Stalk me. (The Keatyn Chronicles)

by Jillian Dodd

  “You are such a bitch! I can’t even believe you would listen to these lies!” Mandy screams. “She’s the meanest—”

  “MANDY, SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP!” her father yells.

  Her mother sobs louder.

  Vanessa gets up. “I’m very sorry to have met under such unfortunate circumstances. I wish you and your family the best during these trying times. Here’s my father’s card. He will be expecting an email or letter from you with Mandy’s punishment by four pm today. Thank you for meeting with me.”

  You see Vanessa let herself out.

  Then the camera focuses on her face. She smiles at the camera and says, “I think that went pretty well.”

  Damian looks at me. “Wow. Did that girl really do all that stuff or was Vanessa lying?”

  “No, it’s all the truth. Well, except for the part about her nose hitting a door. I did punch her.”

  “Sounds to me like she got what she deserved.”

  “Did she? She did it all because she wanted to be popular.”

  “What did her parents do?”

  “Sent her to a rehab center for youth who make destructive decisions. This fall, she will attend the very strict and religious St. Margaret’s School for Girls. Her friend, Alicia, will be a social pariah.”

  “What did her friend do?”

  “Helped distract Cush, so she could put the valium in his beer.”

  “Well, she deserves it too.”

  “I told Vanessa to destroy her.”

  “You what?”

  I tell Damian all the gory details. Spill my guts completely. Starting with when Vanessa threatened to tell everyone my relationship with Sander was a sham, and ending with Cush breaking up with me.

  “I ruined her life,” I tell him.

  “You didn’t ruin her life. I think she got what she deserved, but the video, that was to show people what happens if they mess with Vanessa and her friends, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s why I don’t want to go back to school. I can’t get out of it. Cush and I tried and look what happened. Cush hates me and he should. This isn’t me. This isn’t who I want to be.”

  “Who do you want to be?”

  “Just me. If I’m popular because people like me, fine. But I don’t want this. I don’t want to be the girl people are nice to because they are afraid not to be.”

  “I’m probably not going to be much help there. I was home schooled like you and Brook. I didn’t have to deal with that. Although even in the band there’s jealousy. We’re Twisted Dreams. We’re a team, but lately a lot of the focus has been on me. Because of who my dad is; because of the way I look.”

  “You should’ve named the band, Teen Dreams. All those little teenyboppers are going to have posters of you on their walls. You know they are, Damian. You’re adorable, and the way your eyes look when you sing makes girls melt. Hell, I know you, know what a big dork you are, and even I melt a little.” I laugh.

  “Shut up. It’s not like I mind it. Especially if it helps us sell records. And if we sell records, we all make the same amount of money. Troy doesn’t complain. Although the girls seem to think he’s hot.”

  “Troy is hot, and he’s a great drummer and a great DJ, but he’s not the guy singing to you. It’s you. Your voice. It’s special. So, is being a rock star not all it’s cracked up to be either?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll let you know when I’m a rock star.” He laughs, takes a sip of wine, and leans back in his chair. “Maybe I should write a song about that.”

  “About what?”

  “About being your own person. About not worrying what people think. About not worrying about being popular.”

  “Most teens could probably relate.”

  “That or I could write one about your eyes.”

  “My eyes. Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m not. Actually, I’ve written one about your eyes.”

  “You have?”

  “Yeah. The color of them. The way they look so bright every time you look at Brook. I’ve never really had a girl look at me like that. It’s obvious you love him. So, I have part of it written. Unfortunately, not much rhymes with Keatyn. There’s beatin’, sweeten, tweetin’, meetin’, heatin’. Not very romantic, but I’ll figure it out eventually.”

  “You’re funny.”

  “Wanna hear what I have so far?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  I refill our glasses while he grabs his guitar, strums softy, and sings.

  “Her eyes get bright every time he’s around.

  The ocean waves beat out her heart’s sound.

  Their love begins as a ripple and grows into a tidal wave.

  But he’d surf through uncertainty just to see that gaze.

  Oh baby, if you only knew,

  Oh, baby, the feelings I have for you,

  Oh baby, if you could only see,

  Oh, baby, it needs to be you and me.”

  He stops singing and knocks his fist on his guitar. “I can’t finish the song.”

  “It’s beautiful so far. It really is. You wrote that about me and B?”

  “Yeah, but I think I can’t finish it because you haven’t started it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You and Brook. You need to give it a chance. Then I think I’ll be able to finish the song.”

  My phone vibrates with a text. I look down, read it, and smile.

  B: The waves miss you.

  “Who just texted you? Wait, I already know. Your eyes had that same look, that same light. It’s Brook, right?”

  I clutch my phone to my chest. “Yeah, he says the waves miss me.”

  “He misses you. Talk to him, Keats. Hang out with him this summer. Get away from your friends. I’m calling him.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  He gets up and runs away from me.

  I hear him say, “Brook, how’s it going?”

  “Awesome. Guess who I’m sitting here with?”

