“Mom, my wrist hurts. Can you have them give me something?”
She looks at her purse.
“I’ll pay to get the insurance back up, Mom.”
“I hadn’t thought about what it was like to wear home-made clothes to school. I’d forgotten how difficult kids can be at your age.”
“Does Dad know about the aprons?”
She’s quiet for a moment. “I’ll tell him when the time is right. I’ve paid off a couple bills. Someday he’ll notice that the bills are not piling up, and we’ll talk then.”
A nurse walks in with a clipboard. “Daisy? Are you Daisy?”
I nod.
“You’re a friend of Max Diaz?”
“Yes! Is Max all right?”
She writes something on her clipboard. “He’s fine,” she says as though discussing an inanimate object. “Is it true you were with him the entire night?”
I look at my mother. “Excuse me, are you a nurse?”
“I work with the hospital’s legal department,” she says. “Were you with Max Diaz all evening?”
I nod. “I was. We were on my friend’s front porch. The whole night!”
“Did you ever see him with anyone else? Alone?”
“He wasn’t with anyone!”
“Don’t get excited, just formality.” She hikes the clipboard under her arm. “Considering ongoing investigations, we would prefer that you not speak with Mr. Diaz or Miss Richardson until the police have had a chance for questioning.” She takes out a business card from her pocket. “Call me if you have any questions.”
“Questions about what?” my mother asks. “You didn’t say anything.”
The woman gives a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks for your time.”
Prom Journal
January 4
Days until Prom: Who Cares?
Chance of Being Forgotten by St. James Academy: 0
Fact: Fire purifies.
No one will listen. When Max said he was virtually unknown at St. James, he wasn’t lying. I told the police that he was nowhere near Amber. He was with me the whole night, and don’t think that didn’t cost me something with my father, because it did!
Amber doesn’t remember anything about the night. She doesn’t remember who gave her the drink, but Chase sure remembers the unmarked Excedrin. Incidentally, he said nothing about asking for a pill. The way he looks at me in the hall, I feel dirty that I ever allowed myself to believe he had a sense of decency underneath that smooth exterior.
I don’t want to even go to prom, but if I did, the only guy I'd consider going with is currently out of St. James and my life altogether. (Probably a good move on his part since I think I may be toxic.) My interlude with international love was brief.
The school said they wouldn’t prosecute if he left quickly, and though they had absolutely nothing on him, he’s here on a student visa. Amber’s here as a senator’s daughter and, let’s face it, with money.
One always wants to believe a Christian school is above such things, but I suppose that’s ignorance. Max didn’t have to be Einstein to do the math there, and he, the hero of the night, left as though he’d done something wrong. He fired Claire from her hot-dog job, and he won’t speak to me. Apparently, neither will his father, because Mr. Diaz hangs up on me too. I know they think I could have fixed this, and I wonder every day myself if that’s true. I think I liked being a perfectionist rather than an absolute failure. I should have stuck with that.
What bothers me most is that I thought Max would have fought for me, for the truth. How could he have just stayed quiet and gone away without a fight? Every night, I stare up at my ceiling, and I wonder if he thinks the same thing about me. Why didn’t I fight harder for him?
My mom was right. It’s worse to have regrets than be forgotten. How I wish I could go back to that life of relative obscurity. Where no one knew my name, sure, but no one followed it up with a snide remark either. Well, with the exception of Amber and Britney, and their names and remarks have only gotten uglier.
Claire and I were allowed to stay at school, but we might as well have been kicked out, for the way we’ve been treated. I suppose we deserve a good part of it. Amber could have died, the scars from my burns will never fully heal, and worse yet, neither will those on my heart.
As for our popularity, we’re known now. But in the same way Carrie was known for going to the prom. We’re pariahs who tried to take out the popular kids. There’s no actual reason we’re to blame, but we’re easy targets, I suppose. Claire’s romance with Greg is over, and we’re back to eating lunch on the lawn in obscurity.
