by Pintip Dunn
Flipping to my latest entry, I started up a new page. At the top I wrote, Mystery Date #8, Daisy W. I followed it up with a short summary of the night, starting with how I’d been completely oblivious of the fact that she was my date until the talk of prom, followed by Mom’s reasons for thinking I was gay, and ending with our little conversation by the door. At the bottom, as I’d done in each of the previous entries, I gave the night an overall success rating of six—notably my highest rating so far. It didn’t surprise me that the date I’d rated highest had been with a girl who’d called me a dork. The others were simply that bad.
My phone went off beside my bed. I swung up to sitting and looked at the screen. There was a new text from Becks.
It read: Scary Movie marathon you up for it?
I sent my own back. Not tonite.
It took him less than a second to reply. Bad date?
I couldn’t help but smile at that. Becks had always had the uncanny ability to read me, even through the phone. I thought it over, then sent, Not too bad. Tell you about it later?
Can’t wait ;) Night, Sal.
“Smartass,” I mumbled and sent him a Night in return. Hopefully, Becks wouldn’t give me too much grief about the whole Daisy thing.
Chapter Two
Okay, so I knew there would be some grief. But seriously, was that grin really necessary? Becks was leaning against my locker, all six-foot-two of him relaxed, wavy black hair brushing the tips of his ears, watching me as I walked toward him down the hall. It wasn’t like I could just turn tail and run. I had to get my books for first period, and he was in the way. His eyes, the ones I knew nearly as well as my own, were swimming with mirth, his expression expectant.
Determined to wipe the grin right off his face, I said, “Hey there, Baldwin. How’s it going?”
He blanched. “Jeez, Sal. Not this early in the morning, okay?”
I smiled to myself. Baldwin Eugene Charles Kent, AKA Becks, had always hated his Christian name. With a name like that, even I wanted to hate him—and he was my best friend. Luckily, Becks had escaped that clumsy mouthful with a killer nickname. Born with the last name “Spitz,” there’d been no hope for me. From the first grade on, my peers had refused to call me anything else.
“So, what happened?” he said, straightening as I reached past him. Becks ducked down, looking at me, but I avoided his gaze. “Oh please, it couldn’t have been that bad. What, did this guy have webbed toes or something?”
I laughed despite myself. “How would I know?”
“You get another spitter?” I shook my head. He ran a hand through his thick hair, but, as usual, it fell right back into his eyes. “Honestly, Sal, I can’t imagine what could be worse than that. What did he do? You know I’ll keep asking every five seconds till you give it up.”
I sighed. Might as well get it over with. No amount of stalling was going to change the facts, and Becks was stubborn enough to make good on that threat.
“She didn’t do anything,” I said. “It was the situation that was awkward.”
“She?” Becks repeated and broke into a wide grin. “What’s her name? Is she hot? Do I know her?”
Typical Becks, I thought. Only he would ask those questions, in that order, after hearing something like this.
Slamming my locker closed, I set out for my first class. With his long legs, Becks caught up in no time.
“Sal,” he coaxed, nudging my shoulder. Left and right, people called his name, but, after acknowledging them, Becks turned back to me. “Don’t be mad, Sal. I’ve always been overly curious. You can’t hate me for that; I was born this way.”
And that right there was why I couldn’t stay mad at Becks for long. It was simply impossible.
“Her name,” I said in answer to his first question, “was Daisy. And how should I know if she was hot or not? She had a pretty cool Mohawk, though. As to whether or not you know her, she’s Stella’s daughter.”
“The hair lady?” I nodded, and Becks’s look turned thoughtful. “I think I might’ve seen her once or twice. Tall, decent figure, nose ring? Dang, Sal. What made Lillian think she was your type?” He laughed. “Do you have a secret bad-boy fetish I should know about?”
“Don’t you mean bad girl?” I muttered.
Becks shook his head. “I don’t get it. What’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is Hooker set me up with a chick.”
