“Doubtful. My vote is that he’s talking about hot sex with you.”
We are now being told that we’re dismissed and to get in line, pick up our schedules, and get our dorm assignments and roommates. We’re supposed to go to our dorms, meet our roommates, and go to dinner in the dining hall together. Then, tonight there is some kind of new student mixer where we’re going to play stupid icebreaker games and get to know each other.
Ought to be interesting.
Probably more like lame.
All I know is there are a whole bunch of football players here with nothing to do tonight but workout. So, one would assume they’re having a party. Or they should be.
I’d like to meet a few of them because I could seriously stand to party.
And because I’m single.
The boys and I walk toward the commons area, where we’re supposed to go next. As we’re walking, I spy a group of boys out in the big green lawn kicking a soccer ball around.
A crazy idea pops into my head.
Something I would do if I were the cool/crazy girl in a teen movie.
THE SETTING: BOARDING SCHOOL
A group of boys are playing soccer in a big green lawn in front of the path to the commons area. commons area. They are split up into shirts versus skins because half the boys. . .
What am I doing?
Screw it.
The scenes I write never seem to happen. I’m done planning it all out. Planning for every contingency. That’s the old me. That’s the me that Vanessa liked. The girl that always behaved exactly how she was supposed to.
I’m going to live in the moment, because if this doesn’t work and the stalker finds me, I might not have that many moments left.
This is the script of my life, and I’m in charge of living it. I don’t care what crazy teen girl would do.
This is about what I want to do. I’m wadding up the script and throwing it in the trash.
Right now I want to run down there, steal the ball, and kick it in the goal.
And I’m gonna do it. I don’t care what anyone thinks.
I’m confident. I’m good at soccer, and it’ll be fun.
I look down at the boots Cush gave me. They make me feel confident. Not that cowboy boots are the best for kicking a soccer ball. They’re good for shit kicking, Grandpa says, but what the hell.
The ball is heading toward me as we walk closer.
Here goes nothing.
I take off suddenly, run down the little hill, intercept the ball from the gorgeous, shirtless boy it was getting passed to, dribble the ball down the field, and kick the ball straight into the goal.
Right around the extremely—and I mean super de duper, super extremely hottie hott hot—hottie.
Like he is seriously the God of All Hotties.
I don’t say anything and neither do the boys on the field. I think I sorta shocked them.
The goalie for sure.
I give the Hottie god a big grin. A Haha, I just totally scored on you grin. Then I jog back up the field to my new friends, who stopped to watch me.
Then I think, why in the world did I just do that? I didn’t look like some cool girl! I probably looked like some freaking lunatic.
Shit. I’m such a liar. I do care what people think.
I’m gonna go hide in my room, cut my hair and dye it, and pretend to be someone new tomorrow. I wonder if the Garrett will let me change my name again?
But when I walk up to Dallas, he high fives me. “Dude, that was awesome! And in cowboy boots to boot. Haha!” He laughs at himself. “To boot, get it??”
Inwardly, I sigh with relief. Thank goodness, I didn’t make a complete fool of myself.
“Yeah, we get it,” I laugh.
“I said it before, and I’ll say it again. We’re gonna have some fun this year. I’m so glad you came up and hit on me.”
“I did not hit on you.”
“You asked Is this seat taken, and there was like this much space.” He puts his hands out and shows the others that there were like two inches.
“Maybe I just wanted to meet some boys. Some nice, fun to hang out with, boys. I figured the boys in the back were a good place to start. But if you had all turned out to be losers, then I woulda had to ditch you.”
“We still might ditch you.”
“No way,” Riley counters.
Dallas agrees, ruffles my hair, and says, “Yeah, now you’re, like, our mascot.”
“You have a nickname?” Riley asks.
“Um, my little sisters call me Kiki. Like key, key.”
“Kiki is a stripper name,” one of the freshmen boys chimes in.
“Uh, you’re not gonna call me Kiki.”
He scowls. “Fine. What’s your last name?”
I go blank. Forget my line. Shit. What is my last name?
If this were really the movie of my life, a stagehand would whisper it to me. Would it be weird if I wrote it on my hand?
“Um, Monroe.” I finally remember.
“K-mon?” a freshman suggests.
“That’s dumb,” Dallas tells him.
Riley says, “Well, Kiki it is then.”
Omg!
Seriously? Why did I open my mouth about Kiki? It totally sounds like a stripper name. And yeah, I want to get noticed, but I don’t want the boys to think I’m some strip tease slut.