Ditched: A Love Story Read online

  Title:

  Ditched: A Love Story

  Author:

  Robin Mellom

  Imprint:

  Hyperion

  In-Store Date:

  01/10/2012

  ISBN:

  978-1-4231-4338-3

  Price:

  $16.99 US / $18.50 CAN

  Trim Size:

  5 ½ x 8 ¼

  Page Count:

  288

  Ages:

  12 and up

  Grades:

  7 and up

  ATTENTION, READER

  This is an uncorrected galley proof. It is not a finished book and is not expected to look like one. Errors in spelling, page length, format, etc., will be corrected when the book is published several months from now. Direct quotes should be checked against the final printed book.

  We are pleased to send this book for review.

  Please send two copies of any review or mention to: Disney Book Group

  Attn: Children’s Publicity Department

  44 South Broadway, 10th Floor

  White Plains, NY 10601

  [email protected]

  Not Sure

  Butter

  Chicken

  Marsala

  Ripped

  Zipper

  Soy Sauce

  Curry

  Robin Mellom

  Hyperion

  New York

  Text copyright © 2012 by Robin Mellom

  All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion, 114 Fifth Avenue, New York, New York 10011-5690.

  Printed in the United States of America First Edition

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  V567-9638-5-11305

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.

  Reinforced binding

  ISBN: 978-1-4231-4338-3

  Visit www.hyperionteens.com

  For Jayson and Luke

  Food, a cell phone,

  and my dignity . . . all things

  I do not have

  I DON’T KNOW how I ended up on the side of Hol ister Road, lying in this ditch.

  This moment, last night, the details—al fuzzy. A reluctant glance down and I see I’m covered in scratches and bruises. The bruise on my shin appears to be in the shape of a french fry. French fries cause bruises? And I have at least seven stains on my royal blue iridescent dress—two black, one greenish-bluish, and the remaining are various shades of yel ow. What are these? Mustard? Curry?

  Wait. I don’t even want to know.

  What I do want to know is why I just fel out of a moving Toyota Prius and was left here in this ditch with a french fry shin 1

  bruise and unrecognizable stains. Especial y the yel ow ones.

  Please, please be curry.

  Looking down the road, I see two things: the sun coming up behind Hol ister Peak, and the car lights on Brian Sontag’s Prius getting smal er and smal er in the distance.

  The jerk.

  I start to think about last night, but the past twelve hours are a total blur. Like, for instance, how and why I got into Brian Sontag’s Toyota Prius.

  The scumbag.

  I touch my forehead, which is already swel ing from the fal , and I realize this must be why I can’t remember a thing from last night. I look down at myself again and wish I hadn’t. Gross. If Ian could see me now, he would ditch me for sure.

  Except that he already has.

  I even wore blue for him. Not al black, as usual. It was an actual color. Not that I wanted to wear it—but I guess even wearing something that went against my better fashion sense couldn’t change his mind.

  You are now official y on my list, Ian Clark. Not the good one.

  The conversation. I suddenly remember the conversation we had two weeks ago.

  “It wil be amazing,” he said.

  “I can’t wait to walk into that room with you,” he said.

  “It wil be the best night of our lives,” he said, as if he were reading straight from a Hal mark card.

  2

  And like a doof, I told him I would go. I even told him if a Journey song came on, I would dance with him, and I imagined my arms draped around his neck, and his breath on my cheek, and my hip brushing up against his. I didn’t explain I had been imagining a lot of things about him lately.

  He made fun of me for organizing al the special moments in my life like I was a professional wedding planner. “The toast wil happen here . . . the dance wil happen here . . . and voilà! Happiness!”

  That’s when I punched him on the arm.

  But he was right, actual y—I did have that special moment al planned out . . . the kiss, of course . . . that kiss.

  Every detail. Even down to the direction he’d be facing and the type of lush foliage we’d be standing by. But so much for acts of extreme planning. Look at me now. There is nothing special about this moment. No foliage, nothing lush—just dried weeds and gravel burrowing into my ass.

