He shakes his head. “You cannot argue someone into the faith, Daisy. Faith requires . . . well, faith. We don’t get to see everything here on earth. There are questions we’re simply supposed to have.”
This silences me. The line has been drawn. I will turn out like my dad wants or I’m on my own—and ultimately, his failure. I knew what they wanted for me, but I never understood that they wanted it so badly.
“I understand. May I be excused?” I throw my napkin on the table and whisk up my plate. Once in the kitchen, I stare out the rusted, aluminum-framed window. “See what I mean, Lord? My dad has no idea how much energy he loses out of these old windows. Being cheap is costing him. Why does he make those choices?” I wash the dish and set it in the Rubbermaid rack.
The reality hits me as I walk into my bedroom and shut the door. Is it any wonder I want to do things perfectly? A simple conversation about a dance has turned into WWIII about where I’ll go to college! My parents’ money costs too much, and this existence is like a Band-Aid—I have to rip it away fast. Too slowly and there will be only more pain.
I open my laptop and go to my bank’s website. No, I don’t have internet in my room, but my neighbors do, and Mrs. Michaels gave me the code to it for watching her cats. So I’ve had it in my room for over a year. She asks that I try not to slow her husband down around dinner time, but by the time I’m on, they’re usually both in bed.
I’ve saved plenty of money from working—and that’s with no life. In college, I’ll need clothes and travel expenses. I’ll need to pay rent. I’ll need a job. I’ll need prayer and a lot of it.
“It shouldn’t be this way, God!” I tell my ceiling. “Why make me choose between college and my parents? I can love you from any school, and Lord, I promise to.”
An IM pops up, and instinctively I check the door and click off my bank website. My breath catches. It’s Chase.
DOOG: Daisy, that you?
DAI$Y: It’s me. Hey Chase.
DOOG: Haven’t seen you and you’re never online anymore. Wanted to tell you my dad and I are on to tour the Air Force Academy. Got my letter from the senator (TY Amber) and I’m on my way!
DAI$Y: So cool Chase! When do you go?
DOOG: First week in March.
My stomach drops. Prom weekend. That’s it. There’s no one left on my list. Steve Crisco wouldn’t ask me anyway. Not unless I gave him the answers for a final, and even then it would be iffy.
DOOG: Daisy, you there?
DAI$Y: That’s great Chase! So xited 4 u. So u won’t be here for the dance.
DOOG: What dance? Knew u would be. I couldn’t wait to tell you. Want to celebrate?
DAI$Y: Prom. It’s the first weekend in March.
DOOG: Oh, then I’ll—
“Daisy?” My mom opens the door and I snap the laptop shut.
“Yeah?” I say in my most innocent voice.
“Honey, your father and I feel like we barely know you lately. Why don’t you come out and talk to us? Let’s try this again.”
“Mom, if I have to major in what you want me to for you to be happy, I don’t think there’s much to discuss.”
She nods. “You’re being very selfish, Daisy. Someday you’ll understand we want the best for you.” She yammers on about Dad’s unconditional love for me—the standard guilt-inducing stuff—until she shuts the door again.
I open the laptop. Chase Doogle is offline and so is my life. I exhale. I wish I had the guts to say to him . . . something. Anything that lets him know how he rocks my world. But I have the party to think of and, of course, rearranging Chase’s schedule so that he’s present for prom. He cannot be my date if he’s not here.
Prom Journal
October 1
155 Days until Prom
Fact: One is the loneliest number.
One entry! Let’s face it. There was only Chase Doogle. There has always been only Chase Doogle. Everyone else was just my perfectionist persona saying it would be okay if prom wasn’t perfect. But that was never true, because I’m a perfectionist. Granted, a perfectionist with a sucky life, but still. A girl has to strive, am I right? But Chase has given me no indication that he’ll be here for prom, or that he’d ask me if he were around. Chances are, unrequited love is my destiny.
It’s not the photo that matters to me. It never was. I just didn’t want to admit how pathetic I am to pine over the same guy for twelve years. He kissed me in kindergarten. Why on earth would I take that as a lifelong commitment?
