by Gwen Hayes
“Maybe someday.”
“Would you feel weird if I came?”
“Yes. But I would still want you to. If you want, I mean.”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Are you glad you’re talking to him? Does it make everything…better?”
For the most part, I really liked Steve the Therapist. Every once in a while, he got on my nerves with all his let’s-hug-it-outness. If I got paid a dime every time he said the word “communication,” my sixty minutes in the chair would be free. But he was helping me open up.
“I wasn’t sold on the idea at first. But I went with my mom twice, and the rest I’ve been to solo. It’s nice to know that, relatively speaking, I’m normal. There’s no right way or wrong way to be…afterward. Some girls get overly emo, but some are like me and close off. Steve, my therapist, doesn’t talk much about the night it happened. We’ve been sticking to forward motion progress.” I stole a sidelong glance. “Learning to trust, that kind of thing.”
I tentatively placed my hand on his shoulder. I’d been told it was up to me when I was ready to pursue more than platonic relationships. Steve said if everyone waited until they were completely healed, nobody would ever date again—even people who had never been sexually assaulted—and that there were degrees of intimacy that I could allow into my life when I felt I was ready for them. It wasn’t like I was raped last month—I’d had a lot of time to move forward. But I should expect that sometimes I would regress, and sometimes I would progress.
“Foster, I need to go work on my story some more. Can you handle the rest of the meeting alone?”
“I thought you said it was done.”
“Didn’t anyone ever tell you women were fickle creatures? It’ll be done before deadline. Don’t worry.”
He rubbed his temples, and I knew the minute I was out the door he would cut the meeting short. But that was okay too. We had so much more leeway with the paper now that we were digital. I still wanted the new software and hoped the calendar would pay for it, but if we kept it the way it was, we’d be fine too.
Once again, I was reminded why I wrote words and didn’t play sports. I had a terrible arm and every rock I threw missed the window. Some of them didn’t even hit the house.
Frustrated, I kicked a rock hard enough to stub my toe. I started hopping and chanting, “Shit, shit, shit.” Why was my life such a farce?
“Is there a particular reason you are doing the bunny hop in my front yard, Logan? Is this a complicated hex ritual or something?”
I turned around slowly, on one foot, and faced a very wry Foster. “Yes, it was a spell to turn you into more of a toad then you already are. Alas, you ruined the whole thing by coming upon me unannounced. Now I’ll have to wait until the next new moon.”
“It’s a good thing you can’t aim.”
“Why?”
“Because that isn’t my window anymore. My little brother and I switched rooms two years ago.”
“Oh.”
“Now would be a great time to tell me why you are here.”
“Oh. Oh yeah. I wanted to see you.”
He held out his arms and turned in a circle. “I gathered that much, Ms. Logan. The question remains—why?”
“What are you doing out here anyway?”
“This is my house.”
“Why aren’t you in it?”
“I went for a walk. I saw your car on the corner and figured you broke down, so I came back. Why are you here?”
This really wasn’t going the way I planned it in my head. “Well, I thought we could go for a walk. To the swings.”
“She wants to go to the swings,” he said to no one in particular. “You’re a very unusual girl.”
“Thank you.” I sent him a cheery smile. “That is the best compliment I’ve had in years.”
We meandered through the deserted streets to the park a couple of blocks from his house. We took our spots on the swings where we used talk for hours. I don’t remember ever actually swinging on them, but we would twist them toward each other sometimes for a stolen kiss now and then.
“I finished my piece about what the teenage girl wants.”
“Well, I’m so glad you didn’t just email it to me or wait until morning like a sensible person.”
I pulled the story out of the side pocket of my jacket. “I wanted you to read it on paper.”
“How very old-school of you.” He raised his chin to look at the sky. “It’s kind of dark here. If you hadn’t noticed.”
I pulled a flashlight out of a different pocket.
“You never told me you were a Boy Scout,” he quipped. “Why am I suddenly nervous to read this?”