  The glamour of this moment is stunning. Thank God my lovely sense of sarcasm is stil in tact. It feels like the only thing that is.

  There’s an aching pain on my right upper arm. It’s because of the tattoo. Wait, I have a tattoo? Who let me get a tattoo?! It’s a Tinker Bel . Which could be cute if it weren’t for the fact that she’s a punk Tinker Bel . She’s wearing combat boots, her wings are ripped, and her eyes are bloodshot. Great . . . Tinker Bel on a meth binge.

  Please, please be temporary.

  3

  I wipe the dirt from my face and shake my head. I can remember every detail of that conversation two weeks ago, but I can’t remember a thing about the past twelve hours.

  Seriously?

  A couple of deep breaths and I accept that I am now keenly aware of only three things:

  1. It is 6:15 in the morning and I am a heap of a mess sitting in a ditch on the side of Hol ister Road. I know this because my watch—the one that matches my dress and purse and shoes (thank you, Mom)—is stil ticking despite the impact.

  Ouch . . . my head hurts. And I know it’s Hol ister Road because this is the back road that Ian always uses on the way to school when there’s construction.

  I’d recognize that bil board anywhere. The one that says “Peg Griffith—Philanthropist of the Year!” and Peg is holding a metal statue in the shape of a heart. And Ian always asks, “Doesn’t your mom get queasy around al that blood?” And I always answer, “She’s a philanthropist, not a phlebotomist.” And he lets out that sweet, goofy laugh that gives me butterflies. I hate this stupid road.

  2. I still don’t remember anything that happened last night.

  3. I am starving.

  4

  My forehead is pounding, and I grab it, but it’s not the pain I’m trying to stop; it’s the memories that suddenly come rushing in.

  Oh, no.

  No, no, no.

  The dinner. The dance. Al yson Moore. Jimmy Choo heels. That broken safety pin. In-N-Out Burger. Tinker Bel . The Hampton Inn. The three-legged Chihuahua.

  Brian Sontag. Toyota Prius. Ian Clark.

  Ian, who brought me a blue corsage, dyed to match my dress (and shoes and purse and watch).

  Ian, who bought me a Mrs. Fields peanut butter cookie and stashed it in his glove compartment because he knew I would need a snack at some point in the night, given my low blood sugar problem. And my love of peanut butter cookies.

  Ian, who promised we would dance to our song. Who promised prom night
would be the best night of my life—his Hal mark promises.

  And I believed him.

  You must be a scumbag too, Ian. You took me to prom and I ended up in a ditch!

  I glance around, looking for cars. But it’s a Sunday. No traffic. No one to take pity on me and drive me home. Or at least loan me their cel phone so I can cal my mom.

  Mom!

  She’s going to kil me. I was supposed to be home by two a.m.! She must be panicked. But then again, she’s probably 5

  asleep. It’s going to be okay. Mom is a deep sleeper. People who do good deeds sleep very wel .

  And, oh man, she trusted him. “I wouldn’t feel good about Justina going to prom with anyone but you,” Mom had said. She even dusted off his tuxedo sleeve when she said it. And he gave that laugh.

  I hate stupid tuxedo sleeves.

  I have to get out of here. Find a phone. Something, someone to help me. I push myself up off the ground, but the sudden movement causes my head to swirl and I feel light-headed. Low blood sugar—it always makes me dizzy. And grumpy. And yes, even irrational. But right now, I’m entitled.

  I take a slow breath, and the balance comes back. I put one foot in front of the other and manage to hobble down the road. But my feet are heavy, clunky, like submarines in a sea of taffy.

  I need help. Where the hel is Anderson Cooper when I need him?

  Of course I know Ian would laugh at that if he could hear me. And yeah, maybe I should be obsessed with a hot rock star or a movie star. But crushing on a CNN news reporter just makes more sense.

  I’m into reliability, Ian.

  Plus, Anderson Cooper’s total y cute. I don’t mind the ears.

