# "Just Debbie", Teen Rom-Com, Chapter 1



## Tomhef (May 3, 2011)

First chapter from my latest project, a teenage romantic comedy entitled "Just Debbie". I'd love to hear any feedback.  Thanks!

*Chapter 1*

     “Man, you’ve got to be KIDDING me!  What a loser!”  Quentin Roth let loose a guffaw as he re-read the status, just to make sure he had taken it in right the first time.  He had.  “Deb, get in here!  You’ve got to see this!”
      	“I’m a little busy with the whole make-up thing in here, Quent,” Debbie called back to him from the bathroom across the hall.  “What is it?”
      	Quentin scrolled idly through the newsfeed, checking to see if anyone had commented.  Anyone had.  Several anyones.  “Nothing, it’s nothing.  Just your boyfriend’s status.”
      	“Whose status?”
      	“You know, your boyfriend.  Ralph Pazuko?”
      	“HEY!”  Quentin laughed again at Debbie’s offended cry.  “Don’t call him that!  This is why nobody likes you.  You say things like that.”
      	“Liar.  I’m loved across the globe. Anyway, according to old Ralphie’s status, you know who he’s taking tonight?”
      	“Who?”
      	“Dora.”
      	“His SISTER?!”
      	Quentin spun the computer desk chair around; that bit of information had gotten Debbie out of the bathroom.  “He’s bringing his SISTER to the prom?” she said as she hurried into her bedroom, attaching her earrings as she did.
      	Quentin didn’t answer right away.  He had been there the whole time Debbie had been getting ready, but hadn’t really paid much attention.  Now, though, the whole picture almost completely assembled before him, her straight brown hair waved out behind her, the shimmery green dress draped over her slender frame, the more-than-usual-but-not-overdone make-up… even Quentin had to admit, he was taken aback. “Wow, Deb, you clean up pretty good.”
      	Debbie rolled her eyes.  “Uggh, please.  I look like a dork.  I can’t wear dresses, not like this.  I haven’t worn a dress since my eighth grade graduation party and then only because my mom made me.”
      	“You’ve worn skirts.”
      	“Not the same thing.  And only with tights.  Now move over!”  Debbie shoved Quentin roughly aside, leaning over to peer closely at the computer screen.  “Oh my God, he is. He's taking his sister. I don’t believe it.”
      	Debbie began reading to herself the two or three dozen comments left by their classmates on the Facebook status through which Ralph Pazuko, fellow high school senior, had bemoaned the fact that his mother was not letting him go alone to prom, but was insisting he take his little sister along with him.  As she did, Quentin’s gaze wandered around the room he had spent so much time in over the past thirteen years of his friendship with Debbie, dating all the way back to kindergarten when Quentin’s parents needed a nearby sitter for the frequent times they spent away from home or working odd hours.  Over that time the décor of the room had been altered steadily as the tastes of its occupant matured and changed, and as Debbie had gone through phases of ponies, sunflowers, wooden mobiles, birdcages, dozens and dozens of stuffed bears, pop-tart pin-ups from tweener magazines, posters of clouds, clowns, and kittens, year-round Christmas lights, the pages from a “The Far Side” desk calendar, etc., etc.   
 Now her room reflected tastes growing towards an artsier, more theatrical bent: Broadway show posters hung from her ceiling, notably for “Wicked” and “Spring Awakening” and “In The Heights.”  One of her walls held a collection of old LPs and CDs, neatly mounted and hung for decorative use only, and the opposite wall featured a full hand-painted mural; vines and flowers and cars and music notes and drama masks and multi-colored faces laughing and crying and singing floated across that side of her room, rough in places but never in the heart.  Debbie wasn’t much of a fine artist but the year she had spent on that mural was a year she had spent working as hard on anything as Quentin had ever seen.  She wouldn’t let him near it, but when it was almost finished she acquiesced one day and gave him a brush, explaining why in the bottom left-hand corner of a very organic and moving mural there was a tiny, awful painting of Homestar Runner.
