Okay, it's now time again to start polishing up this story, and getting it ready for re-submission. Please, any advice would be very appreciated! These are the first three chapters. I LOVE critiques, and ANYTHING to give me ideas for improving would be extremely useful. Thank you!
President of the V.L. Club
You know the saying that you need to kiss a bunch of frogs in order to find your prince? Well, I wouldn’t mind giving it a shot. He doesn’t even need to turn into a prince. From New Kids on the Block to Alvin the Chipmunk, I’ve always been pretty open to all types. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, it’s true. I am officially desperate. But can you blame me? I am twenty-two years old, and I still have never been kissed.
It’s not like I’ve never tried. I unsuccessfully sported a “Kiss me I’m Irish” pin in the second grade. I thought I thought I’d make it easy on my 3rd grade classmates by not running during kissing tag. Guess what? You’re supposed to run. I even tried giving my lips a sexy, lustrous shine by licking them all day, but only ended up with dry, lizard-like lips. Nobody thought of telling me about lip gloss.
I remember pushing eighteen years and being ashamed of the fact that I still had yet to kiss a boy. Or go on my fourth date, for that matter. Not exactly a promising beginning for a girl entering into her adult years. But once I hit twenty-one, a true, honest-to-goodness adult, and still having been denied the rite of passage into love, I felt it was my right to not only become an official member of the Virgin Lips Club, but to become the president. And so I did, no nominations even needed.
Cinderellas and the Ugly Stepsister Syndrome
There are two types of people in this world: those who find love, and those who don’t. Guess which one I am? People like Cinderella really get to me. You think Cinderella’s just a fairytale? Well, you’re wrong. I’ve met plenty of Cinderalla-type girls, and believe me, they’re everywhere. What really irks me is that moment when they walk onto the crowded dance floor, not much caring about finding a dance partner while the rest of us ugly-stepsister types waste the night away pining for that one guy who’s looking at every girl…but us. Then suddenly, the hottest, most beautiful man you’ve ever seen approaches your side, smiles, and asks that Cinderella standing next to you for the one dance that leads to their engagement only two weeks later. Sort of sounds like my college roommate, Jan.
Jan’s the type who can wear an oversized hoodie, throw on glasses instead of contacts, and wear her hair up in a ponytail, and still somehow manages to snag a date from a guy she just met. Put me in an outfit like that, and I’m usually pointed in the direction of the ice cream aisle.
It’s hard not to hate these perfect girls who make acne look cute, actually go on dates, and are somehow not afraid of boys. It’s quite disgusting, actually. But what’s really painful is the ease in which love enters into their lives. They don’t even have to try. I’m the type who makes looking for love an embarrassing event.
There are some who are pre-selected to go through life just for the purpose of entertaining the gods, and I happen to be one of them. It’s true. Instead of gracefully passing through my years, I stumble about clumsily just to give some immortals a few good laughs. Experiences that ought to be dealt with naturally, such as smiling at a crush, are somehow presented in awkward, unnatural ways that render it impossible to handle with poise and dignity.
As it turns out, this Ugly Stepsister Syndrome is in no way genetically linked. My older sister, Liz, happens to be a Cinderella. When she was younger and liked a boy, he would sit next to her on the school bus. My childhood crush stood over me while I sat on the ground and broke wind over my head. It appeared that I lacked certain natural attributes needed to attract the opposite sex.
Wish Upon a Star
In fourth grade, Liz already knew a little about flirting. She often used it on our next door neighbor, Shawn, who was three whole years older than her. He would chase her around our cul-de-sac, while she tried not to outrun him. One time, when she yelled, “Missed me, missed me, now you’ve gotta kiss me!” he nearly did. He was only stopped by the pickle she had been eating. I wished pickle breath had been my only problem.
When Liz first found out about wishing stars from her Kindergarten class and her wishes began coming true, she tried to share the magic with me. I memorized the wishing phrase with her, and eagerly looked forward to that night where I could find the very first star and begin my journey of sweet greed. Although I was four years old at the time, I was aware of the great power wishing stars had. They were obligated to provide anything my little heart desired, so long as I didn’t mess up the wording. I remember the day being spent in sweet anticipation, thinking up the perfect wish. Endless images of ponies, magic, castles and a never-ending supply of food swam through my head. It was hard to choose the perfect first wish. But even at my young age, I knew what one of the most coveted gifts on earth was.
As the sun sank down and shadows engulfed the tiny mountain town of Elk Ridge, I stood at our large French doors, overlooking the valley below. The city’s thousands of twinkling lights were nothing to the one tiny spark I saw up above. With an air of delicacy, I slowly made my wish, making sure the star wouldn’t misunderstand. I tiptoed to bed in reverent anticipation, making sure I was extra nice to my family so it would be known how deserving I was of this sacred first wish.
I climbed into bed and scooted all the way over, smashing up against the wall to make sure there would be room for my gift. Every few minutes I would peek out to make sure I hadn’t shifted over (and to see if it had arrived yet). My wishing star was sure to notice how considerate I was.
I awoke the next morning to an empty bed, but I was not discouraged. In fact, I was even more excited because my star took the time to hide my gift and send me on a treasure hunt! I looked under my bed, in the closet, in the bathtub, and in all the usual hiding places. Undaunted and still just as eager, I checked out all the unusual hiding places—like inside the kitchen cabinets with the pots and pans. But my first boyfriend was nowhere to be found. I must have wished wrong.