The Boy Who Kissed My Hand: A Monologue

Stella is a sixteen-year-old girl who has just returned from a football game. She starts out writing the story in her diary, but eventually gets caught up in her own excitement and narrates it out loud.

[At the beginning of the scene, Stella is sitting on the bed with her legs curled to the side and her diary spread out before her. Her pencil scratches busily on the paper.]

STELLA: The funny thing about school is, you meet some of the most interesting people not during the classes, but at the football games. (She pauses and looks up, as if considering her words, then resumes writing, talking to herself.) I mean, the most wonderful assortment of people assemble at football games; have you ever thought about it? Otherwise, why would anyone go? Obviously bone-crushing sports aren't my cup of tea, but of course I went anyway, first of all because I have no life, and secondly because they can be entertaining sometimes. Like tonight. Tonight . . . (her hand slows, then stops) . . . I met this boy. Of course I've met tons of boys in my lifetime, but this one was . . . well . . . different? I guess? That's a pretty generic term, but it's all I can think of at this exact moment. Different . . . (her pencil traces absently over the paper) . . . but in a good way; I mean he didn't, like, dress all goth or have pink hair or stalk me all over the place or anything.

Well so I'm just sitting there in the stands by myself, kind of sad and everything because I was thinking about how Brad dumped me twice in this same exact stadium, and how now he's gone again. Third time's the charm, right? So occasionally I'd look up at the half moon and I must've presented a pretty forlorn picture because all of a sudden this guy just appears out of nowhere and sits right down next to me. (She sits up straight and glances over to her right, as if re-enacting the scene.) He said, "You look like probably the loneliest person in this stadium," and I was, you know, but I couldn't admit it, so I said, "Well . . . maybe the second loneliest?" And then he laughed and smiled at me. And oh, he had the most amazing smile! He looked exactly like a movie star: longish blond hair, blue eyes, about 6'1" I guess, and oh my goodness, that smile. Fortunately, I am not at all like those girls in movies who just lose all the vocabulary they've accumulated since they were two just because some hunk smiles at them. (She folds her hands primly in her lap.) No, I was very calm, cool, and collected; I talked and bantered and laughed delicately, which is actually very hard to do when you consider laughter often causes you to spit on people by accident.

He said his name was James. We talked about art class and junior-senior war and he made fun of me for having been homeschooled prior to this year. "That must be why you're so socially awkward," he said charmingly. At one point he asked if he could kiss my hand. "Because then you'll always remember me," he said, and his eyes were so blue when he said it, I think I probably would've consented to pull down the moon for him if he'd asked me to. So I held out my hand . . . like this . . . (she extends her right arm, hand poised gracefully) . . . and he pressed his lips against it, and they were so warm. I must have blushed terribly, but he just smiled again and said "There. Now you'll always remember me. I'll always be the boy who kissed your hand." (She holds her right hand to her chest and strokes it gently with her left.) The boy who kissed my hand.

After that, I went outside the stadium with him; we ran over to the middle school and snuck into the locker room through a window. He jumped down to the floor, then I jumped and he caught me. He caught me and for a moment he actually held me bodily in his arms, and if I had died right then I think I would've died happy because it was so wonderful. We ran down a couple of hallways, and I laughed the entire time. He must have thought I was crazy, but I'm just not used to doing crazy things, and having that much fun. Besides, he laughed too. Then we climbed back out and went back to the stadium, and sat down where we had been and continued talking as if nothing had happened. He gave me his phone number and I gave him mine, and right before I left, he held out his arms. "Can I have a hug before you go?" he asked, and oh, but he could really pull off the puppy-dog eyes. I hugged him, and he held me close to him for longer than I thought he would. (She wraps her arms around herself.) I never wanted it to end. I guess we couldn't go through life stuck together like that, and the only other alternative would be to die in each other's arms like people in old tragedies; but obviously neither of those would have worked, so I had to let go. Or maybe it was him that let go. I really don't know; all I know is that he smiled at me one more time and said, "It was nice meeting you, Stella. I'll call you tomorrow, okay?" Oh yes, I thought. Please, please, please. I smiled back and said "Okay. Talk to you tomorrow," as I was walking away, though what I really wanted to do more than anything else was run back to him and kiss him.

But perhaps that will come. Oh, I hope so. He's going to call me tomorrow. (Her voice grows fainter as she continues talking.) Please don't forget. Please don't. (She looks up at some indefinite point in the distance.) I'll be waiting for you, James. (Almost unconsciously, she carresses her right hand again, her voice barely above a whisper.) The boy who kissed my hand. . . .