 “I feel bad for Ralph,” Debbie said, squinting at the screen of her MacBook as she peered at the insults and barbs her classmates were throwing Ralph’s way up and down Quentin’s Facebook newsfeed.  “Why did he put this on Facebook?  If he had just shown up and not said anything, most people wouldn’t have been realized.”
 Quentin shrugged.  “What doesn’t go on Facebook?  That’s why I think Facebook is close to done.  It’s a classic case of over--.”
 “Oversaturation, yeah,” Debbie finished for him, rolling her eyes.
 “Oh, have we had this conversation before?”
 “Once or twice,” Debbie said, still reading the feed.  “You’re probably right, though.  You’re right, and five-hundred million users are wrong.”
 “I’m ahead of my time,” said Quentin nonchalantly.  “Why are you squinting?  Aren’t you wearing your contacts?”
 “I hate them so much,” Debbie said, rubbing her eyes as she straightened up.  “Stupid things never stay put.  I want to put my glasses on.”
 Quentin shook a finger at her.  “That’s not part of the plan, Deb.  Tiffany would not be pleased if you came out of the house in glasses.”
 Debbie grimaced at that, looking like she had just taken a swig of particularly sour milk.  “The plan.  Right.  About that.”  She sat on her bed.  “Let’s forget that, okay?  This is a terrible idea.  ‘The plan.’  Your and Tiffany’s master plan.”
 Quentin spun away from the computer.  “Hey!  My plan!  Credit where due, please!  Tiffany just latched onto it and ran with me!”
 “Either way,” said Debbie as she opened and closed her right eye, adjusting the contact she was so unused to wearing.  “There!” she said in relief, opening her eyes wide and blinking rapidly as the lens finally settled into place.
 Quentin stood up.  “Look, Debbie, the plan is foolproof,” he began for the billionth time.
 “I don’t want to talk about the plan.”
 “But --“
 “Not now!”   
 Quentin stopped talking, hearing the firmness in her voice reserved for whenever she meant to go toe-to-toe with someone… and also because she was beginning to look like she might throw up and he thought her dress would appreciate it if she didn’t.  Instead he sat on the bed next to her.  “You really do look nice,” he said quietly, leaning forward to get a glimpse of her uncomfortable eyes through her downcast expression.  “I wasn’t just saying that.  I mean, I know I ‘just say’ a lot of things, but you do.”
 Debbie smiled at him, her green eyes flashing in gratitude.  “Thanks, Quent.  And you look great, too.”
 Quentin flashed his shark-tooth grin.  “What, this old thing?” He looked down at his own formal wear: classic black tux, green cummerbund to match Debbie’s dress, green converse sneakers to piss Debbie off (it hadn’t worked yet, but he was willing to give it time)…
 “I don’t even mind the sneakers,” Debbie said, ruffling his spiky black hair with her manicured fingers.  (So much for that.)
 “Would you watch it?” Quentin teased, pushing her hand away.  “I spent, like, five whole minutes on my hair!”
 “Liar.”
 “You’re right.  More like three.”  Debbie smiled and Quentin exhaled.  She looked far more relaxed than she had moments ago.  Mission accomplished.
 Then she took another deep breath and the smile faded.  MISSION FAILURE!  MISSION FAILURE! ABORT!  ABORT!  ABO…
 “Quentin, what are we doing?”
 Quentin shrug, a gesture of practiced nonchalance.  “We are going to our senior prom together.”
 Debbie fixed him with a firm look.  “Not that.”
 Quentin nodded.  “Right  The other thing.  We are going to the prom together, and once there, your very good friend Tiffany and I are going to pull off the old switcheroo and set you up with one Mr. Rich Hamilton.”
