Thizz, a Love Story, page 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, whether living or dead is entirely coincidental.
THIZZ, A LOVE STORY
ISBN: 978-0-9964946-0-1
Copyright © 2015 by Nicole Loufas
www.nicoleloufas.com
Cover art by Indie Solutions.
Formatting by Elaine York/Allusion Graphics, LLC/Publishing & Book Formatting
Except for the original material written by the author, all song titles and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
All rights reserved. No parts of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Nick
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Acknowledgements
About the Author
March 2006 - Eureka, California
I really don’t want to deal with life today. I don’t want to fake smile or do that thing where I sit up really straight and pretend I’m paying attention when I really just want to go back to bed and sleep away the rest of my senior year. There was a time when I could lie in bed until noon without raising concern about my mental well-being. Now sleeping in is a sign. Slouching and scowling are signs. Any time a rainbow isn’t shooting out of my ass—that’s a sign that I’m not ok.
I’ll never be ok.
Of course, I can’t let anyone know that, because then they’d have to care, and it’s easier for everyone, myself included, not to care.
I sit up and grab my mom’s faded gray CAL Berkeley sweatshirt from the end of the bed. She left it here at my aunt Lucy’s a few summers ago. I found it hanging in the hall closet and reclaimed it for myself. I get out of bed and pull it on as I tiptoe across the cold hardwood floor to a pile of clothes in the corner. Lucy converted her attic to a playroom for me when I was six. When I moved in last January, Johnson, Lucy’s boyfriend, swapped the dollhouse and plastic sofa for a bed and desk he bought at IKEA. It took him two days to put it all together. He left the pink fabric Lucy draped from the ceiling; it’s really girly, but it hides the spider webs. The attic looks like a bona fide bedroom now. It’s just not my room. This room will never be my room any more than this house will be my home. Lucy wanted me to move into the room across from hers, but that was my parent’s room whenever we came to visit. It didn’t feel right. Nothing about Eureka feels right.
I look at the calendar on the wall above the desk. Three weeks until acceptance letters are mailed. That letter is the only reason I get out of bed in the morning. Every day is another day closer to knowing my future. I have only one goal—getting into CAL Berkeley. I have the grades and, thanks to my mom, I have tons of extra-curricular activities. She listed me as honorary chairperson on dozens of projects she ran through her charities. I rarely did anything at the events other than show up and eat, but they looked really good on my college application. My parents went to CAL. It was their dream for me to continue the legacy. I plan on making that dream come true, even if they aren’t here to see it.
“Dani, are you up?” Lucy calls from the hall downstairs. That’s my cue to put on a fake smile— one that slides off my face just as quickly as it appears. Nothing I do these days will make it stick. I give myself a few more minutes of real as I pull a pair of cargo pants from the pile on the floor and put them on. I finish getting dressed and avoid the mirror hanging on the back of the door as I open it and head downstairs.
Lucy comes out of her room in green scrubs with a towel wrapped around her head. She’s a registered nurse at St. Joseph’s Hospital. “Morning, Lucy.” I stretch to make it look like I just woke up even though I’ve been awake since dawn. “I thought you had the day off?” I follow her to the bathroom and lean in the doorway as she plucks a couple of wayward hairs from her eyebrows.
“Two nurses called out today. Looks like another round of stomach flu,” she says and unravels her hair from the towel. “I get off at six, then I’m teaching my Friday night Pilates class, so I’ll be home late. There’s some leftover Chinese food in the fridge.” She plugs in the hair dryer and looks at me before switching it on. “Do you have any plans tonight, besides work?” She knows I have no plans, but she asks anyway, hoping one day I’ll have a different answer. She’s consummately optimistic. I guess you have to be in her line of work.
“The Real World is on tonight.” I pick at the chipped paint on the door frame. I hate the look of pity on Lucy’s face. She thinks I miss having a social life, but even back home I preferred being alone. I’ve never been good at making lasting relationships. I had friends, but none that mattered. There isn’t a single person from my old school I want to call or write, or friend on Myspace. Besides, I moved to Eureka to get off the grid. My old life doesn’t exist anymore. I don’t even exist.
