One Night: The Thompson Series, #1

By Deanna Cabinian

ONE NIGHT is a delightful coming of age YA novel about heartbreak, friendship, and first love set against a gorgeous Hawaiian backdrop. Great for fans of John Green, Rainbow Rowell, and Maurene Goo's I BELIEVE IN A THING CALLED LOVE.

Breakups are the worst.

Thompson is miserable. Can he get Caroline back?

With his mind on HER, his life takes an unexpected turn. Hawaii's Favorite Elvis Impersonator gives him a job. He knows nothing about the world of celebrity impersonators, but he does know social media.

And so starts his adventure...
...where will it take him?

Will he find his true love?

If you like teen angst with a bit of romance you'll love this humorous contemporary YA novel.

Get it now and start the adventure.

PRAISE FOR THE THOMPSON SERIES:
"ONE NIGHT breaks away from the normal coming-of-age saga with an intense story of growth and self-discovery that's very highly recommended for mature teens and new adult readers alike." -Midwest Book Review

"Thoroughly enjoyed this quirky cast of characters and the setting." -I Got the Books

"I really LOVED it!" -I Speak Bookish

"Charming, pitch perfect, laugh-out-loud funny!" -Lauren's Crammed Bookshelf

*****
Bronze Medalist (Young Adult) 2017 -- Moonbeam Children's Book Awards

*****
BOOKS IN THE THOMPSON SERIES:

-One Night (2016)

-One Love (2017)

-One Try (2018)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Timpi Publishing
• Release date: Sep 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997591620

Book preview

Chapter 1

I had a decision to make: Elvis or Mr. Wonderful. I loved listening to Mr. Wonderful tear apart idiotic business ideas; more than that, I admired him because he wasn’t afraid to tell the truth. But I’d stayed home the last three Friday nights watching Shark Tank with my parents, and I couldn’t do it for another week.

I drove my rusty white Corolla toward the Tiki House, a family restaurant on Honolulu’s northwest side that was a cliché of itself. My heart pounded and my palms soaked the steering wheel with sweat. My body was telling me not to do this, but I kept going. I parked fifty feet away from the entrance and turned off the engine. The Tiki House shared a plaza with Starbucks, T.J. Maxx, and a movie theater, and had achieved a certain level of infamy. It was where everyone took out-of-town guests from the mainland who demanded an authentic Hawaiian experience. There were countless other restaurants in Honolulu with better food and less-tacky furnishings, but the Tiki House was an event tourists lived for.

I considered pulling out of the parking lot and going home, but I’d clocked out of Super Kmart six minutes early to be there on time. I got out and walked up to the bamboo front door. There was a hot pink flier taped to the outside promoting Elvis night featuring Eddie King, Harold Rogers, and Johnny Lee Young.

I’d watched Eddie King once with my ex-girlfriend Caroline and her friend Becca. Caroline loved Eddie and had only missed two of his shows in the past year. On Wednesday she’d posted on Facebook that she’d be at tonight’s performance. I was counting on it. I hoped she’d see me across the room and then walk back into my arms as if nothing had changed, as if the Worst Valentine’s Day in History™ had never happened. It was a long shot, but it was a shot I had to take.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Ronnie. Are you sure you can’t meet me at the Tiki House?

Can’t. It’s mahjong night at casa de Medina, and I gotta watch Ella. Sorry, T-dawg.

God forbid Ronnie call me by my actual name, Thompson. It was always T-dawg, T-money, T-dubs, or my personal favorite, T-cup, as if we were popular jocks with cheerleader girlfriends who could pull off such ridiculous nicknames. Instead, we were scrawny AP class nerds who played NBA Live instead of real basketball.

Can’t you just put your sister in her playpen? I asked. Have Barkley watch her?

Barkley was his family’s neurotic West Highland terrier. He weighed all of eighteen pounds, but had the guard dog tendencies of a Rottweiler.

That’s cruelty to two year-olds, he said. Besides, you know how I feel about your quest to get the CW back.

Who says I’m trying to get her back? Maybe I’m just embracing the pain. Wallowing if you will.

Yeah right. I think we might need to have an intervention soon. You are very close to hitting rock bottom, my friend. You might already be there. He hung up before I could think of a witty comeback.

Inside, the Tiki House looked like the island section of a party supply store had thrown up. Magentas, purples, and greens practically punched you in the face as you walked in. Synthetic palm trees and multi-colored lights on strings multiplied in places they shouldn’t, like the urinals in the restroom. The female wait staff wore grass skirts over their khaki shorts and all the employees draped rainbow leis around their necks. The food was so-so at best. The fries weren’t salty enough and were often undercooked, and locals knew it was a bad idea to order the cheeseburger, or any beef dish they had on offer.

