Perfectly Dateless

by Kristin Billerbeck

  He says something back to me, but it’s like a one-sided tennis volley. I’ve lost sight of what he’s saying. I’m mesmerized by both his intellect and his gorgeous bone structure. He hops back onto the hot-dog platform and starts fiddling with the cash register.

  “You should be a model,” I tell him dreamily.

  Claire has her lip upturned, but I ignore her.

  “So is it like Rio? I’ve always wanted to go there after seeing the Christ the Redeemer sculpture in the modern seven wonders of the world.”

  “It’s better than Rio. More sophisticated. I think you’d prefer the educated porteños to the club scene in Rio.”

  I’m lost in his eyes, and in the idea of international travel. “I would love to go anywhere. Claire’s been to Europe.”

  “I’m going back next year,” Max says. “For college. The University of Argentina is one of the best in the world. And it’s free.”

  “Free?” My ears perk up. “For Argentians?”

  “Argentines,” he corrects me. “And foreigners. You’d have to complete your compulsories and take up residence. But that only takes a year, and the University of Buenos Aires has one of the best reputations in the world.”

  “Get that look off your face,” Claire says to me. “You are not going to Argentina. Listen to your best friend. Switching from accounting to science, that’s your deal. That’s all you have to think of right now besides the party. You are not going to a foreign country. You have to master this one first.”

  “Finance, not accounting. Completely different majors.” “Whatever. Can we go?”

  Max ignores Claire—and I like him for that too. Knowing when to ignore Claire is a gift. “Science?” Max says. “The university has won many Nobel Prizes in science.”

  For a moment, I allow myself to dream about attending school in a different country. The idea glistens in my brain, like new numbers not found yet.

  Claire comes around and pulls Max by the arm, apparently forgetting her role as an employee. “Look, Don Juan, this girl is ripe for your romanticized version of South America, where the education is free and the clothing is optional. Let’s get to work, shall we?” She looks back over her shoulder. “Daisy, you go shopping. I’m going to learn how to stomp lemons.” She crosses her arms and waits for Max’s full attention, but blissfully, he’s still looking at me, and I’m seeing our future. He’s teaching at the university. I’m teaching English to the other young mothers.

  At that point, it registers that Claire isn’t coming shopping with me.

  “I thought—” I pull away from Max. “I thought you weren’t working. You were going to quit, remember?”

  “Here are my keys so you can leave when you’re done. Just come back and get me at—what time, Don?” she shouts at Max.

  He ignores her barb. “Come back at six. The rush will be over by then, and I can close down alone.” Max looks at me again. “I meant to tell you, it’s smart of you to wear pajamas shopping. So much easier to try things on, it’s a wonder no one’s thought of it before.”

  I brush my fingertips on my collar. “Well, you know—”

  Claire pushes me away from the hot-dog stand. “Look.” She blocks my view of Max and forces me back with her staccato words. “How does someone from the French section of Argentina go to a public high school in San Jose and end up at St. James while running his father’s hot-dog cart? Do the math, Daisy. Guys don’t come from Buenos Aires to run hot-dog joints. This guy is a player, and you’re putty in his well-practiced hands. Now go, shop and stay away from here. Max is not invited to our party.”

  I have to keep reminding myself that this is my best friend and she only wants what’s best for me. Otherwise it may result in physical pain for her.

  Prom Journal

  September 22

  166 Days until Prom

  Fact of the Day: Your legs get sticky working with lemonade all day. Somehow I thought after our first-grade lemonade stand at the corner, Claire and I were done with that avenue of high finance. Claire was like a giant piece of cotton candy when she finished working.

  Life is a mess! Claire stayed over the weekend, but she said nothing about her parents both being gone and the maid not being there. I know my mother would have called Claire’s mother and ratted her out. Then I’d be off the hook. I hate the thought of her rattling around in that big house alone at night. I’m not so much worried about her safety as how completely comfortable she is without anyone around. She calls up the grocer, orders weekly deliveries like she’s been doing it her whole life, and then signs the slip without thought to who pays the bill—and someone must, or they wouldn’t keep delivering.