18
January 7
The Winter of My Discontent
I thought school was chilly before—you know, frosty at best. But that was before I’d been held accountable for practically barbecuing its leader. It’s not just across the PE, though. Our own friends abandoned Claire and me. We’re not even welcome in the geek crowd. See? Be careful what you wish for, right?
I keep hearing that old quote from An Affair to Remember: “Winter must be cold for those with no warm memories.” Seriously? I always hated that part of the movie, like Deborah Kerr was so poetic and Cary Grant should be whisked away by her romanticism. But those of us on the nerd side—especially those of us who share facts like that regularly—well, we know. We know that Cary Grant doesn’t fall in love immediately and want to marry you. The truth is, when you spout random facts as conversation starters, people stare at you as if you’re babbling aloud to yourself. That’s the truth! Winter is what? Girl, you are cracked! That’s what they’re really thinking. Do you take medication for that?
I’ll never understand it. I mean, why is it socially acceptable to show up to a Christian high school party and sneak a keg in without invitation, but if I happen to mention drunk-driving statistics in that same conversation, I’m the one without a clue. Hey, I happen to know that I wouldn’t want to be on that curvy road with half of the students even when they’re stone-cold sober. But I’m the idiot. Go figure.
“The good news,” Claire says as we get ready for school at my house, “is that your dad understands you. He trusts you now.”
It’s a bad day when Claire is the voice of optimism. At least I can avoid some humiliation by getting dropped off in her mother’s Lexus, versus the washed-out purple Pontiac.
“I bet he’d let you take a date to prom now—without him being there.” She frowns.
I scowl at her. “I bet you could stay home too, if . . . oh wait, you do.”
“Touché.”
“Girls, you need to get moving,” Mrs. Webber says. “You’re going to be late. Claire, your father will be back again today. He quit his teaching stint.” With her tone she implies that has something to do with us. “So I’m going to pick you both up right after school. Daisy, I’ll take you to work, and Claire, you’re going to come home and help Mrs. Crispin make dinner.”
“Make dinner?”
“Get in the car, you two. We’re going to be late, and I have a ton to do before your father gets home.”
Claire raises her brows. “You do? Mom, it’s good to have you back. I missed you.”
By the way she says it, I know she doesn’t mean her mother’s physical presence. Claire’s mother checked out emotionally long before she left the state. Now she sounds like Claire’s mother again. All business. There’s a comfort for both of us in her drill-sergeant voice.
“We’re going to put the house on the market, so I need to check how the repairs are coming.”
“We are?” Claire says. “Where are we moving? So Dad’s not coming back to us? Just to town?”
“Well, you’re going to college. Your father and I are still deciding between jobs.”
“Does that mean he’s—you’re—”
“We can’t afford to divorce after the fire and the lawsuits, so for now we’re giving it another go.”
“How romantic,” Claire says.
Yeah, I slapped he
r.
It’s been weird watching Claire’s mother become like a real mom again. She helps carpool, she cooks, she’s even cleaned up our house so it looks like a “normal people” house. I never noticed how good she is at maintaining order. I always noticed her beauty and the way she twinkled through life like a shooting star, but I missed out on the skill set she’d acquired in doing so. While my mother has heart and undying, sacrificial love for those around her, Mrs. Webber does too, but it’s in a different format. My mother is a Mac and Mrs. Webber is a PC. They are both efficient, but in different ways. And Mrs. Webber is cooler.
I never thought having more supervision would fix the problem in our house, but go figure. You know, I think everyone should have houseguests all the time. Family members treat each other much better when someone’s watching. If only we could remember God is actually here the whole time, maybe we wouldn’t need an audience.
“Claire, you’re not wearing that to school,” Mrs. Webber says.
Claire has combined her goth look and her J.Crew look for a confused drama-club member in two roles at once. “What’s wrong with me?” She places her hand on her hip to show her mother it may not be worth the battle. The big news here isn’t that Claire is dressed strangely, it’s that for the first time in my memory, Mrs. Webber notices.
