Текст книги "Kiss Me"
Автор книги: Jillian Dodd
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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
Thursday, September 8th
It’s tutoring with food.
French.
When I walk into French, my teacher, Miss Praline, pulls me aside. “Aiden said you won’t be tutoring him. I’d like you to reconsider that.”
“Why?”
“He really struggles in French and barely passed last year, so he’s already behind. He needs this to get into an Ivy League school, which is his goal. I’ll give you extra credit.”
“I don’t need extra credit. I’m very good at French.”
“Please?”
“No. He’s not nice to me.”
“Look, I have an idea. What if I got you on the Social Committee? It’s teacher nominated and you seem to be quite social. I think you would do well on it.”
I think about that for a minute. Dawson thought about getting on it, and I know it’s considered a big deal. Way bigger than Student Council, and it would mean I could help plan dances and events like I wanted to do at my old school. Hmmmm. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
I take my seat, turn around, and try not to look directly at Aiden’s mouth. “So, I heard you really suck at French.”
He frowns a little, and it looks so odd on his mouth.
Shit.
I was not supposed to be looking at his mouth. I seriously need to find a pair of magic Spanx and become a virgin again.
“Yeah, I do,” he says.
“Well, I got asked really nicely—and possibly bribed—by the teacher into helping you, so I guess I am.”
“Really, Boots? That’s awesome.” His frown turns into a smile that almost blinds me, causes me to forget where I am, and makes me want to grab his hand and run off to the land of milk and honey, or, you know, somewhere magical.
“When can we start? Can we do it right after football practice, or would you rather wait until after dinner?”
I was gonna say, Let’s do it after practice and get it over with, but I’ll be sweaty from soccer and dance, and I can’t tutor a god and be sweaty. Actually, I can and I will. If I’m all sweaty and gross, I won’t even think silly romantic things about him. “After dance sounds good most days, but depending on what’s going on, we might have to be a bit flexible on the times.”
He looks dreamily at me. “I’ll be there, whenever you need me.”
“What?! No. You need me.”
He frowns again and puts his hand over his eyes. “I meant I’ll be there, you know, whenever.”
“Okay, so you have a game tonight, and we have a lot due tomorrow. Do you have it done yet?”
“No. I haven’t really started.”
“Well, I have dance until five. What time do you have to be in the locker room?”
“Not until six. And dance is over at 4:30. Why don’t I order some pizza, you can come to my room, and we’ll study and eat? Be there at 4:40.”
“That sounds like a date. And if I come straight from dance, I’ll be all gross.”
“It’s tutoring with food, and I doubt you’re ever gross.”
I know I like Dawson, but I can’t help it. What he just said made me melt a little.
Okay. Fine.
A lot.
Right now, I’m like the lipstick you left in your car in hundred-degree weather.
Then he adds, “Plus if you’re gross, I won’t want to kiss you, so maybe that’s for the best.”
OMG!
He wants to kiss me!
Focus, Keatyn. Focus, girl. You can do it. Speak. Say something coherent. “Yeah, that hasn’t gone so well for us in the past,” I say.
Well, shit! That was coherent, but a slam! I didn’t really want to slam him. I swear, I either am in love with this boy, or I hate him.
“I’d disagree with that. I thought our kisses were amazing. It’s the other stuff that maybe hasn’t gone so well.”
I decide to shut up. Nod my head in agreement and try and look busy with my French workbook.
After class, I grab ahold of Annie. Like, I literally grab her, so she can’t get away from me and cling to her for dear life.
I say to her, “So, you going to the game with us tonight?”
She gets ready to reply, but Aiden breezes past us. “See ya tonight, Boots.”
Both of us freeze and Annie says to me out of the corner of her mouth, “Why are you seeing him tonight?”
“I decided to tutor him.”
“Lucky girl. What’s Dawson gonna think of that?”
“It’s like a job. He won’t care.”
I don’t think.
Haunt his dreams.
4:07pm
I’m pretty good at dance for some strange reason. It’s not that I’m some amazing dancer, but I have a really good memory, and I catch on quick. So when I learn a routine, I learn it quick and don’t mess up much or forget to do it in the right order.
