Operation Christmas Kiss: what's it like to be the only girl who's never been kissed? Olivia—and only Olivia—knows

Girls' Life, Dec, 2004 by Kristen Kemp

I have never been kissed.

And I am 15 years old.

And this is embarrassing.

Instead of complaining, I'm being proactive. I'm flirting with the all-time best-looking guy in my high school. And it s working. Jake--ahhh, Jake--passed me a note in Spanish class. It is the first day of holiday break and, this Sunday, there s a party at Rebecca Cleopold's, this girl in English who wears low-cut tops and way-short skirts. Jake will be there, and you'd better believe I'm bringing mistletoe.

I started liking him in first grade when he put a ladybug on my back. At recess, Bobby Blakely told our whole class that if you put a ladybug on a girl, she'll want to kiss you. (Seven-year-olds believe just about anything.) I couldn't sleep that night, wondering if I should kiss Jake at the playground. The next day, though, I heard he lady-bugged a fourth-grader.

Eight years later, Jake is pretty much the same, except his jawbone is more chiseled, blue eyes more sparkly and forearms more cut. I've finally gone public with this crush, launching my full-on flirtation two weeks before the party so I'll be fresh on his mind. As I put on my mittens, puffy coat, scarf, double socks, snow boots, undershirt, turtleneck, and face mask that makes me look wanted by the FBI, I imagine touching his lips.

I am heading over to my best friend Garrett's. For this, I must travel through ice, wind and snow. Before Garrett, Emmie lived there. She was my best friend since first grade. She moved to Alaska--I'm not making that up--and I don't hear from her much. I was crushed and disappointed when a boy moved in just before sixth grade. But, surprisingly, Garrett and I became closer than Emmie and I ever were.

"You are such a drama queen," Garrett says as I walk through the kitchen door. With Garrett and me, it's protocol not to knock. If I did, he'd think I were some love-hungry freshman stopping by to "borrow homework" or because she's "visiting a friend down the street." He acts like the attention is a pain in his butt, but I know he secretly likes it.

"Olivia, are you in there?" he asks as he helps with my coat. "Take that mask off before my dad thinks you're a burglar."

"Shut up. I'm cold," I mutter through rattling teeth.

He opens the door, thrusting his face into the wind.

"Be careful!" I yell at him. "Brrr! Close the door!"

"This is Cincinnati, and it's 45 degrees out," he says, shaking his head. "You only live four doors down. Gimme a break."

He grabs a bottle of Hershey's syrup and a couple packets of Sanka from the cabinet. He and I are boycotting Starbucks because it's too expensive. We haven't admitted it yet, but I'm sure our strike will be over within the week. Instant coffee with Hershey's isn't good; a grande mocha latte is.

It's his turn to come to my house, and I'm testy because I had to trudge over. Ever since he moved in, we've alternated. Our system works but, today, he said if I'm going to talk about Jake, he won't come over. So I took the initiative--like I'm doing for my first kiss. "Try to understand," I say to him. "I go to bed every night knowing I'm the school's biggest loser. You know my eighth-grade boyfriend told the world I wouldn't kiss him," I say. "I haven't had a BF since. I'm a laughingstock!"

"You didn't kiss Wesley because you didn't like him," Garrett says, looking through his Caller ID log. "You were only with him to have a boyfriend."

"That didn't go so well," I admit. "That's why I need your help with Operation Christmas Kiss."

"You did not just say that," he says. "I have to call Kayla back." He dials.

I think about how Kayla, a girl who never said diddly to me, has been all nutty-buddy recently because of my best friend. She's all, "Garrett is sooo nice!"

I'm not sure I like that girls are discovering my best friend. It's fine that he flirts. It's just that I require a lot of attention, and I've had him to myself since I've known him. I make a face and say to him, "Are you done yet?"

He hangs up the phone and says, "I don't know why I like you."

"Because I'm intellectually stimulating. Can we watch Jerry Springer now?"

We sit at the table, and I talk about Jake the Junior. The love of my life. The guy who's going to bless me with my first kiss. The boy who will take me to the prom. In a limo. Jake.

Garrett says he thinks Kayla is hot.

"Yeah," I say, wanting to get back to the essential subject I'd brought up.

"We don't have to talk about you the whole time, you know," he says gently.

He's right. I make motions with my hand like I'm zipping up my lips.

"It'll happen for you," he says.

"It better. Or else it might take me years to find someone else."

"Just so you know, though," Garrett says, "Jake has about 50 girlfriends."

"But he passed me a note in Spanish class. He wrote, 'Let me treat you like a queen.'" My eyes get watery.

"I know. He uses that line on every freshman. He treats all girls like queens, Olivia. Do you know how? By making out with them, and then telling his friends all about it."