by Jillian Dodd
Also, I was taking pics of myself to send to Brooklyn, and it took me awhile to get one that had the right look. I wanted to look sexy, but still cute. Oh and I definitely had my shirt on. Mom says she would kill me herself if she found out I sent anyone naked pics. Because surely they would end up all over TMZ. And then they would start saying she needs to be home with me and not off making movies and what a horrible mother she is. If only those writers knew how many of their own daughters were doing the same thing. And she is not a horrible mother. She’s awesome, so I don’t want to cause her any trouble.
And speaking of trouble, I’m a little irritated I went to all the trouble to send him a decent pic and have yet to get a response, and I’m not sure what that means. But then I remember, durr, it’s only 9am at home, and that means he’s either out on his board or sleeping.
I still haven’t seen the hottie today, but as I’m heading out to go to my next class, French 2, I spy him. He’s dumping his trash into a trash barrel.
And looks way too sexy doing it. (How many guys look hot throwing their lunch in the trash? That should tell her something.)
But, still. I’ll be damned if I am going to speak to him. And I certainly don’t want to look like I’m creeping on him.
And that becomes an easy task when Dallas comes wandering over, puts his arm around my shoulder, says, “Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” and walks me to my next class. Dallas cracks me up.
He’s going on and on about how he was able to see up some junior girl’s skirt in his last class. And how her panties were bright neon blue, and how she just didn’t look like the kind of girl to wear neon blue.
Then he starts trying to guess the color of underwear every girl we pass. We get to my class and he says, “So what color are yours today?”
“I thought the whole point of your little game was to guess.”
“Hmm, do they match your socks, white and lacy?”
“Damn, you’re good.”
He grins big and walks off to class feeling all good about himself.
I’m wearing red lace, really, but, shh, don’t tell.
Mom always says red lace panties make you feel powerful sexy, even if no one ever sees them. (Words to live by.)
I hope the back of my hair looks okay.
French class
I go sit down in french class. I was able to test into this higher class, so I don’t see anyone I know. I take a seat in the middle row, about halfway to the back. I don’t want sit right up front, but I also don’t wanna look like a slacker. I feel my phone buzz in my bag and bend down to take a peek at it. We aren’t supposed to use our phones during class, but I have a couple minutes. I pull it out and see a pic of Brooklyn. He’s in my favorite pair of Billabong board shorts and the only other thing he is wearing is a leather cord necklace with a charm stamped with the Japanese symbol for the word chaos, that I gave him. He tells me he’s getting it tattooed on the inside of his wrist soon.
Brooklyn<3 Thought you’d like a pic of me in my uniform :) You look sexy in yours, but I still prefer you in a bikini. The waves miss you. (Love that he says this, but I loved it better when he said it before he went to France for their Summer of Waves. It’s also interesting rereading this how I used so much of this draft and pulled content out in completely different situations.)
Me: I miss you too.
Brooklyn<3 How’s it going so far? All the boys in love with you?
Me: Hardly.
Brooklyn <3 Don’t believe you. Hey, I’m going to surf in my first pro tournament Labor Day weekend. It’s kinda by you, on Long Island or Long Beach or something like that in New York. Do you have plans? Your parents leave to shoot in Vancouver soon right?
Me: My plans are to come watch you win :) I wish we wouldn’t have waited til my last night to have sex. I wish we would’ve done it all summer.
Brooklyn<3 I didn’t think you were ready.
Me: I’m ready now ;)
Brooklyn <3 Can’t wait to see you Keats, love you.
Me: <3 (This scene, the fact that we didn’t see them together in love, is also what spurred me to write Stalk Me. It’s kind of like when B said it doesn’t matter where you’ve been, only where you end up. But it does matter to the reader. You need to understand where the character has been, so you can understand why they make the choices they do.)
I look up. Aiden is standing over me reading my texts. He makes a hmphhh sound and sits down in the seat right behind me. (Poor Aiden.)
I hope the back of my hair looks okay.
And I know I went to Biology, Sociology and Soccer, but all I have been able to think about are four things.
1.) The back of my head is going to have to look sexy EVERY day.
2.) Why didn’t Aiden talk to me?
3.) Is he done playing me? And if so, why didn’t I get played with???!!!!
4.) I get to see Brooklyn and hopefully have sex again with him in like six days. (Or not.)
You gotta lotta rage in there, girl.
5:45pm
Dance team practice is over. We’re normally supposed to be done at 4:30, but today was super long. Peyton marches up to me, grabs my arm, pushes me into a little equipment room, stands in front of me, crosses her arms, flips her ponytail, and says, “You went out on a date with Dawson? After all I did for you?”
“All you did for me?”
“I got you to try out for dance, I put in a good word for you in soccer. And you date my ex?”
“One, from what I understand, a panel of judges decided who made dance, not you. And if you put in a good word for me about varsity soccer, then I appreciate it, but I am assuming a coach would not play me if I didn’t earn it, and I fully expect to earn a starting position.”
“Fine. What about Dawson?”
“What about him? We went out for pizza, talked. Big deal.”