  “Our little surfer girl. Heard you two haven’t talked in a while. What’s up with that?”

  Damian nods his head. “Yeah, so talk to her now.”

  He shoves his phone in my face.

  I shake my head no.

  He mouths, Talk, to me.

  I keep shaking my head. I can’t talk to him. I can’t.

  Damian gives me an angry face and shakes his fist at me.

  I take the phone and hold it up to my ear, but I can’t speak.

  I don’t know what to say.

  “Hey, B,” I finally say, since it’s all I could come up with.

  “I lied,” he says. “The waves don’t miss you. I do.”

  Tears instantly spring up in my eyes.

  “I miss you too.”

  “So I saw your Facebook status. That you’re single again.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a long story.”

  “When will you be home?”

  “I’m not sure. I was supposed to leave Saturday, but things have been kinda crazy. I was thinking about staying here longer.”

  “Oh,” he says quietly. “I was looking forward to hanging out.”

  Damian gives me big eyes. Then he whispers, “Why don’t you do both? Have him come here. You can hit some of Europe’s hot surfing spots and come to some of our shows.”

  I smile.

  That’s a brilliant idea!

  “What would you think of coming here? Damian says we could hang with the band on tour. That we could surf Europe’s hot spots. What do you think? You up for an adventure?”

  “That all depends,” Brooklyn says slowly.

  “On what?”

  “Us.”

  “What about us?”

  “I want there to be an us, Keats. Do you?”

  I suck in my breath. Those are the words I’ve wanted to hear for so long.

  The tears that were prickling my eyes start streaming down my face.

  “I want there to be an us too,” I choke out.

  “I’ll
be on the first plane I can get.”

  Tuesday, June 28th

  Know when it’s right.

  3pm

  When I picked Brooklyn up from the airport, we were one of those couples who everyone hates. The couple that stands there making out because they are finally together. We spent our first days exploring the beaches near the house. It seems like when I’m here with my family, we tend to go to the same places over and over.

  We spent days driving a little convertible around, lying in the sand, swimming in the ocean, and kissing.

  Lots and lots of kissing.

  We found a place to rent surf boards, and we played around in the water. We walked to little cafés and shopped in quaint stores. We spent our nights drinking wine from the wine cellar and kissing.

  He found an old book of poetry in the library and recited poetry to me.

  I was as happy as I’d ever been, but I sort of felt like I was hiding a secret.

  Last Brooklyn had heard, I was a virgin.

  In our short time together, Cush and I had quite a bit of sex, and I’ve been trying to decide if I should tell Brooklyn about it or not.

  About a week after he arrived, we’re swaying on a hammock in the back yard doing nothing but holding hands and watching the clouds go by.

  “Look at that one,” he says. “It looks like a parrot.”

  I laugh. “It looks more like a horse to me.”

  He leans in and kisses me. It’s weird how even though kissing is kissing, every guy you kiss feels different. When Sander and I kissed, it was sweet. Mostly friendly. When Cush and I kissed, it was fiery. When Brooklyn and I kiss, it feels like a day at the beach.

  Easy, breezy, soft kisses.

  Kisses that warm my heart.

  Kisses that make me feel like a girl in love.

  I can’t deny it. I’m in love with him.

  I have been for a long time.

  Even though we’ve been together day and night, and even slept in the same bed, we haven’t had sex. Brooklyn says we should wait until it’s right.

  But I know he’s waiting because he thinks I’m still a virgin.

  We’re leaving tomorrow and driving from where we are now on the eastern coast of France to the west coast. If we drove straight through, it will take us about nine hours, but we’ve decided to not be in a hurry and stop anywhere that looks interesting. The trip might take us days. Once we hit the west coast, we’ll go from Seignosse, to Hossegor, to Biarritz. Then we’ll cross into Spain and visit Zarautz. After that, we’re going to the Canary Islands. Staying a week at a resort on Fuerteventura and then another week on Lanzarote. Basically visiting what are supposed to be some of Europe’s best spots to surf.

  “So you keep telling me that you want to wait for sex so that it will be right. What’s going to make it right?”

  He cups my cheek in his hand. “I don’t think you should be in such a hurry to grow up. I think we’ll both know when it’s right.”

  “What do you mean, in a hurry to grow up? I’m almost seventeen. I’m pretty much grown.”

  “You know what I mean. You want your first time to be special. To mean something. Don’t you?”

  I let out a big huff of air. “I did, yes.”

  “What do you mean, you did?”

  “I mean,” I sigh. “Never mind. I do want our first time to be special and to mean something.”

  He moves his hand off my face quickly, like all of a sudden my skin burned him. “Our first time, but not your first time. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “That’s correct; it won’t be my first time.”

  He sits up, rocking the hammock. “Who did you have sex with? Damian?”

  “Oh, gosh, no. He wouldn’t. He’s writing a song about us. He knows I’m in love with you.”

  I stop talking. My stupid mouth hangs wide open.

  Shit.

  I so did not mean to say that. I’ve been waiting for him to say it.

  I clamp my mouth shut.

