Date Me

That’s probably the real reason he wants to a cheer. So he can ask her to teach him.

“Whatever. I’m just saying, you dance like you can, you’ll win.”

“Have you ever seen a Mr. Eastbrooke competition?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t know if I’d win or not. And you promised you wouldn’t tell anyone about how I can dance.”

I shrug my shoulder. “You’re secret is safe with me. But you break out the dance moves you have and your competition does a stupid cheer, you’ll win. Common sense tells me that.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not the dance that wins, it’s how you look.”

“Okay. Good luck.”

Thursday, October 6th

A little skimpy.

1:30pm.

I don’t attend very many classes today. No one does, really. We all get out of class for different reasons. Some get called back to their dorms by their dorm advisors to make their rooms spotless for the alumni tours. Others are finishing up the floats for the parade. Others get out of class to take pictures for the yearbook. Most of the band goes off to practice marching.

Today is officially Sports Day, so I’m wearing Dawson’s football jersey, a red sequined skirt, and tall white athletic socks with stripes of red sequins at the top.

I take Dawson to the drama department to find him a wig and do a test drive on his makeup for Mr. Eastbrooke.

“Here, try this,” I say, putting a pirate hat on his head.

He does a Captain Morgan pose then grabs me. “Ahoy, my little matey. Want me to show you my sword?”

I kiss his neck and then giggle. “Stop that. We need to be serious about this if you want to win.”

He grabs a teeny little costume off a rack. “You should put this on, be my little cowgirl.”

“You’ll actually get to see me in that costume in the play. I’m a cheerleader for a professional football team.”

He narrows his eyes at me.

“Don’t be mad. It’s a little skimpy, but it’s a short scene.”

“I’ll make you a deal. Borrow it and wear it for me in my room, and I won’t give you shit about the play.”

“Hmmm. Deal.”

I rummage through a cabinet and pull out a long blonde wig and a shorter brunette one. “Which way do you want to go, blonde or brunette?”

He puts the blonde wig on his head. “Blondes have more fun. You’re fun.”

I look at the blonde wig on him. “Um, they maybe do, but I don’t think you’re very convincing as a blonde. Is the goal for you to look pretty or fu

“Pretty. Do you want to see my cheer?”

He leaves the blonde wig on and starts a cheer. “Be Aggressive. B-E Aggressive. B-E-A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E. BE AGGRESSIVE.” He uses a high-pitched voice that sounds hysterical coming from such a buff guy. “Gooooo Cougarssss!”

I can’t help but laugh.

“You totally butchered that cheer.”

“Yeah, I need a little more work on the motions. I can remember football plays, but these stupid arm motions are just confusing.”

“Do you want me to help you? I know that cheer.”

“Maybe you can come teach me in my room. I’d probably learn it better if we were naked.”

“If you were naked, there wouldn’t be any cheering going on.”

“You cheer me on sometimes. Go, Dawes!”

I smack his shoulder. “Shut up. You should hear yourself.” I grab the blonde wig off his head, motion for him to sit down, and put on the darker one.

I swivel the chair around so that he can see himself in the mirror. “See, you look more convincing with dark hair. Wait until I do your makeup.”

He looks at himself. “I look like my mother.”

I use a sponge to put a little foundation over the dark stubble on his checks. “You’re going to have to shave for sure,” I tell him as I add some blush and a little bit of bronzer.

I’m getting ready to add some eye shadow next. “Close your eyes. I want you to be surprised at how you look.”

“Maybe you should blindfold me,” he says, grabbing me and pulling me onto his lap facing him.

“That might be fun too.” I wrap my arms around his neck and give him a deep kiss.

Which turns into a deeper kiss.

Which turns into a full-blown make out session.

“It’s really hot that I’m kissing you while you’re wearing my team jersey. I wish that’s all you had on.”

“Mhhmm,” I say as he moves my hair off my shoulder and attacks my neck. “You talked me into it.”

We rush to his dorm room, lock his door, and I quickly remove everything but the jersey.

He sits in his desk chair and pulls me onto his lap.

We’re in the middle of our fun, when there’s a knock on his door. A voice calls out, “Dawson, honey, it’s Mom. Are you in there?”

“Shit,” Dawson whispers.

I jump off him as he quickly pulls on his pants.

I grab my skirt off the floor and put it back on, but I can’t find my dance briefs. Fortunately they are not black and lacy.

“Just a second, Mom,” he yells out. I grab my purse, run into his bathroom, and spread my makeup out.

But then I look at him walking toward the door, his shorts sticking out in a way that I doubt his mother wants to see.

“Dawson!” I point at his shorts and toss him a towel to hold in front of himself.

“Hey, Mom” he says at the door. “Come in. Keatyn and I were just trying some makeup for the Mr. Eastbrooke contest.”

I lean my head out of the bathroom. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Johnson.”

I walk out and get air kisses from his mom. Then I grab the dark wig off the bed and, of course, there are my briefs — which I ignore— and put it on Dawson’s head. “What do you think of your son as a girl? I haven’t done his eyes or lipstick yet. Would you like to help?”

“Oh, I’d love that!” she squeals. “I got to dress your father up for Mr. Eastbrooke about a million years ago. Of course we weren’t dating back then.”

Dawson’s dad sits down on the very chair Dawson was just sitting in. I notice him eyeing my briefs lying on the bed. A big grin forms on his face.

I walk over, grab them, and toss them to Dawson. “Don’t forget you were going to see if you can fit into these. If not, I’ll see if I can find a bigger pair.”

He catches them and tries to put them on over his shorts. It’s not working so well.

“No, silly. They’re never going to fit like that. There’s too much fabric.” I turn to his mom. “What did you make him wear under his skirt?”

“He was on the swim team, so he wore one of those little Speedos.”

“Oh, that would work much better.” I take the briefs out of his hand and shove them into my purse. “That way you won’t stretch mine all out.”

I glance at the clock. “It’s almost three. I have to get to the dance locker room and get ready for the parade.” I turn to his mom and say, “If I leave my makeup, could you finish his eyes and then take a picture of it?”

“Of course, dear,” she replies.

Dawson gives me an evil eye. I know he doesn’t want to stay here with his parents. I give him a quick kiss on the cheek and tell him I’ll see him later.

A blowout.

3:30pm

The parade is a blast. We perform a dance routine at four different spots on the route, but mostly I just ride on the float and throw bubblegum and Blow Pops into the crowd.

Our float’s theme is Homecoming: It’s Go

Get it? Bubblegum. Blowout. Beating the other team.

Of course, as the dance team suspected, the guys all loved this year’s theme and are hoping to get more than bubble gum if they win.

Peyton tried to tell the alumni dancers that she didn’t think it was a good theme, but they loved it and wouldn’t listen.

They loved the play on words between the blow and the bubblegum.

When Peyton said, But a blowout? The alumni in charge said, Yes, dear, we’re a well-educated bunch. Everyone will know that we are referring to beating the other team badly, not getting our hair done.

So I’m thinking maybe when you get old and you hear the word blow, you don’t automatically think blowjob anymore?