Stalk me. (The Keatyn Chronicles)

by Jillian Dodd

  “Holy shit, Cush. You look hot. That’s what you’re wearing tonight. My luck, I’ll take you there and still end up dancing alone.”

  He looks in the mirror. “You’re hot for me, aren’t you?”

  I grin. “You know it.”

  “The answer to your question is yes. I probably don’t wear it because it pisses my mom off. She’ll love you even more after this.”

  “You miss her.”

  “Yeah. I mean, it gets lonely during the week.”

  “Wanna trade? I swear, there is nothing but noise at my house.” I laugh thinking about all that goes on at my house most of the time. “I love my little sisters, though, and I actually miss the noise when they're gone. So, when I need a break, I'm coming here. When you need noise, you come to the chaos that is my house.” I glance at my watch. “I have to get home for dinner. Tommy’s grilling steaks before they go out. He says he’s tired of eating nothing but appetizers at cocktail parties. Wanna join us?”

  Your dirty little secret.

  8:30pm

  The girls had a bedtime snack, handed out kisses, and were off to bed. Cush and I ate dinner on the deck with Mom and Tommy and then watched the sun go down over the water. Mom excused herself to go get ready, so I snuck off too, leaving Cush to enjoy a cigar with Tommy.

  Now, I stand in front of my vanity, pull my hair back into a high, tight ponytail, and put on my makeup. I glue on fake eyelashes, cake my lids with super smoky eye shadow, add thick black liner and mascara. I add a little bronzer to highlight my cheekbones and a soft pink lip gloss, and then walk into my closet.

  I love my closet.

  Mom and Tommy had it expanded and redone last year for my sixteenth birthday. It looks like a high-end boutique. Black and white brocade wallpaper. Sleek, black cabinetry. Shoes, boots, and bags lined up in perfect, color-coordinated order. Beneath my feet is a fluffy white flokati rug that is so soft it almost feels sensual. I dig my bare toes in it every time I walk on it. I flip the light switch, and the black-lacquered chandelier lights up the center of the room.

  I know exactly what I want to wear tonight. A shimmering, silver Alice + Olivia sleeveless, cowl-neck dress that has a skintight skirt, and a pair of silver glitter, double-banded bootie Jimmy Choos.

  I check myself in the mirror and am pleased with how I look. I spritz on some perfume and walk out on the deck.

  Cush is sitting on the deck by himself, staring out at the ocean.

  “So I’m ready.”

  He turns around and looks at me, but doesn’t say a word. He just stares.

  I worry that he thinks I look silly.

  Finally a big grin breaks out across his face, and I get to see his adorable dimples. “Day-umnnn, girl. You got it going on.”

  We have so much fun at the club, and he wasn’t lying when he said I could grind on him all night.

  It feels amazing.

  The way his hands feel on my hips.

  How, if I move too far away from him, he grabs my ass and pulls me back close.

  How he runs his hands all over my dress in the name of dancing.

  If this is how he usually dances with girls, I can see why they fall into bed with him. Everything he does is just plain sexy. Especially when you make him grin big enough to be treated to those dimples.

  Sometimes, he looks at me and then down at my mouth. The way guys do when they want to kiss you. And I am so hoping that he won’t. He knows I like Brooklyn, and I don’t want things to be awkward with us. He’s so fun to hang out with.

  After closing down the club, we go to an after-party at Troy’s, then drive to an all-night diner on the beach, have breakfast, and watch the sunrise.

  “So we can’t tell anyone about last night, right?” he asks when I drop him off at home.

  “That’s right.”

  “I may have to blackmail you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, if you don’t take me with you next time you go, I’ll tell everyone your dirty little secret.”

  He winks at me, shuts the door, and I drive home with a smile on my face.

  Friday, May 13th

  I’m way into her.

  1am

  “We could have a lot of fun together, if you know what I mean,” Vanessa says to Sander.

  Yes, we all know exactly what she means.

  My supposed best friend is offering my boyfriend sex.