But today, well, I’m just plain distracted.
And who could blame me?
I’m about to throw myself into the lion’s den!
So, there is one thing on my mind: that in exactly thirty-two and a half minutes I am going to be alone in a room with Aiden.
Teaching him the language of love.
And mostly likely thinking I would like to teach him with my lips.
So, yes, I get yelled at by Peyton, Little Miss Perfect Captain. If it weren’t for the fact that she’s nice to me when Whitney isn’t around, I would seriously hate her. I do sort of hate her for one reason. She and Aiden share the same mouth. Like, when she smiles, I can almost see his face. So when she’s nice and smiles at me, I pretty much comply with what she tells me.
I’m dancing, dancing, drinking water, breathing occasionally, dancing, thinking now there are nineteen and three quarters minutes left of practice.
And I need practice to start being over a little early, so I’ll have a few minutes to wash off the sweat and make myself look good. I’m also trying to decide what I should wear to his room. Do I go with the I-just-got-done-with-dance-and-I-look-hot-wearing-my-teeny-spandex-shorts-and-cut-off-red-and-yellow-tie-dyed-shirt-and-I-didn’t-put-forth-any-effort-to-impress-you outfit? Do I put my uniform back on? Or do I wear what I’m going to wear to the game later?
Then I think about Dawson—cute, adorable Dawson—who just might be one of the sweetest and hottest boys ever.
Maybe I should look bad on purpose, so Aiden won’t want to kiss me.
But no! I don’t want him to not want to kiss me.
I want my kisses to haunt his dreams.
I want him to beg for me.
Seriously, the next time he tries to kiss me, I’m going to turn the other way.
I want him down on his knees begging, Please, Boots, please!
Oh, shit. I just kicked at totally the wrong time.
Seven minutes left.
Not that I’m counting.
Step up my game. Do the rest of the routine to perfection. Turn, kick, shimmy, turn right, spin, kick, kick, pompoms up, and kneel.
Let’s get the heck out of here.
But no.
We have to stop and discuss tomorrow night’s festivities in more detail. We’re having a dance sleepover after the game. Everyone is all giddy and excited about this. Whatever.
I need to get out of here!
We already went over this!
I carefully sneak my way out of the dance room and into the changing room. I give myself a quick sink shower, touch up my makeup, throw on deodorant, some perfume and figure, what the hell, let’s give him the legs, leave on my booty shorts, throw on a clean T-shirt, grab my bag, and get over there.
Okay, fine. I did brush my teeth too. Not because I’m thinking I might kiss him. That thought never crossed my mind.
I’m seriously weighed down with my school bag and my dance duffle. As I come out of the field house, there’s Dawson waiting for me. He’s apparently done with football. Of course, all he’s carrying is a little teeny bag.
He’s like, “Where are you going in such a hurry? I thought we could hang before the game.”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you, Miss Praline asked me to tutor someone that’s not doing well in French. I didn’t want to, but she bribed me kinda. Actually, it’s pretty exciting. Don’t tell anyone, but she’s getting me on the Social Committee.”
He hugs me. My duffle drops to the ground. “That’s awesome, Keatie. Maybe I should see if I can get on it too.”
“That would be cool. Okay, so give me a kiss, and then I gotta go. I’ll just meet you up in the stands.”
“You wearing those shorts?”
“Should I?”
“To the game? Hell, no. All the guys would stare, and I’d end up in a fight.” He pulls me in tight and puts his hands directly on the back of my shorts. “But tonight after the game, in my room, definitely.”
“You’re a bad boy.”
“I hope I’m good,” he teases.
“Okay, see you later.”
I bound off. He is following me, of course, because both boys live in the same dorm.
He runs up behind me, grabs my bags, and says, “Why do you need so much stuff?”
“I didn’t have time to stop at my dorm after classes, and I didn’t know I was going to be tutoring him until today.” I open the door to his dorm.
“Him?”
