Take My Advice Read online

  Take My Advice

  by Tristi Pinkston

  Trifecta Books

  Cover design copyright © 2015 by Jenni James

  Author photograph by Heather Gardner Photography

  This is a work of fiction, and the views expressed herein are the sole responsibility of the author. Likewise, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are represented fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, or actual events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Copyright© 2015 by Tristi Pinkston

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Author’s Note

  Author’s Biography

  Take My Advice

  by Tristi Pinkston

  To my younger self

  Acknowledgements

  I’d like to recognize all those who had a hand in bringing this book about. It’s especially poignant because this is the last story I sent through my critique group before our founding member, Keith Fisher, passed away. He will be missed. My thanks to the other members of the group—Jaclyn, Steve, Jessica, Nichole, and Heather. You guys are my biggest cheerleaders—thank you.

  I’d also like to give a shout-out to some other fine folks who gave me their input—Andrea, Rebecca, Elise, Caryn, and Joseph. Your sharp eyes helped me out a lot, and I appreciate you.

  Karen and Paulette, thank you for the formatting, and Jenni, thanks for the cover. My baby is now a real book!

  And always, always, always, a huge thank you and “I love you” to my husband, Matt. I can’t believe how blessed I am.

  Chapter One

  I was not amused. Not even in the slightest. Someone had taken a picture of me and Photoshopped my face onto a Dr. Phil poster. They’d even given me his bald head with the little tufts of hair over each ear, and they’d made a ton of copies and plastered the walls up and down the hallways with them. Underneath the picture was the caption, “The Dr. Jill Show.” The freshmen boys were laughing about it, but I wasn’t.

  After suffering through chemistry (and believe me, I mean suffering), I pushed my way through the door leading to the school’s newspaper office and plopped my backpack in the corner. Colby, the editor-in-chief and my current crush—even though he didn’t know I was alive beyond my place on his staff—glanced up from his desk, his blond hair flopping into his blue-blue-blue eyes. “Got that article for me yet?”

  “Of course. Punctual as always.” I handed him the printed version and explained, as I always did, that I’d emailed over the exact same article the night before. He absently took the printout and went back to what he was doing. No “Thank you,” and certainly no “You’re the most reliable staff member I have. Thank you so much for your continued dependability. Can I show you my gratitude by marrying you in a totally lavish ceremony complete with gardenias and doves?”

  I suppose I should have been grateful that he noticed me at all. He had a one-track mind—graduate top of the class, get a scholarship, become a world-famous journalist and novelist, win a Pulitzer. Oh, and change the world through the medium of the written word. Anything that didn’t fall in line with that goal track wasn’t worth his time. Like me. Sigh.

  “I’ll see you after math.”

  No response.

  “That Mr. Kramer sure is tough, isn’t he?”

  Not even a grunt.

  “I had a big hands-on test in chemistry today. I started a fire and burned off my eyelashes.” Okay, that was a lie, but it would get his attention, right?

  Nothing.

  See what I mean?

  I grabbed my backpack and threaded my way through the crazy labyrinth that was my high school. Students leaned up against their lockers, clogging the flow of traffic for other students who actually cared if they were on time for their next class. If people would just keep moving in the hallways, we’d all have a better chance of being where we were supposed to be, now wouldn’t we?

  I slid into my seat just before the bell rang. That was a relief—it would not do to have Mr. Kramer even more unhappy with me. Let’s just say that math is not my best subject. English? Piece of cake—I’ve never gotten anything lower than an A.

  But while that’s great and I’m sure is the main reason why I’m on the newspaper staff, it doesn’t help me when it comes to winning over Mr. Kramer. He thinks I’m just some flaky blonde teenager who takes up chair space in his class and steals oxygen from his more deserving students.

  “Glad you could join us, Miss Reed,” he said from the front of the classroom, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses higher on his nose bridge. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d make it.”

  It was just another variation on the same old greeting he’d used every morning since school began. I hadn’t been late once—not even once—all year, and yet he had this idea firmly embedded in his wee little brain that my attendance was somehow this nebulous thing to be commented on whenever he felt like it.

  “As always, Mr. Kramer.” I pasted on my brightest, most cheerful smile. He was not going to win this battle of wills.

  He lifted his head and gave a little snort. I’m serious—he looked exactly like a horse. You know how they toss their heads and act like they’re trying to blow their noses, only without tissue—yeah. I almost laughed, but I didn’t. That would have been bad.

  He started right in with a recap of everything we’d discussed in our last math class. Apparently we’d been attacked by brain-sucking zombies since last time and had no recollection of anything we’d learned. How awesome that he reminded us. It was like a public service, really.

  Then he launched into today’s discussion, which was, creepily, almost word-for-word of the recap. In fact, I couldn’t tell where one left off and the next started, and it was a good thing that he announced that he was now presenting the next lesson or I never would have figured it out.

  At this point, I started to zone out. I wanted to pay attention, I really did, but my brain had other ideas. I might need to blame that on the zombies.

