5.12AM, Saturday, Dec. 12th
1395 Lexington Avenue, New York
Date With Mr. Right (3)
I checked my phone, waiting for Jake's text back. I hadn't seen him since his boxing match on Wednesday. I sighed, sliding my phone back into my pocket. He hadn't replied. Apparently he had another match last night, and I'd been worried.
I closed my eyes, and rested my head on the desk, replaying the match in my mind. Oscar was right. Jake was amazing. He was agile, strong, and a damn good sight in nothing but shorts, but...
It was the last second in the game. Jake was definitely winning by now. I was eating, and drinking with Oscar, laughing about something. Then the world stops.
Jake's opponent suddenly lashes out, and Jake is hit, full on the face. He collapses back, against the boxing ring. In the second, I'm not breathing. I'm not blinking. I'm just completely shocked. I really can't believe its happening.
Then he smiles, winking at me, and he's up again.
I closed my eyes. God, that moment had been horrible. I hated the idea of him fighting, being in danger. I wouldn't be able to stand it if I lost him. Not because I liked him - not at all. It was a...mutual understanding, I guess. I definitely didn't like him.
But I couldn't help staring at me phone, waiting for the stupid thing to vibrate, so I could know if he was alright or not.
"Miss Summer? Am I boring you?"
My Art teacher glared at me, challenging. Everyone, including Blane, turned around to face me.
"Only a little," I said, cracking a joke. She remained somber. I don't think she got it. Instead, she chose to carry on.
"As I was saying," she continued. "You shall all complete the project, and hand it in next week."
I frowned. "What project?"
She sighed, like she was incredibly exasperated and annoyed. She turned back to me. "The project I'm telling you about now. You are to do an A3 collage of your life, about yourself. If you had been listening, Miss Summer, you would have heard. You are now wasting everyone's time."
"Sorry," I muttered, looking down, my cheeks burning.
"You can use anything - oil paint, fabric, photos, whatever you like. As long as it sums up your life, it will be eligible. You will enter it into this year's Annual New York Young Artist Exhibition. As you know, every year there is a winner. The prize this year is ten thousand dollars."
Everyone sat up a little straighter.
"But, as you know, this is a very prestigious award, and so it is unlikely for anyone here to win. So I don't think some," she shot me a glare, "should even hope for it."
She smiled, and waved a hand. "Very well. You may start."
Blane settled into the chair next to mine.
"Are you okay? You seem out of it today."
I smiled at him. Blane was nice. Blane was dependable. Blane cared about you.
"You haven't answered my texts all week."
Blane was a teeny bit whiny.
"Uh, sorry," I apologized. "I lost it a couple days ago, and only found it this morning. I didn't reply because I knew I would be seeing you now."
As time went on, it was easier and easier to lie. My soul is probably damned to an eternity in hell, though. Ah, well. At least Blane wouldn't dump me.
"Oh, right," he said, handing me an A3 size canvas. I accepted it, gratefully. "So do you want to go out, tonight?"
"Sure," I said, brightly. Lying was really becoming a second nature to me. "Where do you want to go?"
"How about we go to another one of our family's restaurants? You seemed to really like the place we went to before."
I had to fight a grimace. He was really unoriginal. "Uh, sure! I'd love to. What time?"
"I'll pick you up at eight. Wear a dress like you wore for that dance...it was really cute."
I faked a smile, and leaned in, kissing his cheek.
Oh, God. I was dreading it already. I have to wear a dress.
***
8.03AM, Saturday, Dec. 12th
400 West 37th Street, New York
In the end, I picked the only other dress in my wardrobe - the dress I'd worn, only once, about a year ago. I pulled at the places it was now feeling kind of tight, trying not to feel fat. I looked in the mirror, and gaped. Oh, fantastic. It's bunched up around the front, pushing my chest together, and giving me extra cleavage. I looked like a total slut. I had to take this stupid thing off.
Just then, the doorbell went. Cursing, I just grabbed a semi-covering jacket, and pulling it on. I glanced at my windowsill, and the two vases filled with flowers, the one Oscar had bought me, and another one I was forced to fashion out of a cereal box.
I picked Sammy up, and he squealed as I placed him down, somewhere else. I pulled open the door.
"Hello," I said, breathlessly.
"Hey."
My eyes fell on the roses he was clutching in his hands.
Oh, crap. Not again.
***
Chapter Eight: Date With Mr. Right (3)
Okay. You've managed to keep him for longer than three dates. That's an excellent sign. This means you have potential together. But, three dates, doesn't that mean you have to sleep with him?
In short, no. never do anything you either do not want or are not ready for. But if you are, who am I to stand in between true love? But don't be intimidated by others - three dates is just a simple guildeline. Feel free to disregard it. It doesn't mean you're a slut if you got the nasty over and done with on the first date, or you're totally pro sex after marriage - only do it when it feels right. Don't let him you do anything you don't want.
Last tip - if you're allergic to flowers, and Mr. Right just happens to bring you a bunch, tell him the truth - that you're allergic. You don't want him to keep on giving you flowers, every single date.
***
Author's Note: As some of you maay have noticed, my chapters for this book are becoming shorter. I know, I am sad as well :(
But it is entirely due to my schoolwork, and the fact that I'm plotting my newest book. Get ready for the release of it - 20th March!!
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