by M. F. Lorson
Seeking Jake Ryan
A Dear Molly Novel
Jessica Bucher
MF Lorson
Copyright © 2020 by Jessica Bucher & MF Lorson
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Prologue
Chapter 1
Keep reading…
Also by M.F. Lorson
Also by Jessica Bucher
About M.F. Lorson
About Jessica Bucher
Yesterday was the third anniversary of my mother’s death. Depressing intro, I know. I thought about leading with something softer like, I can quote every line of Sixteen Candles, but then I decided to stick to my guns because this story really starts with Mom.
I should begin by introducing myself. My name is Sloane, like Ferris’s girlfriend. My parents’ first date was to see Ferris Bueller’s Day Off in theaters, and I guess it stuck. Pretty much everything from the '80s stuck for my parents. You should see my house. It’s like a shrine to bad interior decorating. So much pink, so many fake floral arrangements.
Anyway, I’ll get to the point. In elementary school I thrived, I was a pudgy, but cute girl that everyone liked. Middle school, however, did not go as well. I wasn’t three days into my first year at Grover Junior High before a jerk in my science class dropped the word ginger. Nevermind that I had been a redhead my entire life, or that this kid in particular, had chased me around the playground for the previous six years. Nope, his ginger branding flew through the school like ants in pursuit of an unwrapped sucker.
I cried a lot that year. Then finally, my Mom, in that amazing way that Moms do, realized something was wrong. I told her what happened with all of the energy and drama of any twelve year old girl.
“Ginger!” I cried. “Ginger in a bad way.”
My Mom tossed her head back and laughed. She had an amazing laugh, super loud and full. It made you want to laugh with her, even if you were feeling lower than low about your stupid red hair. That’s when she introduced me to you.
“You, my child, have to meet Molly,” she said and then pulled a stack of DVDs from the cabinet under our TV. “She’s living proof that redheads can rule the world—her and Lucille Ball anyway.”
We started with Pretty in Pink, then The Breakfast Club, and finally Sixteen Candles. I loved them all, but the last one, Sixteen Candles, with Jake Ryan leaning in to kiss you over that birthday cake, that was my favorite.
Middle school didn’t get easier because I watched '80s movies at home in my basement, but I got through it thanks to you and my two best friends, Harper and Reagan. I don’t know if they loved your movies before we met, or were just humoring me because my Mom bought good sleepover snacks, but by the end of sixth grade we spent every Friday night in my basement talking about boys and watching you fall in love.
Now, I’m a junior, and Mom isn’t around to swoop in for the rescue. Maybe this is stupid, and my letter will wind up at the bottom of some unpaid intern’s trash bin, but I’m writing anyway because you helped me before, and just maybe, you can help me again.
I’m writing today because this morning while in line to get my new student ID, I met my Jake Ryan.
Help!
Sloane
Junior year was supposed to be the big turning point in your high school career. I equated it to the last year of elementary school. Finally, you matter. Finally, people throw words around like ‘leader’ and ‘bright future.’ As a junior, you didn’t have to get an upperclassmen boy to ask you to the prom. You could just buy a ticket and go with whomever you liked. I didn’t have anyone in mind, but it was already better than last year when half the girls in the sophomore class were vying for an invitation from the same five nerdy guys. Going to prom as an underclassmen was the ultimate status symbol.
Harper, Reagan, and I had spent the evening watching Pretty in Pink in my basement. The three of us did not have the pleasure of achieving that particular status. Although Harper got pretty close. Her rockstar boyfriend broke up with her one week before the dance. “That’s what you get for dating a Bon Jovi when you’re destined for a Duckie,” I reminded her. She had just shrugged her shoulders and sunk deeper into my couch. The three of us were experts at feeling sorry for ourselves.
They say ex-chubby people have the best sense of humor, well we three ex-nerd girls had the best sense of self-deprecation.
I really wanted junior year to go well, but I was pretty sure I would screw it up. Case in point, I did a dumb thing on the first day of school. As I did every evening before school started, I hung my first day outfit in a garment bag on the back of my bedroom door. This year I had selected lightly distressed jeans with a flowy pink top that hung off one shoulder and made my Dad frown a lot. I paired it with six bangles to stay true to my passion for the '80s and an over the shoulder bag with cassette tapes printed on the canvas. My outfit was not the dumb thing. My outfit was flawless. I was a retro queen; my classmates just hadn’t found the right crown manufacturer to accomodate my side pony.