  She doesn’t see me walk up behind her. She’s too busy batting her fake eyelashes and tossing around her long, dark curls to notice me.

  I watch as she runs her fake red nails across Sander’s forearm. She’s swaying drunkenly back and forth.

  “A guy as hot as you shouldn’t have to wait. I wouldn’t make you wait,” she says.

  Sander, who was crowned Prom King earlier, looks particularly handsome tonight.

  Black Prada tuxedo. Crisp white shirt. Black tie.

  I stand frozen to the spot, trying to figure out what to do. Half of me wants to grab her hair and call her a bitch. The other half wants to tell her she can have him.

  It’s a gorgeous spring night, and we’re at a prom after-party held on the deck of a yacht.

  I know Vanessa probably won’t even remember this in the morning. She was chugging champagne on the limo ride here, then bragging about how she did cocaine with the latest train-wreck pop star, who was at prom because a nerdy boy from my science class won a date with her.

  But still. It’s no excuse.

  A drunk senior lacrosse player hit on me earlier. Drunkenly wrapped his arm around my waist and told me I looked like I fell from heaven. Sander walked up behind him and said, Dude, you know she’s my angel. As we walked away, the drunk guy said something to his friend about Sander tapping that ass.

  Everyone totally thinks Sander and I have sex all the time. It was just a few months ago when I let it slip to Vanessa that we never have. That I’m still a virgin. At the time, she was sweet and told me she thought it was romantic we were waiting. Not long after, she started making snide little remarks about it. Then she decided to use it against me. She threatened to tell everyone that—and I quote—Your relationship is a sham.

  Which isn’t true. Sander is a great boyfriend. He’s super attentive, dresses well, loves to shop, and never even looks at other girls. He’s totally devoted to me.

  Now, whenever I disagree with her, she reminds me of what she knows.

  And that what she knows would ruin me.

  I’m almost to the point of telling everyone myself, just to make the blackmail stop.

  But, if I’m being truthful, I am afraid of what people will think. Sander says all the guys at school are jealous of him. That they think he’s so lucky to have me. Of course, they think he is having me. That we’re hooking up. And if you didn’t know the truth, you would think so too. He always has his hands all over me, and he showers me with attention.

  But then, when we’re alone.

  Nothing really happens.

  And I’m starting to wonder if it is a sham.

  Sander handles Vanessa like the gentleman that he always is. He removes her hand from his arm like it's a piece of trash, then says, “No one would believe you. Everyone knows I'm way into her. How could I not be? Just look at her.” He holds his arms out for me to walk into. “Vanessa and I were just saying how gorgeous you look tonight, sweetheart."

  I do look nice tonight. Kym, my mom's stylist and my sometimes live-in nanny, loves to help me pick out clothes, and I love the dress we chose for tonight. It’s a long, nude halter gown. The fitted bodice is encrusted with crystals that slowly float down the chiffon trumpet skirt. Matching nude Jimmy Choos and a messy curly bun finish off my look.

  Sander slides his hand down my fully exposed back. Vanessa sneers at us, then staggers off as the finale fireworks start to shoot across the sky.

  I think fireworks are so romantic. Maybe I need to try again.

  I turn around and give Sander a deep kiss.

  He ki
sses me back, but just when things start to heat up a little, he says, “Sweetheart, you know the rules.”

  The rules.

  His rules.

  No making out in public.

  I get it. I do. My mom has to be very careful of what she does in public. She’d die if someone took a photo of her picking her nose or pulling her underwear out of her butt. But Sander hasn’t been in the public eye for the last two years. No one is taking pictures of him anymore.

  I turn back around and watch the fireworks light up the sky.

  Is it wrong to want some fireworks of my own?

  Early on in our relationship, he gave me some speech about his religious beliefs, which would be fine, except he’s not a religious guy. He never goes to church. So, I’m not sure I believe his I-want-to-wait-until-I’m-married excuse. While I appreciate that he respects me, lately I've just been feeling very frustrated.

  Frustrated with him. Frustrated with my friends.

  And I don’t know what to do about it.

