But this was the wrong place to go.
I have so many memories of Aiden here. Him telling me that we’re sorta like fate. That he was going to ask me to marry him at the top of the Eiffel tower at sunset. When he saw the text from Dawson about how he’d die without a kiss. How we sat on the bench out front and watched our first sunset together.
I find a remote corner with two chairs that are hidden behind a set of stacks. I sit down, pull out Avery’s purple glitter pen, and start writing.
Fire = Passion.
French
Even though I want to skip French, I don’t.
But sitting in this class sucks.
Because all I can think about is him.
All the things he’s leaned up and whispered in my ear. The dirty words. The notes about true love and the dream girl.
I tune out Miss Praline, hide my phone under my desk, and send a text.
Me: Grandma, my house got burned down.
Grandma: You can always rebuild a house. Fire is a lot harder to find. (It’s just harder to control sometimes.) Hint: Fire = Passion.
I also send one to Grandpa.
Me: Remember when Jose told me not to let boys give me shit?
Grandpa: Yes.
Me: He forgot to tell me what to do when a boy does.
Grandpa: Well, you have two options. I can send you a nice little revolver, or you can give him shit back.
My God of all Hotties.
4pm
I manage to get through our dance routine at the pep rally without crying.
But I want to cry.
Just seeing Aiden in his jersey makes me want to bawl.
It’s the jersey that I wore.
That I was so proud to wear on the field.
He kissed me with his tongue because of that jersey.
I bury my face in my pompoms so I don’t have to look at him.
“Keatyn,” Maggie says. “You have to snap out of it. You’re acting like a zombie.”
“I am not. I was just out there dancing.”
“And now you’re practically in tears.” She wraps her arm around my shoulder and pulls me into a hug. “Boys suck.”
I nod, agreeing with her. But I don’t agree. Aiden doesn’t suck. He’s perfect.
“You made me give Logan another chance.”
“No, I didn’t. You gave him another chance because he made the big gesture.”
“Do you need a big gesture?”
“No. It won’t matter, Maggie. We fight all the time,” I say, giving her the excuse I gave him.
“My mom says there’s a fine line between love and hate. That the more passionate you get, the more passion you have.”
“My grandma said something like that to me today. That fire equals passion.”
“You and Aiden have passion.”
“Aiden and I had more than passion. We had fire.”
“Fires smolder for a while after they’ve been put out, you know. You aren’t done with him. You can’t be. Keatyn, tell me now that you don’t love him and I’ll stop bugging you.”
I look at him.
He’s standing across the basketball court, listening to the coaches try to get everyone fired up for the big game. His face is bruised, his hair isn’t gelled, his posture is off, his green eyes aren’t sparkling, and there’s no beaming smile on his face.
But he still looks like a god to me. My God of all Hotties.
Little tears fall down my face.
I wipe them away quickly.
“You’re crying just looking at him. I know you love him.”
I close my eyes and nod.
“So why don’t you talk to him?”
“I did earlier. It’s over, Maggie. It has to be.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t hooked up with Dawson.”
“I wish I could. It would make this a whole lot easier.”
A friendly voice.
7pm
I skip dinner. The girls offered to stay and order in pizza, but I told them to go without me. I wouldn’t be very good company. No one really argued with me. Ace and Annie will be apart for Thanksgiving break, as will Katie and Bryce. They are trying to spend every last minute together.
I scroll through my phone and hit Damian’s number.
“Hey, Keats.”
“Hey.”
“Oh, boy. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just wanted to hear a friendly voice.”
“Are you excited to go to St. Croix?”
“Very.”
“Who all is going with you?”
“Um, no one, actually.”
“You’re spending Thanksgiving alone?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought . . .”
“It didn’t work out.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe you should invite B.”
“No. I . . . I couldn’t deal with him right now.”
“Keats, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?”
“I’m fine. Just a little broken. But I’ve been broken for a while. I’m like a chip on your windshield.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You know how when you get a rock chip, it seems minor? But then a few weeks later you see that the chip has spread. Then a few weeks after that, your windshield is ruined. I’m a chip that didn’t get fixed.”
“And now you’re ruined?”
“Pretty much. Damian, will you sing to me?”
“Yeah, Keats. Lie down and close your eyes.”
I like it rough.
11:30pm
As soon as Katie starts breathing heavily, I sneak into my closet and change into my workout clothes.
“So, what’s your holiday tradition?” I ask Cooper while I’m putting on some protective gear.
“Um, well, we eat a turkey dinner and then go to my sister’s grave. She was killed two days before Thanksgiving.”
“I’m so sorry, Cooper.”
“I know,” he says, throwing me a pair of red gloves.
We walk out into the center of the mat and he tells me a bunch of rules like we’re in an actual competition.
“Is this like a match? Are we keeping score?”
“You tap out, you lose.”
We bump gloves, and I show him all that I’ve learned from him in the last few weeks.
And I’m doing well. I’m connecting with a lot of my punches, and I’ve even managed to get him down on the ground twice.
And, more importantly, he’s yet to take me down.
“That’s it,” he says, egging me on. “Get on it.”
I’m breathing heavily and sweating. “Uhh. Uhh. Uhh,” I grunt as I throw a three-punch combination.
“That’s it. You know I like it rough,” he teases.
He throws a right-handed punch toward my ribs. I quickly grab his forearm and twist it, bringing him to his knees.
“Do it harder,” he says. “You want me facedown.”
All of a sudden, the gym doors swing open.
“See, I told you they’re having an affair . . .” Whitney says to the dean, who she’s pulled inside with her.
We pull our face guards off and go, “A what?!”
The dean says, “Clearly, you were mistaken, Miss Clarke. Why don’t you head back to your dorm. I’ll take it from here.”
“But they were gone on the same two days. I gave you pictures of them sneaking off together. He’s even holding her hand in one photo. And . . .”
“Miss Clarke.”
“It’s more than an affair. She was pregnant with his baby. That’s why they were both gone the same day. She had an abort—”
The dean says, “That’s enough accusations, Miss Clarke. Get to your dorm or you’ll get a detention for being out after curfew.”
“But she’s out after curfew!”
“Now!” he says.
Whitney gives me an evil glare and stomps out. The dean shuts the door behind her, saying, “I’ll expect to see you in my office first thing in the morning.”
Then he turns to us. “Now, obviously, you’re not having an affair. But you, Mr. Steele, are out alone with a student after curfew. That’s against school policy.”
"It's my fault, sir,” I say.
“How so?”
“I asked him to teach me how to fight. With homework, rehearsals, and other activities, right after curfew was the only time we could meet."
“And why do you need to know how to fight? We don’t have too many street brawls here at Eastbrooke.”