Blonde Date

by Sarina Bowen

  Contents

  Title Page

  Part One

  -Katie-

  -Andy-

  -Katie-

  -Andy-

  -Katie-

  -Andy-

  Part Two

  -Katie-

  -Andy-

  -Katie-

  -Andy-

  -Katie-

  -Andy-

  Katie

  -Andy-

  -Katie-

  -Andy-

  -Katie-

  -Andy-

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  The Understatement of the Year

  Faceoff

  -Rikker-

  Changing on the Fly

  -Rikker-

  -Graham-

  BLONDE DATE

  by Sarina Bowen

  Copyright © 2014 Sarina Bowen

  All rights reserved

  Cover image: P e t a r D j o r d j e v i c / Shutterstock

  Cover design: Tina Anderson

  eISBN 978-0-9910680-4-3

  http://www.SarinaBowen.com

  Blonde Date is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Part One

  -Andy-

  With a growing sense of panic, I pawed through the clothes in my narrow little dorm room closet. For five long minutes I’d stood there inspecting my shirts, tossing them one by one on the bed. That was four more minutes than I’d ever spent before trying to decide what to wear. But I still didn’t have a freaking clue.

  It was time to call in the big guns.

  Luckily, my older sister answered on the first ring. “I need a consult,” I said. Delia was in med school, and you got further with her if you spoke in medical terms.

  “Where does it hurt?” she asked.

  “I have a date, and I don’t know what to wear.”

  Her laughter was so loud that I had to hold the phone away from my ear. “How old are you?”

  “Old enough to ask for help when I need it.”

  “Fair enough. What’s the occasion?”

  “That’s the tricky part. First there’s a charity bit, where I’m helping a bunch of sorority girls with their community project. Setting up a Christmas tree, or something.”

  Delia laughed again. “What do you know from setting up a Christmas tree, Jew boy?”

  “How hard could it be? But there’s also a tree lighting, and, like, cocktails.”

  “Hmm,” my sister mused. “And where does this event take place?”

  “In their preppy white sorority house with the big columns on the front.”

  “Well… This really could go either way. Casual or dressy.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. How should I play it?”

  “Who’s the girl? Anyone special?”

  Why yes. But I wasn’t going to tell my sister that just hearing this girl’s name gave me a thrill. Katie Vickery. When she’d called to invite me to this thing, she’d opened with “you don’t know me…”

  But she’d been wrong. Very wrong. I knew exactly who she was.

  In the first place, if you were a lonely junior at Harkness, noticing the frosh girls was like your job. And she made my job easy. I’d picked out those long legs the very first time they’d walked into my art history lecture. And — lucky me — summer’s warmth had held on an extra week or two this year, treating me to a steady parade of Katie’s short skirts every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning.

  The most attractive thing about her, though, was her laugh. It was deeper and huskier than you’d expect from someone so slight and fair. I loved the sound of it. Whenever I heard her laugh, my brain took a short trip around the block.

  God, she was hot. But she also had unattainable practically stamped on her forehead. Because Katie was the sort of girl that everyone noticed. And I wasn’t even a little bit surprised when she started sitting with the football crew during lectures.

  I didn’t dwell on this. Girls like Katie Vickery were out of my league, and I didn’t bother to sit around wondering why. Some things just were.

  As the fall semester wore on, Bridger, my next-door neighbor, started spending a lot of time with Katie’s roommate, Scarlet. So I sometimes overheard updates about Katie. Scarlet mentioned that they sometimes went jogging together. After that, Katie’s long legs began loping through my dreams in spandex shorts.

  But that wasn’t a premonition, or anything. It was just the work of a shy guy’s subconscious. In a million years, I’d never thought I’d be standing here, dressing for a date with her. And if she hadn’t invited me out of sheer desperation, I wouldn’t be.

  “Um, earth to Andy!” my sister prompted. “I asked you a question. Is the girl anyone special?”

  “We don’t really know each other,” I admitted. “She dumped her football player boyfriend a few weeks ago and needed a date for this thing. Enter me.”

  “So this is a date of necessity. But how did you get the nod? She must not know your track record with women. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.” My sister snickered.

  “Come on, now, D. If I wanted to be mocked, I would have called my other sister.” Our younger sis was kind of a bitch. “You remember Bridger?”

  “Who could forget him?” Delia asked. My neighbor was kind of a stud with the ladies.

  “Well, this whole thing was his girlfriend’s idea.”

  “I knew I liked that guy,” Delia said. But of course she did. All the women did. “And his girlfriend has good taste, too.”

  “In me? Or in Bridger?” I teased.

  “Both. And this sorority girl is going to love you. You’re pretty cute for a skinny guy.”

  I didn’t have time to argue with her. But even if it was true, pretty cute for a skinny guy probably wasn’t going to be enough to win me Katie’s undying affection. I’d been invited on this junket because the newly single Katie was apparently done with football players. “And jerks of all stripes,” Scarlet had explained. “I told her, ‘Andy is absolutely not a jerk.’”

  For a second I’d felt awesome about that. But then I’d realized that being absolutely not a jerk also wasn’t enough of an endorsement to fill the utter void that was my love life.