  See, I’d gotten some really intriguing emails the night before and I couldn’t wait to get started on my next column. The one I’d just turned in was awesome—some of my best work—but this batch was going to challenge me in new ways. One girl wanted to know if she should dye her hair in order to get more attention. And a guy asked how he should tell his girlfriend that he’d fallen for her sister. We were getting into the stuff I loved—the relationship stuff. Not that I had a whole lot of personal experience, but I watched talk shows. I considered myself pretty well versed in what to say.

  I stayed entertained for the rest of the class period by plotting out my advice to these poor lovelorn individuals, and then escaped the torture chamber as soon as the bell rang. It was time for lunch, thank goodness—nothing made my blood sugar drop like listening to Mr. Kramer drone on and on. And on.

  “Hey!” Amanda, my best
friend, came up to me in the hall and tucked her arm through mine, her brown ponytail swinging back and forth. She was sort of like a puppy, cute and a little cuddly. “Did you get your column turned in?”

  “Of course. Right on time.”

  “I can’t wait to read it this week. From what you said, it sounds great.”

  The problem with being the advice columnist for a high school newspaper is that you can’t share everything with your best friend, even when you really want to. It’s not like I knew the names of the kids who sent in their questions—they weren’t supposed to sign their letters. Plus, all the emails were forwarded to me by my student adviser, who stripped out the personal information—but even the stuff I did know, I couldn’t share. I could only drop hints like, “Wow, I gave the most amazing advice today.” And while that’s fun, it’s not as fun as it could be. If you get what I’m saying. So everyone knew who I was, but I didn’t know who they were. That seemed a little unfair. Oh, well—Amanda could read the final results in the newspaper, just like everyone else.

  “Yeah, I think it’ll make for some good reading.” I tried to sound noncommittal, like I was supposed to. “And as usual, Colby barely looked at me when I handed it in.”

  “I’m sorry.” Her green eyes were full of sympathy. “You know what—someday that dork is going to realize how wonderful you are and kick himself for ignoring you.”

  “And by then, I’ll be off to college, and his chance will be gone. There’s some poetic justice in that, I guess.”

  We had reached the lunchroom, and I paused before going in. This was where the major bulk of the teasing would take place. It was like an arena where all the cool kids would pick on all the not-cool kids and everyone else would gather around to watch, like the Romans and their chariot races and throwing Christians in to get eaten by lions and stuff like that. The things people did for entertainment . . . I could hardly wait for college, but then, college would be just as bad, from what I’d heard. Only with a larger campus. More opportunities to get teased. Great.

  “Look, it’s Dr. Jill,” one of the jocks called out, and I smiled. There was only so much tormenting a person could take before it got old. I was about there.

  “Hey, Bruce. I saw you trying out that new meditation thing before the game the other night. How’s that workin’ for ya?” I called back in my best Dr. Phil drawl. “Or maybe you were just asleep. Kind of hard to tell.”

  “Ooooooo.” The crowd seemed appropriately impressed by my retort. I nodded and made my way to the lunch line. It would take Bruce a minute to come up with a snarky response, and by then, I hoped to have my tray. I’m a multi-tasker like that.

  Amanda and I found seats and began eating. Bruce and his friends must have decided to give us a break—the comebacks hadn’t come back yet. A second later, a shadow fell across my food, and I held back a sigh. So much for thinking it was over.

  “Bruce,” I began. I looked up and saw a new guy standing over me, holding his tray with both hands and looking a little awkward.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m not Bruce—my name’s Dylan. I’m told that the best way to make friends is to walk right up and introduce myself. May I sit here?”

  “Knock yourself out,” Amanda said. “You sound like you’ve been reading one of Jill’s advice columns, so you’ll fit right in.”

  I would have responded, but my mouth was full of food. Low blood sugar, remember? I needed to shovel it in there fast before I went into some sort of hypoglycemic coma. Not that I was hypoglycemic, but Kramer could put anyone in a coma. As soon as I’d seen that it wasn’t actually Bruce, I’d shoved my fork in my mouth. It was either that or face-plant into my tray.

  “So, I just moved here from Denver,” Dylan said.

  “I’ve been skiing in Denver,” Amanda replied, tucking her blonde hair behind her ear. Was she flirting? I couldn’t quite tell. Chewing was my first priority.

  “And you are . . .” he prompted.

  “Oh, sorry. I’m Amanda, and she’s Jill. She’s eating. She probably won’t talk, or even acknowledge that we’re here, for another five minutes or so. She’s got this thing with food.”

  “Low blood sugar,” I growled.

  “I think it’s an avoidance mechanism,” Amanda stage-whispered behind her hand. “That’s the excuse she gives whenever she wants time to emotionally withdraw.”

  “And now look who’s psychoanalyzing people. I’m not withdrawing—I’m hungry.” I turned to Dylan, giving him the full benefit of my attention. He wore a plaid button-up shirt over a white T-shirt, and his dark hair was neatly combed. It looked like it had the potential to be floppy, like Colby’s, but no one really had hair as good as Colby’s. “Welcome to our high school. We’re glad to have you.”

