Skater Boy (7 page)

Starr frowns. “No way, dude,” she says scornfully. “I don't
drink
.” She spits the word out like it's the poison contained in the flask. “Besides the occasional cig, I'm straight edge.”

“Yeah, we're straight edge or die, man,” Sean agrees from the backseat. “Put that crap away.”

I'm not exactly sure what straight edge means, but if it saves me from being asked if I want to get drunk, I'm all for it. If I showed up at home with even a hint of alcohol on my breath, I'd be sent off to rehab quicker than you can say, “But I only had one sip.”

Eddie shrugs, but puts down the flask without taking a swig. Huh. Guess it's like peer pressure in reverse. But hey, whatever works.

We scramble out of the car and lock the doors. Then we head toward the warehouse, Sean again holding my hand. There are dozens of people milling about outside, dressed in bright, candy-colored clothing and smoking cigarettes. Others suck on Blow Pops or pacifiers.

We pay our ten dollars apiece to a pierced and tattooed bouncer type—who surprisingly doesn't ask to see any ID—and head inside.

Flashing lights and pounding techno beats grab hold of my senses the moment I step through the doors. Everywhere I look there are sweaty bodies moving and gyrating in time to the music. The whole place radiates a kind of energy, almost as if it's alive.

Wow. All I can say is wow.

“Come on, let's dance!” Starr urges, grabbing my free hand. Sean laughs and releases my other hand as I'm dragged away. We head out onto the middle of the warehouse floor.

As the music pounds into my brain, I lose my self-conscious inhibitions and allow myself to be carried away by it all. The techno enters my ears and drips through my entire body until I am alive with the sound and one with the rhythm.

I look around at the other dancers. Some sway slowly to the beat, others dance at an excited pace. There are black kids, white kids, Asian kids, Spanish kids. Ravers, goths, jocks, preps, hippies, stoners. Rich kids, poor kids, kids wearing major bling, kids wearing plastic jewelry. Beautiful, ugly, fat, skinny. All dancing as one, all entranced by the DJ's spell.

It's like in this place no one gives a care about your social standing. The amount of money you have or don't have. Who you are, who you hang with, who you avoid like the plague. When you're here, when you're dancing, this is your family. A family who doesn't ask what grades you get in school. Or what you want to be when you grow up. All that matters to this family is the here and now.

I feel hot breath on the back of my neck and turn around to find Sean behind me. He snakes his hands around my waist and together we trance out to the beat.

 You know when you're listening to your iPod and a song comes on that's so beautiful it gives you chills and you want to cry and laugh all at the same time? Dancing with Sean is like that, multiplied by about three thousand. His fingers scorch my bare waist and his eyes set wildfires ablaze in my insides. I'm completely blown away and loving every minute of it.

This has got to be so much better than some candlelit, quiet dinner for two. Better than snuggling by a blazing fire and feeding peeled grapes to one another. Better than walking barefoot down the ocean shore at dusk. Better than any romantic movie cliché you can possibly think of. It's alive and free and brave and wonderful.

After about half an hour of bliss, I realize I'm dying of thirst, all my body's fluids having sweated out of me. I pantomime a drinking motion to Sean. He nods and leads me by the elbow off the crowded dance floor and into a smaller side room. Here, a second DJ spins soothing, chill-out music that greatly contrasts in tempo to what's being played in the main area. Multicolored, fluffy pillows have been strewn across the floor and a juice bar takes up one wall.

We order orange smoothies and retreat to a pillowed corner of the room with our drinks. There are only a few other people around, vegging out, not paying attention to us. I sip my smoothie, rejoicing as the icy relief travels down my parched throat.

“Yum,” I say.

Sean stretches out his legs so he's in complete relaxed lounge position. “Yum,” he agrees, staring at me in a way that makes me wonder if he's talking about his drink.

 He reaches over and brushes a damp lock of hair from my eyes. “You're all sweaty,” he says with a teasing glimmer in his eyes.

“Um, yeah,” I say, taking in his own shiny face. “Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.”

