Stalk Me by Jillian Dodd Page A

his grandmother, and her old Hollywood-style ways, make me trust him. Make me want to do whatever I can to make him happy again.
     
    Me:  You don’t have to repay me. I was doing what anyone would do. 
     
    Vincent:  I disagree. So dinner? And if you’re nervous about it because you don’t know me that well, why don’t you choose the restaurant and meet me there? 
     
    Me:  I’m not nervous, Vincent. I trust you. As far as dinner goes, how about Moon Beams? We can sit on the patio and enjoy what’s left of this beautiful day. 
     
    Vincent:  I’m glad you trust me. If we’re going to have a relationship, trust is important. Six o’clock?
     
    Me:  Sounds good. See you then.
     
    Now, I’m sitting at our lunch table, thinking about him.
    Not really him specifically. I know he’s too old for me, but I was thinking it might be nice to date a guy that didn’t act like such a boy. 
    Especially the kind of boy that would hook up with you and not call you.
    Maybe I should start looking for a man. The kind of man who would tell you that you don’t have to have sex to be sexy. Who would say you have an expressive face. Who would want to risk his dream project on an unknown like you. 
    I think about what it would be like to kiss a man. A man who looks like Vincent. A man who has more experience than a boy could even imagine. A man who would treat you with respect. A man you could trust to call you.
    I imagine being in a scene like the one at the end of his grandmother’s movie. Jumping into a man’s strong arms. Getting twirled around as he confesses his love for me. Then laying me back in the sand and kissing me as the waves curl up around our feet. 
    Of course, they didn’t show anything beyond that in the movie. Movies from the sixties were quite clean, sexually. But we all know what happened next. 
    They totally did it right there in the sand. 
    Unfortunately, when I picture doing that, I see Brooklyn’s face instead of a man like Vincent.
     
    “Gonna be weird here next year,” Cush states loudly, wiping out my daydream.
    I look around, notice the empty table, and remember that today is Senior Skip Day. The only people at our table are me, Vanessa, RiAnne, and Cush.
    “That’s why we need to plan ahead,” Vanessa says. 
    “Plan for what?” I ask.
    “Who we want to sit with us next year,” she replies in a condescending tone. Like we’re idiots who should have totally already known this.  
    She gets a portfolio out of her Chloé bag and hands us each a small presentation binder. She flips hers open, and we all follow suit. 
    Mostly because we wonder what the hell she has planned. 
    “Okay, so first off is Alexander Littleton. Prom prince. Quarterback. Obviously popular with the juniors. Good looking in a boyish way. Dad plays for the 49ers. Mom, a former Miss Kentucky is on a local morning show. Seems a little squeaky clean for me, but I'll see what I can do with him at the party.”
    I flip through the profiles and can’t believe all the work she put into this. “What party?” I ask.
    “Saturday night at Cush’s.”
    “Um,” Cush says. “I can't Saturday night.”
    “What could you possibly have to do?” Vanessa snaps at him. 
    He looks insulted. “Soccer tournament, all weekend.” 
    “Friday night then,” she says. 
    “Naw, I gotta be asleep early. We have to be on the bus at like seven.”
    Vanessa gestures toward the other tables. “Take a look out there. All those people are wondering how to take over this table next year. This is important, people.” 
    “Why don't you have the party at your house, Vanessa?” I suggest. Her house is not nearly as impressive as Cush’s. 
    She waves her hand. “I’ll figure out the details later. Next up is Isabella. Mother is an Italian movie star. Father owns a vineyard in Sonoma. They split their time between the two, which means their 22,000 square foot house would be a great place to party.” 
    I wonder if RiAnne and