“Oh, damn. I'm just playing. It was some girl that was staying up the beach. I don't even remember her name."

"It was Laney,” I say, rolling my eyes.

He snaps. “That’s it. And what about you, Little Miss Kiki? You and Dawes had some fun yourselves."

I know he's trying to bring up my sex life, but I won't comment on that. "We did. The house was gorgeous, the waves were great, and the Kool-Aid was potent."

"Aw, yeah,” Ace says. “The get-drunk-and-screw punch. Heard it worked on you."

I know Dawson didn’t tell. I'm pretty sure he's baiting me. Fishing. Interviewers always try and do that to my mom. Act like they know something they don't. Trying to get her to confirm if the fact that she wore a lose fitting top one day means she's pregnant again.

"You're right, Ace. I did get a little drunk one night."

Tyrese says, "And then snuck off to the bedroom with Dawesy here."

Dawson, who has been pretty quiet through all this, says, "That's enough."

And Tyrese surprisingly complies.

Not only has he been walking me to all my classes, he just stood up for me to his friend. I think I'm in love.

Okay, probably not love. More like very serious lust.

Whitney says, “Remember all the fun times we had in your room at the beach house, Dawes?”

Jake looks at her, like What the hell, and so does Dawson. It was a totally inappropriate comment.

I give Dawson’s hand a little squeeze and say to Whitney, “Someone else was in Dawson’s room this weekend. We stayed in the master bedroom.”

Whitney glares at me, not even trying to hide her hatred.

But I don’t care because Dawson gives me the sexiest grin. I can tell he is remembering exactly what happened in the bedroom. He says, “Let's go eat outside, Keatie."

Whitney blinks her eyes hard when she hears him call me Keatie.

As we walk away, I hear Whitney comment to the table, “Those boots are slutty.”

I know she’s the Queen. I know I shouldn’t do this, but I’m not letting her get away with slamming me. She knows I heard. She thinks I don’t have the balls to turn around and call her on it.

But guess what? I do.

But I’m not going to turn it into a fight. I’m going to pretend it wasn’t a slam. I’m going to kill her with kindness.

I turn around, smile big, and point down at my boots. “Oh, Whitney, honey, we really need to work on your designers. These boots aren’t Slutty, they’re Gucci.”

Her face turns a bright shade of pink and even Peyton snickers.

Been drinking the Kool-Aid?

French

I go to French class with bolstered confidence. I’m going to have no problem tutoring Aiden, and I’m going to have no problem resisting him.

He will soon be learning that I’m now immune to his powers.

Or not.

I walk into class, and he’s already in his seat. He gives me that blinding smile and, I swear to God, he just spoke to my soul.

Damn him!

Tonight I’m doing an internet search on how to protect yourself from a demigod.

He’s surprisingly happy to see me.

“So, how was your weekend with your Keats boy?”

I’m thinking he already knows the answer to this question but wants to make me suffer. Suffer for loving another boy. But if he knows about Brooklyn, wouldn’t he also know about Dawson? Maybe he doesn’t know.

“My weekend was fun, but I spent very little of it with him.”

Annie says, “Really? What happened?”

But class gets started, and we aren’t allowed to talk.

I try to focus on Dawson, how sweet and sexy he is, while trying to forget the way Aiden makes me feel just by sitting next to me.

Toward the end of class, we’re allowed to converse with each other in French. So I turn to Annie and Aiden and ramble on about what happened this weekend.

They both look at me blankly.

Annie goes, “Something about stupid?”

Aiden adds, “I got something about boy. Was he a stupid boy?”

“Yeah, basically, that’s the gist of it. I only saw him briefly, then went up to Dawson’s house in the Hamptons. He and Riley had a bunch of people there. It was a lot fun.”

“You shouldn’t be hanging out with Dawson. He’s a jerk.”

Annie says, “Who cares what he is. He’s way hot.”

