One Night: A coming of age YA novel Read online

  “Pick me up on Friday night and take me out to dinner,” she’d said. “At the Cheesecake Factory.”

  I wondered if I had to wear a tie.

  “By the way, I’m not one of those girls who pretends and orders salad when what she really wants is a cheeseburger. I want to get cheesecake for dessert, too.”

  “Okay,” I’d said. “Whatever you want.”

  With those four words my life changed forever.

  * * *

  After Johnny was done taking pictures with fans, I walked up to him.

  “I’m starting to think you have a crush on me,” he said. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re not my type.”

  “I just wanted to ask about the girl you were thinking about when you sang ‘Hurt,’” I said.

  “No one,” he said. “It’s just a song.”

  “It’s not just a song!” I took a deep breath. “Sorry. I’m not normally this dramatic.”

  “Somehow I doubt that. You really wanna know who I’m singing about? It matters?”

  “It matters,” I said. I wanted to know I wasn’t the only lonely soul in the world, that I wasn’t the only one sad enough to go looking for his ex-girlfriend when he probably shouldn’t.

  “Her name is Jennifer.”

  “Jennifer what?” I asked.

  “Jennifer Rogers.”

  “Is she your ex-wife or something?” He looked old enough to have been married.

  “Nope. Never got that far.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “About seven years ago.”

  “Seven years?!” Mr. Life-Can-Change-in-a-Nanosecond hadn’t seen Jennifer Rogers in seven years and was still thinking about her tonight at the Tiki House while throngs of women threw themselves at him? There was no hope for me then.

  “I didn’t say I’m crying every night, kid, jeez. I just think about her when I sing that song, okay? Look, I’m tired. I need to go home. It’s probably past your bed time, too.”

  I looked at my phone. It was only ten. “My curfew’s eleven.” I didn’t know why, but I wanted to keep talking to Johnny Lee Young and find out what had happened between him and Jennifer Rogers. Maybe it would give me some insight into why Caroline and I had fallen apart. I was supposed to have an older brother to help me navigate these things, but the universe had had other plans for Samuel. He’d been taken from me before I was born.

  “Hey, what’s your name by the way?” he asked.

  “Thompson.”

  “That’s a last name.”

  “I know,” I said. “But my dad is a big fan of Hunter S. Thompson—well, except for the whole drugs thing. That’s where my name comes from.” Dad loved the guy’s books, but then again he loved most books—he was a librarian after all.

  “Huh. Wonder why he didn’t go with Hunter. What’s your last name? Tell me it isn’t Thompson.”

  “No, it’s Lake.”

  “Thompson Lake. Sounds like a character out of a soap opera. One of those yuppie guys who wears white pants and pink polo shirts.”

  “I’m well aware,” I said. Caroline had teased me about it more than once, saying Thompson Lake sounded like a boarding school name, that I belonged on the east coast in Boston or Rhode Island, not Hawaii.

  “It’s so uppity,” she’d said. “What was your dad thinking?”

  “Here,” Johnny said. He handed me his business card. It was canary yellow and read:

  Johnny Lee Young

  Hawaii’s Favorite Elvis Impersonator

  WWW.JOHNNYLEESINGS.COM

  “I’m performing next week at Ron’s Crab Shack if you wanna come by,” he said.

  My eyes lit up. “Okay.”

  It was settled.

  Johnny and I would talk more next week.

  And maybe I’d be one step closer to getting Caroline back.

  Chapter 3

  I had to be up at six-thirty the next day to have enough time to shower, dress, and get to work by eight. I stopped for coffee on my way since the free off-brand coffee at work sucked. I entered Super Kmart’s sliding glass doors a few minutes later, Kona Coffee cup in hand, and traded in a cloudless postcard-blue sky for a cream-colored retail prison where everyone looked washed out and like they hadn’t slept in days.

