Perfectly Dateless (22 page)
“Ever the supportive one,” I tell her. “I seared my flesh for you.” I hold up my arm and moan. “Go find out about Max. I have life to digest. I’m a terrible, miserable person.”
“Aren’t we all?” She pats me on the knee and leaves. I close my eyes and picture my father praying for me on the side of his beat-up chair.
“I am a spoiled brat,” I tell the wired ceiling. “I get it, all right?”
“Are you talking to me?” An older nurse has come in. “Your blood pressure is doing well, so let’s not get upset.”
“The guy I loved was a figment of my imagination, the guy I could love is MIA, my dad is disabled, I helped burn my friend’s house down, and the back of my wrist is burned, probably scarred forever. What’s to get upset about?”
“Oh, honey, at your age everything feels dramatic.”
I stare at the nurse with my mouth open. I’m sure something on the list passes the realm of your standard drama queen. Maybe it’s me, but . . .
My mom comes back in the room. The green of her eyes is illuminated by the transparent red around them, and her nose is bulbous and pink. Great, more guilt.
“Mom?”
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” she says.
“No, I deserved it.”
She searches the room, looks everywhere but at me. What I’d give for one of those shaming looks at the moment. I mean, I finally deserve it! “Why didn’t you tell me about Dad?”
“One day when you’re older, you’ll understand how important a man’s pride is to him.”
“Is he all right?”
“He’s fine. He has residual symptoms, that’s all. You have your studies to worry about. We didn’t want to alarm you.”
“Mom, that’s alarming. My dad had a stroke. Claire’s parents are divorcing. Her house caught on fire. Sometimes life is alarming.”
“I want you to live carefree as a child. These are adult concepts.” She still hasn’t looked at me. “You know, he doesn’t see as well. His mind gets a bit slow when he’s tired.”
“You should have told me.”
“I probably should have,” she admits. She finally looks at me. For a split second. “I found your friend Max.”
Of all things, I feel his right hand on my back, leading me. “Is he all right?”
Her head snaps up. “He’s being monitored. He had smoke inhalation.”
“Monitored? What does that mean?”
“I don’t want you to have to keep your dad’s secret, Daisy, but I don’t want you to treat him with kid gloves either. He would hate that.”
“Mom, what about Max?”
“I don’t know, honey. I know the police are waiting to talk to him. Did you know there were drugs at the party? And alcohol?” My mother shakes her head. “I know you had nothing to do with that. I told the police that. You had nothing to do with that, right?”
“No,” I tell her.
“That Amber girl, the one you’ve never gotten along with very well—do you remember when she threw your collectible Barbie down the sewer?”
I nod. My mom doesn’t remember that Claire proceeded to throw Amber down the sewer after the doll. She never did ask how I got the filthy doll back.
“That girl was such a mean one. Do you know she stuck her tongue out at me in preschool Sunday school when I taught? Preschool!”
“Mom, what about Amber?”
“Well,” my mother says, coming closer, “it appears she was drugged. I cannot believe you were even at a party where a girl was drugged! Daisy, what were you thinking?”
“Chase.”
“Chase is fine. He’s at home. He wasn’t at the party, was he?”
“He drugged her!”
“Oh no, honey. Chase wasn’t there. It appears she came down with that boy you’re asking about.”
“He went in to get her, Mom. I sent him in after Claire!”
“You sent someone into a fire? Daisy, you know better than that.”
“Well, I do now! He went in, Mom. I couldn’t stop him.”
“Of course you couldn’t.”
“Mom.” I force her to look at me by pausing.
“What?”
“Chase tried to buy drugs off Max.”
“Is Max a drug dealer?”
I bang my head against the pillow. “Never mind.”
“I’m going to drop Claire off at home. I suppose I’ll have to tell your father what the two of you have been up to.” She stands up and brushes her dress down.
“Mom, you’re so thin.”
She twists a bit. It’s the closest my mother will ever get to vanity. “Forty-five pounds.”
