A pair of black leather shorts. Same designer.
With it, I’m carrying an adorable tangerine Proenza Schouler leather pouch.
The outfit alone looks very sporty and cute. It’s the shoes that push it into the I’m fuckable category, according to Vanessa. These Chloé shoes look like a simple black platform Mary Jane, but instead of a single strap around my ankle, these have five more straps going all the way up almost to my knee. They are an open-front boot/shoe kind of thing.
But I knew Vanessa’s comment about me being fuckable was a warning.
A shot across the bow. Telling me I’d better do as she says.
And I complied.
And my poor feet and I still don’t know why.
Vanessa, RiAnne, and I got to school late, so no one saw us strutting through the halls in our Vanessa-approved outfits. The big breakup was the topic of the morning, and I heard numerous rumors as to why we broke up. They ranged from the truth—we decided to take a break—to the outrageous: that I hooked up with Cush. The Cush rumor was given additional fuel when he met me outside French and walked me to my morning classes.
Then he sat next to me at lunch.
Vanessa sat on the other side of me. She was whispering in my ear that I should hookup with Cush. How he’d be the perfect guy to lose my virginity to. How if I acted like I knew what I was doing, he wouldn’t know that I hadn’t.
And honestly, if it weren’t for the fact that Brooklyn seemed really excited to learn that I never had, that he told me he was going slow for me, I might have considered it. I’ve written a million scenes where I finally do it, but even though Cush is very cute, he hasn’t been cast in any of them.
The lunchroom is noisy and bustling, but when Sander makes his big entrance, you could have heard a pin drop. Instead of his normal, brightly-colored preppy clothes, he’s wearing a pair of dark skinny jeans, black motorcycle boots, and a plain black tee.
If I didn’t recognize the outfit, I might not have recognized him.
He’s even got a new walk. Instead of his typical shoulders-back strut, he’s slumped over like the world has beaten him down. He walks past our table, looks at me with pathetic puppy dog eyes, and then sits at the end of a mostly empty table. He puts earbuds in his ears and his nose in a book.
“Ohmigawd,” Vanessa says loudly. “What the fuck did you do to him?”
I shrug my shoulders as Cush nudges my foot under the table. I told him last night about Sander’s upcoming makeover.
The lunchroom is abuzz.
At first it was, Who is that guy?
Then it was, Ohmigawd, it’s Sander!
Then there was a lot of looking between our table and his.
RiAnne says, “I don’t get it.”
“Don’t get what?” Cush asks.
“He looks hot like that. Why didn’t he come sit with us?”
“Maybe you should go sit with him,” I suggest. “Console him.”
“Don’t you dare!” Vanessa warns. “The lines have been drawn. You are not to cross.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“Hey, you’re the one who destroyed the prom king. I’m just trying to deal with the fallout.”
“What fallout?”
“How it affects our status. We don’t want him starting his own table.”
“Who cares about the fucking table?” I say, a little too loudly. The lacrosse guys at the next table turn around and stare at me.
I get up, grab my bag, and march out of the lunchroom. It’s either that or punch Vanessa right in her smug face.
Cush says, “Wait up,” from behind me. Then he starts laughing. “Not that I couldn’t catch you in those shoes. Or boots. What are they anyway?”
Keep it together, Keatyn. Don’t have a breakdown in the middle of school.
“I don’t know what they’re called, but my feet are killing me.”
Cush picks me up off the ground and carries me down the hall.
Who knew he was so strong?
We pass a pretty cheerleader named Mandy, who sometimes comes to Cush’s parties. She gasps at the sight of him carrying me down the hall. From the look on her face, you’d have thought she’d seen us having sex.
Cush nods his head at her and says, “S’up,” as he carries me into the boys’ locker room. He sets me down on a bench between rows of bright blue lockers.
“Take them off,” he commands.
I don’t.
Instead, I lay back on the bench and scream, “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
“What the hell is going on?” Coach Kline yells at Cush. Then he says to me, “And why are you in the boys’ locker room?”
“She’s having a meltdown, sir,” Cush says. “It’s the shoes. They’re slowly trying to kill her.”
Coach looks at my shoes, grimaces, and nods his head in agreement. “That’s understandable.” Then he walks back into his office and shuts the door.
Cush kneels down and starts unbuckling my shoe.
“Sometimes I can’t figure you out. Why are you friends with her? Why do you put up with it?”