I Was Saved... by the Jerkface

Searching for Blake

I called a taxi right away, more than ready to go home. I simply needed a hot bubble bath and to go to bed. Was that so hard? Apparently it was. But that was to be expected, I suppose.

"Annabelle!" my mom screamed as soon as I walked in the door. "Honey, we've been so worried, what happened?" She fussed over my hair, my sweaty dress, and my lack of shoes.

I sighed, somehow relieved that my mom was actually fussing over me. She never did that - it wasn't her style, I guess. "Mom, you will never believe what happened..."

And so I proceeded to tell her everything, except that Blake had told me his name. I just wanted her to know that somebody saved me, not a name just yet. She'd probably hunt the poor boy down and smother him with "thank yous" to death. After I was done telling her, I realized my dad had walked into the room a while ago. Apparently he'd heard the whole thing.

They gave me a lecture about not walking home at night (nothing I didn't already know, of course), and sent me to bed. I kissed both of them, sincerely for once, because something could've happened to me tonight.

I walked across the pristine carpet of our penthouse apartment, careful to stand on my tip toes so as not to get the floors dirty with my blackened feet. I had run all over town without shoes, and this is New York City we're talking about, after all. The second I stepped into my bathroom - my parents had the master, so I was more than happy to have this one all to myself - I ran steaming hot water into the jacuzzi. I checked my reflection in the large mirror, which almost covered the whole wall to my right. My caramel colored, normally nicely wavy hair was completely disheveled, my face grimy and sweaty, and my makeup running. I felt extremely dirty and just gross, but I didn't have any scratches or bruises. At least on my face.

I glanced down at my right arm, which was clearly visible in my black, sleeveless dress. It had five small bruises beginning to form on it, specifically in the shape of a hand print.

I groaned. Perfect, I thought. Just what I needed. I sank gratefully into the steaming tub after I'd shed my gross-feeling clothes, and pushed the button that turned on the jets.

Once I was fully relaxed, I wrapped myself snugly in my pink fuzzy robe and slippers to match, and walked into my room. The pug/beagle mixed puppy my parents had gotten me for my seventeenth birthday was sitting on her doggy bed like a good little girl. I loved my baby Cookie. Even though I'd only had her for a few months, she was fully potty trained and ready to go in almost no time at all. I snuggled with her as I laid on the bed, curled up under the covers, and I turned on the flat screen that was set up so that I could watch it from my bed. One good thing about having rich parents, they really know how to pamper you.

Not that I particularly loved being rich. I certainly didn't go rubbing it in peoples' faces. Sometimes, I even hated it. When I was thirteen and in middle school - you know, that awkward stage - I used to wish I had less money, like the kids at my school. I just wanted to be normal. Even now, I think some of that stuck with me, because I didn't really like talking about it with anybody. Unless they knew me or had been to my house, nobody knew that my parents were rich. My dad owned a big publishing company in Lower Manhattan. My mom worked for him, conveniently, and they made good money with what they did.

Unless there came an event like tonight, I didn't dress like a rich kid. I put on my jeans and a t-shirt just like everyone else most days. I even schlepped it some days and wore baggy sweatpants and a tank top that showed my bra straps to school. And yes, I went to public school.

My best friend's name is Gabby, and I love the chick to death. She's so down to earth and drama-free, which is 99.9% impossible to find in a girl at my school. I fully enjoy not being engulfed in drama all the time. Not that we didn't have our moments, but for the most part we were totally cool. I invited her to dinner and a movie at my house every Friday night, and I think she mostly liked to come because of my awesome house. That and we were total buds.

Cookie barked suddenly, knocking me out of my TV-induced stupor. She jumped onto my chest and licked my nose. "Eww, Cookie!" I scolded her, laughing. But it did make me feel better. She must have sensed I was in a not-so-great mood.

I fell asleep with my baby curled up in a little ball on my stomach, TV remote in hand.

******

I woke up the next morning, lurching upright. Luckily Cookie had climbed into her doggy bed sometime during the night, otherwise she would've gotten launched off of me. I had the panicking feeling that today was a weekday, meaning I had to go to school.

I ran out of my room, ready to go into the bathroom to get ready when I smelled bacon.

"Huh?" I said out loud. If there was bacon, that must mean... it was the weekend. I sighed in relief, glad that I didn't have to go to school at this particular moment. Last night was way too crazy.

Thinking about last night brought back memories. Mostly of me running like a freak for my life. But some about Blake. I admit, he hadn't been out of my thoughts since it happened.

The way he'd stalked off like it was no big deal lead one to believe he didn't want to be contacted and thanked, but that's what I decided to try and do. The least I could do was send him some money. I padded softly into the kitchen, searching drawers and cabinets until I found the phone book.

I looked under Harold, fully prepared to find a zillion names under it. I tried to narrow it down to a first name of Blake (there were about fifteen), but then I realized that if he was my age, and he looked it, then he would probably be living with his parents. In which case there were a ton of last name Harolds. Crap.

His face popped into my head. His medium-length sandy blonde hair, slightly curly, his bright blue eyes with flecks of green in them. He had prominent cheekbones and a muscular, squared jaw bone, meaning he could easily pass for five years older than I thought he was. But I knew better, or at least I hoped I did.

I sighed and gave up on the phone book. If only it had the caller ID sort of thing where their picture went with the name. Then I could find him. Otherwise, I didn't know what I would do. I guess I was just going to have to stop thinking about him.

Yeah, right.

*****