by Strong, Mimi
I went back to my bedroom, got under the covers, and pulled my laptop off the night stand. Instead of checking email and Facebook, I pulled up google and typed in Dalton Deangelo.
The weird thing is, my fingers just did that on their own. I swear I hadn’t even been thinking about the guy—not consciously, at least.
I cried out in surprise and horror when the google autocomplete function suggested I was searching for “Dalton Deangelo porn.”
With sick curiosity, I clicked the search button.
I knew I shouldn’t go looking for the stuff, but knowing it was wrong only made me more interested. It’s like… deciding you’re going on a diet, and then suddenly all you can think about is eating an entire birthday cake to yourself, and not even a tasty one, but the cheap grocery store cake that makes you hate yourself as you shovel pale, under-flavored lard into your mouth by the fistful.*
*Or so I’ve heard.
As the search results came in, my jaw literally dropped.
CHAPTER 3
I stared at the search results for “Dalton Deangelo porn.”
First, the name.
In his adult film, he was billed as Chandler Boink.
When you heard that, you probably laughed, right? I did, too.
And then my google hijinx took a turn for the regrettable. I clicked on an article that had school photos of a young Dalton. My heart broke.
Before his adult film role, and long before he became a famous TV-series actor, he was just a big-eyed kid with dark hair sticking up from his cowlick.
He was born David Blake, and if the article on the gossip website was to be believed, he was four years older than me—twenty-six.
The liar had said he was twenty-four. Or had he? He’d said he was “officially” twenty-four, and then been evasive.
Who was he?
I closed my eyes and imagined his face. David? No, he was a Dalton. No offense to the Davids of the world, but Davids manage grocery stores and fix furnaces. They don’t play brooding vampires and sweep small-town bookstore managers up in a tornado of fame and emotional dysfunction.
Touching his school photo on the screen, I felt the emptiness of missing him. He was still in LA, probably hiding from the prying paparazzi in that big house of his, and here I was in Beaverdale, hungover and getting fingerprints of sadness all over my laptop screen.
Shayla popped into my room, one towel around her body and another one around her showered hair. She jumped on the bed next to me.
“Whatcha shopping for?”
I tried to shut the laptop, but she was fast.
“You caught me,” I said with a sigh. “But we can’t talk about it, because I swore I wouldn’t bore everyone with the LA stuff.”
She glowered at the screen and chided me, “I hope you didn’t find the you-know-what, because he was under eighteen, and that makes it child-you-know-what and very illegal.”
“Gross! I wasn’t looking for the actual film.”
“That’s too bad, because here it is.”
I screamed. “Delete it! Gross, gross, gross. Get it off my computer!”
“Calm down. They don’t have the video, just stills. Like those blurry screen-caps. Hmm.” She chuckled. “Chandler Boink.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Hmm.” She kept clicking, riveted to the screen.
“Shay, how do you feel about Dalton right now? Like if we didn’t know him, and you were just a regular girl again, watching the show with your friends? Do you think his career is fucked because of this?”
“He plays a moody vampire, Peaches. He’s not Meryl Streep.”
“So, you don’t think it matters?”
“Oh, it matters. I don’t care how fast you run, you never outrun something like Chandler Boink, starring in Pizza Delivery Sluts Love Anal.”
I fell back on the bed and grabbed a pillow to cover my face as I screamed.
Shayla said, “I know, right? Why did it have to be anal? I mean… it’s porn, so there’s always anal, but why did it have to be in the title? Poor Dalton.”
From under the pillow, I asked, “How many girls did he screw?”
Shayla patted my foot. “Just one, baby. Just one in this movie, and I’m sure that’s it. You were definitely the second girl he slept with, ever.”
I yanked the pillow off my face and blinked at her in disbelief. “Really?”
Shayla smirked and shook her head. “No, not really. For a girl genius you sure are dumb sometimes.” She laughed. “Really, Peaches, he’s probably slept with more girls than a year has days. You’re better off without him.”
