Stalk me. (The Keatyn Chronicles)

by Jillian Dodd

  “It’s gonna be okay, Mom. I’ll text you. It’ll be just like when you go film a movie, but I’ll be somewhere new. Off on a new adventure.” I try to be brave for her. I try not to cry, but when I say adventure, it makes me think of the girls. And I can’t help it. I start to cry too.

  Actually, I kinda bawl.

  Mom hugs me tightly while I cry into her shoulder.

  I try to soak in the feeling of her hug. The hug I’m going to need to remember. The hug that’s going to get me through this. The hug that gives me the strength to go on.

  Tommy says quietly, “Abby, we need to go.”

  Mom nods her head, lets go of me, and kisses me on the forehead. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  Tommy gives me a big hug and says, “I love you too, baby. Be safe.”

  And then they are escorted down the stairs and off the plane.

  I’m used to Mom leaving, traveling, but this feels very different.

  I suddenly feel very alone.

  I told them I’d be okay, but I’m not really sure if I will be.

  Garrett sits down next to me. “They are going to park the plane like they normally do. You and I will get off shortly and board a different plane. It’s time to get you to school.”

  Keatyn Douglas is no more.

  2:15pm

  “Kym dropped some things off for you earlier,” Garrett says to me as we board another plane. He points to a couple suitcases sitting by the leather couch. “Everything else already got shipped to school and should be in your room waiting for you. She said you’d need these things right away.”

  I glance down and notice a note attached to one of the suitcases with my name on it. It says there is an outfit for me to change into hanging in the closet.

  I go change, fix my makeup, and join Garrett back in the main portion of the plane. He hands me another manila envelope, and I try not to shudder when I take it from him.

  I let the contents fall out onto the table.

  I now have a fake, but apparently legal, passport, driver’s license, birth certificate, and social security card. I put the license in my wallet next to my new ATM and credit cards and run my fingers across the raised name.

  Keatyn Monroe.

  I am now Keatyn Monroe. Keatyn Douglas is no more.

  I practice my lines. Hi, I’m Keatyn Monroe. Nice to meet you. My parents? Oh, they moved to France. I refused to go with them, so they sent me here.

  No, that sounds bitchy.

  Hi, I’m Keatyn Douglas. Shit. I mean, Monroe.

  Monroe. Monroe. Monroe.

  Me? Oh, I’m not that exciting. Tell me about you. Do you like going to school here?

  No, that sounds lame.

  I am exciting. I’m amazing!

  Like not in a bitchy popular way, just in a confident way.

  Hi, I’m Keatyn.

  That’s it.

  I’m Keatyn. That’s all anyone needs to know.

  After we land, Garrett drives me to school.

  “Notice the security features,” he says as we pull up to a gated entry.

  I expected it to look prison-like, the way everyone described it, but instead it looks like the kind of grand gated entrance you would find going into a private country club. It has a thick black iron gate and a pretty bricked guardhouse. I look closer and notice more detail. A tall, prison-style fence is mostly obscured by trees, as are the security cameras I see aimed at the fence and beyond.

  We wait in line behind a couple of other cars, then pull up to the guardhouse.

  “Student’s last name?” the guard asks.

  Garrett looks at me, but I’m busy staring at the bank of security televisions that I can see inside the guardhouse. They all appear to be for protecting the perimeter of the school, not for monitoring activity within the fence.

  “Name?” the guard says again.

  “Monroe,” Garrett finally answers.

  “Sorry,” I say quietly. “Is that fence electric?”

  Apparently the guard has very good hearing because he replies, “You already planning your escape?”

  “Uh, no, I just wondered.”

  “It is electric,” he says. He stands up straighter. “We have a senator’s son here this year. We take security very seriously.”

  “Excellent,” Garrett replies. I can tell he’s ready to get on with it.