I sat at a small round table meant for two and ordered a chocolate shake and fish tacos. I scanned the bamboo- and palm-encrusted room, hoping I’d see Caroline’s wavy red hair in the crowd. Caroline had an unrivaled obsession with Elvis and I had what was probably, in retrospect, an unhealthy obsession with her. I loved that she didn’t worship boy bands like other girls or listen to obscure alt-rock bands that were supposed to be cool. After we became a couple, Sweet Caroline, a song I had loathed previously and that I was sure had no business being played for anyone except the unfortunate souls who actually attended Neil Diamond concerts, became my ring tone. It was in my top twenty-five most played songs on iTunes, sitting comfortably in the number three spot. I had every word memorized and sang the song with gusto whenever my phone went off, grinning like an idiot when it played. Elvis songs held five of the twenty-five spots, another side effect of Caroline. Caroline loved Elvis so much that I myself became enamored with him. I bought his CDs, read up on his life (Me & A Guy Named Elvis: wow, what a book), and watched his movies, even though they all followed a similar formula:

Elvis meets girl + Elvis punches guy in dancelike fight over girl + Elvis wins girl + catchy songs = cash cow

I noticed I was one of maybe six males in the restaurant. There was a table full of women who, based on their soft bodies and day glo crocs, had to be moms. They were acting like they didn’t get out much, shrieking and laughing as if everything that was being said was the funniest thing they’d ever heard. This, I knew, was statistically impossible. There were groups of younger females in their twenties wearing high heels, low-cut shirts, and bright red lipstick, with the occasional couple thrown into the mix. There was also an old couple with silver hair at a table near the stage with a large pepperoni pizza and margaritas in front of them. For a second I thought about leaving, but didn’t. I wanted to run into Caroline and this was the only way to do it.

The first guy to come out was Eddie King. When he walked onto the wood stage, one of the moms let out a shrill whistle. Eddie King was young, twenty-something, and wore Elvis’s trademark gold lamé jacket over tight black pants. His outrageously poufy black hair was clearly a wig. But, as he swiveled his hips across the stage, the ladies in the Tiki House went ape-shit, especially the girl in the barely-there lime green shirt who grabbed at him like he was the King himself, digging her long pink nails into his right arm. I scanned the crowd again for Caroline, but didn’t see her.

Eddie sang three songs before making way for the next Elvis, Harold Rogers, who was ancient and out of shape. His wig had seen better days and hung loosely against his wrinkled brow. Gobs of flesh prayed to be freed from his synthetic navy blue jumpsuit. The rhinestones on his suit were one false move away from popping into an unintended firework display of silver sequins and glitter. I almost hoped it would happen since the show was guaranteed to be spectacular, but I really didn’t want to see this guy without any clothes on. His chest heaved with exhaustion as he plodded through Suspicious Minds. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead and hit the stage like fat drops of rain.

Thank you, thank you very much, he gasped at the end of his set.

I asked my waitress for a refill of my shake before the last guy came on. I didn’t get to eat junk food a lot since mom was the queen of low-fat, organic, non-GMO eating. She blogged about clean living in addition to doing her day job (she did something with spreadsheets for the Four Seasons Resort, I still wasn’t sure what exactly) and had made a nice side-business of it. She sold enough advertising to subsidize our astronomical Whole Foods’ bills.

The last Elvis was older than Eddie King, maybe thirty, and had a spark in him that made the women of the Tiki House swoon. His thick black hair was real—it wasn’t clipped on and fake like the last two guys’. His jaw and nose were narrower than Elvis’, but his eyes were just as big. He wore a black button-down shirt, matching slacks, and a yellow lei, and from the way he shuffled his feet as he performed Jailhouse Rock, I could tell he’d been doing this a long time. Unlike the previous performers, he ventured off the stage and into the heart of the restaurant, stopping to greet every patron as he sang. He moved with the kind of confidence and charisma I could only dream about. He locked eyes with me as he approached my table and winked. He tipped his head, spun around, and continued on.

He waved to the old couple with the pizza at the table in the front and returned to the stage before breaking into a song I’d never heard before, one that hadn’t made its way into my larger-than-average Elvis catalog. It started with a grand crescendo to a high note that made the hairs on my arms stand up, before dropping back down to a low register. It was about being lied to and led on, but loving the girl anyway. There were no backing vocals or gratuitous instrumentation to tone down the emotion. It was just this guy in black putting his heart on the floor.

He sang about being blindsided by his one true love, which I knew something about. The song was simple—there weren’t any extended metaphors or complicated language—but it was effective. I could tell by the way he clutched at his shirt that he’d lived through what the lyrics spoke of. Either that or he was one hell of an actor. I tried looking up the song on my phone but, like most things at the Tiki House, the Wi-Fi was terrible. I’d been listening to so many sad songs in recent weeks about regret, loss, and heartache—even country songs about drinking your problems away—but this one was different.

I’m Johnny Lee Young, everybody, he said at the end of the song, a slight drawl in his voice. Though not so young anymore. I’ll be here all night. Please stick around for my second set.

The moms’ night out table whooped with delight. The young girls in heels whistled.