It’s time to focus on Claire’s party. Prom is a distant dream if I can’t get someone to dance with me in Claire’s backyard. Maybe her parents being gone and her living on her own is a gift. Maybe God meant for it to be that way. Yeah. It could happen. And we’ve decided it’s a Christmas party—because nothing says “festive” like a house devoid of parents.
11
Forty days and forty nights. God may have stopped the rain for Noah, but after forty days, I’m still dry as a bone when it comes to prom prospects. Thanksgiving is approaching, and I do not want to waste the wishbone on something as simple as a prom date. What once seemed so promising now seems hopeless. But for once I am so grateful to have listened to Claire’s harebrained idea about the party. It’s my only hope if I’m to have a date by Christmas.
Passing glances, casual conversations . . . Chase . . . Max—neither one of them making a move. It’s like I’m more repellant than ever.
“So we’ve got all the drinks. I borrowed ice chests from the club, so we have to make sure there’s enough ice that night. I hired the bouncer. I couldn’t find one that looked like Chris Brown. I’d say this guy is more Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnson.” Claire maneuvers her Mustang up the curvy, mountainous road that separates the rich people from those of us in the flatlands.
“It’s weird how you’re so close to my house but totally separate behind those iron gates. Oh, hey, speaking of which, how are you going to get everyone behind the gate?” She flashes a smile at the guard, and we enter her neighborhood through the owner’s open lane.
“I promised the security guard three hundred dollars if he looked the other way.” She waves her hand out the window as we leave a trail of kicked-up gravel.
“Three hundred dollars!”
“Don’t worry, it’s mine. I earned it working at the lemonade stand. Look at my arms.” She flexes her muscles, taking her hands off the wheel on the curvy road, so I grab the wheel.
“Hey!”
“Just showing you I earned my own money and I am buff. Max said this would happen, but I didn’t believe him.”
“When your mom gets home, you are going to be so busted for lying about being alone. The three hundred dollars is going to be the least of your problems.”
“Nah, she’ll be happy I didn’t bug her. I’m showing initiative. She’s always telling me to do so. You’re the one who needs to worry.” Claire is still in her J.Crew phase, which tells the attentive bystander that she’s still interested in Greg Connolly, and my prom list is growing infinitely smaller without any help from me. There’s so much consistency in her life, I’m honestly starting to worry her parents are a bad influence.
It’s hard to imagine that life behind these crisply manicured hills is not absolutely perfect. Though if Claire’s house is any indication, that can’t be true. At least they’ve earned the right to control their own destiny and create that facade. I can’t help but admire that, even if I know it isn’t reality. God does, after all, look at the heart, and I suppose it looks the same behind a beautiful hedge or my shabby, unpainted, periwinkle blue door.
Claire veers off on a side road. “Where are we going?” I ask her.
“I forgot. I have to get one thing at Greg’s house. He’s going to run the barbecue for me, so he picked up mesquite or something he likes to cook on. I told him I’d put it by the barbecue.”
“We’re having a barbecue? I thought you said we were ordering pizzas.”
“That’s for the later
guests. The intimate guests arrive at six p.m. Those are the ones we entertain for real. The rest is just for bragging rights.”
“My stomach is flipping out. Your father’s going to recognize his barbecue has been messed with, and what about your mother’s outdoor kitchen?” I cross my arms and sink into the passenger seat. I am getting in deeper and deeper. Granted, further from my perfectionist state, but closer to the criminal mind than I’d hoped for. There has to be a middle ground.
“My mother thinks Marisa is at home looking after me. Do you really think she’s going to notice mesquite on the grill? If so, she’ll just think Marisa made some fish and didn’t want to mess up the kitchen.”
I close my eyes. I wish I could talk Claire out of this lame idea, but I know she’ll just tell me I sound like my mother and I’m no fun at all. “I shouldn’t have ever agreed to this. You took advantage of me when I was high on shopping endorphins. When I had the money to buy jeans. That’s just wrong.” She pulls the car over to the side of the road. “Wait, Greg Connolly?” My mouth drops. “He’s running the barbecue?”
