Stalk Me (10 page)

But then, why did he say he was taking it slow? And why did he say it like going slow was difficult, but that he was doing it for me? And why did he call me his Keats?
His
Keats!!! 

If a guy is taking it slow, in theory, it means he likes you. It should mean there is going to be a next time, right?

Right?!

And it’s been really hard to think about anything school-related today because thoughts of Brooklyn are raging through my brain. 

And
I’m wearing the shoes from hell.

Which means my brain has been alternately thinking about Brooklyn and how bad my feet hurt. It’s been hard for me to even keep up.

What if it was just a hookup? 

Ohmigawd, poor little pinkie toe is being smooshed to hell. 

When does a person going slow call you? 

For sure there’s going to be a blister. 

Should I text him? And what would I say? 

Oh, walk a little slower. The ball of my foot feels like it might burst into flames. 

You could just text him and be like, hey.

I feel another hotspot on the back of my right heel. 

No, he should text you first. 

Can we please just sit down? 

I have no one to blame for my discomfort but myself. It’s not the shoes’ fault I bought them a half-size too small so I could wear them today instead of special-ordering the proper size. 

I’m wearing one of the numerous outfits Vanessa helped me pick out yesterday. 

A very fitted, graphic black, white, and orange Alexander Wang pullover. 

A pair of black leather shorts. Same designer. 

With it, I’m carrying an adorable tangerine Proenza Schouler leather pouch. 

The outfit alone looks very sporty and cute. It’s the shoes that push it into the
I’m fuckable
category, according to Vanessa. These Chloé shoes look like a simple black platform Mary Jane, but instead of a single strap around my ankle, these have five more straps going all the way up almost to my knee. They are an open-front boot/shoe kind of thing.

But I knew Vanessa’s comment about me being fuckable was a warning. 

A shot across the bow. Telling me I’d better do as she says. 

And I complied. 

And my poor feet and I still don’t know why.

Vanessa, RiAnne, and I got to school late, so no one saw us strutting through the halls in our Vanessa-approved outfits. The big breakup was the topic of the morning, and I heard numerous rumors as to why we broke up. They ranged from the truth—we decided to take a break—to the outrageous: that I hooked up with Cush. The Cush rumor was given additional fuel when he met me outside French and walked me to my morning classes.

Then he sat next to me at lunch. 

Vanessa sat on the other side of me. She was whispering in my ear that I should hookup with Cush. How he’d be the perfect guy to lose my virginity to. How if I acted like I knew what I was doing, he wouldn’t know that I hadn’t. 

And honestly, if it weren’t for the fact that Brooklyn seemed really excited to learn that I never had, that he told me he was going slow for me, I might have considered it. I’ve written a million scenes where I finally do it, but even though Cush is very cute, he hasn’t been cast in any of them. 

The lunchroom is noisy and bustling, but when Sander makes his big entrance, you could have heard a pin drop. Instead of his normal, brightly-colored preppy clothes, he’s wearing a pair of dark skinny jeans, black motorcycle boots, and a plain black tee. 

If I didn’t recognize the outfit, I might not have recognized him. 

He’s even got a new walk. Instead of his typical shoulders-back strut, he’s slumped over like the world has beaten him down. He walks past our table, looks at me with pathetic puppy dog eyes, and then sits at the end of a mostly empty table. He puts earbuds in his ears and his nose in a book. 

“Ohmigawd,” Vanessa says loudly. “What the fuck did you do to him?” 

I shrug my shoulders as Cush nudges my foot under the table. I told him last night about Sander’s upcoming makeover.

The lunchroom is abuzz. 

At first it was,
Who is that guy?
 

Then it was,
Ohmigawd, it’s Sander!
 

Then there was a lot of looking between our table and his. 

RiAnne says, “I don’t get it.”

“Don’t get what?” Cush asks.

“He looks hot like that. Why didn’t he come sit with us?”

“Maybe you should go sit with him,” I suggest. “Console him.”

“Don’t you dare!” Vanessa warns. “The lines have been drawn. You are not to cross.”