  But even he’s not here. No one is. The road is deserted.

  I’m going to have to figure out a way to get out of this myself.

  I’m going to pray for a miracle.

  6

  Please, please be erased. Make Worst Night Ever slip away from my brain.

  But luckily, before I get too far in my pleading and have to start kneeling and ruining this dress any further . . . I see them. In the distance are familiar glistening fluorescent lights. I smile because I know those lights mean I have found the answer to al my problems.

  A pay phone and a candy bar at the 7-Eleven.

  7

  1

  Finally, a Snickers

  I SUPPOSE IF I have to get ditched somewhere, I’m glad it’s at this 7-Eleven, not the sucky 7-Eleven near downtown.

  This is the awesome one—the one on 4th and Hill with the nacho cheese bar and the endless row of magazines.

  Ian and I would stop by here on Fridays to celebrate. “No homework. No track practice. Time for jalapeño nachos!” he would always say. And I’d say, “Just a Snickers.” It’s not that I don’t love nachos . . . what’s not to love?

  But I never got them on our Friday 7-Eleven stops because that was the day my weekly thimble-sized allowance was hovering in the cents column, and a candy bar was all I could afford. Ian would’ve bought nachos for me—he’s a 8

  carefree buyer with an unlimited allowance, along with most of the student body at Huntington High School, but I didn’t want him to worry that it symbolized more. The last thing I wanted was to weird out our friendship because of a plate of convenient-store nachos.

  As I cross through the familiar gas station parking lot, my chest discovers gravity, and my organs and bones weigh me down with sadness, my feet barely moving forward.

  Of al the 7-Elevens, this one.

  Where are you, Ian Clark?

  Then music. It’s blaring through outdoor speakers, which seems odd this early in the morning. There’s no one to listen to it because there are no customers. Except for me.

  The bel rings as the sliding glass door opens and a gush of stale air-conditioned air rushes over me. Country music blasts through the indoor speakers, too.

  “Need something?”

  The cashier stares at my shoes. My two-and-three-quarter-inch heels are covered in dirt and mud—the same ones I had proudly dyed iridescent royal blue just two days ago. But that was before I found out nobody dyes their shoes to match their dress anymore. And before I realized listening to the advice of a relative—not my best friend and not an enlightened editor of a prom magazine—was an unwise idea.

  Thank you, Mom.

  It makes sense that the cashier would stare. I’m guessing not too many girls waltz into the 7-Eleven at 6:15 on a 9

  Sunday morning wearing heels that match their shimmering iridescent blue dress, looking like they’d just lost a match with a vindictive sewer rat.

  “Got any Snickers?” My voice is weak.

  Her eyes drift up to mine. She softens. She must notice my extreme lack of lip gloss. “You hungry?” She looks over my shoulder, probably to see if I am alone.

  “Very.”

  She is wearing high-waisted jeans ( very high-waisted), a belt with a large silver buckle, and a long-sleeve white shirt tucked tightly into her jeans. Her ultra-long hair is pul ed back in a perfect French braid—total y symmetrical—with hints of gray peeking through. She looks like she belongs in a music video for the country song playing over the speakers.

  Like she’d play the part of the consoling wise aunt who doles out good obvious advice: Stop drinkin’ and smokin’ and gettin’

  so many abortions, honey!

  I can already tel I like her.

  She reaches into a box in front of the counter and lays a jumbo-size Snickers on the counter. I was right—there real y is kindness in the world. I glance at her name tag. “Thanks, Gilda.”

  I give her a big smile and reach for the candy bar.

  “That’s $1.09,” she says.

  “I . . . I . . .” I can’t believe Gilda isn’t going to take some pity on me and give me the damn candy bar! Do I look like a monster? She’s the one with pants pul ed up to her boobs!

  10

  She’d never be cast in a music video. Actors are nice. Which clearly, she is not.

  I keep my mouth shut about her il -fitting clothes and lack of human decency, and pat my dress down as if my purse wil suddenly appear. But it’s gone and I have no idea where I left it. Of course al my money is in there. And my lip gloss.

