Kiss Me (25 page)

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.