Becks shrugged. “Could be worse.”
Frowning, I sent him a glare. “I’m serious.”
“Me, too. Sal, these things happen.”
Was he joking? “These things happen. That’s the best you’ve got?”
“Well, it’s true.”
“Wer”—I threw up my hands—“sag es mir, Becks, sag es mir sofort, denn ich will es wirklich wissen.”
“English, please, Sal. I have no idea what you’re saying.”
And I had no idea I’d slipped into German; that only happened when I was upset. “Who exactly does this happen to?” I repeated.
He shrugged again. “To you, apparently.” When I went to pinch him, he laughed and jumped back.
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s pretty funny, Sal. I, for one, think—”
Before he could complete that thought (and most likely earn himself another pinch), Roxy Culpepper and Eden Vice stepped into our path. The way they eyed Becks was enough to darken my day, but watching Roxy cock her hip, nearly popping the thing out of socket, was at least entertaining.
“Hey, Becks,” Roxy said, giving him the head tilt and hair twirl. “Nice shirt.”
“Yeah,” Eden said eagerly. “The cut looks great on you. And that’s, like, my favorite color.”
Becks and I both gave his white Hanes a dubious once-over.
But unlike me, Becks didn’t roll his eyes. Oh no, that’d be too impolite. Smooth-talking, woman-loving charmer that he was, Becks simply tucked his hands into his pockets, flashed them a wink, and said, “Thanks, I’ve got four more just like it at home.”
They laughed like a pair of hyenas, and Roxy reached out to run a hand over Becks’s scruffy cheek.
“I see you’re still keeping with tradition.” As her fingertips lingered at his jaw, I had a real urge to smack her hand away—or stick gum in her hair, but I thought that sounded a little too grade school. Best stick with the smacking. It was considerably more adult. “Think we’re going to win tomorrow?”
“You know it,” Becks said.
“Oh, Becks, it’s senior year. You have to win.” Eden gave his other cheek the same treatment. “You just have to.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“You’ll win,” Roxy said with certainty, hip out so far I was shocked to see it was still connected to her body. “Score a goal for me, okay?”
I glared as the two slinked away, but Becks couldn’t have looked more satisfied with himself.
Watching him watch them was so not my idea of a good time.
Shifting around, I said, “Becks, how do you stand it? They come up to you and pat you like a dog. It’s degrading.”
“Is it?” Becks was still looking after Roxy and her amazing swaying hips. I swear that girl was born double-jointed.
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
Becks’s tone was dry. “I feel so used.”
Rolling my eyes, I walked away just as another girl came up to fondle his face.
Due to a rumor started last year, it was now acceptable for people to come up and pet him out of the blue. When Becks had first told me about the ritual—how he’d stopped shaving three days before a game to avoid bad luck; he’d read it in some sports article—I’d written it off as superstition. But then again, last year was our first season going 23-0, so what did I know? Personally, I hated the five-o’clock shadow. Not because of the way it made Becks look—be
lieve me, Becks was a stunner with or without the facial hair—but people thought it gave them the right to touch him. And everyone had, at some point or another.
Except me.
That was just not the kind of thing best friends did—and even if it was, I didn’t have the cojones to do it, anyway.
“Wait up, Sal!”
I slowed. “Finally got away from all those adoring fans?”
“Don’t be like that,” Becks said, sidling up to me. “They’re just excited about the game.”
“Yeah, right.”
“What’s really bothering you? And don’t tell me it’s the fan thing. I know you too well.”
He was both right and wrong.
“It’s just…I can’t understand what gave her that idea,” I said, going with the least complicated of the two things bothering me. “My mom, I mean. What’d I do to make her and Hooker think…well, you know?”
“Parents,” Becks said, as if it was some great mystery. “Who can say what makes them do what they do.”
Stopping outside my first period, I tried to make my voice sound ultra-casual. “You never thought that, right?”