  I recently tried to seduce him. He came over to watch movies, and I came out in a sexy black nightie. He told me I looked pretty, but that I should get dressed while he made popcorn. I’ve worn sexy bikinis, skimpy tight outfits, and sinful dresses. Still nothing.

  I know I’m nothing like my mom. Heck, half the boys I know have beat off to her pictures on more than one occasion.

  So I tried the bolder route. Went straight for his pants and tried to unzip them. He got mad at me, gave me a big talking to about respecting each other’s boundaries, and left mad.

  I want to break up with him, but I like our life. We’re the perfect couple that everyone wants to be, and I have everything I always thought I wanted.

  I’m just not sure if I want it anymore.

  My little laid-back surfer girl.

  2am

  The limo pulls up to my house. Prom was fun; not what I dreamed of, but better than I expected in one way: Sander didn’t get drunk. He’s been particularly high strung this week because he tried out for the part of Danny in the upcoming remake of Grease, and he really wants the role. I can’t imagine him not getting it. He has amazing dance skills, sings like an angel, and morphs into any role he wants to play.

  He walks me to my front door, gives me a chaste kiss, and bids me goodnight.

  And now I’m feeling a little high strung too.

  I want to scream at him. Where are the fireworks? Where is the passion? You are the FUCKING PROM KING! It’s PROM NIGHT!! The night every red-blooded American male is expected to drink too much, take their date to a hotel, and have sex!!!

  Instead, I watch the limo pull away.

  I let myself into the house quietly, so I don’t wake up the family. I grab a Corona out of the fridge, madly kick off my heels, then walk out the back door and onto the beach.

  I’m still wearing my gorgeous dress, but I don’t care about getting it wet and sandy. I never want to wear this stupid dress again.

  In all the screenplays I’ve ever written, prom night is always the climax. That pivotal night when everything changes. The night I’m supposed to lose my virginity to my perfect boyfriend. The boy who’s been dying to have sex with me, but who says I’m worth the wait. The boy who would know prom night is the night.

  In the limo, he’d wag the hotel key in front of my face and kiss me passionately. He’d tell me I’m beautiful and he can’t wait any longer. At the hotel, there would be rose petals, candles, and champagne. He’d kiss me and tell me I’m beautiful again. Then he wouldn’t wait any longer. He’d slide the straps of my dress off my shoulders and carry me to the bed, where he’d ravish my body.

  I plop down into the sand and let out a big sigh.

  Obviously, the casting director screwed up. Sander is not willing to do all that is required for his role.

  I think it’s time to cut my losses and scrap the project. Start over.

  Earlier this week, I mentioned to RiAnne that I was considering breaking up with him. She said, You’re the perfect couple. Why would you do that?

  But I know she’s wrong.

  The perfect couple would be doing it in a hotel room right now.

  I look out at the ocean glittering in the moonlight and wonder where he is.

  Where is my perfect boy?

  Could he be staring at the moon at this exact moment, wishing for me, too?

  Sometimes I swear I can almost feel him.

  Oh, for God’s sake, Keatyn. What the hell is wrong with you?

  Both of us staring at the moon?

  Obviously, I’ve read too many freaking fairytales to my sisters and watched too many stupid romance movies with my mom.

  Or, maybe I’ve heard the story of how Mom and Tommy fell in love at first sight too many times.

  But it’s sooooo romantic.

  I love hearing Tommy’s version of it the best. He’s so damn dreamy when he tells it. His eyes light up and he lowers his voice, like he’s telling you the world’s best secret. He talks about how their eyes met. About how he felt instantly tongue-tied. How, when he shook her hand, he could see their future. How he knew she was the one.

  I was on the same movie set. I’d been being a little brat about Mom dating, and I wanted to hate Tommy.

  But I couldn’t.

  We were on location in France. Mom’s character was a liaison for the American Ambassador to France, who gets caught up in a murder investigation and falls in love with a French investigator. Tommy had a cameo role as a French businessman who was dealing weapons to anyone with the money to buy them. Their big scene was when they dance together at a benefit. When you watch the movie, you can practically see the sparks flying.