  And those directions to Lurch’s party. The one Ian and I were supposed to go to the next night. He said he wanted us to go do something fun, just to make sure there wasn’t any weirdness after the prom. He even said weirdness with air quotes, like I didn’t know what it meant. I had hoped

  “weirdness” referred to al the making out we were going to do—so I guess I didn’t know what it meant.

  I had no idea “weirdness” to him meant actual weirdness.

  Dang it.

  But in thinking over what happened last night, I have to say, “weirdness” was an understatement of epic proportion.

  Unreasonably huge . . . an understatement that is Hummer huge. Because Lurch’s party—and especial y the excessive making-out part—is never going to happen.

  Which is a pity. Lurch always has the best parties.

  “I don’t have any money.” My voice cracks. It sounds pitiful. Like someone you might even want to take mercy on. But it doesn’t sway Gilda.

  Gilda places the Snickers back in its box. Then she looks me up and down and tilts her head. “You need a phone or something?”

  11

  “Yes! Where?” I feel like a Jack Russel terrier—yippy, anxious.

  “Out back. By the hoses. Fifty cents a cal .” I’m not exactly sure why she thinks I can suddenly come up with fifty cents if I couldn’t afford the Snickers. “Thanks.” I wince at her and secretly think about spraying her down with one of those hoses and wiping that unsupportive smirk right off her face. But al I real y want is to get home, so I retreat and hobble back through the sliding glass doors, across the parking lot.

  The pay phone is right next to the hoses, just like Mean-Ass Gilda said, and I have to hike up my disgusting dress to get around them.
I’m not sure why I care about saving my dress from any further grossness. This is absurd.

  As I step up to the phone, I hear a car—the rattling, knocking sound of a diesel engine. I whip around, hoping it’s Ian, but deep down knowing that he’s never coming to get me. A man pul s up in a Mercedes to pump gas. His car is old, just like Ian’s, but it’s a coupe, not a sedan. He doesn’t even notice me. Good.

  I start to read the directions on the pay phone, but the words turn blurry. I can feel the tears gaining momentum—I press my temples with my palms, trying my best to contain them.

  Get it together. You’ve gotten this far without fal ing apart.

  My pep talk starts to work—the tears dry up and I glance back at the building to see Gilda planted at the window, 12

  glaring at me with her arms folded, standing firm like a redwood tree. She must think I’m going to steal these hoses.

  Gilda might be the type who takes her job too seriously.

  I quickly turn back and finish reading the directions on how to make a col ect cal . I’ve never made one and it looks complicated.

  I dial wrong three times, but then final y push al the right buttons in the right order and the phone rings.

  Come on, Mom. Pick up.

  “You’ve reached the Griffith residence. Please leave a message. . . .”

  I can’t believe this. She’s stil asleep. Doesn’t she know I’m not there? No, this can’t be right. Maybe she’s out on a hunt with the police. They’re probably using drug-sniffing dogs and everything. Given the people I’ve been hanging out with the past few hours, those drug dogs wil sniff me out in two shakes of a spleef. Should be rescued any moment now. . . .

  But I try the col ect cal one more time. “You’ve reached the Griffith residence . . .”

  Crap! This can’t be happening. She’s asleep. She doesn’t even know Ian just ruined my life. I never wanted to go to this stupid prom at that stupid hotel. I told him that: I like running, not dancing. I like veggie burritos, not rubbery hotel chicken. And definitely not rubbery hotel salad. But he convinced me that prom would be different. It would be a night I would never forget, and he promised I’d love the food. Wel , he was sure as hel right about one thing: I will 13

  never forget this. But the food? I’m freaking starving.

  Al of a sudden, I can’t hold the tears back anymore, my eyes feeling like the Colorado River after a spring melt—the flow just keeps coming. No pep talk can fix this. I fal to the ground, sobbing. Why me, Ian? Why couldn’t you have—