I turn around to face Aiden. “Why do you think that? No one else thinks that.”

“You thought that. Just last week. Or do you not remember how he was pawing your shirt? Or how he gave you the awful unwanted kiss that ruined your lips? You been drinking the Kool-Aid?”

“You know about the Kool-Aid?”

“Everyone knows about the Kool-Aid.”

“Oh, you mean drinking the Kool-Aid, not the actual Kool-Aid.” I laugh.

“Why’s that funny?”

“Because Dawson and Riley make an alcohol-laden Kool-Aid when they’re at the beach. Their get-drunk-and-screw Punch.”

“You drink that Kool-Aid too?”

“Well, sure. Everyone did.”

“And here I thought you weren’t like everyone else.”

He doesn’t say a word to me, French, or otherwise, for the rest of class.

That, or he wants in your pants.

Before dance

“So, you got drunk and had sex with Dawson, huh?” Whitney sneers at me.

It’s always amazing how a girl can go from gorgeous to ugly with a simple mean sentence. She looks so ugly to me now.

I don’t want to be mean back, but I have to stand up for myself. I don’t want to be friends with her, but I really don’t want to be her enemy either. I just want her to leave me alone. So I keep my mouth shut.

But then she adds, “You’re such a slut.”

And I can’t help it.

I know Dawson told me this in confidence, and he would be disappointed to hear me say this, but I do.

“I don’t need to be drunk to want to sleep with Dawson. He’s extremely sexy. But no, the night I got a little drunk, I didn’t have sex with him. Not that it’s any of your business. And, oh, you and Jake are adorable. I’m so happy for you. And for him to ask you out so quickly, he must really like you a lot.”

That, or he wants in your pants.

But I don’t say that.

I’m above that.

Well, not really.

But I’m trying to be.

Definitely screwed.

9:50pm

I’m on my laptop looking up gods and demigods when I get an email from Garrett. He tells me that he would prefer if I didn’t tell anyone from home about my loft and gives me the name of a designer friend of his. He tells me the guy is up-and-coming. Which is a total understatement. The guy is well known for his ability to mix multiple styles for a very comfortable, lived-in look. He will be the perfect guy to decorate the loft. I actually let out a little squeal.

I quickly email the designer. Introduce myself and send him a link to photos of the loft.

He emails me back quickly, congratulating me on choosing a place with such incredible bones. He is going to get with the realtor, see the space, take some measurements, and get back to me in a few days with a plan.

I get back to my research. I figure it’s important for me to determine what exactly Aiden is if I’m going to be able to avoid his spells, or cosmic force, or whatever power it is that he has.

Then I wonder if maybe we were connected somehow in a past life, and that’s why his pull on me is so strong. But my feelings for him lately have been more on the hatred side of the spectrum. Because I hate that he does this to me.

He smiles at me.

Why does he have to smile at me?

Why does he have to be all, How was your weekend?

Ugghh!

So, just to set the record straight. I very much believe in God. In one God. The gods I am referring to here are of the Greek (or Roman?) type god world. I have never really determined how they fit into real religion because they don’t, really. I think they are more of a thing we study as history.

But now I’m thinking that maybe they represent temptation.

Whatever.

Just go with me on this.

So technically a demigod is a half god. To become a demigod you typically have one human parent and one godparent. I haven’t met his parents, so I can’t be sure of this. His sister is certainly blessed with many talents and good looks, but she doesn’t seem to have his magnetic pull.

I Google search: How to protect yourself from a demigod.

The first article it pulls up is how to protect yourself on Facebook.

Not what I was looking for, but I peruse this article for a minute.

And just what I thought. There is nothing in there about not allowing friends to tag you in potentially damaging photos that will cause all sorts of shit with girls like Whitney. Worthless article.

Then I find an article on ways to protect yourself if you are a demigod. The person who wrote this article apparently is one (or thinks he is) and says that he and most demigods are not popular, and that this is so they can hide from the monsters, centaurs, and things that try to hunt them.