I hugged my arms around my body. “What about him, though? Is he better off without me?”
Shayla raised her eyebrows and gave me a serious stare.
“He’s coming to Beaverdale,” I said. “There’s no Keith here to protect me from Dalton’s charms.”
“His charms?”
“And his penis.”
“And his bumpy chest.”
“But mostly his charms,” I said, stifling a giggle.
“Right. Because it was his charms you were blowing when you guys trespassed onto the Weston Estate.”
This time, my giggle would not be stifled. Dalton had taken me to the hot spring of local legend, and I’d played mermaid for him. Just thinking about how good it felt to be naked outdoors with him, touching each other in the dappled sunlight… it put a smile on my face. Even running naked through the woods with some shotgun-wielding maniac on our heels was making me grin, now that some time had passed.
Shayla asked, “What would Keith say if he found out you went back to Dalton?”
“I don’t know what he’d say, but I can picture the hurt look on his face.”
“Would he consider it cheating? Are you guys dating long distance?”
“No, Shay. I told you. We never were dating. We were just doing a mutual rebound thing, to unbreak our hearts.”
She made a popping sound with her mouth.
“You’re right,” I said. “Unbreak our hearts sounds ridiculous out loud.”
“Maybe Keith is the guy for you. I’ve never heard one bad thing about him.”
“He puts parsley in smoothies, and he made me go to the gym.”
She shook her head. “In that case, you ought to press charges for cruel and unusual treatment.”
I glanced over at the heart-shaped mylar balloon tethered to my night stand. It had been a gift from my family, but looking at it made me think of Keith, and how he’d phoned me the night I returned home from LA, exactly when I’d needed him. That was just so like Keith, to do the sweet, sensitive thing to show he was thinking about you.
“I miss Keith,” I said. “He’s in Italy now, doing something with his life.”
“And you’re here with me. Poor you.”
“He’s riding around cobblestone streets on a little scooter, I just know it. Ugh, the Italian girls are going to be all over him. He’ll have to beat them away with a breadstick.”
“Breadsticks,” Shayla said, rubbing her stomach. “I’m so hungry, I could eat tofu wieners.”
Just then, Golden called out that she was done in the shower, and I could take my turn.
Shayla looked down at my laptop, frowning. She clicked, then typed furiously for a moment, then frowned some more.
“What is it?” I asked. “More bad stuff about Dalton?”
“Yeah.”
“Was there a Pizza Sluts sequel?”
“No.” Her voice was high and strained, almost like she was asking a question.
I tried to grab the laptop from her to see, but she yanked it away and clicked the button at the bottom to pop out the battery.
“You’re killing me!” I wailed. “Now I need to know what you read! I’m burning with the heat of a thousand suns to know what it was!”
“Too bad. I’m hungry for pancakes and bacon, and… it was nothing at all. I just took the battery out so you’d have your shower and we can
all go eat.”
I got up and started toward the bathroom, giving her a squinty-eyed look to let her know I didn’t believe her.
“Fine,” I said. “Murder my laptop. I’ll just ask Dalton when I see him.”
“Maybe you should give him some space.”
“We’re friends now. Friends help each other in crisis.”
“Yes, but…” She stood up and flicked at the heart-shaped balloon, which had lost some helium and now floated three inches below the ceiling. “Get in the shower before I go Low Blood Sugar Godzilla on your ass.”
Heeding her warning, I rushed off to do as I was told. (You don’t mess with Low Blood Sugar Godzilla.) The other girls had gone over the five-minute limit, and my shower was on the chilly side, but the cold water woke me up, and I’ve always liked how goosebumps make your skin feel tight.
After showering, as I was drying off with a big towel, I noticed that the small hand towel was missing from the rod next to the sink. Golden must have used it to dry off her petite body after her shower.
