Perfectly Dateless (7 page)

Like I said, sucks to be me.

When I was in elementary school, there was this red line painted across the blacktop. If you were in the third grade or below, you couldn’t cross that red line and descend into the big-people world of the fourth through sixth graders. The magical mystery of what lay beyond that line mesmerized me, like if I could only step into that world, as if pixie dust were suddenly under my feet, I would ascend into a different hemisphere.

Naturally, when I got to fourth grade, I saw that things looked exactly the same on the other side of the line, but it was the intrigue of the unknown that made it so off-limits and terrifyingly fascinating.

St. James Academy has that line too. I’ll call it the PE (popular equator), only it’s invisible and causes strange happenings of polar proportions. It’s like
Lost
for the high school set. It takes a certain kind of person to venture into the realm of popular kids. Haven’t figured out what kind of person that is, I only know my group isn’t that.

Those of us on the other side of the equator are not privy to the conversations about upcoming events and certainly are not on the guest list for the parties. Like being on the wrong side of the blacktop, we are left to wonder about the magical happenings yonder.

“Four days of school down,” Claire says. “How many to go, Daisy?”

“Not counting weekends or vacation days, 176.”

“The home stretch.” Claire laughs and tosses her lunch onto the grass. Our ragtag group of friends is back together, having lunch on the back lawn, sitting crisscross-applesauce in a circle, like we always have.

A mere four days into the school year, Claire is completely over her summer goth stage and is now very J. Crew-looking. The hallway light didn’t do her makeover justice. Her hair is back to brown with salon caramel highlights in a wedged bob, and her nails are manicured and painted an electric blue. She pulls her lunch out of the sack (a can of strawberry Slim-Fast) and toasts us. “To us! Seniors at last.”

“To us,” we echo.

“To my friends,” I say, lifting my Snapple. “People who understand my need to share random facts.”

“I wouldn’t say we understand it, I’d say we deal with it,” Angie says. “It’s weird to us too.”

There are four of us altogether. Claire and I met the other two as freshmen in Chorale. “We’ve come a long way since Chorale,” Claire says. With our choir robes and red, rubber headbands, we had no idea that only freshmen nerds joined the a cappella choir.

“Oh my gosh, had we known,” Angie says with a laugh. “Remember how we walked out all proud of our choir robes, only to be met by the dance team in the
Dancing with the
Stars
hot chick outfits?” Angie laughs.

“It seared our friendship,” I say.

“And our reputations,” Claire adds.

“Always the pessimist,” I tell her.

“Realist.”

“Pessimists always call themselves realists,” Angie says.

Angie Chen is first-generation American, which explains why she didn’t know
choir
was a pseudonym for
nerd
. (Still wondering what my excuse was. Too many seasons of
American Idol
, perhaps?) Angie’s parents are from Shanghai, so she goes to Chinese school on Saturdays, plays the piano like Mozart, and has less of a social life than me. Chorale hardly cramped her style, but the great thing about Angie is she never cared. She’s too practical to worry about prom or high school crushes. Oh, that I could be like her.

“Claire calls herself whatever she likes. You’re never going to enlighten her about a thing,” Sarika says, and because she rarely says much, her comment stops Claire cold.

Sarika Singh was born in southern India but moved here in high school. Her parents (dad Indian, Mom white) run a church and minister to those from the Hindu faith. Her father also owns some high-tech business and imports Indian engineers like souvenirs. Her family is vegetarian, which I could totally do if my mom cooked like hers, but alas, turmeric is not a spice used in our home. Salt is considered living on the wild side and is not added without my father’s cholesterol number being announced aloud.

“Do you think we’ve come a long way?” Sarika asks. “I was just here thinking we are exactly like we were four years ago. I want a boyfriend this year. You know how when a guy goes off to war, he wants someone waiting? I feel that way about college. You can’t be marriage material unless you’re involved.”

“What?” I shout. “You want a boyfriend? Oh my gosh, that’s so completely normal, Sarika. I thought I was the only one of us.”

“Seriously, when you’re attached, it makes you unattainable. My dad says guys love that.”

“Your dad wants you to have a boyfriend?” I ask her. “That does not sound like your dad.”

“No, he wasn’t talking about me! But you girls. You should get a boyfriend before you go to college. That way, you can trade up.”

“He’s not a used car,” I say.

“You mean I can’t kick the tires?” Claire jokes. “You would have a boyfriend, Daisy, if you’d stop dressing like the girl all men over eighty fantasize about, who brings them their orange juice.”

“That’s not the reason,” Angie says. “It’s the fact that she cannot keep her mouth shut about how many hearts an octopus has and other encyclopedic facts.”

I stand up. “Come on, it’s time for lunch assembly. We get to go into the popular world for assembly in the gym.”

“We can be fashionably late,” Claire says. “Those assemblies are lame anyway. We’re seniors. We know the rules by now.”

We all stare at one another after this assessment. “But we always go to the assemblies,” I say.

“So today, we’ll do something different,” Claire says.

Angie, the optimist of us, speaks up. “We did do something different. We’re not completely the same. Claire got a better haircut. Sarika’s face cleared up, and Daisy, you grew five inches at least.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Claire says.

“I’m not the same person I was in Chorale,” I say.

“No, now we see your clothes,” Claire quips. “Lucky us.”