“Yes, him. Don’t be jealous. I want to hurry up and get this over with so I can snuggle up with you in the stands and watch the game.”
We walk by his room. He quickly pulls me inside and pins me against his door.
I laugh at him, but he’s being serious.
He presses his body tightly into mine and nibbles on my ear. “Maybe we should go to the game late. Just come to my room when you’re done.”
“I was just in your room last night.”
“Yeah, I know. It was amazing. But I’m not expecting that. I mean, unless you force me. Which would be pretty hot.”
“I have to go. Meet me at the game.”
He kisses my neck, trying to get me to change my mind. “I really have to go!”
Creeping on me.
4:45pm
Finally get Dawson to stop kissing me and then race upstairs to Aiden’s room. I’m late. When I knock on his door, the wonderful smell of pizza is wafting out.
He opens the door. “You’re late, Boots.” Blinding smile.
“Kept the lights up, I see.”
“Yeah, everyone liked them.”
“So, let’s get started,” I say.
“Yeah, let’s.” He grabs a piece of gooey pizza, holds it up to my mouth, and tries to feed me. I was going to resist, but he gives me that grin, and I just open my mouth.
“Aren’t you going to eat too?”
“Naw. I can’t eat stuff like that before a game or I’d puke. I got it for you.”
“And how did you know pepperoni and black olives is one of my favorites?”
And so unhealthy.
“It’s on your Facebook profile.”
“Damn, you’ve been creeping on me.”
“Maybe just a little.”
“You didn’t write on my wall or like any of my statuses.”
“Yeah, I know. You were mad at me.”
“I’m still mad at you, but here we are.”
“I’m so glad I suck at French.”
“Okay, so let’s go over these workbook pages; we don’t have much time.”
We get three of the four pages done before he has to leave.
“I better get going. Coach gets pissed if we’re late,” he says.
“Good luck tonight.”
I lean down to pick up my bags. He grabs one off his floor and puts it on my shoulder. He’s way too close for comfort. When he gets that close to me I have a hard time swallowing and breathing.
I feel his warm breath on my neck. “So what’s the deal with you and Dawson?”
Even though the bag is firmly on my shoulder, he stays close to me.
I think this is like that saying about not standing too close to the fire or you might get burned.
The fire that is Aiden is starting to make me sweat.
I take a step back. “I guess we’re kinda sorta dating.”
“So you’re kinda sorta single?”
“Yes. I’m not convinced he’s over Whitney and I’m kinda getting over someone myself, so we’re taking it slow.”
“That’s not what I heard,” he snarls.
“So Dawson told you that?”
“Well, no. Just what I’ve heard.”
“Alors vous ne connaissez pas la merde.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means, You don’t know shit. Tomorrow. Tutoring. Right after school. And we’re meeting in the library.”
GRRR!
Ohhhh! Go team.
7:30pm
Watching the JV game with everyone and sitting next to Dawson. Well, snuggling next to Dawson. He’s adorable. He’s feeding me Skittles and then kissing me. Our mouths taste deliciously fruity.
Dallas texts me, even though he’s sitting in front of me.
Dallas: You+me=cave tonight. And I’m not taking no for an answer.
Me: Okay, but I don’t think we should kiss.
Dallas: Why not? You and Dawson aren’t going out, right? Can’t you do what you want?
Me: Well that’s true, but I don’t really want. I like him.
Dallas: :( But that’s cool. We haven’t talked in a while and maybe I have a dating dilemma of my own.
Me: Really?!
Dallas: Ha. No.
After halftime, I once again find myself in Dawson’s big athletic hoodie. It goes down to my knees. He’s sitting behind me in the bleachers, and I’m leaning back between legs.
Dawson slides a cool hand under the sweatshirt. I assume to get warmed up.
He casually strokes my side and then my stomach.
It feels nice, so I snuggle closer to him.
But as soon as I snuggle in closer, his hand dives down the front of my shorts. His back is leaned tightly into mine and his chin is resting on my shoulder. I turn my head just a little toward him and warn, “Dawson.”
He gives me adorable kiss on the cheek and pushes his hand further down.