The dumb thing I did was talk to a boy. We were all lined up against the gym wall, our backs pressed up against the wrestling mats as we waited to get our ID photo taken. The guy beside me was bobbing his head along with the music streaming out of his earbuds. He was definitely going to be deaf by age thirty because I could hear each and every word coming from Rick Springfield’s mouth. It was accidental, but I found myself tapping my pink converse along to the beat. Noting my toe tapping he tilted his head toward me, offering up a half smile that caused one little dimple to populate his cheek.
I had never seen him before, and that was odd for Grover. With graduating classes coming it at just under 200, we didn’t get too many new kids.
“Is it too loud?” he asked, tugging out one earbud.
“You can never play Jessie's Girl too loud,” I answered, trying not to make it obvious that I was mentally cataloging his facial features. This boy—this new boy—was a greek statue come to life. I wanted to reach my hand up and trace his jawline just to be sure I was talking to a real person and not a hologram of some computer generated supermodel. They didn’t make boys this cute in Grover.
“All time favorite song?” he asked, he was looking straight into my eyes, and I was having a hard time not imagining our future wedding. I should have lied. This was a textbook meet-cute. I was supposed to name a song that proved I was well-rounded and had an eclectic taste in music. The kind of taste he might need to draw upon should he ever need record-buying company.
Instead I blurted out the truth. “Moves like Jagger.”
His sexy half-smile turned down in confusion. “Moves like Jagger” impressed no one. “Moves like Jagg
er,” made people wonder if you also liked Nickelback.
The photographer called out Gabe Maxwell and he took his seat in front of the dull gray backdrop.
Maxwell, why was that so familiar? And then it hit me. He was Landon Maxwell’s older brother. As far as I was concerned Landon was synonymous with evil. It was his fault everyone called me a soulless ginger for three years. His fault I had taken a bottle of black hair dye to my fiery red locks and ended up with puke green roots for the long week between my bathroom bottle job and the eighty dollar color correction Mom paid for.
Landon’s brother, however, had been in Europe for the last two years as part of a study abroad program. How did I know this? Because his girlfriend, Rebecca Landry, was in my grade and spent every possible moment bragging about her long distance relationship with the older, and hotter, but just as rich, Maxwell brother. I knew of him, but I had never seen him before.
Now I watched as he cued up a megawatt smile for the camera. After the flash he tucked both earbuds back in place and hopped off the stool. I was sure he was going to say something to me as I moved to take his place. Probably something like, “You’ve got to start respecting yourself enough not to admit you like ‘Moves Like Jagger.’” But no sooner had he opened his mouth to speak than Rebecca came booming across the gym, propelling herself onto his back and squeezing his neck for dear life. Without peeing on him she could not possibly have been more clear about marking her territory.
I looked straight ahead at the camera and frowned. Hello, junior year.
Gabe
At the risk of sounding pretentious, I had to admit that high school popularity seemed so trivial once you lived abroad for two years. Coming back—and not because I wanted to—has turned out to be an even harder transition than moving to Europe in the first place. My film studies class in Prague taught me about so much more than film and media.
I learned that fads don’t last. And popularity is meaningless.
I learned that having a girlfriend wasn’t supposed to be a chore.
And last, I learned that money can buy a lot of things, but not integrity. Which was why I was still hanging onto Becca. Because I was a coward and didn’t have the heart to be honest with her.
To her, I was still the big man on campus, with enough money in his trust fund to buy her the whole school if she wanted it.
She also thought I came home early from my trip because I missed Grover...which was grossly inaccurate. The truth was I came home early because that little trust fund of mine was as empty as my parents’ bank account. My dad gave me some story about a recession and bad stock market advice...whatever all that meant.
On one hand, I was glad to be free from it all.
On the other hand...I missed living in Europe.
And as the cute little redhead next to me stole my attention with those bright green eyes, I remembered for a short moment that the old Gabe probably wouldn’t have given her the time of day, but something about her cheeky style and perfectly put-together look made me want to get to know her...regardless of how popular she was.
If it weren’t for Becca’s ambushing, I probably would have forced my unsolicited music wisdom on her, so at the very least the poor girl wouldn’t have to claim ‘Moves like Jagger’ as her favorite song. But my girlfriend’s arms around my neck stopped me.
Ever since I got back, Becca’s attention has been...how do I say...abundant.
“There you are,” she squealed into my ear. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”
“Maxwell,” the lady behind the table announced. “Your card is ready.”
“New ID,” I answered, trying to maneuver myself out of Becca’s python grip.
“Let’s go to Burger Barn for lunch,” she said, pulling my hand toward the exit. “Everyone will be there.”
“Don’t we have like twenty minutes for lunch?” I asked.
“Not if we skip third period.” With a sly wink, she wound her arms around my waist and tried to sneak a kiss, right in the middle of the gym. I was a little out of touch with American high school etiquette, but I was pretty sure public PDA was not only frowned upon, but pretty much forbidden. I expertly dodged the kiss by spinning Becca to my side and draping my arm around her shoulders.
