By Zoe Foster
If the satan wears Prada, then God wears los angeles Mer.
Hannah Atkins - the lady probably to be carrying unblended beginning, orange wrists or a wobbly path of liquid eyeliner - has bluffed her approach into the location of good looks editor at Gloss journal. simply as she's carving a direction into the glossy global of guerrilla air kisses, achingly hip PR campaigns and goodie-bag overload, she reads approximately her boyfriend and one other lady within the gossip pages of the neighborhood rag. Then she will get dumped. by way of text.
Vowing to claw again a few dignity and make her ex remorse what he's performed, Hannah adopts a manifesto of hardcore principles. Don't turn into most sensible neighbors with the feared ladies at paintings. Don't drink fourteen glasses of Moët & Chandon at PR launches. Don't cross domestic with irrelevant males. and positively don't get all besotted together with your most sensible friend's brother.
As her principles begin to slip away, Hannah unearths herself having to settle on extra vital issues than simply the fitting colour of lip gloss . . .
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Extra resources for Air Kisses
We are speaking of serious matters of the heart here, and it’s hardly my place, but we teachers know that timing isn’t always perfect with kids. If they bring up a sensitive subject, you’d best run with it. There is often no second chance. ” Bobby wipes his eyes and turns away from me, obviously embarrassed by the display of emotion. I remember how he feels. When I was eight, my own dad walked out on us. I waited years for him to return. I slide off the bench and kneel in front of Bobby. “It’s okay to cry,” I say softly.
Finally, after what seems to take hours, I see the opening. A man is there, holding out his hand, helping me out. He doesn’t seem to know that his hair and shirt are matted with blood, that a spike of some kind is lodged in his upper arm. “This way,” he says in a tired, shaking voice. “You need a doctor,” I say, surprised that I’m crying. The words release something in me, something so big I’m afraid I’ll drown in it and be swept away. I finally stagger to a stand. He touches my head. The fingers he draws back are stained red.
It’s why I’m here, pretending I don’t have a sister. “I’d like to stay awhile. ” Before I can say more, the front door bangs open, and a man walks in. He is whipcord lean, with close-cropped black hair and a face that is all sharp lines and deep hollows. A dark stubble shadows his sunken cheeks; the harsh color accentuates the paleness of his skin. His eyes are strangely green, a color too bright for the rest of his hard, weather-beaten face. I can see how handsome he once was, before life wore him down.
Air Kisses by Zoe Foster