 Debbie groaned and put her hands into her face.  Rich Hamilton, the star of the William Harrison High drama club, musical comedy leading man for three straight years, tall with the perfectly wavy blonde hair and the runner's build and that toothpaste commercial smile.  Totally straight, which does happen from time to time in the world of musical theater, and the teen-heartthrob-in-training beloved of half of the female bodies of the William Harrison student body.  Debbie was no exception.
 “He's the star,” she said flatly, her face still buried in her hands.  “He's the lead and the star, and the lead and the star does not date the stage manager girl. He dates Jessica Wills, adorable redheaded girl with the boobs and the voice, not Debbie Pascal, mousy glasses-wearing and tone-deaf brunette calling the cues from the wings.”
 “You're not mousy,” Quentin disagreed.  “You've got more of a young Tina Fey thing going on.”
 Debbie lifted her head.  “Oh, good.  The dateless mom type, instead of the Lindsay Lohan type.  Rich was on 'Gossip Girl', for goodness sake! What are we thinking?”
 Quentin waved this off. “He was not.  He was an extra in one scene, in that coffee shop. We might have seen his arm.  Maybe. Extras don't count.”
 But Debbie shook her head. “He and Jessica just broke up last month. I bet they hook up again tonight. Or Rich'll hook up with one of the other hundred girls in love with him.”
 Quentin stood up.  “Would you cut this out? You're not a moper. You sound ridiculous. Deb, c'mon. You are far more attractive than you give yourself credit for.  And Rich likes you. He's friends with you. You guys get along, right?”
 Debbie shrugged.  “Yeah, we do.”
 “And he's never tried to hit on you, right?”
 “No, because he clearly finds me completely unattractive.”
 Quentin shook his head.  “No, Deb, because he respects you!  He likes you better than he likes his usual line-up of victims. You get along. You hang out at rehearsals. You joke. Right?'
 Debbie was smiling again. “Yeah, we do, but...”
 “And if he did the dramas and not just the musicals you guys would probably play opposite each other, right?” Debbie shrugged; Quentin knew he was right. Debbie loved musicals but couldn't sing. This did not mean, however, that she couldn't act, and had over the past two years played Viola in “Twelfth Night” and Elizabeth Proctor in “The Crucible”.
 Quentin nodded.  “He likes you, and you've got talent and you're smart and have a ton to offer, so he should. He should like you.” He grinned. “And tonight, Tiffany and I are going to help you seal the inevitable deal.”
 Debbie was staring off into space, nodding as Quentin talked.  “All right,” she said, sounding confident and in-charge, more like herself.  “All right, let's do it.” She took a deep breath.  “Thanks, Quent.  If I don't kill you by the end of the night I'll kiss you.”
 “I'd prefer a stipend for my matchmaking services.  Tens and twenties. Nothing smaller.”
 Debbie go to her feet and headed out towards the bathroom.  “Okay. That's enough melting down for one night. I owe you, Quent.  Let's do it. Let's stick to the plan. Fingers crossed.” She turned back to Quentin. “You didn't have to do this, you know. You could have executed your 'plan' with a date of your own. You didn't need to come with me.”
 Quentin flopped back down in front of the computer. “Nah. It's only been a month since I dumped Melinda--”
 “How many times is it you guys have broken up now?”
 “Four? I dunno.  Anyway, I didn't feel like dealing with finding a chick on that short notice. This was easier.”
 “Why did you keep going out with her again?”
 Quentin turned back to his friend with a grin. “'Cuz she's smokin'.”
 Debbie smiled as her phone went off on the table next to her bed.  “Ah, Quentin Roth,” she said as she picked it up. “Putting the 'ass' in classy since 1995.” She looked at her phone.  “Tiffany says the limo just picked them up.  Crap, I'd better finish getting ready.”  Debbie hurried back to the bathroom as Quentin returned to the computer with a grin. He had gotten Debbie to buy into 'The Plan'.  Perfect!
 Now all he had to do was figure out how to pull 'The Plan' off.


