by Jillian Dodd
Dallas is like, “Dude, she’s got a point.”
Riley quips back, “I’m not a player, Kiki. I just want to settle down with a hot, stripper-named girl on my arm.”
“Shut up. Seriously. Skip the Kiki crap.”
I shove some lasagna into my mouth and wish my mouth was doing something else.
Something with this Aiden boy.
Seriously, what is wrong with me? Why am I drooling over the some random hottie?
No hotties. No popular table. No falling in love.
I eat my food, then go with the boys to the new student mixer. It’s pretty boring, honestly, but I meet some more freshman boys. I’ve decided freshman boys can be really sweet.
Dallas and Riley get bored, so we leave and walk around outside for a bit.
I drop them off at their dorm and am walking to my dorm when I hear, “Hey, Boots!”
Boots?
I turn around, and there is gorgeous goalie boy.
God of all Hotties.
“Are you talking to me?”
“Yeah, you didn't tell me your name, and since you’re wearing those cute cowboy boots, I thought I'd call you Boots.”
“Boots is the name of the monkey on Dora the Explorer.” What? Is he an idiot?
“Who's Dora the Explorer?”
“It’s a kid’s show. Seriously, you've never heard of it? Swiper, no swiping? Backpack? Map? Tico, the squirrel?”
He looks at me with a blank face. “Uh, I don't think so. So . . . ?”
“So, what?”
“Are you gonna tell me your name, or what?”
“Oh, sure.” Then I get a little swagger back. “If you tell me yours first.”
You show me yours; I’ll show you mine is what I wish I could say.
He stares at me for a second, the same way Grandpa looks at a fish he's trying to size up. Seeing if he should throw me back in or not.
He puts his hand out for me to shake and says, “Hi, I'm Aiden."
I smile at him and let out a little nervous laugh.
I'm trying really hard to be cool with this guy.
Because the player comments are totally in my mind.
I don't want to fall for a player and get my heart broken. I just got my heart broken. Twice.
But I told myself I was going to make friends with everyone here, and it wouldn’t be fair of me to discriminate against him just because he’s hot. I should at least be polite, so I say, “I'm Keatyn."
It takes everything I have to let go of his hand when I shake it.
My hand belongs in his.
Forever.
Don’t laugh. I’m serious.
It belongs in his forever.
“Really? I've never known a girl with that name. Only guys.”
I stand there and stare at him, not sure if I'm supposed to be offended or not.
“So, Boots,” he grins. “You have a date for the dance Saturday night?”
“Uh, no. I've only been here for, like, five hours. I don't know very many people yet.”
“Well you've certainly made an impression on the male population.”
I roll my eyes. “I highly doubt that. Unless, of course, their impression is that I'm freaking nuts, because apparently that's what a lot of the girls thought. Or so my roommate tells me.”
He laughs. This laugh is deep and sexy. It’s kind of a growl.
Grrr, baby, grrr.
Yeah, I didn’t say that.
He says, “Freaking hot, yes. Freaking nuts, probably. Freaking adorable, absolutely. Plus, I have a lotta respect for a girl who can score on me.”
Before I can edit myself, I blurt out, “Funny, I've heard just the opposite.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“I don't know. I just heard you’re a major player. Usually players don't have much respect for the girls they, uh, score with.”
He narrows his eyes at me. I think I just pissed him off.
It’s cute.
He leans in toward me and sorta breathlessly says, “How do you know it’s not just cuz I haven't met the right girl yet? Maybe I'm really a hopeless romantic, a sensitive soul. I know that doesn't sound very cool, but it’s true. I'm looking for that special girl, so I guess you're right. I figure out pretty quickly if things are good or not. And if they aren't, well then, why waste my time? And I haven’t scored with all the girls I’ve dated. I'm really not all that experienced.”
I laugh out loud in his face.
I didn’t mean to, but I did.
Because, I mean, look at him!
He's freaking gorgeous. Tonight he's got just a bit of blonde stubble on that movie star jaw. And his hair is not messed up from soccer anymore.
“I'm serious. And what about you, stripper Kiki?”
“Hmmm. One, I’m not a stripper. Two, they asked me if I have a nickname, and I stupidly told them that at home my little sisters call me Kiki. Like key key. When they say it, it sounds adorable. When freshman boys say it, it sounds slutty.”
“So maybe we’re both hearing things that aren't exactly true?”
“How many girls did you date last year?”
“Uh.” He hems and haws. Purses his lips. “I went out with eight.”
“That's like one a month. Let me guess, you loved them all?”
He winces. “Well, I heard you have a boyfriend.”
“I did, but when I came here we decided we should go back to being friends. He's my best friend.”
“Good to hear. Cuz you look like my next girlfriend.”
“Oh my gosh, did you really just use a pickup line on me? I thought you said you’re a sensitive soul. More like your soul is full of bullshit.”
“Uh, sorry. I don't know why I just said that. So hey, I gotta go, but save me a dance tomorrow night, kay?”
I give him a flippant, "Sure," along with an eye roll.