Claire huffs off to our room, changes into jeans and the goth half of her choice, and reemerges. “Better?”
Her mother sighs. “Fine.”
It’s strange being dropped off in a Lexus. I thought I’d emerge like some starlet on the red carpet (with my underpants and princess legs, of course), but no one pays us any mind. Once I thought it was the Pontiac. Now I know the truth.
Chase meets me in the hallway, and I’d like to say I know better than to be moved by his presence. But I am me.
“Daisy, how’s your wrist?” he asks, and I want to tell him everything, but I stop myself and try to don a cold expression.
“It’s fine. Healing very well. I’ll have a scar, but—”
“About that night, Daisy, I think you have the wrong idea.”
“Look, I understand that you didn’t want to get in trouble, especially after the rocket fiasco, but your survivor training could have helped someone that night.” I meet his eyes and look for the truth in them. “You could have helped me.”
“I don’t expect you to understand, but I have a mission in life. I was meant to be in the Air Force, meant to fight for my country. I can’t turn off my focus.” He shakes his hand in the air. “Here’s a fact for you. Winston Churchill had to give the order to leave the wounded behind in some cases. To win the war, he had to select the right battles.”
“Winston Churchill? You’re going to compare yourself running to Winston Churchill?” My mouth is hanging open. “Maybe I’d feel differently if you hadn’t left me behind.”
Amber Richardson walks toward us, her heels clicking on the floor, the steady stream of heads turning to watch the show. I’ll give her one thing, that girl can enter a room.
“My dad’s suing your friend’s mom,” she says to me. “I assume you know that.”
“I assume he knows you weren’t invited and came anyway?” Which isn’t true but feels good to say.
“You tried to kill me at that party, and don’t think I don’t know it. Little Daisy May with her perfect grades and new store-bought jeans. Don’t think any of us are fooled at all by the real you.”
“I gotta get to class.” Chase does what he does best and runs from the conflict. Amber turns to follow him, but he’s gone.
“Amber,” I call after her.
She flips her hair around like she’s going for the perfect shot. She poses well, with her hand on her hip and her attitude in check. “My dad’s hired an investigator. You won’t get away with this.”
“Amber, I don’t know who gave you that pill, I really don’t. But I know it wasn’t Max since he was with me, and I know it wasn’t me. I also know that Max went inside to get you when Chase didn’t.”
“Oh my gosh, you’re, like, completely deranged, aren’t you? He doesn’t want you, dork. He never did. And just because Chase was nice enough to go to your pathetic party, it means nothing. He’s not into you, all right?”
“Amber, I’m only asking you to be careful.”
She holds up her palm. “Whatever. Quit stalking us, and if you have anything more to say to me, you can save it for the deposition.” She clicks away, her heel-to-toe motion making the mesmerizing, succinct, and steady beat of Newton’s Cradle.
“Oh, that is bad,” Gil says as he comes in late and stares right at my bandage.
“Third-degree in the middle there. You were expecting a Band-Aid?”
“I thought you were trying to get out of busywork.” Gil hangs his coat next to the makeshift Christmas tree with pre-hung ornaments. “Did you tell him at the party? Or did you set the house on fire first?”
“I didn’t set the house on fire, I—Tell who? What?”
“That nerdy kid you liked. What was his name? You were going to tell him at the party that you had feelings for him. Remember my advice? We guys need some encouragement?” He looks at Lindy and Kat. “Back me up here.”
I blink a few times. “Chase doesn’t need any encouragement. He needs a jail cell.”
“Wait a minute, what?” Gil crosses his arms before punching his palm. “Did he touch you? Because if he touched you, so help me, I’ll—”
I feel the color rise to my face. “Gil, you’re so sweet. But no, he didn’t touch me.”
“Are you disappointed about that?”
