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Then, I double check beneath the bed because maybe it fell out when I pulled the bag out from under the bed this morning, but nothing but empty space stares at me. I start to panic. I know for a fact I put it in my bag, but where could it be? Am I losing my mind?
I check everywhere: underneath pillows, on my bookshelves, and in my closet. I even crawl into to the secret nook in the back of my closet to see if I hid it there during a sudden amnesia episode.
To my dismay, I have no luck locating the diary in my room. I start retracing my steps in my mind to see where it could be. But I already know the answer in my gut. It’s not here, which means the only place it could be is Patty’s house. It must have fallen out when my bag tumbled to the ground, and I didn’t notice. Shit.
Normally, this wouldn’t be a big issue. I mean, let’s face it: journals generally aren’t that interesting because most people have boring lives. But the problem is that my journal will be very interesting to the Restons because the last entry is a sketch of Dane Reston masturbating! What if someone opens the journal and finds those drawings? Then what? What if it’s Patty, or her mom and dad? Or even worse, what if Dane himself sees it?
Oh my god, I’m going to die. If Dane sees how I’ve pictured his masculinity, including his torso and the rock-hard club between his thighs, he’s going to laugh so hard that he pees himself. Then, he’ll confront me and I’ll be humiliated for life. Oh shit. I have got to get that journal back ASAP!
I want more than anything to hop in my car and drive over to the Restons’ place right now before pounding on their door. But I could never explain the sudden necessity to have my diary back in the middle of the night, so I sit on my bed, befuddled. What should I do?
As much as I hate it, this will have to be a mission for tomorrow. I curl up on my bed with Cocoa in my arms, terrified at the questions ceaselessly running through my mind.
Has anyone seen my dirty Dane doodlings yet? And what if the person to see them is Dane himself? What next?
My dog has no idea what’s going on, but she licks my cheek comfortingly. I hug Cocoa tighter, fearful yet titillated at my task tomorrow.
6
Dane
I’m having two of my friends over today for a Day-After-Independence-Day get together. It’s an offering of sorts because Jake and Zack wanted me to go to Marty Martial’s kegger, but I decided to chill at my parents’ party instead. I tried to convince my friends to come over first and then hit Marty’s bash later, but they rejected the idea, saying they would feel the need to be on their best behavior.
I get it. We’re twenty-something guys, so we don’t need or want our parents around. Plus, Marty’s Fourth of July bash is always a riot. He’s got an enormous beach house right on the shore of the lake. There’s nothing and no one around for miles, leading to shenanigans and massive fireworks explosions. It’s almost as if the place was built for hosting parties.
But I don’t mind hanging with my family on occasion. God knows, I don’t see my parents much ever since moving into my own place years ago. Meanwhile, my sister is a bit of a nerdy theater kid, and therefore prone to bursting into song at a drop of the hat. But I miss that, as weird as it sounds. Plus, Patty shuns the popular cliques and avoids the preppy materialistic crowd like the plague, which makes me proud of her. I hated that crowd too, with their popped collars and gelled hair, and want to be there for her if she ever feels the need to talk about it.
On the flip side, my parents’ friends still act like they are in their mid-twenties, which is ridiculous given that they’re in their fifth decade of life. They’re slamming shots and running around the yard, dancing and goofing off like kids eager to get their kicks. It’s always a hoot, leading to a good time for all.
Now, I’m sitting with my buddies out on the patio, enjoying some leftover barbecue and beer. Jake chuckles, looking a little worse for wear from last night’s shindig.
“I mean, even if it was a good time, Dane, our party had chicks past the age of legal consent. Your sister’s friends are like what? Seventeen? I love the young ones, but I’m not ready to go to jail,” he joshes.
Zack snorts.
“Yeah right,” he says. “You would have been better off trying for those high school girls, my man. You were so out of it last night.”