As Johnny Lee Young stepped down from the stage and made his way to the bar, I zoomed past the rowdy ladies and accosted him.

I had to know the name of that song.

Chapter 2

He was at least half a foot taller than me, probably six feet and some change. I stood there for a moment before speaking. Now that I’d run up to him like a crazed Star Wars fan at George Lucas, I felt a little ridiculous. But I had to know the answer to my question. And it wasn’t like I was there for an autograph or something.

What was the name of that song? I shouted above the din.

He summoned the bartender with a wave of his hand before he answered me. It’s called ‘Hurt,’ he said, without any hint of a southern accent. His actual voice wasn’t nearly as deep as his stage voice.

That’s it, just ‘Hurt?’

Yeah. Short and sweet. He eyed the bartender. Hey, buddy, can I get some water?

That song changed my life, I said.

Don’t be so dramatic, kid, it’s just a song.

I’m not – a kid, I wanted to say, but didn’t for fear I’d sound childish. No really, I went on. My girlfriend dumped me recently, and I just... I’ve been playing so many sad songs, but that one... I thought Coldplay was the authority on sad. But it was like....

Elvis knew your soul?

Exactly!

I’m sorry you got your heart broken, kid. What’s her name?

Caroline Wells. I hadn’t spoken her name out loud in weeks, since Ronnie and I had taken to calling her the CW. He came up with the nickname in an effort to help me focus on the not-so-admirable aspects of her personality and let go of my dream of us getting back together. It wasn’t because she was shallow like the shows on the CW network were. In this case the C stood for Cheating. The W stood for a word most guys would use to describe a girl who cheated on them.

I’m sure you’ll forget all about Caroline Wells in a month or two.

I doubt that. It was June, and we’d broken up in March. Besides, she was the first and only girl I’d come to know in the Biblical sense, which pretty much guaranteed I’d remember her for the rest of my life (unless I developed Alzheimer’s.) That milestone would always be present somewhere in the recesses of my mind.

Life can change in a nanosecond, kid. I’m sure there’s something good for you just around the corner.

As I stood there chatting with Johnny Lee Young, I had the feeling this night at the Tiki House was the corner I needed.

At the end of Johnny’s second set, several ladies in the crowd walked up to him and asked if they could have their pictures taken with him.

Sure thing, darlin’, he said to each and every one of them before kissing them on their cheeks.

I was fascinated. These women acted like Johnny was better than the real Elvis. I thought maybe if I became an Elvis impersonator, Caroline would fawn over me like these women were over Johnny. I could sing Can’t Help Falling in Love and win her back. There was only one small problem: I had no musical talents whatsoever, despite my occasional jam sessions in the shower. Plus, I had dark blond hair.

You know, Elvis was a natural blond, Caroline told me one time.

I’m your Elvis, I’d said. Your own personal Elvis. Never mind that I didn’t have the talent, the black hair, or the soulful blue eyes of the King. Being with Caroline gave me the sort of confidence that made me feel like I did.

I’d thought she was my epic love story. We’d met in Advanced Placement physics, in Mr. Prince’s third period class. The class was mostly made up of juniors like us, but there were some seniors and a handful of sophomores in there who were way too smart for their own good. Physics was one of my favorite classes, simply because Mr. Prince had unbridled enthusiasm for the subject that door-to-door Jehovah Witnesses could learn a thing or two from. I knew Caroline in the way kids know the people they’ve gone to school with but aren’t friends with: as a name and a face in the hallway with a backstory, nothing more. I knew she had moved to Hawaii in middle school when her dad’s job was transferred to Honolulu. He worked for Hawaiian Airlines as an analyst and tracked the efficiency of flight paths. I’d never been on an airplane, but she’d flown a lot because of the free miles her dad got. She had a friend in every group—the jocks, the loners, the theater geeks, and the high achievers—but didn’t seem to belong to any one clique. Even though she was pretty, I wouldn’t say she was a knockout.

The first words she ever said to me were, That stuff will kill you.

I was five minutes early to physics and had just shoved a handful of Cap’n Crunch cereal with berries into my mouth. I carried it in a Ziploc baggie in my backpack in case I needed a sugar fix. The one silver lining to being forced to interact with the dearth of humanity (aka Super Kmart’s customers) was the twenty percent employee discount that allowed me to fund my junk food fetish. Mom wouldn’t buy anything unhealthy for me, but it didn’t mean I didn’t buy it for myself. I needed at least one cheat meal a week to survive.

I finished chewing and said, Well, it would be a fantastic way to die. Unique, too.

She sat next to me every day after that. We would walk to our next classes together and sometimes she would partake in my Cap’n Crunch debauchery. We chose each other as lab partners in physics and did our homework together on occasion. After a month she asked, Do you like me or what?

I loved her boldness and the way she always smelled like lemonade. Later I would learn she wore lemonade flavored lip gloss. It wasn’t her natural scent. I should have known then that everything about