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## T.N. Kettman (May 14, 2011)

I really enjoyed this.  The only think that was confusing was the part where Quentin called Ralph her boyfriend, and Debbie said don't say that.  I had to read it a couple times because I thought Quentin was making fun of his last name, and it really was her boyfriend.  Maybe italiciizing boyfriend or making it more obvious that he isn't her boyfriend might make that scene a little less confusing.  I like the use of modern technology with the facebook.  I would keep reading.


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## Michelle_in_WI (May 17, 2011)

Really good stuff! It flows very well, is funny and non-patronizing. By that I mean it seems natural, and you're not just pandering to teens. It rings true. I think you're off to a great start!


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## Tomhef (Jun 16, 2011)

Hey, thanks to both of you for the feedback! That bit about not getting the whole "Debbie's boyfriend" thing is something I've head before; I'll have to tweak it.

So, I've rewritten the entire chapter so it's now from Debbie's POV. It was a thought I had, considering my target audience, that I'd start with her POV and bring in Quentin's POV in chapter 2, alternating as I go through the story. I've posted this chapter from Debbie's POV below. If you get a chance... thanks!

Chapter 1
	Debbie thought she might throw up.
	It wasn't like her, really.  None of it. She had stood staring at herself in the bathroom mirror for a good ten minutes.  She wasn't just lost in space or anything; she was actually trying to get her contact lens into her eye.  Everything else was done: hair, make-up, dress... everything but these stupid contacts.  “Why the contacts?” she muttered to herself for the thousandth time as she poked and prodded at her eyeball.  She should never have done her mascara first.  “Really, why the contacts?”
	She knew why the contacts, of course. The why for the contacts was the reason she felt like she might throw up.
	“Man, you’ve got to be KIDDING me!” carried a voice into the bathroom. “What a loser!”
	“Dammit!” Debbie swore as the exclamation from her best friend and date for the evening broke her concentration and her finger slipped, JUST when it seemed like she might have gotten the stupid thing to... oh.  She blinked once, then again... jackpot! She let out an exhalation of relief.  Now she only had to KEEP the stupid things in for the next twelve hours straight and she'd be set.
	From her bedroom, Quentin called out again: “Deb, get in here!  You’ve got to see this!”
	“I’m a little busy with the whole make-up thing in here, Quent,” Debbie called back as she picked up her mascara brush to repair the damage incurred by her battle with the lenses.  “What is it?”
	“Nothing, it’s nothing,” Quentin called back idly, in that tone of voice he always used when it was something.  “Just Ralph Pazuko's status.  You know, your boyfriend?”
	“HEY!” Debbie called back, mock-offended by the implication.  “Don't call him that! This is why nobody likes you. You say things like that.”
	“Liar.  I’m loved across the globe. Anyway, according to old Ralphie’s status, you know who he’s taking tonight?”
	“Who?” Truthfully, though, Debbie didn't particularly care either way WHO Ralph was taking to the prom.
	“Dora.”
	Her eyes went wide and the make-up applicator froze mid-stroke. “His SISTER?!” On second thought... she dropped the mascara brush on the sink, forgotten, and hurried out the bathroom door, three short steps down the hall, and into her bedroom.  
	Quentin sat at her computer desk with Facebook pulled up, his back to her as he checked out the offending status of Ralph Pazuko.  “He’s bringing his SISTER to the prom?” Debbie asked as she hurried to look over his shoulder.
	“Yeah, he-- wow.”  Debbie straightened up as Quentin looked her over with an analytical eye.  “Wow, Deb, you clean up pretty good.”
	Debbie glanced at her reflection in the full-length mirror hanging on her closet door, taking in the almost-final product of her preparations: her straight brown hair waved out behind her, the shimmery green dress draped over her slender frame, the more-than-usual-but-not-overdone make-up… Debbie rolled her eyes.  “Uggh, please.  I look like a dork.  I can’t wear dresses, not like this.  I haven’t worn a dress since my eighth grade graduation party and then only because my mom made me.”