  As we’re waiting for the gate to open, he says, “I personally picked out your dorm room. It’s on the first floor, backside of the building, next to the fire exit. Don’t change rooms with anyone. You have multiple escape routes from that room. The window, the fire exit, and the main hallway. It’s also next door to the boy’s dorm that I’m told houses many of the male athletes. It should be the first place you run to if you’re in danger, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He grins at me. “It’s also been newly remodeled, has it’s own bathroom, and a small walk-in closet.”

  “You’re a man after my own heart, Garrett,” I laugh. But then I say seriously, “Thank you. Really. For all you’ve done.”

  The big gate opens, and we drive through. The road winds through some trees and then you see it. All sprawled out like a college campus. We pass a golf course and athletic fields. Farther up the hill is a large field house, recreational facility, tennis courts, and more playing fields. We pass brick colonial homes that I know are the dorms. Beyond that I can see the big pillar-fronted library, a chapel, and classroom buildings. We stop in front of a modern glass building with a discreet sign that says, J. Huffington Social Center.

  “This is it,” Garrett says. “Your new home. It’s pretty great, isn’t it?”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  My door is opened by a very cute guy with adorable freckles and really nice shoulders. He’s wearing a red polo shirt with a cougar embroidered on it.

  “Welcome to Eastbrooke. Name?” he says without even bothering to look at me.

  I slide my legs out of the car and notice that all of a sudden he’s looking at me. Well, looking at my legs anyway. “I’m Keatyn Monroe.”

  He gives me a crooked grin. “Monroe. Very nice to meet you.” He reaches out to shake my hand.

  “Nice to meet you too. You always so formal here?”

  He chuckles and points to his shirt. Under the cougar are the words, Senior Prefect.

  I laugh. “What is this, Hogwarts?”

  Garrett pops the trunk, and I walk around to retrieve my bags.

  When we’re standing by the trunk, he whispers to me. “Prefect means I have to be on my best behavior.”

  “Does that mean you usually misbehave?”

  “You know it.” His arm muscles flex as he pulls my bags out of the trunk. “I’m in charge of getting these to your room.”

  “And what am I in charge of?”

  “You, Monroe, need to check in at that table over there. Cute boots. Where are you from?”

  “California.”

  He nods his head like that explains it all. “I’m Jake, by the way.”

  I watch Garrett and my old life pull away, turn around, and walk to the check-in table. I get a big packet of information and am told to head to the small gym for New Student Orientation.

  I glance at my phone and see I have a few minutes to spare, so I walk down the wide pathway and take it all in.

  My first thought it that the campus is even prettier than the pictures.

  All the trees look like they’re just on the verge of changing to their brilliant fall colors. I can picture the grounds covered in snow and feel a twinge of excitement at the prospect of spending a winter here. Getting to see snow every day, not just for a week of skiing in St. Moritz.

  I glance around and don’t see anyone who looks remotely like Vincent.

  There are no memories of him anywhere.

  I take a deep breath.

  I’m standing on a sidewalk in the middle of a campus where nothing is familiar, but I feel like I’ve come home. />
  Like I belong here.

  And for the first time in days, I feel safe.

  Kiki is a stripper name.

  3:45pm

  I remind myself of my new name and check in at New Student Orientation.

  New Student Orientation is mostly for incoming freshman, but all new students have to go through it. I hope I’m not the only new upperclassman here—but, I guess, worst case scenario is that I meet a few freshman.

  My plan is simple. I’m going to find a couple guys who look nice and see if I can sit with them. In reading every scrap of information I could find about the school, I learned that the football players came here for camp two weeks ago, so even if they’re new, they’ve probably gotten to know each other.

  I spy a guy that is too cute for words. He looks, well, like Brooklyn did when I first met him, with sandy blonde hair and gleaming blue eyes, and I instantly feel a connection to him. When a really hot, tall, dark-haired guy who looks way too old to be a freshman walks over and fist bumps him, I know I’ve found my pair.

  I wait for them to sit down, while hoping they aren’t the kind of guys who like to sit up front. I watch them walk high up in the bleachers.

