Perfectly Dateless Page 4

  Claire raises her brows. “Daddy’s in Washington.”

  We shouldn’t rejoice in other people’s misery. We understand that, but Amber Richardson has picked on us since the day she first saw us in preschool Bible class at church. She came up and pulled a chair out from under Claire and then laughed, pointing at her on the ground. I helped Claire back up, but even as a preschooler, Claire wasn’t going to take that garbage. She got up and pushed Amber to the ground with full force.

  Of course Claire got in trouble, but we smiled at one another that Sunday morning, and a pact was made. We’ve been friends ever since. It was a fluke Claire was even there that morning too. Her parents needed to finish some project and dropped her off at church, having heard that parents didn’t need to be there. Free Sunday babysitting!

  “Amber hasn’t changed a bit,” I say. “She always needed too much attention. Remember her pulling up her lacy baby-doll dress so Matt Gimler could see her fancy panties in kindergarten?” Truth be told, I wanted those panties, and I wouldn’t have shown them to any boys!

  “Amber never gets caught, and when she does, her senator daddy just pulls out the wallet and everything goes away—but not today. I can’t believe you missed it. You’re always early, what happened?”

  “Look at me,” I say.

  Claire looks horrified as she peers at me. The shock and awe on her face cannot be masked. She pulls me by my arm to the nearby bathroom. “You have the hugest zit I’ve ever seen.”

  I cover my face. “That’s why I’m late! Thank you for confirming my worst fears, by the way. I tried to tell my mother I needed to stay home, or at least get her concealer, but do you think she’d let me? She said it wasn’t that bad.”

  Claire pushes me toward the fake, unbreakable mirror and whips out a compact. “What are you thinking? Come on, there’s listening to your parents, and there’s this. There is no excuse for this.”

  I feel my forehead and the third eye I’ve grown overnight. “My mother said it wasn’t that bad, and right now I’m inclined to believe her, because what else can I do about it?”

  “Girl, your mama lies! Mt. Vesuvius looked less like it was about to blow than your forehead. That is disgusting!”

  “Don’t hold back for my sake, Claire,” I say. “Mom wouldn’t let me put makeup on it. She always says it makes things worse because it’ll clog your pores. You’re not making me feel any better about it.” My confidence is waning. “This was supposed to be my senior year. A thrill ride, you know?”

  “I’m not going to lie to you like your mother. I’d take the chance on clogged pores if I were you.” She digs through her purse, pulls out a black tube, squeezes some of its liquid onto a sponge, and pounds it on my forehead. “Listen,” she says as she rubs my face with vigor, “I’m not one to care about my appearance, but let’s get real. We have to be considerate of others.” She starts digging through her bag again, then she looks right at me, and I know I’m about to get a good dose of Claire-truth—which is not for the faint of heart.

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Whatever it is you’re thinking. I don’t think I can take it this morning.”

  “I think you should turn your mother in for child cruelty. ‘Not that bad,’” she repeats, clucking her tongue. “Your mother needs to look up once in a while from her needlepoint. How could she send her daughter off looking like this?”

  I could mention that Claire’s mother sends her off every day, but I don’t.

  Claire pulls out a small black box from her mother’s hand-me-down Coach (still from the current season, she tells me). “I knew I had two in here. This is Amazing Base. Drew Barrymore swears by it, and this is my gift to you, and the entire school if I’m honest.” She hands it over with all the fanfare of a religious sacrament. “Don’t leave home without it, and quit stressing. You always break out when you stress. You’ll get perfect grades again this year.”

  “It’s not the grades I’m worried about,” I tell her. I come close to spilling my secret, but I swallow it back down. “How much does Amazing Base cost?”

  She raises her eyebrows. “What would that possibly matter on a day like today?”

  “Good point.” All my optimism for the new me has evaporated, and I’m afraid to leave the bathroom. Claire doesn’t get embarrassed? She’s embarrassed for me, and if that doesn’t fill me with a deep-seated fear of rejection, I don’t know what might.