  He looked mad before, but now he looks softer.

  “You’re in love with me?”

  I shut my eyes tight and cover my face with my hand.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I can feel the tears prickling my eyelids.

  I am so freaking embarrassed, but I nod my head yes. Then I get brave, open my eyes, and peek at him through my fingers.

  He pulls my hand off my face. “Why are you crying? Do you not want to be in love with me?”

  “No. I don’t know. I just didn’t mean to say it. I don’t want it to be some dumb crush. I don’t know how you feel. I don’t know what this is. What we are.”

  He leans down and kisses me.

  “What we are is in love, Keats. I love you too.”

  “Really?”

  Now the tears really start falling.

  He nods softly, and I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him again.

  He pulls me tightly into his chest.

  “I’m sorry about us leaving you that night. I should have waited for you. I just wasn’t thinking.”

  “That’s the night it happened. I’m sorry. I thought I didn’t mean anything to you. That it was, I don’t know, just a hookup to you. I thought you were down there hooking up with other girls. Damian told me it was surfers. I’m really sorry. He told me he loved me and after your rejection, I needed to feel loved. I wasn’t in love with him at the time.”

  “At the time? Does that mean you’re in love with him now?”

  “No. I’m not.” Definitely not. Especially after he blamed me for what Mandy did.

  “Was it that guy from the beach that day? The one that twirled you around?”

  “Yeah. It was Cush. He’s who I was going out with.”

  Brooklyn takes my hand in his and kisses it. “It’s not where you’ve been that matters, Keats, it’s where you end up that does.”

  “Is that from a poem?”

  “No, I think I just made that up.” He laughs.

  “It’s poetic. You should write it down.”

  “I might have to do that. Wow.”

  “Wow, what?”

  “Now that I’ve finally said it, I want to say it all the time. I love you.” He kisses me sweetly on the neck. “I love you.” He kisses my cheek. “I love you.” He kisses my forehead. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

  Wednesday, June 29th

  Keats for my Keats.

  7pm

  Our drive across France was supposed to be relaxed and fun. We stopped along the way for lunch, but Brooklyn seemed to be in a hurry.

  When we were almost to the city of Bordeaux, I find out why.

  He turns off the main road and onto a little lane. The countryside in this area is amazing. Rolling hills, rows of grapes growing from dark dirt, and green as far as the eye can see.

  “So, my dad stays here and loves it,” he says to me with a grin. “When I told him we were headed this way, he booked us a special suite.”

  And special was a good way to put it. The small luxury hotel was recently built of all recycled wood and finishes. Our suite is its own structure that sits on stilts over a pond. It has a cozy, cabin-like feel, a large deck for relaxing, and a big bed topped with luxury linens and a beautiful quilt. I’ve never stayed anywhere quite like this. The property also features a small bistro, a five-star restaurant, and an incredible spa.

  “It’s beautiful,” I tell him.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  He kisses me and then leads me toward the bed.

  He slowly unbuttons the white cotton blouse I wore today.

  As it slides off my shoulders, he kisses my neck and whispers in my ear. “Nothing ever becomes real ‘til it is experienced.”

  “That’s Keats, right?”

  “Keats poetry for my Keats,” he says with a nod and a grin.

  “So does that mean I finally get to experience you?”

  He caresses my shoulder, kisses my neck, and then looks into my eyes. Th
e way he looks is better than anything I ever scripted. Better than anything I ever imagined. I smile at him and wrap my arms around his waist.

  He gently pushes my bangs out of my face and looks deep into my eyes. “You said when you did it before that you weren't in love with him. I've never been in love before either. So in a way, it's both of our first times.”

  I fight the temptation to throw him on the bed. I’ve waited a long time for this. I want to savor it.

  I pull his shirt up over his head and pepper his chest with teeny kisses.

  He falls back onto the bed, pulling me on top of him.

  I half laugh, half scream, but keep kissing his chest. I want to kiss every bit of it.

  I work my way down to his abs. Run my fingers across them. Kiss them.

  Then I unbutton his shorts. He quickly kicks them off, then flips me over so that he’s lying on top of me.

  He kisses down my neck and runs his hands all over my body. Then he reaches behind me, undoes my bra, and kisses across my chest. I really don’t know how much more I can take. I move one of my boobs closer to his mouth, and when he finally complies, I let out a little gasp.

  Screw savoring it.

  I shove my hand between his legs and roughly rub the front of his boxers. He starts breathing a little more heavy, but doesn’t stop going slow.

  He kisses down my stomach, stopping only to unbutton my shorts and slide them off, my panties coming off along with them. Then he kisses the rest of me.

  My stomach.

  Down my legs.

  The insides of my thighs.

  Which about drives me insane.

  He even kisses the tops of my feet, the tips of my toes, then, finally, he stops going so incredibly wonderfully excruciatingly slow.

  He kisses fast up my legs and slides his finger into me.

  I pull him to my lips, run my fingers wildly through his hair, and kiss him frantically while I push his boxers off with my feet.