Then he starts rubbing me, um, down there.
At first I think he’s just sort of teasing me. Trying to get me to go back to his room.
But he very quickly stops teasing and gets down to business.
I know I should tell him to stop. He should not have his hand down my shorts when we’re in the bleachers at a football game.
But because his sweatshirt is so big, no one can tell.
And what can I say?
I like it.
It feels really good and really naughty.
I try to keep my breathing steady, but he can tell that it’s not working. Or, well, that what he’s doing is definitely working.
I can feel his mouth form a smile on my neck.
I grab his bicep tightly.
Then close my eyes and miss a few plays. We don’t stand up and cheer when someone makes a big play. I can’t even clap. I’m breathing heavily. Gripping his bicep with all my might. Begging him with my grip not to stop.
The team scores, everyone stand up to cheer, and Dawson takes that moment to do a little scoring of his own. And then, I find myself cheering too, but for different reasons.
OHHH, GOOOOO TEAM!
“You’re so naughty,” I whisper to him.
“You so liked it. Can we please go back to my room? Like, now. We’ll just kiss, I swear.”
“We won’t just kiss and you damn well know it.”
I manage to keep him at the game, and by the time it’s over, it’s too close to curfew to just kiss in his room. We’re walking toward the dorms when Dallas slaps a Red Bull into my hand and says, “Drink up. Dress warm.”
Dawson says, “What’s that for? You meeting him at the cave tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh.”
“What? You can come if you want. We just want to catch up.”
“You once told me you and Dallas smoke and make out when you’re there.”
“Does that bother you?”
“Hell, yeah, it bothers me.”
“Which part?”
“The kissing!”
“Oh, well, you don’t have to worry. Look.” I let him read my texts from earlier, telling Dallas we weren't going to kiss.
“I’m sorry. I should trust you.”
“We’re not in a relationship, Dawson. So, really, technically, I could kiss anyone I want to. So can you.”
“I don’t want to kiss anyone else, but I do have something I should probably show you,” he says, as he hands me back my phone.
“What?”
He messes with his phone and hands it to me. “Whitney texted me today. Read it.”
Whitney: Just because we aren’t going out, doesn’t mean I don’t care about you.
Dawson: Okay?
Whitney: I know you’re having fun with the new girl, but she’s not good enough for you. Why don’t I set you up with Rachel? She’s always crushed on you and at least she comes from a decent family.
Dawson: I’m surprised you’d want to set me up.
Whitney: We’re friends, Dawes, and you need someone worthy of your status. You’re still one of the golden boys here, and I assume you want to stay one. Dating beneath you will not be good for you. It’s practically social suicide.
Dawson: It’s really nice of you to worry about me, but I like Keatyn.
Whitney: I know you’re not over me, but parading around with a girl of her caliber isn’t going to make me jealous. It’s just pathetic.
I process all that she managed to say in a few sentences. Her texts sound similar to what Vanessa told me about Brooklyn.
Only now, I’m social suicide.
I find that kind of ironic, honestly.
And kind of funny.
But I’m not sure how Dawson feels about it.
“Look, Dawson. I know what it’s like. The pressures of being and staying popular. I understand if you don’t want to hang out with me anymore.”
“Is that what you want? For Whitney to set me up with Rachel?”
“No, that’s not at all what I want. But it’s not my decision. It’s something you have to decide.”
He grabs my face in his hands, pulls me into a kiss, and murmurs, “I want you, Keatie. I don’t care what anyone thinks.”
And his sweetness kinda makes me cry.
Dawson feels my tears on his cheek and stops kissing me. “Why are you crying?”
“I was one of the most popular girl at my old school and here I’m social suicide,” is what I say. But really I’m thinking about home. About how I was willing to give up everything. Every part of me for Brooklyn. But how he didn’t really love me. Then I think about Cush. About my boots. About how they made me love him.
Dawson brushes my tears away and says, “Go out with me.”
I shake my head. I can’t go out with anyone. I’m an emotional wreck. Who starts crying when a boy is sweet to them?