I walk into my final class of the day—computer lab—and take my seat in back. I’ve made it through the entire day without speaking to anyone. It’s a game I play with myself. Once I went three days without uttering a single word at school. I don’t know if it’s something to celebrate or if it’s just really fucking pathetic. The bell rings and Mr. Davis closes the door. He walks to the board and writes free time in big chalk letters. He adds three exclamation marks at the end to really drive the message home. Like free time in this class is something special. Building a Myspace is part of the curriculum, which tells you a lot about the seriousness of our seventh period computer class. You have to respect his enthusiasm though.
I log on to my B-minus Myspace page and wait for it to load. I could have bumped my grade up if I added a photo to the background, but I was going for a minimalist approach. Solid black background with white Arial font lettering. Mr. Davis told me he was hoping to see something with more personality. I moved here from San Francisco three months ago. My parents are gone, Lucy is the only family I have left, I have no friends, and I haven’t kissed a boy since sophomore year.
I think I nailed it.
My page loads, and the first thing I notice is the flashing envelope at the bottom of the screen. I click it, and sitting in my inbox are two words: Matt Augustine.
Matt Augustine—the blue-eyed, Axe-body-sprayed boy who sits at the terminal next to mine has sent me a message. Feelings. Lots of feelings that I can’t categorize flood my body. I take a deep breath then exhale like I just took a drag of a cigarette. Lots of words run through my mind. None of them make sense. If I were a comic book, there would be a huge white bubble with gibberish floating over my head because I have no freaking clue what is going on or why Matt Augustine sent me a message. I saw him at lunch; he was sitting in the middle of the quad surrounded by friends or fans. I can’t tell the difference. They never look at me. Nobody does, except for him. Well, that’s the lie I tell myself whenever I see him scan the yard and then smile when his eyes land on me sitting under the redwood tree across the yard. Why would he send me a message, then ditch class? Maybe he ditched class because he sent the message? Quit dreaming, Dani. It’s probably nothing, like one of those chain letters telling me I have to forward to ten people or I’ll never find true love. I hold the mouse over his name, daring myself to click.
I’m scared it won’t be a chain letter.
I’m scared it will be.
There is only one way to find out. I click the mouse and the message opens.
Hey Dani,
Can you meet me in the parking lot after school?
Matt
I read it again—and one more time, hoping the words will scramble into something more informative, like why he’s requested this clandestine rendezvous to the student parking lot. Guys like Matt don’t message girls like me, let alone as
I watch the clock above the door click along minute by excruciating minute, debating on how to respond. I could ignore the message altogether, pretend I never saw it. No, I can’t. The words, his words, can’t be unread, unseen. I have enough regret in my life. Wondering why Matt Augustine wants to meet me is not going to be added to the list.
I stare at the clock, read the message, stare at the clock some more. The bell rings and I stand up, lift my backpack from the floor, and point myself in the direction of the parking lot. I’m on auto pilot. I don’t want to think about where I’m going or what I’ll say. I don’t even know what to say. I don’t want to open my mouth at all. I wish I had a mint.
I turn the corner to the hall that leads to the parking lot and I freeze. Through the crowd I see Heather King swaying towards me. Crap. I dip my eyes to the floor and pretend not to notice her even though the smell of her Bath & Body lotion burns my nostrils. You can always smell her a mile away. I step in line with a rather large boy from the football team when suddenly her flip-flopped feet appear in my path. I stop so I don’t bump into her. As small as she is, she takes up all the air and space around her.
“Hello, Danielle.” She addresses me like I’m some commoner that should drop to my knees in her presence.
I look up with the most strained smile I can manage. “Hi, Heather.”
She poses in front of me like someone with a camera is going to jump out of a locker and snap her picture for a magazine. “Got any plans for the weekend?” she asks as she twirls a strand of her new blonde hair around her finger. I have to say the blonde suits her much better than the fiery red she had last week. With her sun-kissed skin and gray eyes, she looks like a poster girl for Abercrombie & Fitch.
“I’m working all weekend.” I grip the strap on my backpack and step around her. “I’m actually going to be late.” I would say have a nice weekend, but Heather is incapable of nice.
“So, I guess you didn’t hear about the big party?” Heather loves to ask me about parties she knows I wasn’t invited to.
I take a few steps back to gain some distance. “No, parties really aren’t my thing.” I stop in front of the girls’ bathroom. I’ve hid in this bathroom more times than I care to remember. Maybe I should wait in here until Heather clears out. I can’t risk her following me outside. There’s no way Heather would sanction someone like me meeting a boy like Matt. I’m sure there’s a high school rule that forbids it, and Heather is just the person to enforce it.
