by CJ Daly
newest item on the menu.
“How tall is he?” grilled Ashley-Leigh. She had a strict policy of not dating
anyone under 5’ 10” no matter how cute.
Meagan turned to Halie for confirmation. “At least six feet tall.” They
continued on and on about what he looked like and what he was wearing. I
was only vaguely paying attention, wondering how I could slip out, when I
felt a heavy tap on my shoulder. I looked up into the grinning, beefy face of
Ron Tillman, son and heir extraordinaire to the Tillman Mills fortune.
“Helloooo . . . beautiful ladies!” he smoothly greeted the table, then
turned to look at me with what could only be described as ogling eyes. “Katie
Connelly, where’ve you been hidin’ my whole life?” he boldly flirted, causing
the girls’ faces to freeze mid-smile.
“Oh, you know . . . around,” I said, lamely gesturing with my hand. I
tried smiling, but it felt more like a grimace. I was hyper-aware of the looks
coming off the other girls.
“Well if you don’t mind me sayin’. . . you sure do look fine tonight.” This
comment preceded a letch-look that began at my eyes and worked its way
down.
I cleared my throat. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He gave me a cheesy smile, and I swear I saw him
peek down my shirt. I squirmed in my seat. A bunch of his football buddies
joined him, all jostling for chairs and trying to fit two to a seat with the girls
to delighted squeals of protest.
“Scoot over, Connelly.” This was followed by a rough nudge by an overly
confident Ron. I was frozen with indecision—I didn’t want him to sit with
me, yet didn’t know how to refuse gracefully. “Come on, Katie, you don’t want
me to have to sit in your lap, do you?”
Somehow everyone found this hilarious and obnoxious laughter followed,
adding fuel to the fire of my discomfort. Grudgingly, I moved over for him
while he accidentally-on-purpose bumped me all the way off. I was left seatless
and the lone stander of the group, everyone else already having settled or
partnered-up.
• 62 •
“Uh-oh, looks like you’ll just have to sit on me instead,” he jeered, accepting an immediate high-five from a running buddy.
And much to my dismay, he was right. It was either standing up and
baring my assets to the world, or risk sitting on him. Inwardly cringing, I
perched stiffly on his knee, back ramrod straight.
“Now that don’t look too comfortable,” he stated, jiggling his leg and
upsetting my precarious position. When I began to fall, he caught me, setting
me a bit farther up his lap than made me comfortable. “Relax . . .” he urged with an accompanying mini-massage that only managed to stiffen me up
more.
I tried to relax out of my statue pose, finally leaning on his boulder
of a shoulder but remained frozen as some of the looks on the girls’ faces.
Conversation began flowing again while Ron gradually shifted my booty
more deeply into his crotch. The heat and proximity of his nether regions
made me feel claustrophobic and nauseated at once. But it was a struggle to
move, because two slabs of meaty muscle were hooked tightly around me.
Ashley-Leigh shot me an annoyed look from her throne at the head of the
table—a spot traditionally reserved for the birthday girl. She leaned forward
enough that a dangerous amount of cleavage spilled out, and provocatively
asked if any of the boys had heard about the new guy. This sparked a new
buzz about whether or not he would play football.
After a minute more of watching Ron paw on me, followed by my futile
attempts to wriggle away, and Ashley-Leigh had finally had enough. “Knock
it off Ronnie!” she snapped, quieting the table.
“What? What am I doing?” he challenged.
“Being an asshole, as usual,” she cooed, making it sound like a compliment.
I had to admire her social skills.
I could see the dilemma present itself to her: She wanted him to let me
go but she couldn’t really be the queen bitch with him since he was just as
popular in his own right. Plus, he was from arguably the wealthiest family in
town, which made him especially formidable. And they had a history together.
So I wasn’t sure if she was intervening because she knew how uncomfortable
I felt, or because she couldn’t stand to have her ex’s hands all over me right in
front of everyone’s noses. I suspected it was a little of both.
The gears seemed to click into place. “Leave the poor baby alone, Ronnie,”
she purred. “It’s her birthday today.”
“Really? . . . Happy Birthday, Katie!” he breathed on me, making me
aware he’d imbibed on beer earlier in the evening.
“Yeah, it is,” Ashley-Leigh continued, a dangerous edge sharpening her
• 63 •
voice. “Well, technically, tomorrow’s her birthday . . .” She went for the cut:
“So this is her last night to be sweet sixteen and never been kissed!”
Humiliation poured out of me.
Never one to miss her mark, Madison Swain, Ashley-Leigh’s lackey,
jeered, “You cannot be serious!”
“What?” dropped Ashley-Leigh, all sugar and spice now. “I think it’s
sweet.” She gave a high-pitched giggle, and predictably, all of her henchmen
began cackling like blackbirds again.
“B-but that’s not even true!” I spluttered, wrenching away to stand up.
“Oh really? Have you been keepin’ secrets from me, Connelly?”