He turns and grabs both my hands. "I'm serious." He looks me in the eye, and I swear, I almost faint when he touches me.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Repeat after me:
Do not fall for a player.
Only date nice boys.
No! Don’t date any boys.
Remember the list.
Do not fall in love.
You can not fall for a player.
I could probably kiss him though. Would that be being me?
But then my mind immediately goes to doing him.
Oh, my.
I think I may be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder or something. I can’t seem to think straight around this guy.
I shake my head a bit, get the cobwebs that seem to have formed in my brain out, and walk back to my dorm.
How not to impress a girl.
8:20pm
Back at the dorm, in the safety of my room, my roommate is already in bed and asleep.
Seriously? Curfew isn’t even until ten-thirty. And I’m still on Pacific time, which means it’s only six at home. I change into a pair of shorts and a sweatshirt then text my mom real quick.
Me: So, I’m doing good. So far so good.
Mom: Any cute boys?
Me: Mom, I’m having a boy moratorium.
Mom: But, still.
Me: Yes, I have met some cute boys. One that is so good looking, he should be an actor. He’s like the God of all Hotties.
Mom: Did you talk to this hottie?
Me: Yeah, he asked me to go the dance with him tomorrow, but I said no.
Mom: WHY!!!????
Me: Cuz he’s apparently a player. And I refuse to fall in love again.
Mom: Players can be fun. You know who was a player before he met me, just saying.
Me: I’ll keep that in mind. Love you!
Mom: Love you more!
I turn on my lamp on and shine it at my bare wall. I’m ready to hang up the main decor for my side of my room.
It’s a fourteen by ten foot poster of the ocean. Brooklyn’s dad was lying on the sand when he took the
photo. Kym had it blown up and mounted.
As I hang the poster, I start to get tears in my eyes. I can’t believe I’m here. I can’t believe I’m not home. With my family. With my friends. With Cush.
I wonder how mad Cush is at me. What lies Vanessa must be spreading. What she will do to get Cush to like her.
Fuck stalkers.
I get the poster hung up, then turn on the main light and appraise it. My roommate moans and pulls the covers over her head.
It looks fantastic. It’s the ocean right out in front of my house, there’s a big wave coming in to shore, and way out in the distance are Brooklyn and me, both up on our boards.
I sit on my bed and stare at it. Feel homesick. Decide to make my bed. I have my poster hung, my bed made, and am about to start unpacking clothes, and possibly call Brooklyn.
My phone vibrates.
I have a text message from someone called The love of my life <3.
The love of my life <3: Where are you?
Me: Who is this?
The love of my life <3: Dallas, duh:)
Me: That’s not what it says in my phone.
The love of my life <3: Come meet me outside your dorm.
Me: I was gonna unpack.
The love of my life <3: You can do that after curfew, come on.
Me: You talked me into it :)
So I go.
I figure it’s both the boys and maybe we’ll go kick around a soccer ball or something, but when I get out there I see it’s just Dallas.
He gives me a naughty grin.
“Why do you look like we’re about to do something that could get us both in trouble?”
He’s a cutie and really does remind me of a younger Brooklyn.
He opens his hand and shows me a neatly rolled joint. Like I said . . .
“Wanna join me?”
“Oh my gosh, yes. But where? I don’t want to get in trouble my first day.”
“I already got the scoop on where to go. Come on.” He grabs my hand, which feels surprisingly natural. We walk behind my dorm and into some woods I hadn’t noticed yet. There’s a skinny but well-worn path that we follow and, pretty soon, we’re in a well-hidden clearing. I smell the unmistakable scent of weed and know it’s not just me and Dallas who are gonna get a little baked.
There’s a group of guys sitting in the clearing on a bunch of downed tree logs, as are Peyton and the gorgeous brunette. Dallas told me earlier that her name is Whitney.
At first I’m a bit nervous, because Peyton is my group leader, and I’m pretty sure that Whitney is the Queen Bee here. And I know a thing or two about diva personalities. They don’t like competition and use their power to squash it quickly. I half expect Whitney to walk up to me and tell me to get off her turf.
But, as is typical with Queens, they get other people to do their dirty work.
Just after Dallas and I sit down off to the edge of their circle, a tall brown-haired guy with really massive arm muscles and kind of a beaky nose walks over towards us.
Dallas stands up. “Hey, Ace.”
“You aren’t supposed to be back here—seniors only.”
I smile at Ace, who looks me up and down very predatorily. Specifically my long, tan legs.
Dallas is super smooth, though, and I’m impressed. I hand him back the joint. He takes a big hit and blows the smoke out toward Ace’s face.
“Chill, dude. We won’t bother you. Just needed a place to smoke.”
But Ace is probably the asshole in the group and clearly hasn’t smoked yet. He is way too uptight. Dallas hands me back the joint, so I hold it out to Ace, toss my hair a little and then smile at him. “Here, we’ll even share.”
Ace appraises me, takes a hit, mellows a bit, and then hands me back the joint. “What the fuck, with legs like that you can come here anytime.”
He goes and sits back down with his friends, who don’t say boo to us. I’m pretty sure that’s not a good thing. I also notice that Peyton, who was super nice to me today, hasn’t even acknowledged my presence. For sure Whitney is the Queen, and Peyton is her minion.