	“You’ve worn skirts.”
	“Not the same thing.  And only with tights.  Now move over!”  Debbie shoved Quentin roughly aside, leaning over to peer closely at the screen of her MacBook.  “Oh my God, he is. He's taking his sister. I don’t believe it.”
        Debbie began reading to herself the two or three dozen less-than-supportive comments left by their classmates on the Facebook status through which Ralph Pazuko, fellow high school senior, had bemoaned the fact that his mother was not letting him go alone to prom, but was insisting he take his little sister along with him.  “Why did he put this on Facebook?” she asked as she scrolled further down Quentin’s newsfeed.  “If he had just shown up and not said anything, most people wouldn’t have even realized.”
        Quentin shrugged.  “What doesn’t get put up on Facebook?  That’s why I think Facebook is close to done.  It’s a classic case of over--.”
        “Oversaturation, yeah,” Debbie finished for him, still reading.
        “Yeah.  Besides, you saw 'The Social Network'. Mark Zuckeberg is a...”
        “A douchebag, right. You realize that movie is fiction, don't you?”
        “Perception is 90%...”
        “Of reality.” Debbie looked over her shoulder at the smirking Quentin. “The percentage keeps changing though.”
         Quentin blinked innocently at her. “Oh, have we had this conversation before?”
        “Once or twice.” Debbie turned her attention back to Ralph Pazuko's status thread, squinting tightly as her contacts refused to focus for her. “You’re probably right, though.  You’re right, and five-hundred million Facebook users are wrong.”
        “I’m ahead of my time,” said Quentin nonchalantly.  “Why are you squinting?  Aren’t you wearing your contacts?”
        “I hate them so much,” Debbie said, rubbing her eyes as she straightened up.  The damn one on the right had already shifted.  “Stupid things never stay put.  I want to put my glasses on.”
        Quentin shook a finger at her.  “That’s not part of the plan, Deb.  Tiffany would not be pleased if you came out of the house in glasses.”
        Debbie grimaced at that; her stomach churned again as though she had just taken a swig of sour milk. She sat down on her bed.  “The plan.  Right. Let’s forget that, okay?  This is a terrible idea.  ‘The plan.’  Your and Tiffany’s master plan.”
        Quentin spun away from the computer.  “Hey!  My plan!  Credit where due, please!  Tiffany just latched onto it and ran with me!”
        “Either way,” said Debbie as she opened and closed her right eye, adjusting the contact she was so unused to wearing.  “There!” she said in relief, opening her eyes wide and blinking rapidly as the lens finally settled into place.
        Quentin stood up.  “Look, Debbie, the plan is foolproof,” he began for the billionth time.
        “I don’t want to talk about the plan.”
        “But --“
        “Not now!”  
        Quentin stopped talking, hearing the firmness in her voice reserved for whenever she meant to go toe-to-toe with someone. Instead, he quietly sat down on the bed next to her, waiting for her to speak again.
        She didn’t, immediately. Not yet ready to look Quentin in the eye, she turned her gaze to her room, the room the two of them had spent so much time in over the past thirteen years of his friendship, dating all the way back to kindergarten when Quentin’s parents needed a nearby sitter for the frequent times they spent away from home or working odd hours.  Over that time the décor of the room had been altered steadily as the tastes of its occupant matured and changed, and as Debbie had gone through phases of ponies, sunflowers, wooden mobiles, birdcages, dozens and dozens of stuffed bears, pop-tart pin-ups from ‘Tweener magazines, posters of clouds, clowns, and kittens, year-round Christmas lights, the pages from a “The Far Side” desk calendar, etc., etc.  