  “Your mom really doesn’t want any guys near you. I mean, there’s listening to your parents, Daisy, and there’s committing social suicide. Like we need any help in that arena. Does she know that we’re invisible? Did you tell her I brought a bullhorn to school last year and still no one listened to me?”

  “She knows. She likes it that way.” I rub the spot, which now looks like a simple deformity in my forehead since the concealer.

  “Quit touching it!”

  Even in the fake mirror, I can see that I look better. Presentable. Not hideous. “Thank you,” I mutter, but my zeal for the new Daisy is gone. My feet are planted firmly in place, and I’m wondering what it would be like to cut my very first class of senior year.

  “Come on, we’ll be late!” Claire grabs me by the shoulders and yanks me out of the bathroom.

  I’m pulled into the current of kids, all dressed in their new school clothes and shiny backpacks, and I want to retreat. It was one thing when all I had to do was get good grades, but suddenly I’m aware of how strange that is, how strange I am. I think it’s how Adam and Eve must have felt after eating that fruit.

  “I was stupid to think I could do this. I’m a good student.” That’s it. That’s enough.

  I cuddle my backpack close to me. Claire, though she has no idea what I’m talking about, has crumpled her forehead in concern.

  “Daisy, you said you were going to stand up to her this year. I do believe ‘This year is going to be different’ were your exact words. Yet, here you are, ready to hostess at Denny’s.”

  I look down at my white ruffle blouse and my black pants and beg for mercy. “Claire. Please don’t.”

  “Denny’s, Denny’s, Denny’s.”

  “You could grow a little so I could wear your clothes, shorty. That would be the friendly thing to do. Make your dad get you some of that growth hormone at the plastic surgeon’s office he talks about.”

  “He talks about that because he’s suing one of them for appendages growing that shouldn’t. No one wants the arms of a gorilla. I certainly don’t, so you’re going to have to come up with a different plan.”

  I shrug. “I’d only want the clothes your mom buys you anyway. Not the ones you pick out yourself. Cute outfit, by the way.” I run my finger up and down at her. She’s wearing this darling little summer tunic dress in a bright turquoise with a purple sash around it. “Does this mean emo is over?”

  “I wasn’t emo.” She rolls her eyes. “I was merely expressing my dislike of America’s consumerism over the summer.” She heaves her bag over her shoulder. (Her Coach bag, I might add—so much for consumer elitism as an issue.)

  “So what are you now? It’s sort of an iCarly look.”

  “It’s my look. The look that Claire Webber felt like wearing on the first day of senior year. People pleasing is a disease. Especially when it involves leaving a zit uncovered.” Claire stomps off in her self-important way, still huffing over my insolence, and I follow willingly. “You should have hoofed it to 7-Eleven and got yourself some coverage. There’s no excuse for this. You can blame your mother all you like, but there’s no excuse for that kind of wimpiness. Your parents need to grow up. You need to train them!”

  I won’t mention the frilly pink prom journal just yet, but maybe she’ll soften and understand my plight. Stranger things have happened.

  “I just find it ironic that both you and my mother claim I shouldn’t care what other people think, and yet both of you want to tell me exactly what I should think.”

  “Exc
ept I have your best interests at heart. I know you want more than to go to their Bible college of choice and find yourself a pastor for a husband.”

  “I’d appreciate it just the same if you’d let me make up my own mind.”

  “No you wouldn’t.” A cheerleader in uniform sneers at Claire as she passes and hits Claire’s shoulder with her own, knocking down her purse. Claire bends to pick it up. “Excuse you!” Claire yells. “Hey, you have toilet paper on your shoe.” The cheerleader stops, examines her shoe, and offers one more snooty look before swaying away. Claire just laughs. “Let’s go. I have Cooking first, what about you?”

  “AP Calculus,” I say.

  “You know, it was one thing when you couldn’t hang out with us at Starbucks, but you’re months away from being an adult, Daisy. This is your last chance to fight for who you are, or you’re going to end up like your mother.”

  I shudder at the thought. No offense, of course, but shoot me now!