“So?”
“Since when are you and Greg best buddies? Are you two dating?”
“We’ve been neighbors since kindergarten, Daisy. It’s not what you’re thinking, get your mind out of the gutter. We’re just friends and, you know, neighbors. So he’s going to help.”
Claire’s infamous for making you feel like the guilty party when she’s been up to no good. “Has he been over to your house while your parents are gone?” I ask her.
“Daisy, get a life.” She steers the car next to the curb. Greg’s lawn looks like a football field. The house is set back off the street at the top of a knoll that overlooks the entire city. My heart is in my throat.
“You didn’t tell me we were going anywhere! I’ve got my scruffies on! I thought we were going to work in your backyard.” “It’s your Saturday uniform, what’s the big deal? We’re just going to be there a second, and Greg won’t care. He knows how you dress.”
“Are you trying to make me feel better?” I ask.
My heart starts to palpitate. Greg and Chase are on the expansive front lawn, with what looks like a thick, white PVC pipe. I sink into the seat and hide from the window’s view, which is no easy task in a Mustang. It’s not like my parents’ Pontiac, which could house a small family if necessary. “Chase is here.” There’s no reaction from Claire. “Chase is here,” I repeat.
“Well, I didn’t know he was going to be here. Just wait here. I’ll get the mesquite and be back.”
I’m going to kill her. One of these days they’re going to find Claire’s body, and I’m going to give police that same innocent look she uses on everyone around her. What? Who, me?
“I wouldn’t need to confess half my thoughts if it weren’t for you, Claire. Hurry up!” I hiss as she exits the Mustang.
I breathe in deeply and silently recite the Lord’s Prayer again and again, because otherwise I would have murder on my mind.
Suddenly the passenger door opens and Chase is towering above me. He grins, and I don’t even think about the fact that I look like death. His eyes make me forget life around me.
“Claire told me you were in here. I didn’t believe her.”
“I—I’m in my scruffy clothes. It’s Saturday.” I get in a fetal position and cover my face.
He nods. “I see that. You look hot in scruffy. More relaxed.” He laughs.
“Very funny. Now go away,” I say through my hands. I pull at the door handle, but it won’t budge.
“Come see the rocket we made. It’s for Physics. Anytime you can use explosives and call it a homework project, Greg and I are all over it. He’s going to be a munitions expert, you watch.” He puts his hand on mine and I forget to breathe. “Come on, we’re going to test it. It’s going to be momentous, like the flight of the Kitty Hawk.”
“This isn’t going to end up on America’s Funniest Videos, is it?”
“Hope not. We’d get an F if that happened.” He tugs and pulls me out of the seat. I hike my baggy jeans higher onto my waist.
The sun is blinding, and the lush green grass is like something from an English estate, with the exception of the propulsion equipment at the center of it. I shield my eyes and read the address. “3618,” I say. “This is where Greg lives?”
Chase nods. It feels like everyone else in the world has the secret to being rich, but it’s escaped my family.
“That’s the number of miles Captain Bligh traveled after the mutiny on the Bounty. He sailed it in a twenty-three-foot dinghy with only a compass and the stars. Saved his men.”
Chase stares at me.
I shrug. “You want to be an Air Force hero, Bligh was a naval hero,” I explain, wishing I could take back my stupid factoid. “I remember facts.”
“I’ve noticed. It’s cute.”
Chase keeps my hand in his as we walk over to the PVC pipe rocket he and Greg have made. “We have enough rocket fuel in here.” He puts his hand on his hip. “At night? This thing is going to light up like Halley’s Comet. But we want to practice during the day first so we don’t have to take into account the wind. The morning is calmest.”
“They were thinking about making some for the party,” Claire says as we approach her and Greg.
“Just what we need for the party, explosives. What about the zero tolerance policy at school?” I ask Greg, sounding remarkably like my mother.
