I so wish I was the dream girl.

But I’m not. He said friends. He wants peace and friendship.

He doesn't love you.

It can't happen.

You have to be smart.

But as the stars start to glow across my ceiling, I can’t help but lie here and wish he'd put up a moon.

Tuesday, October 18th

The mark of true love.

7:40am

My phone vibrates with a text from Grandpa. I can picture him sitting at his desk, overlooking the rosebushes in his back yard.

But wait. Grandpa always emails me. When did he learn to text?

Grandpa:  To answer your question about the difference between love and true love, I have a simple answer. True love leaves a mark. Sometimes with a frying pan. LOL

And when did he learn what LOL is?

Me:  Grandpa, this is serious! Ask Grandma if you don’t know. And HOW CAN YOU NOT KNOW?? You’ve been married to the same woman for 39 years!!!

Grandpa:  True love is a crapshoot. Sometimes you get lucky and hit the jackpot. Sometimes you’re left wallowing drunk and broke.

Me:  You are not much help.

But as I’m walking to class, I’m thinking about Grandpa’s message and wondering if true love does leave a mark. Like the way Aiden’s kiss seared my skin that very first time he kissed me. Is that what it was? The mark of true love. Some sort of invisible hickey?

Speaking of hickeys.

Riley’s neck is covered with them.

“What? Did you get in a fight with a vacuum cleaner last night and lose?” I ask him.

He flips his collar up against his neck. “You know what they say, True love leaves a mark.”

“My Grandpa just told me the same thing. That’s so weird you’d say that. But somehow I don’t think that’s what the great philosophers had in mind.”

“Philosophers said that? That’s funny. I always thought it was something my dad made up.” He grins naughtily at me. “You should see my chest. She wrote her name in hickeys.”

I laugh. “I take it you and Ariela are back together? Did you sleep with her?”

“Naw, we’re having too much fun doing other stuff right now.”

His words burn in my brain. We’re having too much fun doing other stuff. That’s what I missed with Dawson. I’ve never sucked on his neck long enough to give him even one hickey. Let alone written my name on his chest. I went way too fast with him. And I think because I did, we can’t really start over. I can’t take it back.

I feel like I should make a public service announcement over the loud speaker in school.

Note to all you daters out there:

Enjoy making out for hours.

Enjoy the way his lips feel on yours.

Enjoy embarrassing him with hickeys.

Enjoy holding his hand.

Enjoy the way he says your name when he tells you goodnight.

Enjoy when he shows up to walk you to your next class.

Enjoy how he licks hot fudge off your face.

Enjoy staring at the stars with him.

Enjoy feeling crazy in love.

Like you will die if you don’t see him.

Like you will die if you have to stop kissing him.

Enjoy letting him romance you.

Revel in the slow pace.

Let your relationship build.

Then fall in love.

If only I could actually do that myself. I think of Aiden’s sex survey. Since I broke up with Sander, all of my relationships have happened really fast.

My mind flits to my mom saying, You need to love yourself. 

Do I love myself?

Of course I do. I work out. I eat healthy. I try to get enough sleep. I always wear sunblock so I won’t get sun damage or premature wrinkles. I always try to look my best. Maybe I didn’t love myself when I was being a bitch to Vanessa, but since I’ve been here at Eastbrooke, I totally love who I am. I’m confident. I’m in lots of activities I love. I’m making friends with a wide variety of people. I’m nice to everyone.

Why wouldn’t I love myself? I’m awesome.

Except . . .

I felt embarrassed when I told Aiden how fast I slept with Cush.

And Dawson.

At the time, it felt right. And I’d known Cush and Brooklyn for a long time. It’s not like I’d just met them.

Like Dawson.

I slept with Dawson fast.

Why?

Because I was hurt about B and needed to feel loved? Wanted? Adored?

Or was it just because he was so freaking hot that I couldn’t help myself?

The current state of your neck.

History

When class is almost over, the phone rings on our teacher’s desk.

He picks it up, listens, then frowns disapprovingly in my direction. “Mr. Johnson and Miss Monroe, your presence is requested in the dean’s office.”

“Do you think we’re in trouble?” I ask Riley as we walk down the hall.

“I can’t think of anything I’ve done to get in trouble.”

“I’m almost positive that the current state of your neck is against the school’s decency policy.”

“Probably, but you didn’t give them to me.”

We round the corner and run into Dallas.

“Did you get called to the office too?” Riley asks.

Dallas whispers, “If they saw the video, we’re screwed.”

“What do you mean?” I whisper back.

“I mean, we had our school blazers on. We could get expelled.”

“Seriously?”

I can’t get expelled. I’m safe here.

Plus, I like it.

The dean meets us at the door and says, “Have a seat in my office.”

We walk in and sit in the three chairs lined up in front of his desk.

“It has come to my attention that the three of you recently created a video.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He pulls out three pieces of paper. Pieces of papers with our signatures at the bottom and the words “Eastbrooke Code of Conduct” at the top. “Do you recall signing these at the beginning of the school year?”

We all nod.

“In this document, you all agreed to protect Eastbrooke’s reputation. In the video, Mr. McMahon and Mr. Johnson are wearing pieces of their Eastbrooke uniforms. Combine that with underage drinking, some unbecoming sexual behavior by Miss Monroe, and it all adds up to the three of you possibly being expelled.”

Please let possibly be a way out of this. I can’t let Riley and Dallas get expelled because of me.

“I can explain,” I say. “I’m sorry. I was really upset. Dawson and I broke up and the video wasn’t supposed to be seen by anyone but him.”

“Did the video serve its purpose?”

“Well, he was upset by it, if that’s what you mean.”

“Although I was disappointed with the video’s content, I was impressed by the overall quality of it.”

Riley grins.

“Mr. Johnson, did you create this video? Do the editing and such? Can you tell me about the process?”

“Uh, sure,” Riley says. “Basically we did shots of us singing the same song a whole bunch of times in different situations, different settings. Then I pieced it together.”

“Can I assume that none of you want to be expelled?”

We all nod.

“Then here’s what I expect. First, that video will be removed from YouTube before you leave my office. Second, I have a project for you. Eastbrooke understands the power of social media, and our upcoming Prospective Student Weekend does not have the number of participants that we would like. I’d like you to create a video showcasing the school. Give students a reason to come see what we’re all about. Obviously, it needs to be classy and uphold the Eastbrooke tradition, but maybe you can make it a little less stuffy than the informational video we have on the school’s website. Can you shoot the video, edit it, and have it ready for my approval by this afternoon?”

Riley nods his head yes, but I’m thinking about something else.

I just realized that uploading the video of me was really dumb. What if Vincent had come across it somehow? Actually, that’s silly. The internet is a massive place and since I wasn’t tagged in it with my name, he’d have better odds finding a needle in a haystack. But, still, the idea of me being in a video that could lead him straight here scares me.