He’s crying. Like, sobbing.
I’m not sure what to do, so I put my hand on his back and pat it, like I do to the girls when they wake up in the middle of the night and can’t go back to sleep. “Shhhh. It’ll be okay. I promise.”
He pulls his head up, wipes tears from his face, and says, “Thank you. I didn’t want to do this alone, but I didn’t really have anyone that I wanted to come with me.”
“I’m glad I could help. I hope you still buy the house. She would love knowing you live here. Now we just need to find you a woman.” I laugh. “For a guy that looks like you that should be easy. Why aren’t you married yet, anyway?”
He laughs too. “Geez, now you sound just like her. I’ll tell you what I told her: I have high standards.” He pauses. “You looked pissed when you were walking down here earlier. Did you have a bad day? Did I just make it worse?”
“It doesn’t really matter anymore. It’s just high school drama.”
“Yeah, but it’s your drama. Tell me about it. It’ll distract me, and I went to high school; maybe I can help.”
I sigh big and spill my guts. “I recently broke up with the guy I’ve dated for over a year. We were the perfect couple. Like everyone thought we were perfect, but the truth is we weren’t. I don’t think he was attracted to me. Or maybe he really does want to wait until he gets married, I’m not sure.”
“You’re a virgin? Really?”
I hang my head. “Yeah.”
He pushes my chin up so I’m forced to look at him. “Keatyn, that’s a good thing.”
“My friends think it’s lame. It’s like I’m flawed or not sexy enough.”
“Sounds like your friends have some fucked up values. Sex is not what makes you sexy. I’m very serious about you being in my movie. Every guy in America is going to fall in love with you.”
“I highly doubt that. I can’t even seem to get the one guy I like to fall in love with me. And if that isn’t bad enough, my supposed best friend is threatening to tell everyone at school that I’ve never done it. Everyone thinks I did it all the time with my ex. If they find out, they’ll look at me like I’m a fake Prada bag.”
“Grandmother said that you shouldn’t care what people say about you. The people who say bad things are insecure about themselves. When I was young, kids at school used to tease me about my mom. I learned to fight. Got tough. When I lived with Grandmother, she told me that if I had confidence, everyone else would have confidence in me. So I got good at faking it. Now, I don’t even have to fake it anymore. Don’t let them get to you.”
“Okay, I’ll try.”
“I better get going.”
“I’m sorry again about your grandmother.”
“I really appreciate you being here, helping me. Will you give me your phone number, so I can get in touch with you?”
I recite my cell number while he puts it in his phone.
As he walks away, he says, “She’d love the fact that I met the girl I’m going to make into a star on her beach.”
Wednesday, May 18th
This is important, people.
Lunch
During fourth period, my cell buzzed with a text. I practically ripped it out of my bag, trying to see if it was from Brooklyn.
I was surprised to see Vincent’s name.
Unknown caller: Hey, it’s Vincent.
Me: Hey . . . how are you doing today?
Vincent: Better. I want to attempt to repay you for your kindness yesterday. Would you be available for dinner tonight?
I thought about it before I replied. I don’t really know Vincent very well, but he seems nice. I felt so bad for him yesterday. Last night, when I wasn’t counting up the hours it’s been since I’ve spoken to Brooklyn, I admit that I thought about him a little. About how strong and sexy he seems, but how emotional and deeply sad he was.
I thought about texting him. To check on him. I still have his business card sitting on my desk. I didn’t, though. I was afraid he’d think it was weird. But what he said to me when he left—about his grandmother being happy he met me on her beach—made me happy. Made me feel like maybe this project, if it does end up coming to fruition, would be something I should do.
The way he seemed to idolize his grandmother, and her old Hollywood-style ways, make me trust him. Make me want to do whatever I can to make him happy again.
Me: You don’t have to repay me. I was doing what anyone would do.
Vincent: I disagree. So dinner? And if you’re nervous about it because you don’t know me that well, why don’t you choose the restaurant and meet me there?
Me: I’m not nervous, Vincent. I trust you. As far as dinner goes, how about Moon Beams? We can sit on the patio and enjoy what’s left of this beautiful day.
Vincent: I’m glad you trust me. If we’re going to have a relationship, trust is important. Six o’clock?
Me: Sounds good. See you then.
Now, I’m sitting at our lunch table, thinking about him.
Not really him specifically. I know he’s too old for me, but I was thinking it might be nice to date a guy that didn’t act like such a boy.
Especially the kind of boy that would hook up with you and not call you.
Maybe I should start looking for a man. The kind of man who would tell you that you don’t have to have sex to be sexy. Who would say you have an expressive face. Who would want to risk his dream project on an unknown like you.
I think about what it would be like to kiss a man. A man who looks like Vincent. A man who has more experience than a boy could even imagine. A man who would treat you with respect. A man you could trust to call you.
I imagine being in a scene like the one at the end of his grandmother’s movie. Jumping into a man’s strong arms. Getting twirled around as he confesses his love for me. Then laying me back in the sand and kissing me as the waves curl up around our feet.
Of course, they didn’t show anything beyond that in the movie. Movies from the sixties were quite clean, sexually. But we all know what happened next.
They totally did it right there in the sand.
Unfortunately, when I picture doing that, I see Brooklyn’s face instead of a man like Vincent.
“Gonna be weird here next year,” Cush states loudly, wiping out my daydream.
I look around, notice the empty table, and remember that today is Senior Skip Day. The only people at our table are me, Vanessa, RiAnne, and Cush.
“That’s why we need to plan ahead,” Vanessa says.
“Plan for what?” I ask.
“Who we want to sit with us next year,” she replies in a condescending tone. Like we’re idiots who should have totally already known this.
She gets a portfolio out of her Chloé bag and hands us each a small presentation binder. She flips hers open, and we all follow suit.
Mostly because we wonder what the hell she has planned.
“Okay, so first off is Alexander Littleton. Prom prince. Quarterback. Obviously popular with the juniors. Good looking in a boyish way. Dad plays for the 49ers. Mom, a former Miss Kentucky is on a local morning show. Seems a little squeaky clean for me, but I'll see what I can do with him at the party.”
I flip through the profiles and can’t believe all the work she put into this. “What party?” I ask.
“Saturday night at Cush’s.”
“Um,” Cush says. “I can't Saturday night.”