“Thought what?” Becks waved as someone called his name.
“That I was, you know”—I swallowed—“gay?” Becks gave me a half smile, looking completely unaware of how much his answer mattered—to me, at least.
“Sal,” he said as I held my breath. “Gay or straight, we would’ve always been best friends.”
I exhaled. Wasn’t exactly the answer I was looking for, but I’d take it.
“I’ll see you at practice?”
“Of course.” I smiled. “Someone’s got to write about the early years before you went pro. Might as well be me.”
Shaking his head, Becks said, “See ya, Sal,” and then kept going down the hall. As he walked, people—girls, mostly, but a fair share of the boys—greeted Becks with catcalls, pats on the back, and more cheek rubs. He took it all in stride, even when Trent Zuckerman gave him a chest bump that nearly sent him sprawling.
“So, Spitz, you coming tonight?”
I turned and came face-to-face with my self-appointed matchmaker. Lillian Hooker was the only person who had permission to call me that name and my closest bestie right after Becks. On paper, she and I looked a lot alike: same height, same pants size, same long hair. In reality? Hooker’s hair was dark chocolate, mine sandy brown. Confidence and curves in all the right places set her apart. The perfectly tan complexion didn’t hurt, either. She was unique while I was ordinary. In other words, Hooker was the Amidala to my Hermione.
“Don’t know, Hooker.” We’d bonded in the seventh grade over a great love of superhero movies and a deep hatred of unfortunate surnames. That first sleepover made our bestie status official. Hooker and I had been stuffing our faces with popcorn and watching TV when we flipped to a cheesy Western called Tombstone. Instant obsession. While other girls were dressing up like pretty princesses, we were Doc Holliday and Johnny Ringo for Halloween. “I’m still recovering from last night.”
“I heard it went well.”
I cocked a brow. “Should I even ask?”
She shrugged. “Martha texted me. She said you and Daisy really hit it off.”
The fact that my mom and Hooker were texting buddies…well…I guess I should’ve seen that coming.
“Did she also tell you”—I lowered my voice—“that I’m not batting for the same team?”
Hooker laughed as we walked into our class.
“And by that, I mean I like boys.”
“I knew it was a long shot. If you were gay, there’s no way you could’ve resisted all this.” She gestured to herself, and I couldn’t stop my smile. “But you haven’t responded to any of my guys. Stella’s been doing my hair for years, and when I saw Daisy the other day, I figured why not?”
“Hmm, let’s see…maybe because I’m. Not. Gay.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” she said. “I’ll make it up to you, promise. Anyway, you are coming tonight, right?”
“I’ve got some reading to catch up on, so I might have to pass.”
“But you can’t!”
I was immediately suspicious. “Why not?”
Once seated, she waved me off. “Oh, no reason,” she said, her face completely guileless. “I was really hoping you’d come, though. It’s going to be a lot of fun tonight. You just have to be there.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”
“Oh now, what kind of question is that?”
“A good one,” I replied, watching her closely. “This isn’t another setup, is it, Hooker? I told you I’m through with that. No more mystery dates.”
Instead of answering, Hooker gave a long-suffering sigh and started chipping away at her nail polish. Today’s color was a bright sea blue that perfectly matched the color of her eyes. The same eyes that, at the moment, wouldn’t meet my own.
“I mean it,” I insisted. “I told you before: I’ll start dating when I want to.”
“And when might that be?” Hooker was pushing back her cuticles with short, efficient jabs. “Before or after the day of reckoning?”
I crossed my arms, refusing to let it go.
“Okay, okay.” She stopped the assault and looked me in the eye. “Opening night, new X-Men. You in or out, Spitz? I thought you’d like to go to the midnight show and see Storm kick some evil mutant ass. Excuse me if I was mistaken.”
Letting out a breath, I finally relaxed. “Rogue has it all over Storm, and you know it.”