  I checked the clipboard in the employee break room and reported to register three. It was slow at first, like it usually was on Saturday mornings, but by nine-thirty the place was bumpin’. There was the usual batch of customers who’d been making breakfast before realizing they were out of bacon, bread, or eggs—you could pick these people out by their yoga pants or PJs. Then there were the men working on home projects who needed nails, caulk, or screws. There were grannies who chose this time to make their weekly grocery trip.

  As I scanned some toiletries for an overweight housewife, I wondered if Johnny had meant what he’d said about coming to his next gig. Even though I wasn’t sure his invitation was sincere, the idea of sitting at another Hawaiian cliché next week made me happy. I thought it was odd we hadn’t crossed paths earlier. Caroline loved Elvis so much I was surprised she hadn’t known about Johnny, who was way more talented than Eddie King, and better looking too. Maybe it was because she was so enamored of me. Or, more likely, maybe it was because she was busy imagining her future escapades with Kalani High School soccer players.

  An old Hawaiian lady, whose gray-streaked hair was pulled into a messy bun, joined my line. She wore an orange muumuu and had fuzzy brown bunny slippers on her feet. The eye on the right slipper was missing, leaving a hole that showed her black socks. She tossed an open bag of frozen peas onto the belt that had maybe ten peas left inside.

  “They were no good,” she said. “I want my money back. Here, I have the receipt.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Orange muumuu lady was a classic Super Kmart customer. Super Kmart was a magnet for the freaks of the earth, or at least, the freakiest people Honolulu had within its city limits. People tried to return half-eaten buckets of fried chicken wings, bottles of cleaning products that had obviously been used, and Selena Gomez brand clothes that had been worn and ripped yet still had the tags on. To be fair, these lovely individuals only made up about thirty percent of Super Kmart’s customer base.

  “Ma'am, I can’t give you a refund for that. I’m sorry.”

  “But the peas were bad.”

  “I understand, but we can’t give refunds on food items that have been opened.”

  “I want to speak to a manager.”

  “Are you serious?” I muttered under my breath.

  “Kids these days have no respect!” Her voice was so loud that every customer in the vicinity turned toward us. “No goddamn respect for their elders!”

  I didn’t need to call a manager because Javier, the manager on shift, came running over, his short t-rex arms pumping as he moved his squatty legs back and forth.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked. “Can I help?”

  I looked down at my red vest before making eye contact. “This customer would like to return this,” I said. I held up the sorry sack of peas. “I told her we can’t take this back or offer a refund.”

  “But I have the receipt!” the woman yelled.

  After a circular conversation in which we explained the concept of no refund and she gestured wildly toward her receipt, Javier gave her her money back to shut her up, even though it went against the store’s policy.

  “It’s $3.25,” he said. “No biggie.” He patted me on the back and walked away.

  “One-hundred thirty-one,” Steve called from register one. Steve had started working at Super Kmart about eight months ago. He was Indian, awkwardly tall (the kind of tall where your torso is longer than your legs), and went to college part-time. His claim to fame at Super Kmart was keeping a running tally of the Kmart Crazies—his words, not mine—in a small notebook he carried in the front pocket of his red vest. If we encountered any crazies on a day when he wasn’t working, we’d have to t
ally them ourselves and report them to him later. The numbers were probably only about ninety-seven percent accurate because he hadn’t thought of this brilliant idea until his third week of work.

  The Kmart Crazies count had climbed to one-hundred thirty-four by the time my shift was over. The customers who became tally marks in Steve’s notebook hadn’t joined my line, thank God.

  I called Ronnie after I clocked out.

  “What are you doing Friday?” I asked.

  “Nothing, cruising for wahines. You know.”

  “Really, are you busy? Babysitting Ella again?”

  “No T-dawg, of course not. I’m free as a bird.”

  “Okay, then get ready to meet Hawaii’s Favorite Elvis Impersonator,” I said in my best radio announcer voice. I told him about Johnny Lee Young’s upcoming show.