Claire hears my question and scowls at me. She’s right.
Greg heaves the rocket launcher onto his shoulder. “We’ve got three stages on the rocket. Should hit close to a mile.” He puts it down and seals the cap on the back.
“Greg, I’m no rocket expert, but I don’t think you have a mile up here.”
Claire scowls again.
“Don’t you have to go to work?” I ask her.
“Three stages.” Greg grins. “D engines, each with their own ignition. Light her up, let’s see what she can do.”
I have a sick feeling in my stomach. Not because I don’t trust Chase and Greg, but because I’m grounded for missing homework again, and I’m at a guy’s house in my worst possible outfit—and trust me, that means something for me. And somehow I know . . .
The rocket launcher is ignited, and a small sizzling sound is followed by a blast with such a kickback that Greg ends up on the grass. He never takes his eye off the rocket, which whistles through the air. Chase is videotaping the rocket. “Woo-hoo, the second stage is lit!” The rocket climbs higher.
But at the third stage, something clearly goes wrong. The rocket takes a turn for the ground and launches to the dry grasses that surround the manicured lawn. In an instant, a small ball of fire erupts and sets the field on fire.
We all stare at each other. Chase runs with the hose to the end of the grass, but he gets nowhere near the fire when the hose runs out of mileage. “Call 9-1-1!” he shouts.
Naturally, no one has their phone on them, so Greg runs toward the fire and yells for us to run into the house. My legs are sweating as I hightail it to the massive front doors decorated with black wrought iron over the windows. I burst through the double French doors and find a couple staring at me, a king-sized bed behind them. Apparently I’ve stepped into the master bedroom rather than the front door. I’m too panicked to bother explaining a thing.
“Call 9-1-1, the field’s on fire!” Meanwhile I’m thinking, Who has double doors and a master bedroom at the front of their house?
Mrs. Connolly, an elegant redhead in capris and a collared shirt, drops a bottle of perfume and grabs the phone. “I told you to watch him!” she shouts at her husband. “I am going to kill that kid! If you weren’t so self-absorbed in your baseball games, you might have noticed your son is a pyromaniac!”
“So now he’s my son, is he? I didn’t raise him alone, you know! Maybe if you’d treated Greg as one of your charity events, he might have gotten enough attention!” Mr. Connolly rushes outside through the open d
oors to assess the situation, comes back in, disappears deeper into the house, and returns with a red fire extinguisher, all within seconds. It’s as if I’m standing still while time is in fast-forward.
Mrs. Connolly is on the phone with the operator when she looks out the window and tells her, “I think my son and husband may have stopped it from spreading, but hurry. Hurry!” She slams down the phone and starts speaking with her hands. “Harvard wants this kid. He has set this house on fire twice, taken apart absolutely everything electronic we own, and Harvard wants him. At this point, I’m glad someone does!” She finally notices my presence. “Who are you?”
“I’m Daisy.”
“Daisy Crispin?”
I nod.
“Well, little Daisy Crispin, I haven’t seen you since Greg’s fifth grade swim party. Didn’t you grow up to be a beauty? Forgive my outburst. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Well, your lawn’s on fire. It’s understandable.”
“How did this happen?” she asks rhetorically.
I don’t know. Why do you let your son play with explosives in the front yard? Do you have an explanation for that?
“I . . . Claire—” This is where Claire usually comes in with one of her excuses. On my own, I’m stupefied. Two white fire engines appear at the curb, and I use the chaos to make my escape out of the house.
Greg’s father has turned the automatic sprinklers on, so there’s no chance of the fire jumping the line to the house, but the flames have petered out down the hill anyway and much of the excitement is over. Only the strong smell of smoke and a few sparks remain. Greg stands near his father and films the billows of smoke on his video camera.
“I guess you’re not going to work today,” I say to Claire. Her car is blocked by the fire trucks.
“When I get scared, Greg comes and stays, but it’s not what you’re thinking. His room is at the other end of the house. His parents never know he leaves.” She looks over at the horizon, watching the firemen.
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