  Tommy had been on set for only two days. Both times I had seen him, he was coming out of makeup just as I was coming out of my dance class. Mom had a former French prima donna teaching me ballet. The ballerina insisted I wear a pale pink tutu with a black leotard and matching tights. I didn’t mind the tutu, but thought it was boring. So I got one of the costume designers to help me tie dye it in multiple shades of pink and sew sequins all over it. The ballerina had just chewed me out for my American lack of respect. Tommy told me my tutu was beautiful at the exact moment I needed to hear it.

  I’m pretty sure I fell in love with him right then and there.

  I walked back in the room, where the ballet teacher was still stretching, and told her that Tommy Stevens liked my tutu, that I was going to keep wearing it, and that if she wanted to teach me, she’d have to learn to appreciate my artistic expression.

  Later that afternoon, after my schoolwork was finished, I got to sit very quietly on set next to the director, Matt Moran. Even as a very little girl, the process of making a movie intrigued me, and I wouldn’t make a peep because I wanted to be allowed to watch.

  After Matt yelled cut, Tommy walked up to me and asked me if I’d like to go see a real ballet with him.

  In Russia.

  Then he asked me if it’d be okay to take my mom along.

  I remember looking at Mom to see if she wanted to come with us. I still remember the tears in her eyes, the big smile on her face, and her nodding yes at me.

  Kym found both Mom and me beautiful dresses to wear, and Tommy took us to Moscow in his private jet.

  It was the best first date ever.

  For both of us.

  I feel a little sorry for the boy that falls in love with me. He’s gonna have really big shoes to fill.

  I think about Brooklyn. How he looked walking down the beach the first time I saw him. How cute it was when he swam out and taught me how to surf. It was my fifteenth birthday. We had just moved into Tommy’s Malibu beach house, and I got the present I’d been asking for: Mom and Tommy told me I could stay here, even when they were traveling, and go to high school. Then Tommy told me if I was gonna live on the beach, I needed to learn how to surf. He gave me a bunch of tips, but he told me the best way to learn was to just get out there and try. So I did. Over and over again. I fell so
many times, but I wanted to learn so badly. Brooklyn paddled out after a couple hours of my feeble attempts and taught me.

  The second our eyes met, I knew.

  Knew I was in love with him.

  Knew it was love at first sight.

  But then I found out that love at first sight doesn’t work out so well when the person you fall for doesn’t fall back.

  "S'up, Keats?" I hear Brooklyn call out. I turn to see him walking up the beach toward me. “You just get home?”

  I stand up. My beautiful dress is wet and sandy, but I know it still looks pretty blowing in the breeze.

  “Yeah, I just came out here to think."

  He walks closer to me. "You look really pretty. What’s wrong? Did Cinderella not have fun at the ball?"

  Ohmigawd! Did he just say I look really pretty?

  “Prom was fine,” I lie.

  We sit back down in the sand. I take a drink of beer then hand it to him. He takes a swig and hands it back.

  "So why do you look upset? Come on, Keats. What’s up? Someone wear the same dress to the party?"

  I sigh. Brooklyn doesn’t think much of Hollywood-type parties, high school parties, my friends, or my boyfriend. He thinks they are all shallow and vapid. Which means he’s probably not the best person to say this to.

  "I'm thinking about breaking up with Sander,” I say quietly.

  “You should. He’s an arrogant asshole and a whiner.”

  “He only whines about how much time I spend with you and the guys, and everyone at school will think I’m crazy."

  "Why do you care so much about what people think? He's not the right guy for you. And look at you. You'll have guys standing in line to take his place."

  Did he just give me another compliment?

  I look into his eyes. I’ve written so many scenes about those ocean blue eyes. I glance at his lips. The lips I’ve been dying to kiss.

  "I don’t think guys will be standing in line,” I say, shaking my head.

  “Keats, you’re a very pretty girl. Trust me, lots of guys will.”

  There’s the key word in the sentence. Girl. Brooklyn still sees me as the fifteen-year-old girl he first met.