  Claire goes on. “I am not hanging out with you on the couch, screaming at the TV during game shows, for the rest of our lives. Soon enough you’ll start knitting and taking in stray cats, and before you know it, we’re desperate old women and these high school days will be the highlight of our lives. And look around you, Daisy. Our high school years sucked! I’m not going to do it.”

  “My mother is a good person. Besides, I can’t sew. Or knit. And I don’t like cats.” I say this to remind myself, but I’m not forgetting that I have an enormous zit on display, or the same shirt I had on last year. We start walking the hallway, toward the math wing.

  Claire is mumbling to herself. “If you were the type who didn’t care that you have a giant zit on your forehead, fine. But you’re not that person.” Claire’s exasperated with me, and her steps quicken. “I know you. You woke up and wanted to call in sick first thing.”

  “What are you so mad about this morning?”

  “You promised this year would be different. All that bluster was another line.”

  “Bluster?”

  “Quit changing the subject. I realize I have more freedom than most kids our age, but you have none, and the gulf is getting wider.”

  “But that has nothing to do with the spider ring?”

  “Stop turning this back to me. Without me, your zit would be in class before you.”

  “It is different,” I tell her. “I’m making myself goals. Not in an anal way, but in a directed, grown-up way. You know, to have more fun, just like we talked about.”

  Claire stops abruptly and gasps. “Where’s your Abercrombie shirt?”

  “Was that the bell?”

  “Your mother slept around and survived it. She came to faith. Do they think you’ve learned nothing for yourself in twelve years of Christian school and weekly church?”

  “She didn’t sleep around!” As other kids stare at me, I lower my voice. “She only said she wasn’t proud of her past.”

  “You’re going to defend her. Don’t you see? Nothing’s changed, and you’re going to be the same ghost of these hallways that you’ve always been. Why do they act like some sin is going to make you unworthy? Haven’t they heard of rebellion? Or the fact that no one wants to sleep with you anyway?”

  “Thanks.” Sure, I knew my parents annoyed her, but I had no idea my lifestyle cramped hers. I consider confessing my prom journal to show proof that my inner rebellion has begun, but then I think that’s just another form of people pleasing, so I take the lashing.

  Claire groans. “I’ll see you at lunch.” She cinches the sash at her waist. “I can’t be late for Cooking. I didn’t eat breakfast and I’m starving.” She stalks off toward class.

  “You don’t cook on the first day,” I yell after her.

  “See?” She turns toward me. “Total killjoy. Always quick with the facts, always making the lightest of circumstances completely serious. You would suck the fun out of Disneyland.”

  “I have a soy bar.” I pull out one of my mother’s health bars.

  Claire walks back toward me. “What teenager carries soy bars in her bag?”

  “The kind who meets the needs of her hungry best friend.”

  She snatches the bar. The first bell rings, and my feet start, but my body stays planted in the same place. “Daisy.” Claire waves her hand in front of my face. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have been so mean, but I—”

  “Chase Doogle is in the building,” I say without moving my mouth.

  Claire looks over her shoulder slyly. If there’s anything we’ve perfected, it’s the quiet-stalking gene. Sometimes our invisibility comes in handy.

  Time stands still as he walks toward us. Claire sings like a ventriloquist through her clenched teeth, “He’s hot but you’re cold, you’re yes but he’s no.”

  Even Claire can’t distract me. He looks the same, only broader, more manly. Like Almanzo from my Little House books, or how I imagine him anyway. Not like they show him on the Hallmark channel, but dark and beautiful with a farmhand’s body. The rush of students stops as my ears fill with the beating of my own heart. Claire and I continue our conversation without moving our lips.

  “Abercrombie or no, he will be mine.”

  “Downright scandalous!” Claire says. “Aren’t you glad I keep makeup handy?”

  “I owe you my life.”

  I open my mouth like I’m going to say something as he passes, but my backpack turns over as though by its own volition, and the contents tumble, splattering across the hallway. Some jock kicks my binder, and others play kick the can at the expense of my school supplies. The binder lands at Chase’s feet. I don’t look up. I simply stare at his Nike swoosh while I shove as much as I can into my backpack. Then I take my free hand to ensure my bangs are covering my forehead.