“I guess a high school party would be boring to someone from San Francisco,” she snickers. “I bet you’re more the rave type.” Heather is jealous of the fact that I’m from San Francisco. I don’t understand why it bothers her. I’m stuck here now, just like her. We’re even.
“The only clubs I’ve been to are book clubs,” I tell her. “I really gotta go.” I push open the door to the bathroom and hear her laugh echo down the hall.
The door closes and the lights flicker on. I do a quick check under the stalls—all empty. I lean on the sink and look into the warped mirror. A distorted version of my face stares back at me. My limp brown hair is months overdue for a haircut, but I wouldn’t even know where to start. My mom always took care of stuff like that. Makeup, hair, nail polish, those were mom’s specialty. My mother held a degree in liberal arts, but she never had a real job. I was her job. I was a good little mannequin. I sat still when my hair was being curled. I closed and opened my eyes when prompted during my mother’s many make-up sessions. I never thought to watch or learn. I didn’t think I would have to. Or maybe I just didn’t care. I went along with it because it made her happy. The same way a boy would play catch with his dad in the backyard when he’d rather be inside playing World of Warcraft.
I miss her. I miss her hand on my head when she ran the brush through my hair after a shower. I miss the lingering smell of her perfume after she left the room. I’m lost without her. I don’t even think I’m wearing deodorant today. So, why the hell am I meeting Matt Augustine? I’m not nearly as groomed as I should be. I’m not Heather, not even close, yet a voice in the back of my head is telling me I have to do this. I have three months left in this town. If my mother were here, she’d tell me to make the most of it. Not a day wasted, Dani. Those are the words I hear in my head as I stare at a carbon copy of her eyes in the mirror. I smile, her smile, and lift my backpack from the floor. I think she would approve of Matt. He’s smart and charming and tall and oh-my-God good looking. His smile, holy hell, it lights up the room. Who knows, maybe Matt is the glue I need to make my smile stick.
I open the bathroom door and peek into the hall—it’s clear. I hurry down the hall and shove open the green double doors to the parking lot like a burglar escaping the scene of a crime. I step into the afternoon sun and slide my backpack onto both of my shoulders. I’m two-strapping it and don’t care. I’m totally out of control. I scan the parking lot and find Matt leaning against a shiny black car. He stands a bit straighter when he sees me and runs his hand through his hair. It’s in its usual disheveled mess, but I can see where his hairline naturally parts to the side, giving him sort of a clean-cut look. He’s got on baggy jeans and a black No Fear t-shirt. The sight of him makes me warm and tingly inside, a feeling I missed when he skipped class today.
A chilly, ocean-scented breeze flings discarded papers at my feet as I cross the parking lot. A flutter tickles the inside of my belly at the thought of having a conversation with Matt that doesn’t involve HTML. Suddenly, a car pulls out in front of me. I stop right before a silver Volkswagen takes out my legs. The driver waves to Matt, then yells, “Later, Nick” as he speeds away.
I follow the driver’s gesture to the boy standing beside Matt and find him staring back at me. It isn’t like I’ve never seen him before. I pass him in the hall at least three or four times a day. He’s even been in the café where I work. Small latte—extra foam. This is the first time I’ve seen him look at me. I mean really, consciously look at me.
“Hey Dani,” Matt greets me. “This is Nick Marino.”
I try to say hi, but my throat has seized, so I give a faint smile and wave my hand. Nick smiles and nods back. He’s leaning against the car beside Matt with his hands shoved into the pockets of his blue jeans. His clothes aren’t as baggy as Matt’s, so I can see his body bulging from beneath his white t-shirt. He’s a cross between Leonardo DiCaprio and the dude from John Tucker Must Die. And he’s smiling. At me. And my first thought is—run.
I’m pretty sure I’ve lost the ability to speak as sweat starts to pool at the small of my back. I try to focus on Matt, but my eyes keep wandering to Nick, who is just as quiet as I am. Nick doesn’t seem like the silent type; he always has a crowd of people around him, and his picture is often plastered on the front page of the school newspaper. One week it was about the basketball game he starred in, the following week he was named the most spirited student. I think the editor makes up any reason to print his face on the cover, just so people will read the worthless periodical.