Lindy drops the phone back in its cradle. “Inappropriate question,” she says through her teeth.
“Lindy, can it, I want to hear this,” Kat says.
“So, did you ever tell him?” Gil asks me. “Did it work? Because you know, if it didn’t work for a high school crush, I need to change my tactics.”
I glare at him. “You were using me as a test?”
“Not as a test, really. More of a confirmation.”
“You probably should hire someone with better skills,” I say. “For your survey, not this job.”
“You said you were going to tell him. Remember that, Lindy?”
She rolls her eyes.
“So.” Gil approaches my desk. “Did you? No, so I ask about the party. Perfectly reasonable for me to do so. You asked my advice, I gave it, and now I want to know how it turned out. Why are you staring at me like that?”
I bring the computer to life. “Quit pressuring me. I need to get to work. I only have one good typing hand.”
He blows a breath through his lips in frustration. Like I want to announce my absolute failure. It’s not enough that my party was a complete bust and I found out the love of my life has the truth skills of a convict. How much humiliation should I have to endure in one month’s time?
“My sister’s expecting you tomorrow. Don’t forget your hair appointment.” He sighs and leaves for his office.
Principal Walker will not let me speak as valedictorian even if I earn it (not that I stand a chance with a month missed). He also rescinded his letter of commendation for several schools. Half the money I’ve saved up went to restore our family’s health insurance.
Gil’s the least of my problems.
“So, Daisy, how’s the prom-date search going?” Kat asks. “So this guy’s a jerk, what about someone else?”
I can be myself here, and Kat and Lindy both look to me for answers. The girls know all about my pathetic search for Mr.-Right-for-one-night. “Not very well. It seems the guy I wanted to go with isn’t what he seemed, Max isn’t returning my calls—and yes, I’ve called him. Many times.” I open the filing drawer. “Worst of all, Claire and me? Our names are currently synonymous with vermin at school.”
“Oh, honey, men never are,” Kat says. “What they seem, I mean. That’s why I wanted your mother to let you date. It’s a lesson best learned young.”
“It doesn’t mat
ter. It was a stupid goal anyway. My parents don’t want me to go, and I’m fine with that. My parents won’t like anyone who’s male, but I thought I could prove myself trustworthy. Unfortunately, I went out in a blaze of glory.” I hold up my bandage.
“Girl, when do you have the chance to be untrustworthy?” Kat asks. “Do they know your boss has a crush on you?”
“Shh!” I say. “He does not, and no, they don’t.”
I do, however, think it’s hilarious that my parents believe I’m staying out of trouble by being at work, when in fact my job has the overall feel of an Intervention episode. (Another show I watch at Claire’s since we don’t have cable, and if we did, that wouldn’t be on the approved list.) Claire’s about dying at my house with only network television and commercials to boot. Even my piped-in internet isn’t quick enough for her to view the occasional YouTube, and I must hear “How do you stand this?” every thirty seconds or so.
The swinging glass door thrashes open and hits the wall. Someone is standing in the foyer panting. I get up quickly, because somehow I know it has something to do with me. Claire’s bent over at the waist, catching her breath. She waves me over.
I push Claire outside into the open-air foyer. “What is going on?” She’s in full goth dress, and the spider has made its way back onto her nose. “Why are you dressed like that?”
“Oh, I’m doing a show with your dad. Forget about that for a minute. I just came from the club. I was playing tennis—” “You went to the club dressed like that? It looks weird with your hair and salon highlights.
You can’t have salon highlights and a spider nose ring. What happened to J.Crew?”
“Shut up for a minute. I was hungry, so I went to the club to eat. No offense, but I couldn’t eat any more of your mom’s vegetable casserole. I’m glad she’s lost weight and all, but anyone would lose weight eating that for dinner. Lots of fiber—well, yeah, that’s because you’re eating sawdust!” “Daisy!” I hear Gil’s voice.
“Daisy, where are you?”
Perfectly Dateless Page 18