“He kissed you on the soccer field. Everyone saw.”
“And why do you care? You made out with Jake Saturday at and after the dance. Lots of people saw you dancing together and kissing. Which I find interesting since you also have told us you have a college boyfriend.”
“I’m just trying to move on.”
“Well, maybe you should let him move on then too.”
“Oh, trust me, he’s moved on plenty.”
“No, he hasn’t. He’s hooked up, yes. But he has not moved on. He hasn’t dated anyone even close to seriously.”
“Oh and you think you he will be serious with you?”
“No, not really. We are mostly just friends.”
“And what about my brother?”
“What about your brother?”
“He likes you.”
“Well he doesn’t really act like it! And honestly, I am way in over my head with him. Like I feel like time stops, and I can’t breathe when I kiss him. I’ve never felt like that with anyone. And like the whole dance thing and the lights and all was great, romantic, amazing really. But it’s been two days, and I haven’t seen or heard from him. Well, he is in my French class, but he just sat behind me and didn’t say a word to me. He hasn’t texted me, talked to me, nothing! And it’s not my fault he fricken quoted Keats, and I froze. It caught me off guard! And I can’t fall for the God of all Hotties just to be dumped. It would probably kill me.”
“What did you call him?”
“Oh, the God of all Hotties. It’s what I called him when I first saw him, before I knew his name. He is beautiful, seriously. And he stares at me, and I swear he can kiss my soul. And he can be super romantic one minute and a stupid dick the next. I don’t even know what to do with him. My mom says if he likes me, he knows where to find me. And so far, he has not found me!” (Meltdown—Keatyn style.)
“Well it doesn’t help that you are making out with my ex.”
“I have not made out with your ex. I don’t know why you think that. We kissed. A few simple, cute kisses. I told you, mostly, we talk. And mostly, sadly, we talk about you and your stupid brother. So bac
k off!!”
And then I turn, walk out the door, and slam it behind me.
Shit!
I stuff my stupid pompoms in my locker and leave. I feel the need to kill something. Or hit something. So I go into the gym and take my frustration out on a big boxing bag. I’m doing all my kickboxing moves. I don’t even care that I am still in my stupid dance skirt. And I’m sure looking ridiculous. But I don’t care. Punching this bag feels really, really good. I’m punching the bag with my feet. Then I grab a pair of gloves that I see over in the corner and start punching it over and over with my fists.
I hate stupid boys and their stupid sisters.
Upper cut to the chin, like if the bag had a chin and in my mind it does. And I’m pretty sure it’s Aiden’s chin.
I hate school.
Boom! One, two, three fast jabs straight to his nose.
I hate my life.
Big swooping hook to the cheek bone, or better yet, the temple.
I hate getting chewed out for something I did not do.
Knockout punch, Bam, baby.
I love punching this bag.
I know now why Tommy started doing kickboxing. It’s a necessary stress relief when you live with six women, four of whom are under the age of five. Really, it’s a wonder he isn’t completely bonkers. I have my eyes shut, and I’m just punching away. The same spot over and over again.
I hear a voice near me go, “Damn, girl. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”
I open my eyes and see Tyrese and Ace.
“Hey guys.”
“Who pissed you off? You gotta lot of rage in there, girl. And it’s only the first day.”
I back up, wipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand and say, “It doesn’t really matter.”
“Where’d you learn to punch like that?”
“Oh. Um, I take kickboxing lessons with my step dad. Well, I used to.”
“So, who pissed you off? Let me guess. Peyton freak about Dawes? I heard her bitching about it in Geography today.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, pretty much. She’s so dumb. He’s so in love with her, and he is freaking gorgeous and so sweet.”
“He told us you had a fun time at dinner,” Ace smiles. He’s much cuter when he smiles.
“Yeah, we did. Y’all should come with us next time. We’re freaks. He moans about Peyton, and I complain about her stupid brother.” Then I give the bag one solid right hook. I laugh. “I’ve been pretending this bag is his head.” (I love this scene. It’s the sweetest thing ever later when he promises to not pretend punch her head.)
Ace coughs, and Tyrese rolls his eyes over his shoulder. Like someone is there. Like behind me.
They say, “Hey, have fun. Gotta go.”
Someone taps me on my shoulder. I turn around and see the stupid brother.
“You been standing there long?”
“Long enough.”
“Fan-tas-tic,” I say. Rip the gloves off my hands, throw them on the ground in front of me, and run out the door. And all of a sudden, I feel like running.
Running away. But I can’t do that, so I do the next best thing. Run across the driveway, down the hill, and sprint down to the track.
And I keep sprinting and sprinting.
Until I may die of cardiac arrest.
Then I run off the track, and fall exhaustedly down into the grass, shut my eyes and lay as still as I can. I’m trying to go into a meditative state. I can do yoga, all the stretches and breathing, but the meditation, the whole clear your mind thing, is very very difficult for me. Plus, it’s hard to do when your heart rate is about 3,000 beats per second. Instead I just focus on slowing my breathing down, laying very still. Say, OOOMMM, OOOMMM, in my mind.