“Not yet, Dawson. Neither one of us is ready for that. Can you honestly say you’re ready for another relationship?”
He looks up at the sky. “Probably not. But I want you to know where you stand. I want you to know that I really like you.”
I smile at him. “I already know that. And I really like you too.”
You look ridiculous.
11pm
I drink the Red Bull that Dallas gave me, then another one, and then, I was still tired, so I have a third.
By the time midnight rolls around, I’m bouncing off the walls.
When I get to the cave, Dallas is waiting for me.
“I’m so hyper! Let’s dance! I feel like dancing. Come on, dance with me!”
I grab my headphones out of my jacket pocket, put one in each one of our ears, hang on to Dallas, and then turn on some wild dance music.
The kind of stuff I danced to at the club in London. Electronic music, great dance beat.
We jump, and dance, and laugh, and dance. I haven’t had so much fun in a long time, doing something so really stupid.
We’re jumping around dancing like maniacs when someone grabs me from behind.
I scream. “Ahh!”
It’s Riley, I discover, after screaming and practically having a caffeine-and-adrenaline-induced heart attack.
He pops the headphone out of my ear. “What are you two doing? You look ridiculous!”
“Yeah, you can look ridiculous with us,” I tell him, pulling him in to dance with us.
Friday, September 9th
Kill. Kick ass. Destroy.
7:07am.
I’m up way early for my first Social Committee meeting.
Yes, I want to be on it, but no one bothered to mention that they meet at seven in the morning. And I knew I had to get up early, but during our Red Bull-fueled dance-off last night, which I didn’t come in from until three, this didn’t seem important.
I dragged my butt out of bed at 5:45, and got in my game day dance outfit, which consists of black, boot-cut yoga pants with a fold-over gold sequined waist, a gold sequined tank top, and, in case that isn’t enough gold sequins on me, gold-sequined tennis shoes. My hair is in big bouncy curls.
I look like an Academy Award going to the gym.
I walk into the meeting room and see there are only about eight people present.
And, yeah, I’m maybe a couple minutes late, but my hair looks good, so whatever.
Peyton says to me, “What are you doing here?”
“I guess I’m supposed to be here. This is the Social Committee meeting, right?”
The guy I know to be Brad, but have never met says, “Hey, I’m Brad,” and then turns and introduces me. “Everyone, this is Keatyn Monroe. She was nominated by Miss Praline, and I’m told that she’ll make a valuable addition to our little group.”
I smile, give a little wave to everyone, and sit down. They go on with their discussion. They are discussing normal school things, like Homecoming and other events that I know are already planned. I let the discussion go on but I don’t really understand what their purpose is.
So I say, “Uh, so I thought this committee was supposed to do, like, cool stuff?”
They all look at me.
Like an alien just landed his spaceship in front of them, but I keep going.
“Like, most kids are here on the weekends, and there isn’t much to do. Why don’t you have, like, mixer-type things. Something fun for people to do on the weekends?”
“I guess we never thought of it,” Peyton says. “Mostly we just oversee what’s going on at school. We don’t really plan stuff.”
“I think you should plan stuff. You could have, like, different themes, make it fun.”
“That would be cool. What kinds of themes?” Brad asks.
“There’s tons to choose from. Mexican, Moroccan, Roman, French, Eighties. You can have people, like, dress in the theme. You could ask the café to, like, cook food that fits the theme, maybe have music and stuff.”
“Like, how would we get, like, the money to do, like, that?” Whitney sneers, making fun of my idea as well as the way I talk.
“Do a fund raiser? Make people to pay to participate?”
“People wouldn’t come. They would think it’s lame,” Whitney says. She rolls her eyes at me, then looks at Brad to continue. Like we’re done with this silly conversation.
I let my eyes scan the room. I don’t know them all personally yet, but I recognize everyone here. And they all have one thing in common. They are leaders. Mariah, head cheerleader and swim team captain; Marcus, student body president and crew team captain; Peyton, dance and soccer team captain and on every other committee there is; Brad, football co-captain, track standout, and letter club president; Logan, drama club, National Honor society president, and lacrosse star; Sheila, Art club, band, swing choir, and award-winning soloist; Chaz, president of anything to do with math and science; and Whitney.