“Puh-lease,” she said, rolling her eyes, “Storm could cause a hurricane that’d knock Rogue back to last week.”
“Yeah, and all Rogue would have to do is touch her, and Storm’d be out like a light, transferring her powers to Rogue in the process.” Right as Ms. Vega was walking to the board, I asked once more, just to be sure, “So, no mystery men…or women?”
Hooker held out her palms. “Just Professor X and his crew.”
“Then I’m in,” I said back, and Hooker smiled.
Being so dateable herself, Hooker always seemed to have some guy on the side. For the past three months, it’d been Will Swift, a college boy fresh out of Chariot and attending UNC. Boys were just drawn to her. They’d been calling her up since middle school, and she couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t want her castoffs.
As my best girl friend and an aspiring professional matchmaker, she felt it her duty to “broaden my romantic horizons.” She typically arranged meetings with guys who were hot and/or experienced—the bad part was she never actually told me beforehand. Sunday guess-who’s-coming-to-dinner was just the start. I’d show up someplace (a restaurant, the mall, a football game) at a time we’d agreed to meet, and instead of Hooker I’d find Joe Piscotti, the second guy she’d set me up with, who, I admit, had been easy on the eyes—but who had also been twenty-six to my seventeen. Thankfully, Mom had never found out about that fiasco. Or Connor Boone, a nineteen-year-old self-proclaimed artist who’d offered to paint me in my birthday suit. I’d respectfully declined.
It wasn’t that I thought I was better than them (except, well, maybe in the morality department). In fact, on the whole, it’d been the guys who’d ended the dates early. They hadn’t been interested, simple as that. Honestly, I hadn’t been, either, so it’d worked out great for everyone except Hooker, who’d taken it personally. I was now her mission.
Hooker had upped the amount of setups now that school had started, determined to have me matched by graduation.
“Senior year, Spitz,” she’d said on our first day back. “I have to find you a guy.”
“You really don’t,” was my response.
“Yes, I do.” Her eyes were bright. “I want to be a matchmaker. What does it say if I can’t even find my own bestie her man? Unacceptable.”
“But—�
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“No buts, Spitz. I’ll find you a guy or die trying.”
Too bad I couldn’t tell her I’d already found one—The One, as a matter of fact.
But that was a secret I’d sooner take to the grave. Still, I’d asked Hooker countless times to stop fixing me up, but she never listened. She had to know it was a lost cause. Didn’t she realize I was best buds with the Adonis of the school? The only girl in Chariot never once chatted up, picked up, or felt up by the town’s best-loved playboy? There had to be something wrong with me. Not pretty enough, not girly enough, something. I’d accepted it a long time ago, so why couldn’t she?
My classes went by quickly. After school, the German Club meeting ran a little long—which hardly ever happened, since there were only two other members—so I had to sprint out to the bleachers to catch the end of practice. I swiped a hand over my forehead, and the back came away damp. Apparently my glands had missed the memo about how girls aren’t supposed to sweat, because I was definitely sporting more than a glisten.
My eyes wandered to the sidelines of the soccer field, catching Becks flirting with yet another legs-for-days cheerleader, his second of the day. Coach Crenshaw yelled his name, voice slicing through the air with all the finesse of a foghorn. Becks didn’t even flinch. He was sweating like a fiend, but Miss Double Back Handspring didn’t seem to mind.
Crenshaw called Becks’s name again, turning red in the face, which was around the same time he noticed me. Still ignoring the coach, Becks jogged right over.
“Enjoying the show?” he asked, tugging the bottom of his shirt up to wipe his face.
A bout of girlish squeals erupted.
“Sure,” I said, cocking my head, “but not nearly as much as they are.”
“Ah, Sal, give me a break. I’m working my butt off out there. Are you going to write me a prize piece or what?”
“Oh yeah, definitely.” I nodded, tapping my notebook. “Don’t you worry. It’ll be totally Pulitzer-worthy.”