Kiss Me (33 page)

Love you, Papa.

I get little tears in my eyes. Grandpa had cowboy boots custom-made just for me? It’s way too late to call.  I look at what’s inside the rest of the box. There are three more looks to go with the boots from Kym. I decide that on Thursday, I’m going to kick a little ass, East Texas style. 

Wednesday, September 14th

A fiercer hell.

8pm

I’m sitting in the library studying and waiting for Dawson to meet me. I get a wonderful email from my interior designer with drawings, photos, and floor plans for the new loft. I excitedly comment and approve all of it. Then I think about my old closet. I email Kym and ask if she has a photo of it. She quickly emails it back to me. I forward the closet photo to the designer and tell him I’d like my new closet to look as close to that as possible. 

There isn’t really anything going on tonight. Which is good, because I have a long list of homework and projects on my to do list. 

Dawson shows up and starts to work on his homework, but he gets bored and starts messing around with me. He keeps poking my sides randomly, trying to make me scream and get in trouble. Then he grabs my long to do list and writes his name at the top. 

“Very cute,” I say to him.

My phone buzzes on the table in front of us. There is a text from Brooklyn, who I haven’t heard a peep from in exactly eleven days. Not that I’m counting, I just expected him to try to apologize sooner.

B<3:  I’m sorry, okay? I miss you. I miss our talks. I was stupid. Got caught up in everything. I’m sorry. Really. I love you.

Dawson sits and stares at my phone, like it’s a snake coiled up, getting ready to bite him. “How come his name still has a heart by it?”

“Uh, I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him since Labor day weekend, or looked at his name. I forgot it was like that. Here, I’ll change it.” 

“So what are you going to say to that?”

“I’m not even going to reply.”

“I think you should reply.”

“Why? I don’t have anything to say to him.”

“Tell him you have a boyfriend and to leave you the hell alone.”

“Is that what you would do if Whitney texted you and told you she was sorry?”

“Is that why you wouldn’t take the necklace? Are you still hung up on him?”

“No. I’m not hung up on him at all. I hate him.”

“Then why?”

“The necklace has nothing to do with him and everything to do with us. I’m not ready to have someone’s heart yet. Especially the heart of someone who isn’t ready to give it. I like you. I don’t want to rush it.”

He touches my hair. Looks into my eyes and says, “Keatie, I swear, I’m not going to hurt you.”

I get little tears in my eyes, cuz he is seriously so sweet. 

He takes the phone out of my hand. “I’ve got this.” 

Me:  This is Keatyn’s boyfriend. Leave her the hell alone. 

“Dawson. You’re not my boyfriend.”

“Yeah, I know, but eventually I will be. We’re good together.”

B:  Tell her to take her phone back and tell me herself.

Me:  Hey, it’s me. What you did hurt. I always thought no matter what we would be friends, but I’m pretty sure you ruined that too with your lack of respect. Hope she was worth it.  

B:  “There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object.” Keats for my Keats. I’m sorry. Really sorry.

“I’m not replying to that.” 

Dawson says, “What does that even mean?”

“It means he’s living in hell because he failed me. Or so he’s saying.” I sigh big, run my hand through my hair. “Shit.”

“Do you miss him?”

“I miss our friendship. He was one of my best friends for two years. What he did was more than just a slam to our relationship, it was a slam to our friendship, too. I hope that even if you and I don’t work out as a couple that we stay friends.”

“We’re definitely staying friends,” he says. Then he gives me a sweet kiss.

Thursday, September 15th

A sick hazing ritual.

6:45am

This morning, I get up with the chickens and do my hair up. I did it big. Lots of big spiral curls, lots of hairspray and fullness. I do my makeup just a bit bolder, still soft and natural, but I add some highlighter to my cheekbones and nose, a little deeper blush at the hollow of my cheeks to add more definition. I add a rich dark purple eye shadow that brings out the purple in my eyes and a simple black swoop of eyeliner. 

My look for today is a red tank top under a white blouse with red western detailing—little embroidery across the cuffs, which stick out just under my navy blazer—the plaid pleated skort, the cowboy boots, handmade silver earrings and necklace, and silver bangles. Now I feel ready to give my speech. 

But, first things first. Gotta call Grandpa.

I thank him. Tell him about my speech today. He wishes me luck and fills me in on what’s been going on at the ranch. About the horses, the ranch hand’s love life, Grandma’s new apple pie recipe, and his new lemonade drink using pink lemonade rather than the normal yellow kind. I hang up feeling happy and confident.

I even have time to sit down and eat breakfast.

Dawson kisses me. “You got my vote, Keatie. Just look at you.”

And although this is nice, and I want to look nice, cute, and likable, I also kind of decided this morning after talking to Grandpa that I don’t want to win because of how I look. I want to win because of what I say in my speech. I do want to try and make a difference. I don’t want to just look pretty. 

So I completely redid my speech. And have my new lines all memorized.

Now, I’m at the all-school convocation. We have to give our speech in front of the entire student body. I’m pretty sure this is some sick hazing ritual. If you manage to give the speech without throwing up then you’re in. 

I’m standing in the hallway with the other candidates, who are nervously pacing and rereading their note cards. I’m really not that nervous. I never been one to get stage fright, but usually when I’ve performed in the past it has been at soccer games and dance recitals. I’ve never spoken to a large group before. 