I’d gotten pretty good at dodging kisses with Becca. We’d been together since before I left, but we were so young then compared to now. And my girlfriend was beautiful, like drop-dead beautiful, so it seemed downright deranged that I wasn’t as eager to move as fast as she was now. But in my defense, I thought she would have moved on by now.
Like I said, I was a coward.
“I can’t skip classes. It’s the first day,” I laughed as we strolled across the gym like we owned the place.
“You can do whatever you want. You’re a Maxwell.”
“I doubt my last name will get me the grades I need to graduate,” I said as we passed the doors toward the student union. Just before we left the chaos of student registration, I took one last glance toward the redhead sitting in the hot seat, the corners of her mouth turning downward just as the photographer flashed the camera in her face.
Becca tugged on my shoulder, pulling my attention back to her face. The music in my earbuds played on as I smiled at my girlfriend. The Clash blared as she pulled me in for a kiss, just as we passed the biggest crowd, lingering in lines and groups.
I knew that the old Gabe would have paraded her around as much as she was parading me. But now I had a hard time caring what anyone else thought.
Sloane
My ID photo looked like a mug shot. I had kinda embarrassed myself in front of a really beautiful boy and according to my schedule, Harper, Reagan, and I wouldn’t see each other till lunch. I could let those things kill my day, but instead I chose to focus on the big, fat, shiny beacon of greatness that was first period.
Finally, after two years of suffering through Grover’s terrible, student-run morning show, I was an upperclassman, and therefore could enroll in Media Studies. As a mildly obsessed film fanatic, I considered it my mission and purpose to turn Good Morning, Grover into something that wouldn’t make the entire student body cringe. Besides, next year when it came time to apply for colleges, I was going to need film samples that weren’t embarrassing.
Fueled by diet soda and ambition, I pushed through the double doors of our high school studio. I paused for a moment to soak in my surroundings. I had been in here before but never with the promise of participating.The cameras sat waiting, poised to capture this year’s student anchors as they read the morning announcements. And at the back of the room, up one rickety set of stairs and looking down on the studio below, sat the sound and light booth, its ancient knobs and switches just itching to be tinkered with. I didn’t know enough about sound to want that job, my eye was on camera number one. It was going to be a heck of a lot easier to keep steady than my iPhone on its twenty-dollar Amazon tripod.
Around me, students began to file in, quickly filling the theatre like seats that climbed the slanted floor so that those not playing a role in the filming could create an audience like vibe to keep the rest of the crew on point. I’d never been so excited about a class before.
Did I look over eager scooting through the crowd to grab a spot in the front row? Probably, but I didn’t care. This class was my reason for being at the moment, and I wanted to be front and center when we chose our assignments for the first term. I sank deep into the red cushion and listened as gossip slipped from one ear to another behind me. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t known Gabe Maxwell was returning for his senior year. His name seemed to work its way into the beginning or end of every conversation. Until he walked in that is; then suddenly no one had anything to say at all.
I watched as he and Becca worked their way toward the back of the room, her arm clamped onto his like it was the last lifevest on the Titanic. It looked a little forced, but then again, I wasn’t a relationship expert. The entirety of my romantic experience cou
ld be chalked up to film camp three years ago when I kissed a dude I barely knew just so I wouldn’t start high school as a kissing virgin.
My stomach churned remembering his clammy lips pressed up against mine as I counted backward from five. For some reason, I had been positive it didn’t count as a real kiss if it didn’t last at least five seconds.
Just before the bell rang, our teacher hustled through the door. Ms. Mitchell was both the English and Media Studies teacher. She could barely operate the Blu-ray player in her classroom so I was fairly certain she wasn’t going to be teaching the technical aspects of producing Good Morning, Grover. That responsibility would most likely rest upon my veteran classmates. I recognized last year’s anchor, Nadine, three chairs over. I crossed my fingers that last year’s cameraman had already graduated.
Apparently Ms. Mitchell was living inside my brain because before she even called role she was passing around a sign-up clipboard asking us each to put our name below the area of production we most hoped to contribute to.
Once everyone had an opportunity to pick a task, Ms. Mitchell read aloud our assignments. No surprise—both Becca and Gabe had volunteered to serve as this year’s anchors. There were other volunteers, but thanks to the not-so-subtle glare Becca shot to each and every other name read aloud, I highly doubted there would be any real competition. I steeled myself to make an argument for camerawoman, only to discover no one else wanted the job. Like no one. Ms. Mitchell had to force camera two on one of the lazy bums who hadn’t bothered to sign up for anything at all.