The realization made me scowl at myself in the mirror. The thing about accepting your own fabulous size is it’s not a one-time thing. You have to accept your body over and over again, every time some little thing happens to remind you that life isn’t fair, and other people don’t walk around with the same curves and creases you have. Some people can dry their little bodies off with a fucking hand towel. And what do you do when that reality hits you in the face? You smile at your beautiful face in the mirror and tell that girl you love her, big bath towel and all.
~
The three of us went to brunch at Pancake International. It’s a little like the International House of Pancakes chain of restaurants, but all the furniture was sourced from yard sales, none of the dishes match, and they only have six laminated menus, so each table has to share one. Actually, they’re nothing like IHOP, except for serving pancakes.
I ordered the Elvis in Paris, which is crepes with peanut butter, bananas, and honey; bacon on the side, and… heaven help me but just talking about it now makes my stomach rumble for more. I’m not even going to tell you what the other girls had, because you’ll go insane. Let’s just say that while the restaurant lacks in menus and decoration, all is forgiven when they wheel over the bubbling chocolate fountain.
We were done with our plates and I’d ordered a mocha refill when Shayla pulled out her phone. Golden and I laughed and pointed at her.
“Screw you guys, it’s a stupid rule,” she said.
I shrugged and pulled out my phone, since there was no need now to keep ignoring the message alerts.
Shayla had broken our little dining etiquette rule first, so she would be covering the tip portion of the whole meal, and now I was free to check Instagram and the other Usual Suspects.
A message from Adrian popped up first.
Adrian: There aren’t enough five-dollar bills in the float, so I need you to come over and do a run to the bank while it’s still open.
Me: I think not.
Adrian: Then come take over for me and I’ll go to the bank.
Me: Just put the “Back in Ten Minutes” sign up.
Adrian: But people won’t clear out of the store! They have takeout coffees and they’re all comfortable. We should get rid of the chairs.
Me: If we don’t have chairs, they just sit on the floor and lean on things. Trust me, chairs are better.
Adrian: I’m trapped. Trapped by customers.
Me: Pick the most trustworthy one and tell them they’re in charge for ten minutes.
Adrian: That’s no way to run a business.
Me: A business makes profits. Peachtree Books is more like a cultural institution.
Adrian: Come help me. You owe me.
Me: Owe you for what?! For ditching me last night? I only wanted you to come upstairs and talk.
Adrian: Your hands were not interested in talking.
Me: Oh, please. I barely touched you. Not like when you were playing Hide-n-Seek at my parents’ house and you pulled me down onto the bed on top of you.
Adrian: That was an accident.
Me: Last night was an accident, too.
Adrian: You regret kissing me?
Me: I don’t like labeling things.
Adrian: I enjoyed kissing you. No regrets. You have really soft lips.
Me: Stop thinking about my lips, because you had your chance and you blew it.
Adrian: You mean last night? I told you. I don’t want to be with a drunk girl unless she’s my girlfriend. I’m not that kind of guy. Don’t say I blew my chance, because that’s not fair.
Me: I meant you had your chance in high school. Back when I was in love with you and you were in love with Chantalle Hart.
Adrian: I’m not in love with Chantalle Hart. She’s pretty, but she doesn’t have a lot of character.
Me: You’re weird.
Adrian: Come visit me. I need five-dollar bills. And I want to see how hungover you are.
Me: I’m really busy. I’ve got a lot of stuff to do at my house.
Adrian: I know you’re at Pancake International. That’s three blocks over. Just come by when you girls are done demolishing the chocolate fountain.
I looked up from my phone and glanced furtively around the small restaurant. Who told him I was there?
Paparazzi, I thought with horror. They’d followed me here from LA, and now they were taking pictures of me with food crumbs on my chin, and uploading the images from the restaurant. Within minutes, “hilarious” trolls would be using their limited intellect to cobble together misspelled words, making memes of me for Tumblr.
Across the table from me, Golden laughed, her gaze down on her phone. Was she blushing? And twirling one of her pretty blond ringlets with her little hand? Yes, she was. And lately she’d been doing that whenever she flirted with Adrian Storm, which meant… there was no paparazzi stalking me after all. Adrian was two-timing me on the text messages.
