My plan is simple. I’m going to find a couple guys who look nice and see if I can sit with them. In reading every scrap of information I could find about the school, I learned that the football players came here for camp two weeks ago, so even if they’re new, they’ve probably gotten to know each other.
I spy a guy that is too cute for words. He looks, well, like Brooklyn did when I first met him, with sandy blonde hair and gleaming blue eyes, and I instantly feel a connection to him. When a really hot, tall, dark-haired guy who looks way too old to be a freshman walks over and fist bumps him, I know I’ve found my pair.
I wait for them to sit down, while hoping they aren’t the kind of guys who like to sit up front. I watch them walk high up in the bleachers.
We have to wear uniforms at Eastbrooke—well, sort of uniforms. The boys wear matching navy blazers with khaki pants or shorts. They also have to wear Oxford shirts and ties, but they get to choose whatever kind they want. Some days they wear a polo with the school’s crest on it, but I’m not sure when those days are. The girls have to wear plaid skorts or skirts that are a really cute navy and black plaid. Mixed into the plaid are stripes of white, red and yellow. The girls also have navy blazers, but they have more options, like colored vests and cardigans.
I’m actually kind of excited for the uniforms.
Since everyone traveled here today, we were allowed to dress casually. I changed into the outfit that Kym packed for me on the plane. I’m wearing a cute knit dress with an appliquéd rose front and an asymmetrical lace hem. Brown suede Proenza Schouler tote, braided belt, and the cowboy boots Cush gave me.
I wasn’t allowed to bring a whole lot from home, but I did bring the boots, a few of my favorite shoes, the book of Keats poetry, and a few other things I didn’t think I could live without, including a dress of Mom’s to wear to the Welcome Dance on Saturday night. And I might have borrowed the black Gucci platform boots that we always fight over. They were in my closet, and I’m pretty sure possession is nine-tenths of the law.
Boots are noisy, I realize, as I clomp up the bleachers after the boys. A few girls look at me.
Make that, stare at me.
And then they all look down at my boots.
I’m thinking maybe East coast girls don’t wear a lot of cowboy boots?
Shit.
I hope the boots weren’t a mistake. Kym actually packed a pair of pretty platform wedges to wear with the dress. Why didn’t I listen to her?
But then I remember that I don’t want to be like everyone else. I want to be me. And me likes the boots. And, more importantly, wearing these boots makes me feel like Cush is with me, reminding me to be me. To let people get to know me; to let people in the way I did him.
Besides, I can’t change them now.
I notice either designer heels or Sperry topsiders on most of the girls.
The young Brooklyn clone and the dark-haired hottie are sitting with a group of boys who look like freshmen. I try to decide how to play this.
I could use the make-them-come-to-me-approach. March up there and sit just a couple rows in front of them, hoping they will see me sitting alone, take pity on me, and talk to me. That’s sort of a passive approach, though, and I’m going to be bold.
Why the hell not?
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being friends with Vanessa it’s that confidence and boldness are king. And it’s not like I can embarrass myself too badly. No one here knows me. And since I am now officially in charge of the script of my life, why not be bold and take a few risks?
There’s a butt-sized gap between the two boys. I’m going to walk up to them, point at the gap, and say, Is this seat taken?
Then I’m going to pray they don’t laugh at me.
“Is this seat taken?” I ask politely, boldly pointing at the sliver of seat between them.
They look at each other, slide apart, and the clone says, “All yours, darling.”
At first I think he’s making fun of my boots, but then he says, “Hey, I’m Dallas, and this here’s Riley,” in an unmistakable Southern drawl—the kind you only get from growing up in the South, not from working with an accent coach.
Because I’ve spent a lot of time in East Texas, both in my real and fake lives, I respond with, “Nice to meet y’all. I’m Keatyn.” And then I sit.
“Great boobs, uh, I mean boots,” a boy behind them says.
I laugh.
I’m not offended in the least.
It’s not like I’m some freshman virgin. I’m an experienced woman, and I think that makes me worldlier than all my travels have. Like, kinda.
I turn around and look at the offending boy. “Thanks, what’s your name?”
The boy looks embarrassed and ignores me.
Great! I’m off to a great start. I’m being ignored by a freshman boy. Twelve minutes into my time here, and I’m already a loser.
I ignore the boy and turn to Dallas. He looks sweet. And the way he sorta looks like Brooklyn makes me feel comfortable talking to him. “So, you don’t look like a freshman.”
“Me and Riley here are juniors, how about you?”
“I’m a junior too.”
The boys tell me they all met last week during football camp.