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Hey, you’re the one who destroyed the prom king. I’m just trying to deal with the fallout.”

“What fallout?”

“How it affects our status. We don’t want him starting his own table.”

“Who cares about the fucking table?” I say, a little too loudly. The lacrosse guys at the next table turn around and stare at me. 

I get up, grab my bag, and march out of the lunchroom. It’s either that or punch Vanessa right in her smug face. 

Cush says, “Wait up,” from behind me. Then he starts laughing. “Not that I couldn’t catch you in those shoes. Or boots. What are they anyway?”

Keep it together, Keatyn. Don’t have a breakdown in the middle of school.

“I don’t know what they’re called, but my feet are killing me.” 

Cush picks me up off the ground and carries me down the hall. 

Who knew he was so strong?

We pass a pretty cheerleader named Mandy, who sometimes comes to Cush’s parties. She gasps at the sight of him carrying me down the hall. From the look on her face, you’d have thought she’d seen us having sex. 

Cush nods his head at her and says, “S’up,” as he carries me into the boys’ locker room. He sets me down on a bench between rows of bright blue lockers. 

“Take them off,” he commands. 

I don’t.

Instead, I lay back on the bench and scream, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

“What the hell is going on?” Coach Kline yells at Cush. Then he says to me, “And why are you in the boys’ locker room?”

“She’s having a meltdown, sir,” Cush says. “It’s the shoes. They’re slowly trying to kill her.”

Coach looks at my shoes, grimaces, and nods his head in agreement. “That’s understandable.” Then he walks back into his office and shuts the door. 

Cush kneels down and starts unbuckling my shoe.

“Sometimes I can’t figure you out. Why are you friends with her? Why do you put up with it?”

“I could ask you the same question. Why do you let her invite so many people to your parties? Why do you put up with it?”  

“She told me she’d ruin my reputation if I didn’t.”

“How could she do that? You’ve been with plenty of girls.”

“Yeah, I know, but she’s your friend, so I went along with it.”

“She wanted Sander. She thought they would be the school’s perfect couple.” 

“But you got Sander instead.”

“I didn’t try to, though. It just happened. He was new, and we had a lot in common.”

He slides one of my shoes off and starts unbuckling the six buckles running up my other leg. 

I wiggle and stretch my toes. They already feel so much better. I’m pretty sure if my toes had lips, they’d be kissing Cush right now in thanks.

“She threatened to ruin my reputation too,” I whisper. 

“I really don’t think there’s anything she could do or say that would change people’s opinion of you. You don’t chase the spotlight, Keatyn. You never had to. The spotlight chases you.” 

He slides off the other shoe then rubs the marks on my feet. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You don’t need her to be popular.”

I look into Cush’s big, blue eyes and have the sudden urge to kiss him.

You know, just to thank him for being so sweet. 

Like, to my feet.

He looks down at his hands, which are still gently massaging my legs. 

“I’m not sure I even want to be popular anymore,” I confess.

“Yeah, me either,” he says quietly. Then he brightens and gives me the naughty Cushman grin. “It’s a gorgeous day. Let’s skip. Drive down the coast or go to the beach.”

My phone vibrates with texts.

Vanessa:  Where the fuck are you? Was Cush really carrying you down the hall? Did you leave school together?

RiAnne:  I heard a naughty rumor about you and Cush. Is it true? Is that the real reason why you broke up with Sander?
 

I sigh, show him the texts then toss my phone in my bag. “Where should we go?”

“Santa Monica Pier? We can eat all the crap food, ride the Ferris wheel, and play arcade games until dark.”

“That sounds like fun,” I say. 

Tuesday, May 17th

So, sue me.

5:45pm

Nearly fifty-nine hours since the hookup, and I’m starting to wonder if I will ever see Brooklyn again. 

And, yes, I’ve been counting the hours. 

So, sue me.

I leave soccer practice in a bit of a daze. 

I confided in Cush earlier today. Told him about Brooklyn, and tried to get his advice. Tried to get him to tell me what the hell it means when a guy doesn’t call. 

