by J. A. Titus
The Date
* * * *
The Date
Copyright © 2012 by J. A. Titus
ISBN-13: 9781301435616
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
That’s it! It’s official. The lipstick scribble “Stacy and Blake forever” on the bathroom stall can be painted over. Can’t say I’m in shock. It’s been obvious for a while, but I guess I chose to ignore it even though it was staring me right in the face. I mean, what guy could resist a girl like Kirsta falling to the floor at his feet, as if he were a god? It’s not his fault her boobs practically spilled out of her low-cut Gucci sweater in the middle of chemistry – thanks to her investment in Scott’s brand tissue paper and heavy duty Scotch tape, I might add. And it’s certainly not his fault he’s a dumb, old, stupid jerk-head who falls for cheap, old floozies like Kirsta either. His “lower” brain was obviously in control in this situation and I can’t compete with that.
But hey, maybe this is a sign I need to be single for a while. There’s nothing wrong with being alone; at lot of famous women do fabulously well without a dumb man in the picture. Look at Sandra Bullock! She’s sexy, sophisticated, and rich. She doesn’t need a stinking man to be happy.
Let me back up. My name is Stacy Donovan. I’m a sixteen-year-old junior at Mansfield high school in Massachusetts. I’ve lived in this slow “there’s nothing to do” town all of my boring life. My parents, Ted and Judy, grew up here too. You can call us “townies” because, if you were to look up “townie” in a dictionary, you’d see our Christmas picture from like ten years ago. My best friend since practically diapers, Keith James, is clumped in the same group. His situation is actually worse than mine – even his grandparents and great-grandparents were from here.
My life was easy. Predictable. School, work, Keith’s house, home, and repeat. It’d been like that hmmm … forever! Well up until the new kid, Blake Kinney, asked me out. I couldn’t resist him. He was new. Different. Not to mention totally, breathtakingly, handsome.
I was at my locker, another typical Tuesday, getting my history book from the cave of darkness (also known as the top shelf). Using the books from my previous classes on the floor as a boost, I stood on my tip-toes trying to reach it. I’m really short. “A squirt,” Keith says. Standing at only 4 foot, 7 inches not many people are looking up to me. Grappling at the loose papers and text books above, I groaned loudly as I broke into a sweat.
“Hey, you need help?” Blake had asked, leaning against the locker beside mine. His heavily-lashed blue eyes twinkled in the horrible fluorescent lighting, a dimpled smile played upon his lips.
I nearly fainted. Why was he talking to me?
“Well? Do you?” he asked again.
“Uh-uh…sure,” I had stammered. And that was the beginning. I was completely smitten.
He reached over me and effortlessly grabbed my history book.
“Thanks,” I said rather sheepishly clutching my brown-bag covered history book to my chest. My heart pounded against my ribcage and I prayed to God I didn’t say or do anything stupid.
“No problem.” He flashed me another smile and ran his hands through his tousled jet black hair.
He was so handsome. Picture Jared Leto from the movie Lords of War and you had Blake. I watched, still clinging to my book, as he backed up. His eyes stayed trained on mine until he turned and walked down the hall toward his next class. I held my breath, when he peeked over his shoulder at me just before he walked through the door.
When he was finally out of view, I backed into my locker accidently slamming my head against the closed door. The sound of clanging metal ricocheted down the hall, but I didn’t feel a thing. I was numb, floating.
“What’s up, Squirt?”
Of course the only thing that could pull me from cloud nine back into reality would be, my bestest friend, Keith. I looked up at him with dreamy eyes and he knew instantly something happened.
“He’ll break your heart, Squirt,” he warned. “Boys…men, whatever you want to call us, we have other intentions – always.”
I laughed and slipped the padlock through the locker handle, before giving the spinner a quick twist. “What’s your deal then?”
He looped his long arm over my shoulder and whispered in my ear as we walked toward our next class, “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
The seriousness of his tone made me laugh even harder. Any thought of romance between us was completely and utterly out of the equation. We were like siblings.
“What?” he had asked, feigning a look of disbelief. “You don’t believe I can break hearts?”
I nearly choked. “Ha!” I sputtered, “You…you, Keith James, breaking girls’ hearts?”
With wide eyes and pointing to his chest, he nodded. “Yes, me! I can break hearts just like the rest of them.”
I shook my head. “You don’t have a breaking heart bone in your body. You’d be like putty in some girl’s hands. You’re the type of boy who needs to worry about getting the wrong girl.”
His brows shot up and a devilish smile creased his normally chiseled features. “Oh, intriguing. I like naughty girls,” he growled seductively.
“Oh-my-God,” I groaned. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it!”
He didn’t have a chance to respond because we reached our next class. I took my seat and tried hard to pay attention, but my mind was stuck on the image of Blake’s gorgeous eyes and dimpled smile. Learning about Gettysburg didn’t have a chance against studying every nook and cranny of Blake’s handsome face, or against the constant analysis of our brief, but tantalizing, conversation. I told myself I would study extra hard at home after work. No television time for me.
It wasn’t that day Blake asked me out; he waited a week. He kept me guessing as to if he’d pop the question, and I was just about to give up hope when he pulled me aside after lunch the following Wednesday.
“Hey, Stacy,” he had called after me, while Keith and I walked side-by-side down the hall toward the gymnasium. “Wait up!”
Keith gave me a look that said, “Don’t you dare,” but I waved him off and stayed back, allowing Blake to catch up. I’d hear about it later, but I didn’t care. All I wanted to hear was Blake’s voice.
He was panting when he finally reached where I was standing in front of the trophy case. He bent over, resting his hands on his knees and looked up at me.
“So, uh,” he began, “there’s going to be a get together at my buddy Trent’s house this Friday.”
I didn’t say anything, though I slowly released the breath I held because my chest ached with anticipation. This is it!
“So, if you’re not busy or anything, you can come.”
My heart nearly exploded like dynamite. I nodded, not thinking, barely breathing, “Sure.”
He stood up, towering over me, and smiled. “Great. I’ll see you there.”
I nodded, biting my tongue to keep from yelling, “I love you, Blake,” at the top of my lungs.
He nodded back and that was it. We were inseparable after that. I spent every waking free moment with him. Lunch, the
walk home – he actually drove me home –, after work, and every weekend. Needless to say Keith was not pleased.
Several months into our relationship I had a moment to actually chill at Keith’s house because Blake was at a track meet in another town. I didn’t bring my relationship up, and could tell Keith was purposely avoiding mentioning it as well. We pretended like nothing was different, like I hadn’t spent any time away from him. We acted like we always had on a normal, boring Saturday afternoon. It was his mother who brought it up and created a heated conversation between the two of us.
“He’s a jerk,” Keith vehemently hissed.
“You don’t even know him, don’t judge!”
“You’re not in the locker room when they’re talking about you! I hear everything … every nitty-gritty detail, and it’s disgusting.”
I blushed. What was he talking about?
“I don’t know what you’re talking