        Now her room reflected tastes growing towards an artsier, more theatrical bent: Broadway show posters hung from her ceiling, notably for “Wicked” and “Spring Awakening” and “In The Heights.”  One of her walls held a collection of old LPs and CDs, neatly mounted and hung for decorative use only, and the opposite wall featured a full hand-painted mural; vines and flowers and cars and music notes and drama masks and multi-colored faces laughing and crying and singing floated across that side of her room, rough in places but never in the heart.  Debbie wasn’t much of a fine artist but the year she had spent on that mural was a year she had spent working as hard on anything as she had ever had.  Quentin sat an offered commentary as the days turned into weeks into months. She wouldn’t let him near the mural as it went up, but when it was almost finished she acquiesced one day and gave him a brush, explaining why in the bottom left-hand corner of her very personal and introspective mural there was a tiny, awful painting of Homestar Runner.  
        Truthfully, it was her favorite part of the whole thing.
        “You really do look nice,” Quentin said quietly, leaning forward to get a glimpse of her uncomfortable eyes through her downcast expression.      “I wasn’t just saying that.  I mean, I know I ‘just say’ a lot of things, but you do.”
         Debbie smiled at him, her green eyes flashing in gratitude.  “Thanks, Quent.  And you look great, too.”
         Quentin flashed his shark-tooth grin.  “What, this old thing?” He looked down at his own formal wear: classic black tux, green cummerbund to match Debbie’s dress, green converse sneakers that Debbie knew he was only wearing just to try and piss her off.
        “I don’t even mind the sneakers,” Debbie she said, intentionally foiling his plans as she ruffled his spiky black hair with her manicured fingers. 
        “Would you watch it?” Quentin teased, pushing her hand away.  “I spent, like, five whole minutes on my hair!”
        “Liar.”
        “You’re right.  More like three.”  
        Debbie smiled, but it was short lived as that kick hit her in the stomach again.  She just couldn’t help it; she was terrified.  Why had they chosen to make things so difficult? Why had she allowed it?  “Quentin, what are we doing?”
        Quentin shrugged. “We are going to our senior prom together.”
        Debbie fixed him with a firm look.  “Not that.”
        Quentin nodded.  “Right.  The other thing.  We are going to the prom together, and once there, your very good friend Tiffany and I are going to pull off the old switcheroo and set you up with one Mr. Rich Hamilton.”
        Debbie groaned and put her hands into her face.  Rich Hamilton, the star of the William Harrison High drama club, musical comedy leading man for three straight years, tall with the perfectly wavy blonde hair and the runner's build and that toothpaste commercial smile.  Totally straight, which does happen from time to time in the world of musical theater, and the teen-heartthrob-in-training beloved of half of the female bodies of the William Harrison student body.  Debbie was no exception, and she really, really, REALLY hated herself for it.
        “He's the star,” she said flatly, her face still buried in her hands.  “He's the lead and the star, and the lead and the star does not date the stage manager girl. He dates Jessica Wills, adorable redheaded girl with the boobs and the voice, not Debbie Pascal, mousy glasses-wearing and tone-deaf brunette calling the cues from the wings.”
        “You're not mousy,” Quentin disagreed.  “You've got more of a young Tina Fey thing going on.”
Debbie lifted her head.  “Oh, good.  The dateless mom type, instead of the Lindsay Lohan type.  Rich was on 'Gossip Girl', for goodness sake! What are we thinking?”
        Quentin waved this off. “He was not.  He was an extra in one scene, in that coffee shop. We might have seen his arm.  Maybe. Extras don't count.”
        Debbie shook her head. “He and Jessica just broke up last month. I bet they hook up again tonight. Or Rich'll hook up with one of the other hundred girls in love with him.”
        Quentin stood up.  “Would you cut this out? You're not a moper. You sound ridiculous. Deb, c'mon. You are far more attractive than you give yourself credit for.  And Rich likes you. He's friends with you. You guys get along, right?”
        Debbie looked away. You know that thing where you want to feel badly for yourself and someone’s pointing out why you shouldn’t and you have to begrudgingly begin to accept that they’re making some good points?  Debbie had that thing.  “Yeah, we do.”
        “And he's never tried to hit on you, right?”