  Right now, her only friends are “Gossip Girl” and Rory Gilmore when reruns of “Gilmore Girls” are on. Which, with the size of Claire’s satellite dish, is way too often. I tell you, she probably gets television programming from Mars!

  This totally surprised me: Claire’s still working at the lemonade shack, and she loves it! The second day Claire worked, Amber Richardson came by and recorded her on a cell phone.

  Claire took it as her fifteen minutes and totally started dancing. Amber, evil as she is, uploaded the video to You-Tube. But remember, you cannot embarrass Claire. Claire herself downloaded the video and added Beyonce' music, and only then was it obvious she was doing the “Single Ladies” dance. Justin Timberlake on SNL has nothing on my BFF in her Hot Dog on a Stick uniform. Her version went viral, and she became a star at St. James.

  Amber tried to tell everyone she did it. She thought of it, but her desperate cries for attention went unheeded. (Oh, and if you’re wondering why my prom journal is filled with useless facts about other people and not myself, it’s because I have absolutely nothing to report on prom, a prom date, or the male population in general.)

  Claire used her dance as her platform to talk about the hugest party of the season—ours (until our parents find out and have us burned at the stake). Claire tweeted for everyone to see that unless she got a personal apology online for all the mean stuff Amber’s done to us, Amber would not be invited! I still cannot believe we’re going through with this.

  The thing is, Amber did apologize, and now we have to invite her bony self or we look like the jerks. I’m so glad I’m dressed decently for the newfound popularity. I went to PacSun for all my school gear. My mother doesn’t know it exists, and therefore it is not on the forbidden list. Woo-hoo!!

  Here’s the thing about flying high that Amber might want to take into account now that she’s one of us. It’s our nature as the invisible kids to wait to come crashing back to earth. Most days at school, we are on shaky ground at best, but Sarika, Angie, Claire, and me? We ate on the other side of the popular equator for once in our lives, and unlike the fourth grade where nothing was different, this experience rocked my world! Chase Doogle and a cold Fizzy Izze in a can? It doesn’t get any better than that. I used to be jealous of Amber, and my mom would say there was nothing there to envy—but now I know the truth!

  Nothing on prom to report, but the party of the year is in the works, and that’s D-day. I will have a date and/ or a boyfriend. His name is, and has always been, Chase Doogle.

  9

  Claire is still preening from her newfound fame of going viral and actually asks me to go with her to youth group. It’s a miracle, I tell you, and it takes her mind off her parents’ drama, so I’m more than happy to comply. And let’s face it, Chase will be there, so she didn’t exactly have to twist my arm.

  We approach the church gym. The lights are on, the low murmur of excited voices is bursting within, and echoes bounce off the shiny wood floor. Claire turns back from the gym, her usual vigor gone. “Nothing changes here. Youth group is just another venue for taunting.”

  “Stop it, you’re not being taunted anymore. Remember? ‘If you liked it, then you should have put a ring on it.’” I do a little dance.

  “Don’t do that. It’s disturbing.”

  “Come on, what
are you waiting for? You’re the one who wanted to come.”

  “I changed my mind,” Claire says.

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “I just don’t feel like it all of a sudden.”

  I think of Chase behind the two sets of doors. “Too bad,” I say without a whole lot of compassion. “We’re here.”

  Claire withers in a way that isn’t like her at all. She’s dressed like a girl. In a simple sundress. Her hair is now a soft, light auburn with professional blonde streaks, and she’s wearing mascara. Mascara! Suddenly everything has changed.

  “You’ve got a crush on someone!”

  “A what? Oh, get real.”

  “You’re wearing mascara!” I point at her.

  “They’re fake lashes.”

  “You’re totally crushin’ then. Who is it?”

  “I’m not crushing. My mother bought fake eyelashes that came with rhinestones at the end, and I used the extra ones in the package.”