Aiden walks toward me and does a little motion. He has something in his hand that he wants to sneakily put into mine. 

How I know what his little glances and gestures mean is a bit astonishing to me but, then, I’m pretty certain some sort of mind control is part of his god power package. 

I move closer to him and he slides something small into my hand. Then he puts a finger up to the side of his mouth, making the universal sign for
shhh
. 

I don’t open my hand. 

I’m afraid to. 

Plus, I want to savor it.

I hear my name being called. It’s my turn to go up. 

I get up to the podium, lay down my note cards, turn my hand over, and open my fist. There nestled in my palm is a green glass four-leaf clover. And I feel . . . I don’t even know. 

Lucky. 

I feel like Harry Potter just put liquid luck in my butterbeer before Quidditch practice. 

I feel unstoppable. 

I speak eloquently and from the heart. I talk about what Student Council is, what it should be able to do, how it should not just be about social agendas or a popularity contest. That it should focus on the students and their rights. Their right to change the dress code. Their right not to get their phones put into jail. Their right to be served something besides empty calories and fried foods at lunch. Their right to stay out later. To have more all-school activities. And I end it with a loud, cheerleader-style,
Vote for Keatyn Mon-ROARRRRRR
, and, luckily, lots of people roar with me. 

I don’t know if I will win or not. But I did good, and I’m proud of myself. And I think my lucky charm will be proud of me too.

Did you see those boots of hers?

French

Somehow, Aiden ends up walking me from lunch to French class. 

“Your speech was really great,” he says.

“I didn’t look at what was in my hand until I got up there and was ready to start speaking.”

“You like it?”

“I did. It gave me an extra boost of confidence. I felt lucky. But why did you?”

“Well, I might have a little crush on my tutor, but don’t tell her. It will go to her head. And she already thinks she’s the shit. Did you see those boots of hers?”

I laugh. “Very funny. Do you like my boots?”

He looks at me with his dreamy eyes. “I love your boots. You in boots is my favorite. Reminds me of the first day we met.”

“My grandpa had them made for me to match my uniform. Told me they are to remind me to raise some hell and kick some ass.” I laugh at that.

“I’d like to meet him someday. He sounds like a good man,” Aiden says very sincerely. 

As I sit down in class, I’m thinking that Grandpa would probably think Aiden is a good man too.

We take a break at the end of class to talk in French. Annie isn’t speaking French, but is excitedly talking about the speeches: who she thinks did well, how I rocked, and “Where did you ever find those boots?”

Aiden answers her. “Her grandpa had them made for her.”

And Annie gives me a look. A look that says,
Uh, what’s going on here? Why is he answering for you and, more importantly, why does he know this and I, your best friend, do not?

A bunch of us girls are in Katie’s and my room getting ready to go to the JV game. We’re all giggling and laughing. 

I’m all ready. I left my boots, tank, and shirt on, but changed into little jean shorts. And, I will admit, I’m sorta sitting here thinking about Aiden. Tutoring him has been good for me. I’m getting to know him and he’s been nicer recently. Not behaving like the smooth player that he was always trying to be. We haven’t had a fight in almost a week. 

He mentioned in class that the team they’re playing tonight is the best in our conference, and that he hopes he and the team play really well. 

I get an idea, so I dig down to the bottom of my desk drawer. Mom forced me to bring high quality writing paper, so I could write a decent thank you if needed. 

I grab a piece of the thick creamy paper and a green marker. I fold the paper in half and then write inside.

And then I draw a big, green four-leaf clover on the front and outline it with black marker.

I tell the girls, “Hey, I gotta run to the dance room and grab my, uh, socks. I’ll be right back.” 

Then I run out the door and text Aiden.

Me:  Where are you?

Hottie God:  Locker room. Where do you want me to be?

Me:  Somewhere where I can give you something.

Hottie God:  Walking out of the field house now. Meet me.

Me:  Okay :)

I sprint—well, jog—as fast as I can in my boots and see him standing outside the field house. He’s got on his football pads and jersey, but is still wearing his athletic shorts. 

God, he is just beautiful. 

Scratch what I said before about him being a normal boy. He is so not.

“Boots are pretty cute with shorts too,” he grins, looking at my shorts.

“Thanks. Uh, well, I know you seemed a little nervous about the game tonight and um, I just . . .”

When the hell did I get so tongue-tied?

“Just what?”

“Well, here.” I hold the little note out in front of me.

“What’s this?”

“I don’t know. It’s a note. Some luck maybe. Just look at it, I don’t know, sometime before the game, maybe.”

“Not now?”

“Um, up you.”

“You know, Boots, you’re acting very weird.”

“I am very weird.”

He laughs. “True. Okay, so I have to get back in there.” He holds up the note. “Thanks, I think.”

I walk back to my dorm, wondering what the hell I just did. 

Then I tell myself that I don’t really want to dance with
him
again or anything.

I’m a dancer. 

I’m one of the people chosen to help spread school spirit and support our athletes. 

I was just wishing him luck, motivating him, so that our team could win and we could be proud. 

Rah, rah, sis, boom, bah, and all that. 

That’s just the kind of selfless girl I am. 

What the heck is on the football?

7:18pm

I’m sitting in the stands with a big group of people. My glass four-leaf clover is tucked into the pocket of my shorts.