  Chase lowers himself to the ground. He picks up as many items as possible and passes them to me. His hand brushes mine, and my body fills with endorphins.

  He smiles. “Hi, Daisy.”

  “Hi, Chase.” I venture a look at him, and his smile makes everything all right. He has the most amazing eyes. They make my entire body buzz with electrical forces no physics teacher could explain.

  Then, to my horror, I spot it. My prom journal. I had shoved it in my backpack in case my mother got nosy. There it is, in all its pink glory, mercifully turned upside down on the ground. I practically dive to get it myself and shove it into my pack. I hit my head on the wall of lockers.

  “You all right?” Chase asks. He helps me up.

  “You’ve grown up over the summer.” He stands well above the ice blue lockers with room to spare.

  “Have I?”

  “Your voice is lower.”

  “You all right, Daisy?” he asks again. “Don’t forget, what goes around comes around.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your backpack being thrown. You’d think some of these guys might have grown up by now.”

  “Oh.” I look behind me. “Did it get thrown? I thought I’d just dropped it. I was focused on you. I mean, getting to class. I hadn’t noticed.” I rub the top of my head where I hit the lockers. Another bump is forming. The only way I seem to be growing. “I guess watching the contents dump out of one’s backpack will always be funny to some people.”

  “Well, this is it, Daisy. Our last year together. I know you’re going to do great things.”

  Somehow my last year with Chase doesn’t bring me the comfort it brings him. “Yeah.” I meet his delicious hazel eyes, which dance when he smiles. I’m lost in his gaze. If this is all I get, I’ll take it. “I told my mother I was in love with you in kindergarten.”

  “I was in love with Miss Nelson,” he says. “But you were a close second.”

  “My dad says close only counts in horseshoes.”

  “Miss Nelson broke my heart.”

  “Hey, Chase,” Claire says. She didn’t abandon me after all. “How was your summer? What’d you do, eat all summer? You grew. I never saw you at the club.”

  He pats h
is perfectly flat stomach—I know, I know, I shouldn’t notice that kind of thing, but I’m human . . . and so very, very weak. “I went to boot camp with my father to train for the Air Force Academy.”

  “The Air Force Academy?” I ask.

  “In Colorado. That’s my plan.”

  “You’ve made plans,” I stammer.

  “Sure. Haven’t you? I thought you were trying for some elite Ivy school all these years with your hard work.”

  I look at my feet. “Even if I wanted to go there, I couldn’t pay for the first semester.”

  “That’s what scholarships are all about. Didn’t Miss Brody tell you to start applying for scholarships last year?”

  “You remembered that?”

  “I remembered because I was jealous!”

  Claire clears her throat. “Yeah, so what happened at the Air Force Academy?”

  “Not the academy, I went to survivalist camp in Colorado with my dad. I think he wanted to see how tough I was before he invested in the idea.”

  “Well, judging by the size of your pecs”—Claire pats Chase on the chest—“I’d say he’ll get his money’s worth.”

  “We spent a month learning to live in the wild. You should have seen me when I got back. I was emaciated. When I got home, I ate everything in sight. Of course then I vomited it all—” He stops mid-sentence. “Sorry. Too much information. Been around guys all summer. You can’t imagine what it’s like to forage for food in the mountains. Great stuff, but it sure makes you appreciate a stocked fridge.”

  Somehow, prom hardly matters when I think of Chase out of my life. The sting of tears pricks at the back of my nose.

  “Daisy, you all right?” He feels the top of my head. “Maybe you should go to the office and get some ice for that.”

  “I’m fine.”

  He smiles down at me—kind of like I’m the “special” kid.

  “So what did you two do all summer?”

  “Oh you know, we hung out at the club, and Daisy here worked and read all of Shakespeare’s plays. She probably did a little light reading and took on Tolstoy, right, Daisy?”

  I swat Claire and lower my brows to tell her to shut up.