He got irritated with me and told me he didn’t know. 

When I asked again after practice, because I am desperate for any shred of advice, he snapped at me and said,
He’ll call when he wants to hookup again.

Could he be right? 

We’ve never gone this long without talking to each other. 

Is he embarrassed to talk to me?

Does he wish he hadn’t kissed me?

Is he afraid I’ll think it’s more than it is, and this is his way of letting me know it?

I march out to the black Range Rover I usually drive to school and see Vanessa leaning up against it. 

Vanessa never stays after school. And she’s alone. 

Which means she’s mad at me. 

I am so not in the mood to deal with her shit right now.

“What the fuck was that about at lunch today?” she snarls at me.

“Nothing. Cush and I sat at the table right next to ours. With his soccer team. They just chose him as Captain for next year. He wanted to do a little bonding and asked me to join him. Don’t blow it all out of proportion. It’s really not a big deal.”

She grabs my arm tightly. “Oh, but it is a big deal. And it is important. We have a reputation to uphold, and people are starting to wonder what’s going on with you. You know that, right? They don’t know what to think about your recent behavior. First, you break up with the prom king, and he’s so upset he
dyed
his hair! Then, you’re sneaking off with Cush in the middle of the day? He’s carrying you down the hall? Now today, you sit with the freaking soccer boys? I mean the lacrosse team, maybe, but soccer? Seriously? It looks bad. It looks like you aren’t part of our group anymore. Is that what you want? What are you thinking?”

“Uh, I’m . . . not, really.”

“I’d say that’s pretty fucking obvious. Well, you’re lucky I’m thinking about it. You and Cush better get your asses to our lunch table tomorrow and stay there. I will not let you ruin us. Do you understand?”

“I just don’t get what the big deal is. It was one day.”

“Instead of pondering that, why don’t you think about this? How are you going to feel if I tell everyone your relationship with Sander was a sham? How are you going to feel when I tell people that you’re probably really a lesbian, and that’s why you’ve never found a guy to fuck you. People will believe it. You
are
on the soccer team.”

I close my eyes, take a calming breath, and remind myself that school is almost out for the summer. Sit where you’re supposed to, and figure out later what you want to do about next year. 

“Fine. I’ll be there.”

She gives me a satisfied smile. “Very well.”

I get in the car and drive off. 

“God, I hate her. It’s bad enough she wants to tell people I’ve never done it, but a lesbian? Seriously? I hate her!” I yell to the ceiling of my car.

When I get home, I don’t even bother to go in the house. I’m too pissed to be nice to anyone. I walk through the side gate, slam it shut, throw my shoes onto the sidewalk, and kick my way across the sand. I’m just past Brooklyn’s house when I notice Vincent sitting on the beach up ahead. His head is down, and his shoulders are slumped forward. 

I gently touch his shoulder. “Are you okay? Did you not get the house?” I quietly ask.

“We’re still negotiating,” he says. 

I sit down in the sand next to him. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes are brimming with tears. He shakes his head and barely gets out the words. “My grandmother passed away.”

I give his forearm a gentle squeeze. “Oh, Vincent, I’m so sorry! Were you really close?”

He nods his head. “I didn’t have the best childhood. My mother, well, she was slutty.” He frowns. “Slutty is a nice word compared to what she was. She was wild. Had me at sixteen. I never knew my father. Honestly, I don’t think she knew who my father was. She married five times between my being born and my turning twelve. Guys one through five were low-life scumbags. One beat her. And sometimes me. I hated her for it. The sixth husband was a major upgrade. She saw dollar signs, so even though he didn’t want a kid, she married him. Then she dropped me on Grandmother’s doorstep and left.”

“But that was good for you, right?”

He smiles a little, but then he looks teary again. “It was very good for me. Grandmother was amazing, beautiful, a lady, and nothing at all like my mother. She was a film star in the early sixties. Back when stars were real stars. She was classy, glamorous, and always in full makeup. No running around in yoga pants and Ugg boots, you know?”