I shrugged.
“‘What a Girl Wants’ by Layney Logan,” he read aloud and proceeded to read the rest that way too:
When the question is first asked, it seems like a no-brainer. They want a great boyfriend. What girls are looking for when it comes to the perfect boyfriend, though, that is much tougher. And is there such a thing?
Being sent on an assignment is always a rush. I’ve dived from cliffs with Olympiads, spent a day at boot camp with the Navy recruiters, and eaten some pretty interesting dishes from the High School Skill Center kitchens. None of these, not even the calamari prepared by the freshman culinary class, struck terror into my heart like the prospect of going on twelve blind dates.
I wasn’t much of a dater, which is why I got the story pitched to me. Who better to solve the puzzle than someone looking at it from the outside?
So I set upon the task of finding that elusive something that some guys have and other guys wish they had. What I found was impressive. Some high school boys define themselves by their peers, some by their dreams, and some by their wallets. They are characterized by their family ties, their sense of humor, their cultivated skills, and their natural talent. Some want a girl for a week. Some hope it lasts a lifetime. Some don’t even want a girl at all.
After each date, I made copious notes about what made that boy more attractive. Was it his confidence? His compassion? Did he have great hair, piercing eyes, a sense of style all his own? Maybe he was willing to be a friend first.
Maybe he had some not so shining characteristics.
Some guys think it’s all about them—what they want. Some guys have a scary way of idealizing the girls they consider to be the epitome of the female form. Some wish to skip their adolescence altogether.
I realized quickly that the more notes I made, the more confused the issue became. Maybe that is where chemistry comes in. Maybe you can’t put that on paper.
Maybe what a girl wants couldn’t be defined by twelve blind dates and a jaded reporter.
An apology to all the hopeful young men who opened this article and thought they’d finally be handed the answer to their quest for the Holy Grail. I’m no closer to knowing what girls want then when I started—and believe me, I’ve been thinking of little else for a several months.
My best advice is to be yourself. Unless you’re psychotic, then you might want to try a different tactic.
Some girls will love you for your intelligence, your spirit, or your smile. Some girls will fall all over themselves if you even make the smallest effort to understand them. Some girls don’t care how you act as long as you drive a nice car. (And some boys deserve those kinds of girls. I’m just sayin’.)
Some girls will require a lot more from you than most guys are willing to give. This is the girl you’ll need a lot of patience for, because she will lead you down blind paths and up steep hills. The challenge will be staying true to who you are while pursuing this person.
She’ll wring you out, simultaneously repel and attract you, and question your every intention. She’ll be the biggest pain in the asphalt you’ve ever had.
She’ll need you to understand what she won’t tell you, believe in her when she extends no faith in you, and not give in to her when she wants to roll over you. She’ll expect that you’ll always be there, even
when she avoids you. She’ll want lots of independence but want you to need her desperately. She’ll expect you to be smart but treat her like she’s smarter than you.
Hopefully, you’ll believe she’s worth it in the end.
So, it is with my deepest regrets that I cannot solve the mysteries of the universe. I don’t know what girls want anymore than I understand why I’ve seen adults doing the Soulja Boy dance at wedding receptions. Some things are just meant to stay mysteries.
While I can’t explain what all girls are looking for when it comes to boys, I can tell you they’ll know it when it makes their heart jump. As for this girl, I think I’ve finally figured it out.
Foster stopped reading and looked up before he turned the page. I think I was dazzling him, but I’m not sure.
“Go on.” I nodded toward the paper. “Turn it.”
Slowly, he flipped the page…
Jimmy Foster
Jimmy Foster
Jimmy Foster
Jimmy Foster
Jimmy Foster
Jimmy Foster
Jimmy Foster
Jimmy Foster… (one hundred times)
About the Author
Gwen Hayes lives in the Pacific Northwest with her real life hero, their children, and the pets that own them.