Someone interrupts my almost clarity by shaking me, going, “Keatyn, are you okay? Wake up. Wake up.”
I open my eyes, stare straight into Aiden’s face, which with the sun setting behind him makes it look like he has just a head that is surrounded by streams of yellow and orange sun beams. (Very god-like, really.)
Give him a puzzled look. “Why the hell are you shaking me?”
He has a panicked look in his eye, and he too is breathing heavy.
“Because you were punching the bag hard, then sprinting like a maniac, and then you just collapsed into the grass. I thought you died or had a heart attack or passed out or something. God, you scared me to death!”
I sigh heavy and roll my eyes at him.
It may have been the biggest eye roll of my life.
“I’m perfectly fine. Thank you for checking on me, it was very sweet. I’d like to be alone now. I’m trying to meditate.” Then I close my eyes and try to forget he’s there.
“Why were you punching my head?”
“Because I hate you. No, that’s not right. Because you frustrate the hell out of me.”
“And you don’t think I wanna punch your head too? You frustrate the hell out of me. I don’t know what to do with you. Every time I try to do something nice or special for you, it blows up in my face.”
“Well at least I don’t act like I like you, be all romantic and then just kiss you on the cheek goodbye, say see ya later and then don’t see you later. Don’t text, don’t call, disappear off the face of the earth kinda stuff for days.”
“Well at least I didn’t go on a date with my sister’s ex!”
“That’d make you gay. But it doesn’t matter. Your sister has a boyfriend. She’s moved on. It’s about time she let Dawson move on too. Stop freaking torturing him.”
“And he’s gonna move on with you?”
“I really don’t know what’s going to happen. At least he talks to me.”
“I want to talk to you.”
“So why don’t you?”
“I felt like I screwed it all up with the Keats stuff, and then you told me you slept with him, and I don’t even know the guy, and I want to go hunt him down, tell him to leave you alone. That you’re mine. Especially after I saw his texts today in French.”
“But I’m not yours.”
“I don’t think you could be anyone else’s.” (Such wonderful truth in this statement, but I can see why it pissed her off here.)
What. The. Hell? Who does he think he is?
“Oh really? Watch me.”
I get up. Jog straight to the boy’s dorm and straight to Dawson’s room. (She certainly does go from one boy to the next when she gets mad. Trying to prove something to herself?)
I knock on his door, fling it open, then slam it shut. He’s sitting on his bed, laptop across one knee. He smiles when he sees me.
I move his computer off his lap, flop face down with my head in his lap, and growl. “Urggghhh.”
“Aiden?”
“And his sister.”
He rubs my back. “Just relax, then you can tell me all about it. And maybe you should take your face off my lap before I get all turned on.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m just kidding. Jeeze. What happened?”
So I roll over, lay with the back of my head on his lap. He starts massaging my temples.
“Oh,” I moan. “Oh my gosh. That’s just what I needed. Oh, that feels sooooo good.”
He grins down at me.
“Oh. Please. Don’t stop.” I whine.
“I’ll do it for as long as you want, baby,” he teases.
And finally, I relax.
Then I tell him everything. We decide that Aiden is a jerk, and Peyton is dumb. And we go to dinner in the cafeteria together.
I’m giggling as he feeds me bites of his dessert, a messy brownie sundae. Some hot fudge drips down over my lip and then, right there in front of everyone, he licks it off and kisses me.
And I like it.
For lots of reasons. (You see some residual bitchiness come out here. She is glad Aiden sees it because she wants to make him suffer. She’s glad Peyton sees it, because she’s staking her territory, and it makes her feel important. And, well, because Daws
on is kinda dreamy.)
Tuesday, August 30th
Can I lick hot fudge off you too?
lunch
Aiden taps me on the shoulder. He’s standing behind me in the lunch line and says in a snotty voice, “Can I lick hot fudge off you too?” (He is so jealous!)
What a jerk. “Naw, I think I have that taken care of, but thanks.”
“You are such a liar.”
I turn around to face him, “I am NOT a liar!”
“Don’t give me that shit. You told me you just kissed him, and you aren’t just kissing him.”
“Yes. I swear.”
I heard you in his room yesterday after you ran away from me at the track.”
“What are you stalking me now?”
“That’s besides the point. Still, I heard you. All Oh, oh, that feels so good. Please don’t stop. And then him saying, I’ll do it for as long as you want, baby.”
He has a very condescending voice when he says this to me, like he’s mad and making fun of me at the same time.
“What are you even talking about?”
“You had sex with him, don’t lie to me.”
“I did not. And if I WAS going to have sex with him, which I certainly could do if I chose to, it wouldn’t be when I was all sweaty and gross. You have no common sense.”
“Then what was he doing that was just what you needed and that felt sooo good?” (I love that he calls her on what he heard. He’s wrong, but it’s cute. Although, we know what happens when K gets mad. She reacts. With a boy. And, boy, she definitely reacts with Dawson. Many times.)
I put my hand up to the side of my head and say, “I don’t remember saying that.”
I think.
“Oh wait! He was rubbing my temples. Because I was stressed. About you!!”