Brad starts to speak, but I interrupt him and decide to go for broke.
I stand up and start gathering up my bag. I turn to Brad and say quietly, “I think I misunderstood this committee, so I should probably go.”
Whitney practically applauds. “You probably should,” she says in her bitchiest tone.
But Brad says, “What do you mean?”
“I was under the impression that you all were the most influential students at this school. But, hey, if you can’t pull it off, no one can.”
I hear a whole lot of murmuring and talking amongst themselves. Talking to each other. I’m in a room full of competitors. They are so going to take the challenge.
They all start talking to Brad at once, agreeing that it might be fun to try.
And, pretty soon, they decided they could do it.
“Well, newbie,” Brad says to me. “Looks like we needed some fresh blood in here to give us the kick that we needed. Not everyone is in agreement, but I’ll tell you what. I’m appointing you the liaison between the committee and the staff on this little project. If you can get it approved, we’ll do it.”
They think I’m gonna balk at this, but I don’t. If there is one thing I have learned growing up with a movie star mom, it’s how to throw a good party. And I fully intend to get it approved.
After the meeting, Peyton pulls me aside. Whitney is standing next to her, scrutinizing her manicure and pretending to be bored.
“Just how did you get on this committee? You aren’t really in anything yet.”
“I got nominated by a teacher. Same way that you got on.”
“You’re supposed be nominated by being a leader in the classroom. Pretty unusual to get nominated after only two weeks of school.”
I shrug my shoulders at her. “Yeah, well, someone needs my help on something, and this is sorta my reward.”
“That’s bullshit. The rest of us had to work for it,” Whitney pipes in.
I turn around and face her. “You had to work to get nominated by a teacher? You’re not president of anything either, Whitney. Wonder what you had to do for it?” I raise my eyebrows at her and smirk.
She fumes and Peyton says, “Why would a teacher need your help?”
“I’m fluent in French.”
“So?” Whitney scoffs.
“She asked me to tutor your brother,” I say directly to Peyton.
Her face goes white.
I believe she is now between what is called a rock and a hard place.
So I continue. “You know, I can always change my mind. He could probably get another tutor. We can work together and do some really cool stuff, or I’ll quit both this and your brother. I’ll leave it up to you.”
Brad says from across the room, “Hey, Keatyn, come walk with me. I want to talk to you a little more.”
“As long as you’re walking straight to coffee. I’m in dire need of some caffeine.”
“Dude, me too,” he says.
We’re standing in line for coffees when Dawson comes up from behind me, grabs me around the waist, and kisses the side of the neck. “Damn, Keatie, looking good.”
I giggle. Dawson says to Brad, “Hey, you got a good speech planned for the pep rally?”
“Speech?” I ask.
Dawson says, “Yeah, the football captains have to speak today. I’m offensive captain, and Brad is the defensive captain. We gotta get everybody pumped up for the game.”
“Wow. Cool. Good luck.”
“I’m gonna need it. I have no idea what I’m going to say,” Brad says, looking worried.
I think back to one of Tommy’s movies. He played a seemingly average football coach, who was really a kick-ass espionage spy.
“Aw, that’s easy,” I say. “Just remember these words: kill, kick ass, destroy, annihilate, win, and GOOOOOO COUGARS!”
Dawson grabs my ass. “I think maybe we should just let her talk for us.”
“Or bring her out there with us. No one will even be looking at us.”
I roll my eyes at them. “You’re silly. I gotta get to class. Nice meeting you, Brad. I’ll email you some ideas.”
During first period, I ask Riley what he thinks of the idea of themed weekends.
“Sounds like a lot of work,” he replies.
I frown, so he adds, “But fun. Very fun.”
I start an email and brainstorm ideas. Let’s see, what were some parties I’ve been to?