  “You sound so reasonable when you say that.”

  “Can we go now?” Claire is backing away.

  My smile wanes. “You’re serious?” Truthfully, I’m glad Claire’s here. I’m worried about her, and I think having a bit of prayer will do her good. I want her to tell the truth about her parents so she can get some support. She’s keeping their secret, though, and I’m worried it’s taking a toll on the lighthearted person she is. “Maybe you’ll have some kind of epiphany here and God will speak to you in a way he never has before.”

  “Or flying monkeys could appear. God’s hardly interested in me.”

  “He listens to me, and he knows I have nothing important to say. Just give it a try tonight. For me? I’m risking everything for your harebrained party idea.” I push her gently into the church’s gymnasium and she doesn’t fight me. If it’s the size of the fight in the dog, I’d be the loser for certain—Claire has more fight in her little finger alone.

  “You’re bringing your backpack inside?” Claire asks me. “No one believes you’re going to do any homework. Just leave it in the car. It’s like your security blanket.”

  “If you get cold, I have a sweater. If you have dry lips, I’ve got gloss. If you shake hands with someone who has a cold, I have antibacterial. I am totally prepared with my backpack.”

  “Great, if there’s a nuclear war tonight, my best friend has a diaper bag for me.”

  As we enter the gym, the squeak of basketball shoes echoes off the barren walls and the stench of dirty socks fills my nostrils. Guys huddle in the center of the court with a ball, fighting over it like it’s the last round object on earth. Secretly they’re hoping the girls are drooling over their fancy moves, and every once in a while I catch one of them looking our way to see if we’ve noticed. I scan the crowd of guys, wondering who might have caught Claire’s attention. Granted, I’ve had hints it could be Greg, but I can’t go there since he’s on my list of prom backups and we’ve never liked the same sorts of guys in the past.

  Claire has had a boyfriend before. Sean Kendrick. She met him at the country club, and the one thing I remember about him most vividly is that he wore a trench coat 24/7—which of course made me think flasher. They broke up when her Christian values got in the way, but she never seemed to care whether he was at her side or he wasn’t.

  Claire flips her bobbed hair. “Why are girls always relegated to being cheerleaders? Maybe I want to play ball too. Do they ever think of that?” Claire thins her eyes. “Besides, I don’t like cheerleaders very much. They’re too happy for me.”

  “There’s always an athletic girl out there. Go ahead if you want to play,” I tell her, wondering what on earth she’s really trying to say. “What is up with you? Is it a guy? Your parents? What?”

  “It’s simple. Do you want to know why there are no girls out there? Guys don’t fall for girls who can slam them on the court. No guy wants to be schooled by a girl in front of his friends. No guy. I could school most any of these losers, and most of the girls are smart enough to know this, so they choose not to play. They choose to sit here on the sidelines and cheer.” She walks toward the open door.

  I step away from the basketball court. “Claire!”

  She zips away from the door and walks to the girls on the “A” team—and I’m not talking grades here.

  “This side of the gym seems more dangerous.” I nod toward the circle of popular girls, with their long legs, full figures, and lengthy tresses with salon highlights. Truthfully, Claire could be one of them if she wanted to, and I’m left to wonder if that’s what’s happening. Is she tired of having me stuck to the bottom of her shoe? Am I bringing her down?

  The popular girls are preening in a competition all their own, and it’s rougher than what we’re seeing on the basketball court. Sure, it resembles a Miss America pageant and not an aerobic sport, but it’s far more cutthroat. Don’t let the frilly peasant blouses, skinny jeans, and heels fool you.

  We’re split into several cliques courtside. In fact, we could be numbered by rank: (1) tall, buxom, and gorgeous; (2) buxom and attractive; (3) buxom; (4) skinny and us.

  Sometimes I think India’s caste system is alive and well in youth groups across America and Sarika has an advantage over all of us. Since she doesn’t go to First Union, I can’t make this assessment with her, but I bet she wouldn’t argue with me.