I was both relieved and disappointed. I had my privacy, but only because I was just a regular girl.
“Sounds like a plan,” Shayla said to Golden, in response to a text Golden must have sent her from two feet away. That’s the danger of texting at a restaurant—it’s hard to stop once you start.
To me, Shayla explained, “Adrian needs a favor, so we’re going to swing by Peachtree Books after here.”
“Sure,” I said, pretending I hadn’t been talking to him myself.
Both of the girls stared at my hand, which was twirling my own blonde hair. My face burned with embarrassment.
“Who were you talking to?” Shayla asked.
“Keith Raven.”
“Isn’t it the middle of the night in Italy?”
I quickly pulled up his Instagram page on my phone and showed it to them. “We weren’t talking. I was just stalking his photos. Like a stalker. Feel free to make fun of me.”
“Who’s that chick?” Golden asked.
I glanced down at the photo. “That’s Tabitha,” I said calmly.
“One of the bag-of-hair girls? His sister or his ex?” she asked.
My mouth went dry, but I tried not to let on my surprise. “His girlfriend,” I said, my words sounding strained as they came out of my tight throat. “I totally predicted they were getting back together, which is why I wouldn’t go to Milan with him. I didn’t think it would happen so quickly, but she’s a model, too, so… it’s only natural… and stuff…”
Shayla reached across the table and patted my hand. “I’m sorry, P.”
“Don’t look at me like that. Nobody died, okay?”
Golden said, “If you don’t mind me asking, why were you sleeping with that Keith guy when you were in LA?”
To answer her question, I scrolled back through a few of Keith Raven’s photographs and showed Golden one of him wearing nothing but a pair of tattered jeans, his chiseled torso catching the light and shadows like a sculpture.
“Oh,” she said, nodding.
&nb
sp; “His personality is just as nice,” I said.
Her face scrunched up. “Didn’t that feel weird, being naked with a real model? I know you did the underwear thing, which makes you a real model, too, but…?”
I sighed. “Keith dragged me to the gym once, but he never made me feel fat. He said he used to be shallow, but I don’t know if I believe it. Whenever he looked at me, I felt like he was seeing my soul.”
Golden’s eyes widened. “Scary.”
Shayla leaned across the table and socked Golden on the arm. (I totally forget what a tomboy Shayla is until we’re out with smaller girls and she goes around punching them, like a dude.)
“Why scary?” Shayla asked. “Is your soul all crusty and foul?”
Golden laughed, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “We don’t want guys to know what we’re really like. Not until it’s too late for them to escape.”
Shayla tried to punch her arm again, but Golden jumped up from the chair and excused herself to the washroom.
“That girl has a dark side,” I said to Shayla once we were alone. “She practically told me to stay away from Adrian or she’d murder me in my sleep.”
“Did he do more than walk you home last night?”
“We’re just friends.”
“Blowjob friends or handjob friends?”
I pulled out some money for my portion of the bill and pushed the tray over to Shayla. “None of the above, which means I’ll be swept up in Hurricane Dalton. And I’m kinda looking forward to it.”
“But we hate him, right?”
“I’m willing to admit I may have overreacted just a bit to his movie script and those cheesy lines he fed me.”
“Peaches, I hate to break it to you, but…”
“What?”
Golden returned from the washroom, and the waiter came by to clear more dishes.
“I’ll tell you later,” Shayla said. “It’s probably nothing.”
As we gathered our purses and left the restaurant, I did wonder why she was being so cryptic, and if it had something to do with her removing my laptop battery, but then we walked outside and my attention was caught by a stylish woman slowly approaching in a convertible.
I recognized her as Dottie Simpkins, a seventy-two-year-old woman who gives charm workshops at the Beaverdale Community Center. She dyes her hair pink, and I’d like to say she doesn’t look a day over sixty, but my eyes work too well.