  We have to wear uniforms at Eastbrooke—well, sort of uniforms. The boys wear matching navy blazers with khaki pants or shorts. They also have to wear Oxford shirts and ties, but they get to choose whatever kind they want. Some days they wear a polo with the school’s crest on it, but I’m not sure when those days are. The girls have to wear plaid skorts or skirts that are a really cute navy and black plaid. Mixed into the plaid are stripes of white, red and yellow. The girls also have navy blazers, but they have more options, like colored vests and cardigans.

  I’m actually kind of excited for the uniforms.

  Since everyone traveled here today, we were allowed to dress casually. I changed into the outfit that Kym packed for me on the plane. I’m wearing a cute knit dress with an appliquéd rose front and an asymmetrical lace hem. Brown suede Proenza Schouler tote, braided belt, and the cowboy boots Cush gave me.

  I wasn’t allowed to bring a whole lot from home, but I did bring the boots, a few of my favorite shoes, the book of Keats poetry, and a few other things I didn’t think I could live without, including a dress of Mom’s to wear to the Welcome Dance on Saturday night. And I might have borrowed the black Gucci platform boots that we always fight over. They were in my closet, and I’m pretty sure possession is nine-tenths of the law.

  Boots are noisy, I realize, as I clomp up the bleachers after the boys. A few girls look at me.

  Make that, stare at me.

  And then they all look down at my boots.

  I’m thinking maybe East coast girls don’t wear a lot of cowboy boots?

  Shit.

  I hope the boots weren’t a mistake. Kym actually packed a pair of pretty platform wedges to wear with the dress. Why didn’t I listen to her?

  But then I remember that I don’t want to be like everyone else. I want to be me. And me likes the boots. And, more importantly, wearing these boots makes me feel like Cush is with me, reminding me to be me. To let people get to know me; to let people in the way I did him.

  Besides, I can’t change them now.

  I notice either designer heels or Sperry topsiders on most of the girls.

  The young Brooklyn clone and the dark-haired hottie are sitting with a group of boys who look like freshmen. I try to decide how to play this.

  I could use the make-them-come-to-me-approach. March up there and sit just a couple rows in front of them, hoping they will see me sitting alone, take pity on me, and talk to me. That’s sort of a passive approach, though, and I’m going to be bold.

  Why the hell not?

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being friends with Vanessa it’s that confidence and boldness are king. And it’s not like I can embarrass myself too badly. No one here knows me. And since I am now officially in charge of the script of my life, why not be bold and take a few risks?

  There’s a butt-sized gap between the two boys. I’m going to walk up to them, point at the gap, and say, Is this seat taken?

  Then I’m going to pray they don’t laugh at me.

  “Is this seat taken?” I ask politely, boldly pointing at the sliver of seat between them.

  They look at each other, slide apart, and the clone says, “All yours, darling.”

  At first I think he’s making fun of my boots, but then he says, “Hey, I’m Dallas, and this here’s Riley,” in an unmistakable Southern drawl—the kind you only get from growing up in the South, not from working with an accent coach.

  Because I’ve spent a lot of time in East Texas, both in my real and fake lives, I respond with, “Nice to meet y’all. I’m Keatyn.” And then I sit.

  “Great boobs, uh, I mean boots,” a boy behind them says.

  I laugh.

  I’m not offended in the least.

  It’s not like I’m some freshman virgin. I’m an experienced woman, and I think that makes me worldlier than all my travels have. Like, kinda.

  I turn around and look at the offending boy. “Thanks, what’s your name?”

  The boy looks embarrassed and ignores me.

  Great! I’m off to a great start. I’m being ignored by a freshman boy. Twelve minutes into my time here, and I’m already a loser.

  I ignore the boy and turn to Dallas. He looks sweet. And the way he sorta looks like Brooklyn makes me feel comfortable talking to him. “So, you don’t look like a freshman.”

  “Me and Riley here are juniors, how about you?”

  “I’m a junior too.”

  The boys tell me they all met last week during football camp.

  “So what are you gonna do here?” Riley asks me.