  He seemed a little taken aback by my formality. I admit, I did that on purpose. It was mostly to annoy Amanda—I didn’t mean to catch the guy in the crosshairs. “Thanks, Jill,” he said. “So you’re the one on the flyers I’ve been seeing all over the place today.”

  “Yeah, every so often, someone decides to poke fun at my column. If they were more mature, they’d understand that dispensing advice is at the very heart of our culture. Mothers have advised their daughters, sons have looked to their fathers—we all rely on each other for the benefit of our shared wisdom, and shouldn’t mock this tradition by plastering up ridiculous posters. Don’t you agree?” I ignored Amanda. She was shooting daggers at me with her eyes—she probably thought I should be cutting the new guy some slack.

  Dylan nodded. “I do, actually. From an anthropological standpoint, without the sharing of experiences, where would we be? Our young wouldn’t know how to hunt or fish or make their own huts. We need to pass on these lessons, or we will die out as an entire breed.”

  I blinked. I had not expected that response from this fresh-faced, good-looking-in-a-mild-way, slightly dorky kid. “This is what I’m saying,” I finally replied.

  “It looks like I chose the right table. This is turning out to be a really great first day after all.” Dylan picked up his tray. It was empty now—I had no idea how he managed to clean it so fast, especially when I hadn’t even noticed him eating (he must be a ninja). He headed toward the trash to throw away his milk carton.

  “Why did you have to be so tough on the guy?” Amanda asked as soon as Dylan was out of earshot.

  “I was doing it to bug you. I didn’t know he was so . . . bookish and stuff.”

  Amanda rolled her eyes. “Well, it’s about time someone knew what to say to you and all your weirdness. Come on, we’ll be late for English.”

  English. Happy sigh. A class I shared with Colby . . . a class I dreamed about (literally—I dreamed about it), prepared for, dressed my cutest for. I was definitely going to be on time for English. Those flow-clogging students in the hallway had better not get in my way.

  Chapter Two

  Colby sat in front of me in English class. At the start of the year when we were all staking our claim on seats, I hung back until I saw where he was planning to sit, and then I pounced for a spot two rows behind him and one column over. I probably took out a few teeth with my elbow as I forced my way through the crowd and flung myself into the chair I wanted, but I considered it a small price to pay for the perfect vantage point from whence to watch the man of my dreams. Considering that this was one of only three classes we had together, I had to maximize every single second.

  To start us off for the day, Mr. Griffith asked Colby to read a poem to the class, and I closed my eyes in the deliciousness of the moment. Colby’s voice was low and mellow, and he seemed to appreciate all the nuances that were supposed to go into a piece of poetry. Most other guys, if they even bothered to participate in class at all, read in monotone, or seemed to think that they had to pause at the end of every line whether there was a comma or period there or not. Colby . . . Colby just got it.

  “Jill, you seem to be enjoying this piece. How would you analyze the rhythm?” Mr. Griffith’s much-less
sonorous voice cut into my reverie, and I realized I’d been swaying back and forth a little bit. Not a lot, not like I was drunk or anything—at least, I didn’t think it was that bad. Amanda would have to tell me later. I’m sure she saw the whole thing—she sat just a row and one chair behind me.

  “I would say that it’s pretty even, but it doesn’t have to be read that way,” I replied. “The reader can decide how they want to approach it.”

  “Very good, Jill. As we just heard, Colby chose to let the rhythm move from line to line without forcing the beat of the syllables. Another reader might . . .” Mr. Griffith continued on, and I took a deep breath to get over my embarrassment about my little Colby lovefest.

  “Hey, that was a good answer.”

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw Dylan sitting behind me. “Thanks.”

  “Poetry isn’t my thing. I’m more into sci-fi.”

  He wasn’t really talking to me in the middle of this class, was he? I mean, of all the times to interrupt . . . right while Mr. Griffith was praising Colby for his brilliance. I needed to be in on that discussion—at least to hear it. And I could have guessed he read sci-fi without him telling me. There was just a sci-fi aura around him.

  “Have you read Lloyd Alexander?” he asked, leaning forward. I caught a whiff of spearmint gum.

  “Yes. Several times. We’re not supposed to be whispering in class.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry.” Dylan settled back in his chair, and I turned my attention to Mr. Griffith. He was still discussing meter, so I guess I hadn’t missed much. Still, I was annoyed—who just talks in the middle of English class like that? It was so bohemian.

  Colby didn’t say anything else for the rest of the period, but that was all right. I contented myself by studying his hair. See, his hair isn’t just blond. It’s more of a sandy blond with caramel highlights. I don’t mean that he dyes it—it’s all natural, the tones blending from one to the other to create a perfect head of hair. I wondered who cut it, and hoped they realized how incredibly lucky they were to get to run their fingers through it on a regular basis.