  Oh, well.

  “Are you going to help me or what?” I prodded.

  “Of course. So you want to impress her, but you don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard,” my sister said.

  “Exactly. So tell me what to wear. While I’m young, if possible.”

  “Well, when the Jew boy goes to the Christmas tree lighting at the WASPy sorority house, he should always wear nice pants. You have some wool trousers, right?”

  I looked at the three pairs I’d draped over my desk chair. “Won’t that be too dressy?”

  “Not if they’re khaki-colored. How about the ones you wore when we saw that show in Boston?”

  How did she even remember that shit? If Delia asked me to name three items of clothing that she’d ever owned in her lifetime, I couldn’t do it.

  I lifted the pants off their hanger. “All right. What else?”

  “The shirt should be a dark color. Dark blue, maybe? With the collar open. Whatever you do, don’t button that sucker all the way up. Wear a t-shirt underneath, and it’s okay if the t-shirt is visible at the collar. That takes you one notch back toward casual. And no tie.”

  See? This was why a guy called his sister. I hopped into the pants using one hand. “And the shirt is tucked in, right?”

  “Tuck it in! Absolutely. Unless you really don’t
want to get laid.”

  I laughed and had to grab the phone to keep it from hitting the floor. “That’s not happening.”

  “Are you saying that because you’re talking to your sister? Or because you really believe it?”

  “Uh, why? Are you doing a psych rotation at school, or something?” I pulled a clean t-shirt over my head.

  “I was only teasing about your record with girls. You know that right? You’re a catch, Andy. As long as you tuck your shirt in.”

  “That must be what I’ve been doing wrong.”

  My sister laughed. “Your only real problem is confidence.”

  I stuffed my feet into a pair of shoes. “Am I wearing a jacket, too? Or just my coat?”

  “Your plain black sport jacket. It still fits, right? God, I hope your arms aren’t getting any longer. Because you’re already kind of like an orangutan.”

  “And you wonder why I don’t have any confidence,” I mumbled.

  “Kidding! But seriously, if the jacket sleeves are too short, then skip it. And you need to shine your shoes.”

  “I don’t have time.”

  “What? When is this date?”

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Andrew Isaac Baschnagel! Did you shower and shave?”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Hang up and go meet your girl. Crap. I wanted you to send a picture before you left. In case you need tweaking.”

  “No time for tweaking. Bye, Delia! Thanks.”

  “Bye, orangutan.” Then she clicked off. Delia loved getting the last word.

  But never mind. I put on exactly what she’d told me to. I hung up the pants that hadn’t made the cut. Then, shoving my keys and my wallet into a pocket, I ran out the door and down the entryway stairs. Checking my phone, I saw that I had plenty of time. It was a two-minute walk to Katie’s dorm, and I had twice that.

  My phone buzzed with a text from Delia. Good luck with the WASPs, string bean.

  Holding up my phone and grinning like a dork, I took a selfie and sent it to her.

  The clothes look great. But UR hopeless, she replied.

  That was probably true. And I’d never admit it to my sister, but she wasn’t totally off base with her remark about my confidence. Some guys just had a kind of swagger that worked for them. My neighbor Bridger? All he had to do was walk into a room, and the girls hurled themselves at him, like moths at a window screen on a summer night.

  But what was swagger, really? It came from the belief that hot girls wanted to take you to bed. So, to acquire it, you’d need at least a little evidence that this was true.

  Yeah. I didn’t have that. All I had was evidence that a hot girl needed a date for a party. But that was better than nothing, right? And I’d have a couple of hours in the company of the lovely Katie Vickery.

  Life could really be worse.

  Apparently Delia wasn’t done with me, though. When my phone buzzed again, she’d written: Ask her out on your way home 2nite. Don’t chicken out.

  I hadn’t thought that far ahead. But my sister was a smart girl. Okay. If things go well, I’ll do it, I replied.

  If U do, I’ll buy you a sundae at Lou’s. If U chicken out, I win a sundae.

  That seemed like a perfectly good incentive to do something that I already wanted to do. Deal, I replied.

  -Katie-

  After much deliberation with myself, I’d straightened my hair until it hung in golden sheets around my shoulders. It was a kick-ass look on me. Straightened hair said: I’m here to shine, and I will go that extra mile. So don’t you dare mess with me.

  Actually, it probably only said: I am handy with the straightening iron. But whatevs. Either way, it gave me confidence, and confidence was in short supply this week.

  Unstraightened hair, on the other hand, made a different statement. It said: I am an effortless beauty, and you’ll just have to take me as I am. But nothing felt effortless lately. And “effortless” was just a little too close to “careless” for my comfort. And tonight I could not appear careless. So I’d spent an hour on my hair, and now it was straight enough to be featured on somebody’s geometry exam.

  I pushed the hair off my bare shoulders and assessed my outfit. “What do you think?” I asked my reflection in the mirror. “Is the neckline too much?”

  My reflection didn’t answer. But my suitemate Katie did. “There’s no such thing as too much. You look hot in that dress.”

  “Thanks, K2.”

