“Getting back from sneaking out to see Dawson?”
“Uh, no, with Riley and Dallas.”
“Take me next time. Riley is hot. I don’t think I would mind if that boy used me. And Dallas is adorable. I think he’d be fun to kiss. Oh, and that box you tripped over was delivered for you today. I forgot to tell you earlier.”
I take the box into the closet, turn on the light, and open it. Inside are a pair of gorgeous cowboy boots. They are black, navy, and brown, with cut-out designs in red and golden-yellow leather. I look at the name on the box. It’s from the boot shop in East Texas where my grandpa has his boots custom made. Custom boots and a brand new truck every year are his two big splurges.
Inside one of the boots is a note from Grandpa.
Can’t let my Hotshot get all uppity out there or turn into some damn, Yankee. Had Javier make these for you. Don’t be afraid to kick some ass and raise a little hell.
Love you, Papa.
I get little tears in my eyes. Grandpa had cowboy boots custom-made just for me? It’s way too late to call. I look at what’s inside the rest of the box. There are three more looks to go with the boots from Kym. I decide that on Thursday, I’m going to kick a little ass, East Texas style.
Wednesday, September 14th
A fiercer hell.
8pm
I’m sitting in the library studying and waiting for Dawson to meet me. I get a wonderful email from my interior designer with drawings, photos, and floor plans for the new loft. I excitedly comment and approve all of it. Then I think about my old closet. I email Kym and ask if she has a photo of it. She quickly emails it back to me. I forward the closet photo to the designer and tell him I’d like my new closet to look as close to that as possible.
There isn’t really anything going on tonight. Which is good, because I have a long list of homework and projects on my to do list.
Dawson shows up and starts to work on his homework, but he gets bored and starts messing around with me. He keeps poking my sides randomly, trying to make me scream and get in trouble. Then he grabs my long to do list and writes his name at the top.
“Very cute,” I say to him.
My phone buzzes on the table in front of us. There is a text from Brooklyn, who I haven’t heard a peep from in exactly eleven days. Not that I’m counting, I just expected him to try to apologize sooner.
B<3: I’m sorry, okay? I miss you. I miss our talks. I was stupid. Got caught up in everything. I’m sorry. Really. I love you.
Dawson sits and stares at my phone, like it’s a snake coiled up, getting ready to bite him. “How come his name still has a heart by it?”
“Uh, I don’t know. I haven’t talked to him since Labor day weekend, or looked at his name. I forgot it was like that. Here, I’ll change it.”
“So what are you going to say to that?”
“I’m not even going to reply.”
“I think you should reply.”
“Why? I don’t have anything to say to him.”
“Tell him you have a boyfriend and to leave you the hell alone.”
“Is that what you would do if Whitney texted you and told you she was sorry?”
“Is that why you wouldn’t take the necklace? Are you still hung up on him?”
“No. I’m not hung up on him at all. I hate him.”
“Then why?”
“The necklace has nothing to do with him and everything to do with us. I’m not ready to have someone’s heart yet. Especially the heart of someone who isn’t ready to give it. I like you. I don’t want to rush it.”
He touches my hair. Looks into my eyes and says, “Keatie, I swear, I’m not going to hurt you.”
I get little tears in my eyes, cuz he is seriously so sweet.
He takes the phone out of my hand. “I’ve got this.”
Me: This is Keatyn’s boyfriend. Leave her the hell alone.
“Dawson. You’re not my boyfriend.”
“Yeah, I know, but eventually I will be. We’re good together.”
B: Tell her to take her phone back and tell me herself.
Me: Hey, it’s me. What you did hurt. I always thought no matter what we would be friends, but I’m pretty sure you ruined that too with your lack of respect. Hope she was worth it.
B: “There is not a fiercer hell than the failure in a great object.” Keats for my Keats. I’m sorry. Really sorry.
“I’m not replying to that.”
Dawson says, “What does that even mean?”
“It means he’s living in hell because he failed me. Or so he’s saying.” I sigh big, run my hand through my hair. “Shit.”
“Do you miss him?”
“I miss our friendship. He was one of my best friends for two years. What he did was more than just a slam to our relationship, it was a slam to our friendship, too. I hope that even if you and I don’t work out as a couple that we stay friends.”
“We’re definitely staying friends,” he says. Then he gives me a sweet kiss.
Thursday, September 15th
A sick hazing ritual.
6:45am
This morning, I get up with the chickens and do my hair up. I did it big. Lots of big spiral curls, lots of hairspray and fullness. I do my makeup just a bit bolder, still soft and natural, but I add some highlighter to my cheekbones and nose, a little deeper blush at the hollow of my cheeks to add more definition. I add a rich dark purple eye shadow that brings out the purple in my eyes and a simple black swoop of eyeliner.
My look for today is a red tank top under a white blouse with red western detailing—little embroidery across the cuffs, which stick out just under my navy blazer—the plaid pleated skort, the cowboy boots, handmade silver earrings and necklace, and silver bangles. Now I feel ready to give my speech.
But, first things first. Gotta call Grandpa.
I thank him. Tell him about my speech today. He wishes me luck and fills me in on what’s been going on at the ranch. About the horses, the ranch hand’s love life, Grandma’s new apple pie recipe, and his new lemonade drink using pink lemonade rather than the normal yellow kind. I hang up feeling happy and confident.
I even have time to sit down and eat breakfast.
Dawson kisses me. “You got my vote, Keatie. Just look at you.”
And although this is nice, and I want to look nice, cute, and likable, I also kind of decided this morning after talking to Grandpa that I don’t want to win because of how I look. I want to win because of what I say in my speech. I do want to try and make a difference. I don’t want to just look pretty.
So I completely redid my speech. And have my new lines all memorized.
Now, I’m at the all-school convocation. We have to give our speech in front of the entire student body. I’m pretty sure this is some sick hazing ritual. If you manage to give the speech without throwing up then you’re in.
I’m standing in the hallway with the other candidates, who are nervously pacing and rereading their note cards. I’m really not that nervous. I never been one to get stage fright, but usually when I’ve performed in the past it has been at soccer games and dance recitals. I’ve never spoken to a large group before.
Aiden walks toward me and does a little motion. He has something in his hand that he wants to sneakily put into mine.
How I know what his little glances and gestures mean is a bit astonishing to me but, then, I’m pretty certain some sort of mind control is part of his god power package.
I move closer to him and he slides something small into my hand. Then he puts a finger up to the side of his mouth, making the universal sign for shhh.
I don’t open my hand.
I’m afraid to.
Plus, I want to savor it.
I hear my name being called. It’s my turn to go up.
I get up to the podium, lay down my note cards, turn my hand over, and open my fist. There nestled in my palm is a green glass four-leaf clover. And I feel . . . I don’t even know.
Lucky.
I feel like Harry Potter just put liquid luck in my butterbeer before Quidditch practice.
I feel unstoppable.
I speak eloquently and from the heart. I talk about what Student Council is, what it should be able to do, how it should not just be about social agendas or a popularity contest. That it should focus on the students and their rights. Their right to change the dress code. Their right not to get their phones put into jail. Their right to be served something besides empty calories and fried foods at lunch. Their right to stay out later. To have more all-school activities. And I end it with a loud, cheerleader-style, Vote for Keatyn Mon-ROARRRRRR, and, luckily, lots of people roar with me.