  “That doesn’t sound like something a baller would be caught dead at,” he said.

  “Just come with me,” I said. “It’ll be fun.”

  “You sure this isn’t about getting the CW back?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Positive?”

  “Yes.” It wasn’t a lie, but a half truth. I still harbored hope that Caroline would show up at one of Johnny’s shows and be thrilled to see me. Or maybe Johnny’s confidence and inherent coolness would somehow rub off on me, which would in turn help me get her back.

  “Fine, but you have to buy my dinner,” he said. “I’m getting crab and cheese fries.”

  “Deal.”

  I got in my car and started the drive home. I cruised down H-1 and thought about passing by Caroline’s place to see if her jeep was in the driveway. Five months ago we’d talked every day, usually more than once, and texted each other constantly. And then... nothing. It was like she had died. We’d been inseparable for approximately one-hundred seventy-five days, a period in which I’d basically ignored Ronnie (I think we saw each other less than a handful of times outside of school) because I’d wanted to spend every waking moment with her. I still saw him during lunch and AP calculus, so I wasn’t a complete d-bag, but I definitely wasn’t up for Friend of the Year during that time period.

  I was at the intersection where I should have turned left had I wanted to drive by Caroline’s house. When the light turned green, I drove straight through. I considered this a step in the right direction. I didn’t need to increase the number of times I’d driven by her family’s house since our breakup—the count was currently at four. Once it exceeded that it would be undeniably creepy.

  I parked on the street in front of our blue two-bedroom ranch and took off my Kmart vest as I walked into the house.

  “Did you remember to bring home some bananas and a cucumber for the salad?” Mom asked. She kissed me on the cheek.

  “Ugh. Sorry.” She had texted me earlier and I’d completely forgotten about it. “I’ll go back.”

  I grabbed my keys and drove back to Super Kmart, counting the hours until Friday.

  Chapter 4

  “So tell me again why we’re going here, exactly?” Ronnie asked when I picked him up on Friday. He wore a red Sean John shirt and the same brand of Adidas high tops he always wore—he owned three pairs (one red, one white, and one black). He cared for those shoes like one might care for a Porsche; he polished them with an old toothbrush once a week and kept them inside their original boxes in his closet when he wasn’t wearing them. His white shoes glowed against his skinny brown legs. Ronnie was half Filipino and half Hawaiian which made him look obviously Asian, but not an Asian anyone could place.

  Barkley walked in circles around my ankles, his white tail whapping my legs as he did so.

  “It’s something to do,” I said. “He’s an interesting guy.”

  “You’re sure this isn’t about the CW?”

  “It’s not about her. Besides this show isn’t even in Honolulu.”

  “You have a man crush then,” Ronnie said.

  “No I don’t.”

  Barkley threw his head back and barked.

  I put my right hand over my ear. He had a piercing bark for such a small fur ball.

  Ronnie patted the top of Barkley’s head. “You and I know the truth, don’t we, Sir Barksalot?”

  Ron’s Crab Shack was a twenty-minute drive away. We passed green covered mountains interspersed with strip malls along the way. I rolled my windows down and inhaled the salty mist of the ocean. Ronnie did the same.

  We got to Ron’s a half hour before Johnny was supposed to go on. Ron’s décor was different from the Tiki House’s. Instead of fake palms and synthetic orchids, thick ropes and metal anchors adorned the place. A large twenty-gallon fish tank filled with crabs and exotic fish greeted us in the lobby.

  The staff wore crisp white sailor outfits and navy blue aprons. Our waitress had a matching navy blue bow in her hair and saluted us before pulling out a small notepad.

  “What can I get you boys?”

  Ronnie looked at me before he spoke, his brown eyes shining. “I’ll have one King crab, cheese fries, and a vanilla shake.”

  “If you die of a heart attack, I’m not responsible,” I said.

  “If I die after this meal, I’ll consider it a life well lived. And stop pretending to be all high and mighty, Mr. Organic.”