Well, actually, I’m pretty sure that Peyton is just like me. The old me.
Dallas and I puff and pass.
Pretty soon we’re giggling about Riley and all the corny things he said trying to impress me.
Then I remember the Hottie god.
I tell Dallas, “So first he’s telling me how he’s this sensitive guy, and then he said I look like his next girlfriend. And I can’t help it, it’s not just the weed. I mean him telling me that was, like, classic. Something fit for the movies. How not to impress a girl.”
I’m leaning against Dallas and having a bit of a giggle fit when he pokes my side.
I look up.
Standing in front of me, not giggling, is the God of all Hotties himself.
Oh, shit. Busted.
I don’t know what to say. I go with, “Uh, hey. Aiden, right?”
He nods and walks away.
Dallas and I giggle some more.
And, somehow, when our heads are together, laughing, Dallas starts kissing me. And he’s a really nice kisser.
Friday, August 26th
A perfect four-leaf clover.
7:30am
Up early and ready for a full day, even though my body is saying, Keatyn, it’s four-thirty at home; please go back to bed.
But I can’t. I’m too excited.
I know, I shouldn’t be excited, but if I’m stuck here for a while, I might as well make the best of it.
This morning we’re meeting our student leaders for the school tour, pointers, etc.
I walk into the gym and we break up into our groups. Our group is all girls, and Peyton excitedly tells us about the welcome back dance, all the different clubs, things like curfews, visiting the boys dorms, places the boys like to hang out. I find it all very useful.
I do notice that not once does she mention the smoking spot we were at last night.
Then she leads us to the cafe, which is what they call the dining hall, where booths have been set up for each activity so we can learn about and sign up to be in clubs, activities, and sports. All the extracurricular activities are represented.
I sign up for student council, checking the box that says I'm interested in running for office. Peyton says, “Leadership material—good girl.”
Peyton seems really genuine and nice. Maybe I was wrong about her. Could Whitney be nice too?
I sign up for French club, spirit club, and, of course, soccer.
“So what all are you in?” I ask Peyton.
“I’m captain of the dance team. Soccer captain. I’m also student council secretary, president of the French club, founded the literary club, and I’m on the highly coveted social committee. Something you’re hand-selected to join. Something you would probably be good at, seeing as how you already discovered the cave.”
“The cave?”
“The place you were at last night.” She has that keep-it-on-the-down-low look in her eyes. I nod. Got it.
She signs me up for literary club because I told her I love to read, and then she says, “You should try out for dance team.”
“I thought I couldn’t. Weren’t tryouts in May?”
“They were, but due to unforeseen circumstances,” she lowers her voice, “as in one girl got pregnant and the other two got sent to rehab, we have three spots open. So far only fifteen girls have signed up. You have the body of a dancer. Do you dance?”
“I’ve taken a lot of dance classes over the years, so yeah, I guess.”
“Just try out,” she says and puts my name on the paper.
Her enthusiasm is catching, and she has all of her girls signed up for all sorts of clubs that fit their individual interests. She told us that getting involved in lots of things is how we’ll meet people, which, in turn, will make our time here really fun.
That and the tours take up most of the morning. We go to lunch, but I can’t eat a thing. I can never e
at before a soccer game. And I’m not that nervous for soccer tryouts, but yet, I am. After my little soccer stunt, I feel like I need to do well. Plus, I love the game. I want to do well.
I find out from another girl trying out that since the school is smallish, everyone makes the team. Which makes me feel better. At least I know if the competition is really stiff, I won’t look like a loser who didn’t make it. And I know if I work hard, I’ll play. She said tryouts are just to determine your level of ability, so the coaches can decide what team they want you on. Freshman, JV, or Varsity.
I’m all suited up and jogging a few laps around the field when I notice the Hottie strolling down the bleachers with some friends.
Dammit. Doesn’t he have anything better to do? Isn’t he supposed to be practicing football or using his godly charms on someone?
But then I realize his sister Peyton is helping with tryouts, as are a few other girls from the team who are here to help with orientation.
So it’s not like he’s here just to watch me.
Except he’s staring at me, and then he gives me a little wave. Well, I think he waved at me. I turn around and see if there’s someone behind me that he could have been waving at.
No one’s back there.
When I turn back around, he points directly at me.
So I give him a little wave back.
Shit. Focus.
Do not let the Hottie distract you.
He's a player.
He's a player.
But I can’t quit thinking about how he looked last night. That hurt puppy dog look in his eyes when I was telling Dallas about his lameness.
I close my eyes and picture myself on a surfboard, slicing through the water. I’m instantly calm. I don't look back to the bleachers because I don't want to know if he’s still there or not.
I get in the zone and focus on the technical drills the coach has us doing. She times us running the 40-yard dash, then kicks us one ball after another that we are to kick into the unguarded goal. We do penalty shots, headers, dribbling, and then she splits us up to scrimmage. I was told to play the center attack position against a very solid looking girl. The kind of girl that looks like she could tear my head off and spit it out before lunch.