Heads turned from Ashley back to me. My play. “Uhh, sort of. Not
really.” I shrugged and furiously blushed again. If this was a typical night
on the town, then next time I’d take a big fat pass. Getting attacked with
unwanted attention, while wearing next to nothing, in the middle of a
crowded restaurant, was pretty much the exact opposite of how I would spend my birthday. Suddenly, I’d had enough of the shenanigans, as my father
would say.
“Excuse me,” I said, dodging around chairs.
“Uh-oh,” Madison chimed up. “I think you hurt her little feelers.”
Before I could escape, Ashley-Leigh nabbed my arm. I yanked away to
a loud chorus of “ooohs!” “Shut up, you guys! . . . I think she’s really upset.”
She hugged me to her, the mean-girl facade fading from her face. “I’m really
sorry, Katie-Kat. Don’t go.”
I could tell she really was contrite but I was still prickling with anger.
“Please don’t be mad,” she apologized in my ear while my resolve weakened.
“I was just tryin’ to help you escape that gorilla, Ron.”
I huffed out some hurt. She could feel me relent—as I always did—and
turned back to the table triumphantly, frowny face turned upside down in
another victory.
“Guys, Katie’s not like us—she really is still sweet and innocent. And I,
for one, think it’s great!” Now she sounded like a Miss America contestant.
“Come back and sit with me, Katie. I’ll make it all better!” Ron flirted,
oblivious.
“No way! She’s all mine. Here . . .”—she kicked the chair out—“share
seats with me, like old times.”
So I plunked down, once again resigned to my night of
torture. At least
I was out of the hot seat. I would never complain again about reading Batman
to Mikey for the thousandth time. The table gradually started up their insipid
• 64 •
gossiping again, and it led repeatedly back to the new guy. Tana just described him as definitely athletic.
Ron cut in, “What position does he play?”
“What am I . . . telepathic?” she shot back.
“More like tele pathetic.” Ron received instant gratification from the
laughter track table for that hit.
Tana protested prettily, shoving his heavy mass and batting her tarantula
eyelashes at him. I was happy to see him turn his ADD-attention toward her.
The bantering continued for a while, and I yawned out of sheer boredom. I
wanted to slide on out, but couldn’t find an opening (or a ride home).
Meanwhile, Ashley-Leigh had come up with a master plan. “Don’t worry,
Katie. We’ll find a cute boy for you to kiss tonight.”
I literally shuttered at the thought of who she’d pick.
“Hmmm. Maybe my college hottie will have a cute roomie this semester?”
She enthusiastically planned our future again, without input from me.
I just continued listening, not needing to add a thing to the conversation
but ears. Daddy would never go for it anyway, but it was an intriguing idea.
One of the hazards of growing up in such close proximity to the same people
is: you remembered each awkward stage.
I looked over at Ron and could exactly picture him sitting there, in his
dungarees, picking his nose like he used to when he was in my second-grade
reading group. I could see it like it was yesterday. He even wore his hair in
the same super-short style. The only differences I could see were a few more
muscles and a little too much hair gel. I felt a little disloyal towards my fellow
peers for feeling this way, because some of the boys were cute and several were
very sweet, but unfortunately, none of them gave me that weak-in-the-knees
feeling I’d only read about.
My thoughts flew back to summer camp, my cheeks warming a bit. I
had already been kissed. A real kiss too, not the truth-or-dare kind you have in seventh-grade where you press your lips together in the closet while your
friends giggle on the other side. His name was Ryan and he was super-cute.
Cool, too. I’d been friends with his sister, Reese first. We were assigned the
same team, “the winning team,” as she liked to rub in to her brother. We’d
all ended up going to the banquet together as a foursome—Ryan and me and
Reese and her date. She could tell I felt as out of place as my father at a country club, so she’d lent me a fashionable dress and teased me that he wasn’t nearly
as clever or suave as we both thought he was.
I smiled, thinking back to the easy camaraderie I’d felt with them. We’d
just clicked. It was a revelation to be surrounded by people who didn’t know
• 65 •
my tragic past or treat me like I was from the weird family. She’d been like an older sister to me during that week, the happiest I’d been since Mama
died. I didn’t know whom I liked more, Reese or her brother. I sighed. Reese,
unfortunately. Because even though kissing Ryan was a pleasant enough
experience, I still didn’t go weak-in-the-knees, just weak-in-the-stomach—I
got some weird vibes from him.
I sighed again, wishing for the umpteenth time that I had a cell or access
to a computer so I could message her.
“What’s the matter with you, pouty?” Ashley-Leigh poked me in the ribs.
“You’re not still mad at me are you?” Nothing made Ashley-Leigh madder
than you being mad at her. She couldn’t stand being outside your circle of
love for even a minute without falling apart.
I shook my head. “I’m just ready to go home. Can you drop me off at my
car before y’all go out?”
“Fine. It’s your birthday . . . do what you want.”
“I’ve heard that before,” I muttered.