We laugh together. This is so nice. I feel so warm and cozy and happy and content for the first time in my life. Curled up in pillows, next to an uber hottie, snug as a bug in a Berber Carpet rug.

The old Dawn wouldn't be able to enjoy herself here. She'd be too worried that The Evil Ones found out where she was and were on their way down to bust her. But the new Dawn is determined not to worry about things that are out of her control.

“So,” Sean says, finishing his smoothie and setting it on the floor. “Tell me about yourself.”

I shrug. “There's not much to tell. I'm fifteen. I go to Sacred Mary's and—”

“Wait, I'm not talking your standard four-one-one,” he interrupts. “I mean like the real you. What are your goals? Your dreams?”

“Oh.” Okay, I know my face is beet red now. I grab a pillow and hug it in my lap. “I don't know.”

“Oh, come on,” Sean chides. “Everyone has goals and dreams.”

“I know, but …”

“I just want to get to know you better, that's all.”

Ooh, he wants to get to know me. That's a good thing, right? In fact, a very good thing, I should think. All of a sudden I have this undying urge to start spewing verbal vomit like Lindsay Lohan in
Mean Girls
and tell him everything.

At the same time, I'm frightened. I've never told anyone my secret life dream of being a poet/writer. What if he thinks I'm totally dumb and naive? I mean, who makes it as a poet in this day and age? No one even reads poetry anymore. It's not like the old days of Shakespeare. Even Jim Morrison of the Doors had to set his poetry to music before it became commercially successful.

“I'll tell you,” I say at last. “But it's kind of stupid. So you have to promise not to laugh.”

“Dreams aren't stupid,” Sean replies, taking my hand in his. Wow, how can one simple move like that turn me into complete mush? “Though, of course, there are tons of people out there who try to make you believe that. But that's only ‘cause they're blind sheep, running around with no imaginations.”

Wow. He's so right. I mean, who gives a care what anyone else thinks of the achievability of my dream? It's mine, after all, not theirs. And if I believe it, if I think I can find a way to make it true, then that's all that really matters, right?

“Okay,” I relent. “But you first.”

He grins and pokes me in the ribs with his free hand. “Coward,” he teases. “Okay, fine. I have two, actually. My first dream is to become a professional skateboarder. To compete in national competitions and get sponsored by a skateboarding company.” He smiles. “You know, like Tony Hawk, only most likely on a much smaller scale.”

 “That'd be awesome,” I say, genuinely impressed. Wow. I can totally picture myself as a pro skater's girlfriend—standing on the sidelines during competitions, cheering on her man. Fielding the jealous stares from all the other girls who wished Sean was with them….

Oops, sorry. This is supposed to be about Sean's dream.

“I mean, I have no idea if I'm even that good,” he's saying. “But there's a regional skateboarder competition coming up and I'm gonna enter. The winner gets sponsored by a local skateboard design company and an actual college scholarship.” He pauses, his eyes shining. “Which would put me one step closer to achieving my second dream. To be the first in my family to go to college.”

“No one in your family's gone to college?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

His eyes fall to the ground, his enthusiasm deflated by my callous question. Nice one, Dawn. “Nope,” he says. “Not that we're stupid or anything. But do you know how much college costs these days?”

I have no idea how much colleges cost, namely because cost is not a factor in my household. The most expensive college in the country could not put the merest dent in Dad's bank account. It's so sad to me that someone who actually wants to go to college may not end up going and here I am, not really even wanting to go (at least not to uber-expensive Harvard!) and being forced to by rich parents. Life is so not fair.

“So that's my dream,” he says with a small shrug. “Your turn.”

“I want to be a poet,” I say, deciding to go for broke. “But everyone thinks it's stupid. My dad says I'm wasting my time. My friends think it's completely geeky. But I can't help it. I love poetry. When I'm writing, I can completely block out the world and I feel … I don't know … alive, or something.”

My voice cracks a little at that last bit. Great. Now I'm going to start crying. Which is so not me. In fact, I usually take pride in the fact that I'm not one of those overly dramatic, cry-at-the-drop-of-a-hat girls. And here I am, right in front of Sean, ready to start bawling like a baby.