  “Any time,” she said, plopping down on my bed and making herself comfortable.

  During the first week of school, a smokin’ hot lacrosse player had nicknamed us K1 and K2 because we were both named Katie. “But why does she get to be K1?” the other Katie had asked at the time, employing the flirtiest pout in the world.

  “Sweetheart, K2 is an awesome nickname,” the LAX guy said. “Because K2 is a big mountain. And, well…” he broke off on a chuckle, his eyes right on her ample cleavage.

  The other Katie had grinned, then hitched up her bra. “I guess I can wear that name with pride.”

  “You wear it well,” the guy had said, leaning in to kiss her cheek. About fifteen minutes later, they were lip-locked against a tree in the back yard of the frat house. And I, in my A-cup bra, was totally envious.

  And that LAX player wasn’t the only one who thought of us as a pair. Our roommate Scarlet called us Blonde Katie (that’s me) and Ponytail Katie. Others simply referred to us as The Katies. Together, we’d hit the party scene hard these past three months. I’d begun the year with a kind of I-am-freshwoman-hear-me-roar attitude. I loved college, and it loved me back.

  I’d thought so, anyway.

  But seven nights ago I’d hit a sour note, and his name was Dash McGibb. Even though I was a generally upbeat person, my bad experience with Dash had left me feeling uncertain about everything — my choices, the company I kept.

  This dress.

  I fiddled with the silky, draping neckline, wondering if I should change. I probably wouldn’t, though. I’d already tried on everything in my closet. Selecting a pink lipstick, I pursed my lips for the mirror.

  “I can’t believe you’re going to this party with a basketball player,” K2 scoffed from my bed. “The team record so far this season is one for four.”

  The lipstick prevented me from answering her immediately, which was a good thing. It gave me time to reconsider my snarky reply, which would have been to ask Katie how her basketball game was looking this year. (She and I ran three miles exactly once per week. Neither of us was athletic. We only jogged on Sundays as penance for our chocolate chip cookie addiction.)

  “Is it?” I asked instead. “Then losing is something that Andy and I will have in common. Because my dating record this year is zero for two.”

  She rolled back onto my bed, her skinny knees pointing the ceiling. “Just because both of your boyfriends turned out to be duds is no reason to sell yourself cheaply.”

  “Jeez, Katie. I’m not a horse up for auction.” Her words ricocheted inside my brain. Especially one of them. Cheaply. My stomach gave a little lurch at that word. My mother used it a lot. Cheap was not how the Vickery women were supposed to behave. But I hadn’t heeded this guidance, and now I was paying the price.

  K2 gave me a wounded look. “It’s just an expression.”

  “I know. Sorry.” I tried to change the subject. “Have you seen my Stila eyeshadow?”

  “Um, whoops.” She got up and ran off to her own room in our little suite.

  The first week of school, I was positive that Katie and I, with our matching names and our matching Prada suitcases, were primed to take over the world. We’d both ruled our high schools. We were also in agreement on exactly which sort of guys we wanted to date — athletes, of course. We were here to party with whoever did it best, and whoever was the best looking.

  In contrast, our third roommate, the tight-lipped Scarlet, had seemed a lot less fun. I’m not proud of it, but I’ll admit that I’d kind of writ
ten her off by the third week of the semester. But recently I’d learned that she’d had damned good reasons to be cautious and quiet. And tonight I found myself wishing that it was Scarlet who was home with me. The attack of insecurity I faced right now was bigger than a fashion crisis. I needed the support of a friend who knew about life, and not just what to wear for it.

  I hadn’t told a soul yet about the crappy little thing that had happened to me last week. And now that I was primping to go to a party where I’d probably end up face-to-face with the jerks who’d embarrassed me, I could have used a pep talk.

  K2 came back into my room with my eyeshadow. And when my phone rang, she grabbed it off my dresser to look at the screen. “It’s your mom.”

  “Crap.”

  “So don’t pick up.” She did another belly flop onto my bed.

  “But I’ve been ducking her.” I took the phone from Katie and answered it. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Hello, sweetie. Getting ready for your date?”

  “I am.” And if you knew that, why would you call me now?

  “I’ve been making plans for the holidays. We’re having the Iversons visit for the weekend before New Year’s. And then I thought we could pop into the city to see a play,” my mother said.

  “Mmm hmm,” I said. “Sounds fine.” But my attention was still on the full-length mirror I’d installed on the back of our closet door. Specifically, I was trying to decide if the pearl earrings I’d put on made my dress look less slutty. Or had I only managed to convert the look into “slut with pearls”?

  “Have fun tonight,” my mother said. “Are you wearing something pretty? The girls of Tri Psi knew how to throw a good party in my day.”

  “Thank you, I will have fun,” I said, ignoring the question about my outfit. One had to wonder what my mother’s idea of a good college party had been. Surely alcohol didn’t enter the picture, at least not for the girls. And my mother would never sanction any activity that might rumple a girl’s twin set. Mom was a first-class Good Girl. And in spite of massive evidence to the contrary, she assumed that I was one too.

  “Is this boy who’s taking you to the party a gentleman?”