She writes books for teen readers about love, angst, and saving the world. Her debut novel, Falling Under, was released in March of 2011 by NAL.
Gwen is represented by Jessica Sinsheimer of the Sarah Jane Freymann Agency. For more information about Gwen, please visit her website at www.gwenhayes.com.
Other Titles Available by Gwen Hayes
Falling Under
Dreaming Awake (coming January 3, 2012)
Totally Tubular
The Chosen
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Please enjoy the following excerpt from Codename: Dancer by Amada Brice. For more information about Amanda, please visit www.amandabrice.net
EXERPT
My first hint that the devil was wearing Prada earmuffs and a Burberry scarf should’ve been when my parents gave in and let me go to the Anna Devereaux School of the Arts. After all, they’d sworn up and down it would be a cold day in Hades before they let me go away for high school.
I definitely didn’t inherit my Grandma Rose’s ESP -- she’s what she calls ‘fey’ and my dad calls ‘crazy’ -- or I would have realized my world was about to be turned upside down.
But I guess it’s not surprising I’d missed the signs. I mean, there’s not exactly much use for earmuffs and a scarf in Arizona. I forgot to mention. That’s where I’ll be for the next four years. I’m a freshman at Devereaux School of the Arts in Scottsdale, majoring in dance.
Yes, that Anna Devereaux. You may not remember her movies, but I’m sure you’ve heard of her many marriages. She was this famous starlet in the ‘50s who made a bunch of old movie musicals with Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire. Anyway, after Hubby Number Eight passed away, she got nostalgic for the Hollywood she once knew and decided to start an arts school to train the next generation. I guess Katy Perry and Snooki didn’t exactly inspire much confidence in her.
But Snooki’s a novelist, you say. Yeah, and she’s read two whole books, too.
When I first moved in, I thought for sure I’d made a huge mistake. My roommate Bev is a complete waste of space. I thought living with an art student would be great. If nothing else, she’d know how to transform the stark white dorm room into something fun and fabulous. Plus she’s a sophomore, so she could show me around. But man, is she ever BOR-ING! I’m not sure she’s even capable of answering questions with anything more than one syllable.
I left my friends back home for this?
I plopped down onto my bed and tried to make small talk with the tall girl in black. “So, this is your second year here?”
Bev didn’t even turn away from her computer game. “Yes.”
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah.” She tucked a chunk of dyed black hair behind her ear, revealing more piercings than should be legal.
A root canal would be easier. “And you’re an art student?”
“Yes.”
I tried another tactic. “The dining hall opens at five?”
She typed furiously for a minute. “Yeah.”
“Wanna go?”
“No.”
I’m stuck with her for the next year. How was I going to make it? I snuck a peak over her shoulder at the time in the bottom corner of her screen. 4:55. Suddenly, my tummy was growling.
“Okay, well, see ya later!” I said, grabbing my sunglasses and slipping my feet into my new sparkly black flip-flops. A few seconds later, I was out the door.
I’d wanted to shower and change first -- what if I met a really hot guy while standing in the salad bar line? -- but I didn’t think I’d last much longer in that room without some fresh air. Fortunately I wasn’t too sweaty from moving in, and anyway, what were the chances of meeting my soul mate on my first night?
I got my food as quickly as possible, which really wasn’t all that quick. The buffet was a thousand times better than the one at Golden Corral, and I’d thought that one was huge! Station after station overflowing with food options tempted me, and I found myself barely able to make a decision.
Yummalicious!
Not that it mattered. I had leotards to fit into, so I had to watch my weight. I placed a salad, bottled water, and a small dish of sugar-free raspberry Jell-O onto my tray, although I eyed the tiramisu.
As I made my way through the crowded room, I noticed all the other kids seemed to be hunched over a flyer. Their whispering permeated the air like my mom’s Eternity. Was it an invitation to a super secret party or something? My older sister Whitney told me about all about the secret societies at her college. Did we even have that kind of stuff here?