  Claire and I sit on a threadbare sofa pushed up into the corner, and we’re able to watch as though invisible—which I guess we are in many ways. I usually have too much homework to come to youth group, but I want to finish a conversation with Chase. I need closure.

  “You know, it’s been a year since I’ve come, and not a thing has changed,” Claire says as she scans the room with me. “Amber, Britney, and Rachel will try to make my life miserable in overtime. It’s like giving them a free gift with purchase. I have to endure these people all day. Why would I want to spend my free time with them?”

  “Maybe we should try something different with them. Kill them with kindness,” I suggest.

  “Or just kill them,” Claire says. She brushes her russet-colored bob out of her face. “A tiger doesn’t change its stripes with a change of venue. When I’m an actor, they’ll be nothing more than a speck on my historical timeline.” She says this with all the flair of a Shakespearian lead. Claire’s always most comfortable in a role that is not her.

  “A night at youth group isn’t going to kill you. If you hope to infiltrate Hollywood, it will do you good to play dress-up and pretend. What is high school but one giant rehearsal?”

  “Hollywood,” she spits. “I’m going to New York. The stage! Why would I waste my talent on the masses? Genuine theater isn’t like High School Musical. Hollywood is nothing more than a continuation of this popularity contest, but to be on stage . . .” She waves her hand in the distance. “Either in the West End or on Broadway, that is the pinnacle of success. That’s where the real thespians stand apart from their peers.”

  “Whatever. If you end up doing kids’ parties like my dad, I will hurt you.”

  “Max seems to think we’re much more sophisticated than the other girls at school. Don’t you love that word? Sophisticated.” She pats her finger on her bottom lip. “We’re school nerds, but on the world stage, maybe we’re too sophisticated for this one-horse town.”

  “Yeah, that’s it,” I say. “I thought you didn’t like Max.”

  “I never said I didn’t like him, I said I thought he was a player. But if he’s international and he sees us as more sophisticated than, say, Amber Richardson, shouldn’t we take that to heart? He would know better than us. All I’m sayin’.”

  “I thought maybe you decided to come because Greg is here.”

  She settles deeper into the sofa and stares me down. “Greg! This is about Chase, right?”

  Even his name causes my stomach to flutter. “Not entirely. I could use a little group Bible study.”

  Claire’s got that look of pity on her face.

&n
bsp; “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Just leave Chase alone, Daisy. He’ll be gone to the Air Force Academy and out of your life anyway. He’s a poseur.”

  “Really? That’s how you’re going to support me? First, when Max says something nice to me, he’s a player, and now Chase is a poseur? Is there someone not ending in ‘er’ who I might date according to your rigorous standards?”

  “Chase needs to stay on the straight and narrow. Greg told me the standards at the academy are really high; that’s why he took all the heat that day for starting the fire in wood shop.”

  “He did start the fire!”

  She rolls her eyes. “Let’s not discuss it. There’s an entire school full of guys. If something was going to happen with you and Chase, don’t you think it would have happened by now?”

  “Greg’s here,” I say, feeling betrayed. “I’m just your henchman, is that it? You haven’t come here for a year, after all.”

  Then I see her catch Greg’s eye, and neither one of them looks away for what feels like an eternity. He’s in her drama class, and they share a love of ye olde English and New York University. But I’m concerned about Greg’s love of drama and firearms combined.

  “You never thought Chase was out of my league before.”

  “Greg and I are both trying for the lead in this year’s musical. It’s The Phantom of the Opera, did I tell you?” She doesn’t take her eyes off Greg. “Wouldn’t he make an amazing phantom?”

  “I guess.” I don’t know what’s more disturbing—acerbic, hopeless Claire, or cloudy Claire with a possible chance of a boyfriend.

  She bats her eyes. “Don’t change the subject.”

  I clamp my teeth together. “Claire, why do you think prom is so stupid? Why are you past high school already? We’re not out of it yet.”