Lovely.

“I know you can't make a living being a poet,” I sniff, trying to compose myself. “And everyone thinks they're a good poet, so maybe I suck. Maybe I'm the worst poet known to mankind and I'm just deluding myself into thinking I have some talent and—”

Sean leans over and shuts me up with a kiss.

Chapter Nine

 

There's like no buildup. No smoldering glance. No leaning in slowly and wondering which way to turn my face so we don't bump noses. Just BAM! I'm locking lips with Sean.

Holy crap.

His lips are soft and taste like orange smoothie, and the chills they spark rocket through my body until I'm almost convinced I'll start shooting fireworks from my fingers and toes. Which sure would be interesting …

Sean pulls away a moment later, way too soon for my liking. “Sorry,” he says, and I can see he's blushing. How adorable. “You just look so cute when you get all passionate. I couldn't help myself.”

He is
the
most wonderful boy ever. Possibly the most wonderful boy in the entire universe. I want to marry him and have his babies and grow old and hang out in matching rocking chairs on our front porch watching the young'uns and saying things like, “Back in our day, we didn't behave like these whippersnappers.”

 Not that I'm going to admit that right now. Don't want the boy to jump up and run from the room screaming.

“It's okay,” I say shyly, staring down at my smoothie. “I kind of liked it.”

“Yeah? Cool,” he says, sounding a bit shy himself. He is so cute I cannot even stand it. “Wanna go dance some more?”

Um, dance? No effing way. I don't want to dance. I want to stay right here and make out with Sean until the sun rises over the horizon. And then continue until it sets and rises again. In fact, I'm pretty convinced if Sean were to kiss me nonstop for the next fifty years, I still wouldn't have my fill of his scrumptious lips.

“Sure,” I say out loud. “Let's go dance.”‘Cause like I said, I so don't want to scare the guy off. I've got to play my cards right. Not be too easy. Keep him wanting me. Desiring me. At least that's what I read in last month's
Cosmo
.

So we head back on the dance floor. It's late, but I'm even more exuberant than before, the kiss having flooded me with energy. We dance and we laugh and we dance some more. I have no sense of time or place. Just the here and now. The being with Sean. The amazing Sean. Sigh.

“Time to go!”

It seems only minutes later, but has probably been hours when Starr interrupts me with the mandate of returning home before her dad wakes up and finds us gone. Reluctantly, Sean and I follow her and Eddie out of the warehouse. I'm shocked to see that the sun is already peeking over the trees. It's morning and I've been out all night. I've never, ever stayed up all night before, never mind stayed up dancing and making out with a cute boy.

Life is definitely looking up.

Eddie drives us back to the cemetery. We say our good-byes—Sean gives me the most adorable peck kiss on my nose—and head back to Starr's house.

“That was so amazing,” I say, twirling around in the early-morning air, unable to stop babbling. “That was like the best night of my life.”

Starr smiles at me and squeezes my shoulder. “I'm glad you had fun,” she says. “Sean seems like a really nice guy.”

“He is. Really, super nice.” I wonder if this means Sean is now my official boyfriend. How delicious. I have a boyfriend. A sexy, wonderful, cool, skateboarder boyfriend. Woot!

A nagging thought tugs at the back of my brain, pestering me with reality crap that I don't want to think about right now. Namely, what will The Evil Ones say about Sean?

One, I'm not even supposed to be dating yet. Not until I turn sixteen next month. And two, even if I did meet their puritanical age prerequisite, Sean's not exactly the type of guy they'll be expecting me to bring home. A bit too diamond-in-the-rough for their tastes, I'd say. And not Brent Baker the Third, whom they've been dying to pimp me out to since my diaper days. In other words, they want me with a guy from a good family who has a mapped-out future like they have for me.

A punk skater from the wrong side of the tracks who may not even go to college is not an option for me, in their eyes. They will never let me date him. Not in a million years.

But I can't not date him. Not now. I adore him. He's like the best thing ever. I can't bear to lose him just because of their stupid rules. I'll just have to be careful. And then try to figure out how to break it to them eventually.