Seeing all the kids huddled together suddenly made me homesick for my old middle school. I never had to worry about where to sit at lunch back at home. We’re supposed to eat three meals a day in the caf, but I didn’t know anyone, so where was I going to sit?
Deep breath.
Three girls sat at the table in front of me, whispering. Every now and then they looked up from the flyer and scanned the room. Then they laughed and huddled up again. Finally one girl caught my gaze. She had shiny long blonde hair straight out of a shampoo commercial and was wearing the dress Leighton Meester wore on last night’s “Gossip Girl.”
I had to ask where she got it. Not that I could afford it if it was real.
I walked over and placed my tray on the table. “Hi, I’m Dani, can I si--”
The blonde sneered. “You’re kidding me, right?”
As if on cue, Queen Bee’s friends started laughing. All three gathered up their trays and moved to sit with a group of guys at the next table over, occasionally turning back to look at me and laugh.
Did I have something on my shirt? Maybe I wasn’t wearing the right shirt. Or even worse, maybe a huge zit erupted on my nose?
I was surrounded by a sea of people, bobbing along on the waves and forced to sink or swim. What would it be? I clutched my tray just like a life raft.
I’d never felt so alone. So small.
So…nothing.
I considered bringing dinner back to Ames Hall to eat in my room -- even spending time with Bev had to be better than letting everyone think I was a loser who eats alone -- when I saw a tall girl wearing a pink tank top with rhinestones across the chest waving in my direction.
For second there I thought she meant someone else, but apparently not, because she strode over to me. “Don’t let them bother you. They just think they’re too cool for school. Whatev. You’re the new freshman in Bev’s room, right?” When I nodded, she stuck her hand out for me to shake. “I’m Maya.”
My hands were full holding my tray, so I did an elaborate balancing act with one hand and my hip and stuck out my right hand. “Dani.”
Maya motioned for me to
follow her to where she was sitting with a group of guys and girls. “What program are you in?”
“Dance.” Wow. I was about as talkative as my goth-girl roommate. What was wrong with me?
“Me too.” Maya’s cocoa-colored eyes shone. “So, what do you think of Bev?”
“Uh--” I stammered.
She held up a finger to silence me. “Don’t worry. I don’t like her either. She hates dancers. Total freak show.”
We finally approached Maya’s friends’ table. They, too, were huddled over a colorful flyer.
“Hey,” Maya said and caught their attention. “This is Dani. She lives with Bev Marcus.” The kids shot me a sympathetic look. “Dani, everyone.” Maya plopped herself down in between a short Hispanic girl and a guy who quite frankly puts the Sparta boys to shame. Whoa.
Hmmm...looks like I’m gonna like it here!
I placed my tray down at the empty spot next to a cute guy with spiky blond hair, dressed in a black t-shirt and ripped jeans. “What’s that?” I pointed at the flyer.
The Hispanic girl pushed the piece of paper over to me. “They chose our school for the next season of Teen Celebrity Dance-off!!” She smiled shyly. “I’m Analisa.”
“It’s not fair the auditions are only open to dance students,” Blond Spiky Boy said. “And let me guess, Analisa won’t be auditioning anyway because it’ll take away from your serious dance career?”
“It’s not ballet. That’s true,” Analisa said. “But as long as we still make our regular classes and rehearsals, it could only help.”
“Whatever, Kyle. You know you can’t dance anyway,” Maya said, dismissing him with her hand.
“Ladies, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” A tall guy with dark brown hair and piercing blue eyes the color of the Caribbean extended his hand and let it linger. Contacts? Had to be. Nobody has eyes that blue naturally. “Hi, I’m Craig,” he said, smiling and revealing the most adorable set of dimples I’d ever seen. He looked like he walked straight out of the pages of the Abercrombie catalog. Since the Devereaux School doesn’t teach modeling, I guessed ‘actor.’