        “No, because he clearly finds me completely unattractive.”
        “No, Deb, because he respects you!  He likes you better than he likes his usual line-up of victims. You get along. You hang out at rehearsals. You joke. Right?'
        In spite of herself, Debbie was smiling. She didn’t know who she hated more: Quentin for reminding her all of this, or herself for enjoying it. “Yeah, we do, but...”
        “And if he did the dramas and not just the musicals you guys would probably play opposite each other, right?” Debbie shrugged; she knew Quentin was making another decent point. Debbie loved musicals but couldn't sing. She knew this and openly accepted it. This did not mean, however, that she couldn't act a little bit, and had over the past two years played Viola in “Twelfth Night” and Elizabeth Proctor in “The Crucible”.  She was proud of this and she was not going to deny it.
        Quentin nodded, that smug little smirk on his face that he always took on when he had talked someone into a corner.  Debbie might have punched it right off his face if she wasn’t so grateful to him.  “He likes you, and you've got talent and you're smart and have a ton to offer, so he should. He should like you.” He grinned. “And tonight, Tiffany and I are going to help you seal the inevitable deal.”
        Debbie looked around her room, nodding, trying to let Quentin’s words of encouragement build up in her the confidence she’d need.  “All right,” she said, her voice stronger and beginning to feel more like herself.  “All right, let's do it.” She took a deep breath.  “Thanks, Quent.  If I don't kill you by the end of the night I'll kiss you.”
        “I'd prefer a stipend for my matchmaking services.  Tens and twenties. Nothing smaller.”
        Debbie stood, mentally hanging onto Quentin’s words.  “Okay. That's enough melting down for one night. I owe you, Quent.  Let's do it. Let's stick to the plan. Fingers crossed.” She turned to Quentin, still sitting on her bed. “You didn't have to do this, you know. You could have executed your 'plan' and still had a date of your own. You didn't need to come with me.”
        Quentin flopped backwards onto the bed. “Nah. It's only been a month since I dumped Melinda--”
        “How many times is it you guys have broken up now?”
        “Four? I don’t know.  Anyway, I didn't want to deal with finding a chick on such short notice. This was easier.”
“Why do you keep going out with her again?”
        Quentin lifted his head up with a grin. “'Cuz she's smokin'.”
        Debbie smiled as her phone went off on the table next to her bed.  “Ah, Quentin Roth,” she said as she picked it up. “Putting the 'ass' in classy since 1995.” She looked at the text that had just flashed across the front of the screen.  “Tiffany says the limo just picked them up.  Crap, I'd better finish getting ready.”  With that, Debbie turned and headed back into the bathroom, finally ready to face the evening.
        Doing her best to ignore that little twist her stomach had just given once again.


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## T.N. Kettman (Jul 28, 2011)

wow, LOVE the rewrite.  Definately flows nicer in Debbie's POV.  I was sad that it ended and there wasn't more to read.


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## GWJ Baird (Oct 2, 2011)

I really, really enjoyed this,

It reminds me of a predictable rom-com but in a good way, (I'm not sure if that makes sense)

I look forward to reading more


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## Giantlobsterrobot (Oct 20, 2011)

Great job!  I already enjoy Quentin and Debbie.  They're both fun to read about.  In fact, wanting to tell you about how I enjoy your work is what made me look for the register button to comment on it.  Quentin is already coming off as laid-back and humorous.  Debbie's got that dry feeling, but it's also clear that she's a warm character who just doesn't know how great she actually is.  They're both real.  They interact well too!  To bring in a Homestar Runner reference, allow me to say, "You've done a great jaaaeeeeoooorb!"  Oh.  Also... great use of odd references.  I believe I understood most of them.


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## River (Nov 16, 2011)

Good hook, good dialogue, good POV. keep up the good work.


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