  I ordered shrimp tacos, waffle fries, and a lemonade.

  “You got it,” our waitress said. “Enjoy the show.”

  “We will, mama,” Ronnie said.

  Our food came fifteen minutes later. After I ate a few fries I noticed Johnny and a girl of about twenty with black hair pulled into a ponytail hanging out in the far corner of the room. There was no stage at Ron’s, just an empty area without tables where a massive ceramic swordfish was mounted on the wall. Johnny wore a blinding white jumpsuit with silver embroidery and had a small red scarf wrapped around his neck.

  “Hey!” I yelled. I raised my hand and waved.

  He walked over. “What’s shakin’, kid?”

  “Nothing. This is Ronnie.”

  “Sup.” Ronnie reached for his vanilla shake.

  “Well, thanks for coming out,” Johnny said. “I appreciate it. Always good to see friendly faces in the crowd.”

  He walked away, his glittery back to us.

  Ronnie leaned across the table. “Don’t you think there’s something wrong with a guy who pretends to be someone else for a living?” he asked. “It’s strange, no?”

  “He doesn’t do this full-time,” I said, as if I knew.

  “I’m just saying. It’s kind of weird, right?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t know why I was defending Johnny when I barely knew him, but I didn’t like Ronnie poking holes in my image of him. “You pretend to be urban,” I said. “Eat your cheese fries before they get cold.”

  Johnny’s set started with some old Elvis tunes from his movies. I recognized them because of the seven Elvis films Caroline had forced me to watch when we’d been together. Before we’d started talking, I hadn’t even been aware Elvis had an acting career, but one of the items on Caroline’s bucket list was to watch every single one of his films. She’d seen twenty of thirty-one, and the seven we’d watched together were easy to find—there was a large collection of them at the Kapolei Public Library where Dad worked.

  “Did you know Elvis considered Hawaii his second home?” she’d asked. “He loved it here.”

  I loved the way she’d work random Elvis trivia into our conversations. I loved knowing I’d carry around these useless facts because of her. I wondered if she’d watched any Elvis movies with her conquests from the soccer team. Somehow I doubted it.

  “This guy is my hero,” Ronnie said, shaking me away from my Caroline flashback. “I get it now, yo.”

  Johnny was in front of a pretty Hawaiian woman who was about twenty-five. Her eyes were glued on him. She leaned out of her chair and he reached for her hand. He pulled the red scarf off and placed it around her neck and winked, then slid off to the next woman, who was equally spellbound.

&n
bsp; “He must get laid like every night,” Ronnie said. “I mean, look at him. The wahines are one second away from taking off their panties and throwing them at him.”

  The wahines loved him, I could see that. These girls had the enthusiasm Barkley had for people food, only their people food was Johnny. Johnny had a natural charm, an obvious talent at making women feel special, even though he stopped and sang to every single one of them, old and young alike, the ugly and the pretty.

  “This next song’s for the table over there,” he said. He pointed at us and winked.

  “We’re famous!” Ronnie squealed, sounding more like a nine-year-old girl than the gangsta rapper he aspired to be. He cupped his hands over his mouth and barked, “Yeah! West side!”

  I heard the opening bars of “Hurt,” my new favorite song. The blond hairs on my bony arms stood up. “This is the song,” I said, “the one I can’t stop listening to.” I’d downloaded “Hurt” the other night and had ended up buying the whole From Elvis Presley Boulevard, Memphis, Tennessee album. Its central theme was about being hurt and giving up on love.

  Before I’d met Caroline, I’d thought Elvis was highly overrated. I’d heard Elvis’s songs before—the man was too prolific for me not to have heard his greatest hits, especially since I lived in Hawaii. But until Caroline came along, I’d never really stopped to listen to his delivery. What was so special about the way his voice caught in his throat, the way he could smirk or sob mid-song? Everything, I’d figured out.