After a few moments of sulking, Ashley-Leigh huffed out some air. “You
know, I went to a lot of trouble for you tonight,” she reminded me, unable to keep her feelings in for all the iced-tea in Texas. “You could at least pretend that you’re havin’ a good time.”
“I am,” I argued feebly.
“You’re no fun anymore, Katie,” she stated.
I knew that was almost the worst insult she could give someone, second
only to “you’re not pretty anymore.” I didn’t protest that which we both knew
was true. “I’m sorry, Ash. I’m tryin’, really.”
“I don’t think you are.”
“Well, I am.”
“Then prove it—come out with us. Be seventeen. Get kissed . . . for real.
It’s your birthday! YOLO, baby!” She nudged my shoulder, nearly dumping
me into the aisle.
“I have been kissed!” I practically growled.
Her eyebrows shot up, mouth gaping open at once. “I knew it! You have
been keepin’ secrets from me!” she accused. “I want details! Who, what, when,
where, and . . . forget the why. I know why!”
Thankfully our waitress just showed up, balancing a birthday cake lit with
a single candle and a fistful of forks. I recognized the look immediately—
scram! She slid the cake ceremoniously in front of Ashley-Leigh, incorrectly guessing the birthday girl from her general diva attitude. Ashley-Leigh beamed
• 66 •
up at her before reluctantly sliding it over halfway to me. She shhhhhed the table into quiet obedience.
“Okay, birthday girl, make a wish!” she directed for the second time
tonight.
I debated a moment on wishing for the same impossible thing I did earlier.
Maybe wishing for it twice would make the impossible possible? In the interest
of teen spirit, I decided to go a more predictable route. Closing my eyes, I blew
out the candle to a round of applause, trying not to blush scarlet from being
the center of attention. And my secret wish.
“I bet I know what she wished for!” sneered Madison.
“What?” Ashley-Leigh asked, either because she hadn’t heard, or to give
Madison the opportunity to deliver her line.
Like lightning before thunder, I knew what was coming and braced for it.
“. . . To finally be kissed!”
As far as I could tell, about half the table laughed like idiots, and the other
half looked like they just plain felt sorry for me. Either way, I couldn’t stand
it so I rose to my feet, shaking.
Ashley-Leigh took one look at my face and the reactions from the majority
of the table. Quick as one of her winks, she turned on her friend. “Shut up,
Maddy!”
“What? Oh please—I was just joking. God! Don’t be so sensitive, Katie.”
Ashley-Leigh yanked on my arm, but I didn’t budge this time. I’d had
more than enough of my girls’ night and was ready to get back to my boys. I
bit out a farewell over everyone’s heads, then turned to Ashley-Leigh. “Thanks
for, uh . . . everything.” I threw a fiver down before beating a hasty retreat.
I could hear several protests around the table, and Stephanie Aguilar
called out, “Come out with us Katie!—we never see you anymore.” I threw
a half-wave over my shoulder and saw that Ashley-Leigh was giving it
to
Madison. And I actually felt a little vindicated by my former best friend in
that moment.
Putting one foot in front of the other as fast as I could, I headed for the
back exit, hoping to slip out unnoticed. But to my dismay, faces popped up
like bobble-heads doing the wave as I walked by. . . . Dang Daisy Dukes! I silently cursed Ashley-Leigh and her crazy outfit not two seconds after feeling
tender towards her.
How do I get myself into these situations? was just what I was thinking when I hit pavement, heat, and lonely darkness on the other side of the door.
• 67 •
7
A CLOSE ENCOUNTER
There were no two ways about it—I was stranded as a one-winged
June bug on a windshield. My clothes were sitting in a paper sack,
innocently awaiting my return in the backseat of my car. Which was
parked at the curb of the Montgomery house. And here I was, standing in the
emptying parking lot of Chapas Sports Bar , dressed like a streetwalker. With my car keys winking at me from my handbag.
“Dagnabbit!” I kicked a piece of gravel with my boot, scratching up my
industrious polish job. No way was I going back in there now. I mean—you
can’t just slink back into the same place you just stormed from. Pathetic. No way I was gonna be that.
I was busy huffing back and forth about a tailgate’s length of sidewalk,
debating my options when I heard a deep voice inquire if I needed a ride.
I cringed under the scrutiny of an aging cowboy, eyeing me and my sorry
situation from the comfort of his pickup truck.
“Um, no thank you,” I replied.
“Really . . . it’s no trouble.” His voice rose up a persuasive octave.
“No thanks. I’m . . . ah, actually waitin’ for someone.”
Beneath his oily hat, he stared at my poker face a beat longer before
starting his truck with an abrupt roar. “Suit yourself, missy.” He flicked his
cigarette butt out the window and screeched away.
Charming. Relieved, I decided it was time to strike out on my own before
Animal House let loose and decided I needed more “birthday fun.” But first
I needed to tone myself down. I dug into my woven bag—past my useless
keys—and grabbed my almost as useless glasses. Thought about putting my
hair up with the omnipresent ponytail holder I had dangling around my wrist