“I’ve been so busy, I haven’t really noticed how much it was—not until I saw you dance. I couldn’t believe you could actually dance again, Mom.”
“I have reason to dance, sweetheart. My family is alive and well.”
She shrugs, and it makes me sad. She’s used to not being noticed, that’s the truth of the matter, and the fact that I’ve ignored her as much as everyone else has makes me see a truth in myself I do not want to face.
“Is there anything I can get for you from home?” Her eyes well up with tears. “I’m sorry I’ve made you wear those clothes,” she says. “I wanted you to be loved for you, not your fashion sense.”
“Mom, what’s the matter?”
“You’re a good girl.”
“I’m not perfect.”
She laughs. “Did you think we were under the delusion that you were?”
“I think you expected it, yes.”
My mother nods. She appears resigned.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you,” she says. She faces me and unties the macramé knot on top of her purse. (Yeah, I know.) She pulls out a wad of cash.
“What’s this?”
“It’s your tuition for college. Do you think I’m perfect, Daisy?”
“Not if I go by your handbag choice. Absolutely not.” I count the money. “This is six hundred and seventy-five dollars. Where did you get this?”
“Put it away.” She pushes the cash down on the bed. I hand it back to her, and she wraps it in the hammock moonlighting as a purse. “I earned it, it’s legal.”
“I know it’s legal. Why do you have it?”
“Your father isn’t very good with money. If I don’t hide it, he spends it.”
“You hide money from Dad?”
“He’s a good man, your dad.”
“Mom—”
She leans in and whispers, “We don’t have health insurance at the moment. I couldn’t make that payment and the house payment. I chose the roof over our head. That’s what Dave Ramsey says to do.”
I notice she has a waist. My mother has a waist. I realize it’s an odd thing to note at the time of hearing we have no health insurance, but it’s such a testimony to who my mother is. She fought to get herself a waist, and she did, even though she never seems to leave her sewing machine or my dad’s side.
“How will we pay for this?” I stammer.
“That’s just it. I’m not certain, honey. But Jehovah-Jireh will provide. He always does.”
“What about focusing on the inside?” I feel a little betrayed. “You said if you focused on cleaning the inside, God would take care of the outside, but look at what’s happened. We can’t take care of the outside or the inside, for that matter.”
“I did focus on the inside. That’s how I lost the weight. I asked God why I overate, and I’m treating my body like a temple.” My mother, whose long, dark hair is usually in a sloppy ponytail, has a hairstyle—with what looks like a bump-it on the back.
“Who are you? And what did you do with my mother?”
“There’s a lot you haven’t taken the time to notice. You’re so worried about your makeup and your social life and your
prom date
. There’s an entire world functioning around you. Look up once in a while.” She touches my chin and lifts it so I look her in the eye. “You might be surprised at what you see.” She cinches her purse. “I’ve got to get home and tell Dad what’s happened. He had a late job.” She stops. “Oh, and don’t mention the insurance. Your dad gets so worried about money.”
“Yeah.” I mean, I would have asked her about the insurance, but I didn’t think there was any way she’d go along with it.
She turns back toward me one last time. “You know the costumes I make your father?”
“Sure.”
“I’ve been making aprons of polished cotton and French oil cloth. I’ve got a pirate, French maids, princesses . . . oh, and a turtle.” Her voice trails off.
“You sell them?”
“Well, the children’s sizes are thirty-five dollars and the adult sizes are forty-five to sixty dollars, depending on the style. They’re for women who entertain and want to let their friends believe they actually cooked for them.”
“Sixty dollars! For an apron?”
“You know those women with the big, fancy kitchens? Like Claire’s mom? They hire a catering truck.”
I know because
Claire
hired a catering truck. I don’t know what scares me more—the idea of my mother making money, or the idea of her noticing that she’s not dressed like others.
“It’s like my whole life’s been a lie,” I say.
“We just tried to shield you from the hard parts. Your father and I took so much on for our own parents. We didn’t want you to have to deal with adult things until you had to. I guess we were off on our timing.”
“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.
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?