  “I’m not sure. You guys like to party? Or are you serious athletes?”

  “I’d say we’re both,” gorgey dark Riley tells me. “And my brother is a senior, so I pretty much have the place wired.” His easy way reminds me of Cush.

  “You’re a good guy to know, then. You can introduce me to your hot brother and all his friends.”

  “How do you know my brother is hot?”

  “Cuz you are,” I flirt. Why the hell not?

  I’m single. You’re single. Let’s mingle.

  Just because I’m not going to fall in love doesn’t mean I can’t have some fun. That was one thing I was always kind of jealous of RiAnne about. She told me she loved kissing boys. She slept with some of them, but she loved kissing them. She’d go on and on for hours about the merits of this boy’s technique or lips versus another boy’s.

  I should add that to my list of things I want to do.

  I want to kiss a lot of boys. I don’t want to be slutty, but it’s the first time I’ve been completely single. I should enjoy it. Is kissing a lot of boys considered part of working on me? I’ll have to ask Kym that, but I’m pretty sure it qualifies. It’s like self-improvement. Practice makes perfect and all that.

  “Naw,” says Riley, “I think we’re gonna keep you to ourselves.”

  “Uh, not to burst your bubble or anything, but I prefer older guys. I’ve never dated a guy my age.”

  Just as the words leave my lips, it’s like I’m on a movie set, with a script in my hand about immature boys, and they’re all following along. A boy up front rips out a loud fart, and they all laugh.

  “My point, exactly.”

  “That dude may be immature,” Dallas tell me. “But we’re not. Notice he’s not sitting with us.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  Riley asks, “So how come you’re not trying to meet some girls? I heard there’s a couple other new junior girls. You could find your new bff.”

  “Notice how all the girls are trying to get as close to the front as they can? Trying to make a good impression?”

  “Yeah,” both Riley and Dallas say.

  “Why are you in the back?”

  Dallas laughs. “Because we don’t give a shit about goo
d impressions. We just wanna goof around.”

  “I’m not into all that either. Plus it’s been my experience that guys are a lot easier to get along with. No drama.”

  Riley raises his eyes at me. “We’ll get along just fine. You don’t need girls for your bffs anyway.” He throws his arm around my shoulder. “I’m your new bff, and I think I’ll be your new boyfriend.”

  “Um, I kinda have a boyfriend.”

  Shit. That sort of came out wrong. I don’t have a boyfriend. I tried to come up with an appropriate relationship status for me and Brooklyn on the plane. It’s more like friends with benefits. I thought about what he said about letting fate decide if we should be together, but I’m pretty sure I don’t believe in fate.

  At least until some guy tells me he’s been talking to the moon.

  “Not for long.” Riley says. “I promise, I’ll make you forget all about him.” He grins a very seductive grin at me.

  “I highly doubt that.”

  “Oh, you underestimate me,” he says, his eyes smoldering.

  Eyes that make me know I'm not the only one who’s not a virgin. This boy is clearly not new to the game. And you know what? He might be right. I may have underestimated him.

  Riley continues. “Plus, I can get us in all the good parties. My bro and I are tight.”

  He and Dallas fist bump each other.

  “Hell yeah, bro,” one of the boys from behind us says. Riley and Dallas roll their eyes at the freshman. I’m thinking he won’t be invited.

  The headmaster, principal, dean, whatever they call him, gets up and starts welcoming us. He’s telling us a bunch of boring history about the school, and I’m really not all that interested. Plus, I already know it.

  I turn to Riley. “You sure your brother feels that way?”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “I mean, do you really think your older brother wants his baby bro tagging along with him?”

  Dallas laughs. “SLAAAAMMMM.”

  “You’re cute,” Riley tells me.

  “Thanks, I think.”

  “And my reputation clearly does not precede me.”

  “You have a reputation? Ha! Did you make one up? You haven't been here long enough to get a reputation. I mean, unless you’re gay. You been hooking up with all the boys during football camp?”