographer.

Photographer with a ph.

You see where this is going, right?

Beau and I both ran for junior class president, and he won by three votes. The following year, I was named valedictorian. That meant I got to wear a special sash and give the speech at our graduation. How do you like them apples, Beau?

Since we had the same GPA and had taken all the same AP classes, Beau told everyone I got valedictorian because of favoritism from our principal. Our principal happened to be my Uncle Irv. Jerk. (Not Uncle Irv. Beau Slater.)

Either way, that favoritism was a lie. The truth? I’d taken extra classes at the community college, and that’s why I got to be top of the class. It’s also probably why I got into UCLA. Then I got an internship atThe Westside Chronicle.

Now I’m about to get hired for my dream job, something Brady hasn’t done before me. Something I’ve worked for my entire life. That’s right. Once Ms. Witherspoon calls, the peanut butter and hair dye and bullfrogs will all be ancient history.

Except for one last insult to my injury.

You see, at the end of our graduation ceremony, after all our classmates had tossed their caps into the air, Beau came to find me. This wasn’t hard because I was the only senior sorting through the pile of abandoned caps. They all looked the same. Green and shiny. That’s why I’d put KGC inside the rim of mine in Sharpie.

Kasey Graham’s Cap. Do Not Touch.

“Kasey!” Beau approached from behind, and I quickly straightened. My graduation gown was large and flowing like a shiny green tent. The shape wasn’t flattering, but everyone had to wear the same ugly tent-gown. Even Beau.

“What do you want?” I swiped at a strand of hair stuck in my lip gloss. A few yards away, someone honked on a trumpet. A group of girls cheered. Sounds of celebration. Then Beau smiled. He actually smiled at me.

“I just wanted to say congratulations. You totally deserve to be valedictorian.”

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