Obviously, this person needs to get a life.

He does, however, raise an interesting point: most gods are given a weapon by their parent.

But I already know that they gave Aiden his mouth. That smile. Those perfect teeth. That silky smooth voice. Those soft, amazing, and capable-of-producing-nuclear-energy lips.

Sigh.

Okay, so then I come upon this: Take this quiz to find out which of the gods is your parent.

Obviously, I have to answer the questions for him. It could be he doesn’t even know he is a demigod yet, and is just testing his newfound powers out on me.

God help me if he ever discovers their true potential.

So, questions.

And then, the decision. Drum roll, please. Dun, dun, dun, dahhhh.

Your mother is the gorgeous Aphrodite. She is the goddess of love and, more importantly, seduction. People can’t help but to fall in love with you. You are probably very good looking. You are also very good at seducing the opposite sex with your god-like charm. But use this trait wisely. Heartbreak is the most painful of wounds. But you don’t really care because you are the one breaking hearts.

See! See what I’m up against here?

So then I search: How to resist a demigod.

Get no answers.

How to resist a god.

No real answers. And I’m pretty sure Google just laughed at me.

How to resist Aphrodite.

Maybe if I know how to resist her, I can use that on her son.

So here’s the scoop on Aphrodite. Apparently when she wore her golden Spanx, no god or mortal could resist her. And, even when she didn’t wear them, there were only three gods that could resist her and they were all apparently virgins.

There goes what little hope I had.

Also, I just read the story of Aphrodite, and she was one mean, lying, slutty bitch. So she gets herself all gorgeous, then meets this guy. He, of course, thinking she’s too hot to be mortal, asks if she’s a god. She lies to this guy, tells him that she’s just a maiden, talks him into taking her back to his place, seduces him, purposely gets pregnant, then tells him she’s a god, that she’s going to name their son something that translates to awful, and proceeds to tell him he’s beneath her, even though he is hot and nice. Later she has something to do with the Trojan war that causes a bunch of people to die, and then she has an affair with some god named Ares, but they get caught and were going to be punished, but she maybe got out of it by promising to sleep with Hermes.

So, basically, if you ask me, this goddess should not be the goddess of love!

She is obviously the goddess of hooking up and then turning against you. She’s mean!

Shouldn’t the goddess of love be all lovey and beautiful and sweet?

So the verdict: if this is half of what I’m up against, I am definitely screwed.

And speaking of screwed. Before my brain can stop them, my fingers have typed Cush’s name into Facebook and pulled up his profile. He has a new profile picture. One of him and his dad. He’s smiling so big I can see his dimples. His hair is buzzed again, but his cheeks look freshly shaven. I reach out and touch his face on the screen.

I feel like I’m living two separate lives again.

I forgave Cush for the things he said to me after he got drugged. Will he be able to forgive me for this?

I click the message button and start typing.

I tell him about the boots. About what really happened at the party. About where I am. About Brooklyn. About my family. About how Vincent followed him to the pizza party. I ask him what they were celebrating. And, most importantly, I ask him to forgive me.

My finger hovers over the send button.

I close my eyes.

Images, voices, and feelings all run through my mind.

I open my eyes and delete the message.

Wednesday, September 7th

We talk.

Ceramics

Bryce, Jake, and I are sitting in class playing with clay. We are contemplating what we are going to create out of this single piece of clay. There’s a metaphor, or a life meaning thing, in that statement, possibly about me molding my life, I think, but I am too busy gossiping with Bryce and Jake to care.

“So Jakey, heard it’s all Facebook official. You and Whitney are going out.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess so.”

“You don’t seem that thrilled.”

“She’s not exactly what I expected.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I thought she was perfect, but she’s kinda clingy. And, I swear, about the only time she kisses me is in front of Dawson. It pisses me off. Plus, she told me that if I wanted things to progress then we needed to be going out.”