There was a Moroccan themed bash, complete with belly dancers. How fun would that be? Have someone teach us to belly dance. There was great food, lots of pretty, brightly-colored fabrics, oh, and someone was doing henna tattoos, and the music was very chill. People smoked from elaborate hookahs and drank different kinds of bold teas. Embroidered pillows were scattered around low tables. There were colored lanterns. I wore a turquoise dress with golden embroidery. I think I was about twelve and I remember feeling extremely grown up.
Then there was the classic beach luau Tommy and Mom had at our house in Malibu. Drinks served in pineapples, floral leis as everyone arrived, tables laden with exotic fruits and flowers, a whole pig roasting in a pit in the stand. (Truth: it was a fake pig, a stage prop, not sure how it was flammableish, but whatever. Mom is a big supporter of animal rights and although she eats meat, seeing it roasted whole in front of her was not appetizing.) There was a combination of Hawaiian music and beach boys. Surf boards out front. Surfers were “performing” as in surfing before sundown, the beach was lit with tiki torches, hula girls were dancing, and there were some big sumo wrestler-looking guy who could eat fire on a sword or a stick. I’m not sure. I couldn’t watch. I think this theme would be good when we are all sick of the snow. Guests wore bikinis, floral shirts. It was chill, laid back.
Mom did a Parisian themed baby shower for her best friend, Millie Rodriguez. Wandering artists in berets, a chocolate replica of the Eiffel tower—a little overboard, if you ask me—pink and black awnings, amazing French food, cigarettes in long holders, waiters in black tails. Old black and white French romance movies playing on a big screen across the back yard.
Then I think about other themes, like toga/Greek, the 70’s and other eras, Harry Potter, Safari, Aliens, Masquerade.
I send my ideas in an email to Brad. I even suggest that we get other clubs involved. Like maybe let the art department, either teachers or the art club, raise funds by henna painting or drawing characters. I also suggested that each week there is some kind of contest, to get the competitive spirit going, and that each theme we do we have a charity we raise money for. I was also thinking the girls will probably get into it, but I’m not sure about the boys, so maybe the competitions are fun, or somehow sports-related. I told him I would defer to him on that. I mean, even lawn darts and croquet can be highly competitive.
If nothing else, I told him, it will look great on our college applications, and we’ll have some fun doing it.
She likes to knock boots.
French
I plow through the rest of the day, buzzed on caffeine and getting surprisingly nervous about the pep rally. I’m not even nervous to go to French today. I mean, I tutored Aiden without letting his lips touch mine.
I can, however, feel the exact spot where his touch practically burnt my skin. It’s right here, at the top of my pinkie and across to my middle finger. There’s no noticeable scar or anything, but I can still feel it.
He is pleasant during class, but then he makes me worry. “Don’t screw up at the pep rally today. My sister said you guys don’t really have the dance down very good.”
“I have the dance down just fine. I won’t be screwing up.”
I hope.
Oh. I should have paid better attention yesterday. Damn him for distracting me when with his, It’s tutoring with food crap.
Annie, who has become my official Student Council campaign manager, says, “Okay, so we can start putting up campaign signs Monday morning at 6 am, so we’re going to have to work on signs all weekend. I was thinking we’d do something fun and girly, lots of purples, pinks, silver glitter. But I haven’t come up with a good campaign slogan for you yet.”
From behind me Aiden says, “How about Vote for Boots. She likes to knock boots.”
I turn around, so totally and completely offended.
My face is probably screwed-up looking, but I don’t care.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Oh, uh, yeah, that’s probably a bad idea. I was thinking like knocking boots, as in kicking a soccer ball with the boots, not, uh . . .” He runs his hand through his beautiful, dark blond hair in frustration. “Gosh. I’m sorry. Shit.”
“Merde.”
“What?”
“It’s shit in French. At the very least, I hope I can teach you to cuss properly. Whatever.” I turn to Annie. “I have a campaign idea. I want to use the school colors. All the signs will be red and yellow, with lots of gold glitter and leopard. I was thinking, Vote for Keatyn Mon-roaaaarrrrr. Like you roar at football games? What do you think?”