“That was cold,” Angie says.

I look down at my “uniform” and suddenly feel empowered. “No, she’s right, Angie. I look exactly the same.” I shake my head. “You don’t get it. You’re all going out into the great, wide world and I’m going to Bible college.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Bible college,” Sarika states, which is easy to say since she’s going to Stanford.

“I’ve been in Bible school kindergarten through senior year. Is it wrong to want something different? Where are you applying, Claire?”

She shrugs. “The UC system.”

“You need that extracurricular for San Diego or Berkeley,” Angie tells her. “Good thing you’ve got tennis.” Then she looks at me. “They count work experience, Daisy. For kids who had to work instead of play.”

All three of them look at me. “Seriously, I would consider Bible college if my parents’ goal wasn’t to get me married off to a preacher.”

“You’ll get into any school you want,” Claire says. “No preacher would marry you. Don’t they know about your Tourette’s with facts? You’d empty the pews in no time.”

“Let’s go. We’re going to be late for assembly.” I sling my backpack over my shoulder and start walking. Angie and Sarika pack up, and Claire finally gives up and throws her empty Slim-Fast can in the bag.

“Don’t you want to go out with a bang? Be remembered for more than—I don’t know—sitting here on the grass by ourselves?” Claire asks. “There’s a big world out there!” She stretches her arms out.

“A big, bitter world that’s told us we don’t matter,” I say. Why mention I have the very same goal? Then it wouldn’t be Claire’s idea and I wouldn’t have her full cooperation.

They all shake their heads in unison. “I can’t wait to get out of here,” Sarika says. “I’m sick of high school. I am tired of people who care about what clothes you wear more than your accomplishments in life.”

“I agree. I can hardly wait to get out,” Angie says.

“That’s because you all have a place to go.” Unsaid:
Hello?
What about me?

“You’ve earned the money to put yourself through school. You’ve hoarded everything you’ve earned. And it’s not like you won’t work during college. You know how to juggle both already.” Claire sniffs.

I don’t mention that I’ve applied to Pepperdine’s prestigious business school and my “hoarding” barely covers books, much less tuition.

“You could have afforded to dress well if you wanted to,” Sarika says.

“It doesn’t seem very responsible to choose clothes over college.”

“Don’t bother with her, girls, she’s convinced she has to save every penny she earns. She has an answer for every one of your suggestions. If she breaks into the piggy bank now, everything is doomed.”

Claire just described my parents, and I scramble to remember why I save everything. “Um, junior college, my parents . . . living at home. Should I elaborate?”

“Oh, right,” Angie says.

Just the way she says it is depressing. Like everyone knows my parents are the strictest. Sarika’s parents want to choose whom she marries, and Angie’s want her to become a doctor before she’s married, yet they’re all mourning
my
life. That’s just sad.

“So are we going to try to fit in once before we leave?”

“I don’t care if I’m popular,” Claire states. “You can’t be popular and cheap, Daisy. You can’t pay for college and dress like Amber Richardson, so why compete on a level like that? Don’t you watch
The Hills
? That crowd is vicious. You’re the smart girl, Daisy. Just accept it.”

“Hey, Daisy!”

I look behind me and shield my eyes against the sun, and Greg Connolly (#3 on my list) is walking toward us. “Hi, Greg,” I say, while desperately gulping the remaining PB and J in my mouth. Dang. I’m a spaz. I remind myself to offer no facts. Prom princesses do not know that Greg’s height could merely be a malfunction of the pituitary gland.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” Greg asks, looking at the rest of my friends. “Alone?”

“Sure.” I could swear Claire scowls at me, but I follow Greg. “What’s up?”

Greg looks like Orlando Bloom and dresses like a J. Crew ad. No, he dresses like a J.Crew
catalog
! I whip my head around toward Claire, with her sweater thrown leisurely over her shoulders in a knot and her hair pushed back by a plaid headband, and suddenly the ground feels a bit shaky. Why do I remember random facts but don’t see what’s right in front of me?

He looks around me, back toward the group, and my fears are confirmed. “Claire’s not been coming to youth group at church. Was she gone this summer? She didn’t even come for food-pantry stocking. She always comes to that.”

Because I drag her!

“No, her mother and father have been away. They don’t like her to leave the house at night when they’re gone. The maid gets afraid. But I haven’t been coming either.” Implication: did you notice my absence, Greg?

“Oh,” he stammers, and kicks his toe into the grass.

“Is there something you wanted to ask me about Claire, Greg?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I thought we’d . . . I don’t know . . . connected over the summer. Earlier, at the club. Now she doesn’t talk to me.”

“She’ll be at youth group soon.”

I walk back to my friends, and Claire has one eyebrow raised. I can’t help but feel slightly betrayed. I would have never written Greg’s name in my prom journal had I known they were a possibility. “You don’t tell your friends when you’re flirting with intent?” I ask her.

“What?” Claire asks.

“He asked about you, Claire. I didn’t ask you anything about the goth phase, just let it slide, but if this J.Crew phase has anything to do with Greg, I’d wish you’d said something.” I settle back into our dysfunctional circle as we walk.

“Me? Why on earth would Greg ask about me?” She places her hand on the knot of her sweater.

“I can’t fathom,” I say with a smirk.

The gym is packed when we get inside, only because attendance is mandatory. The only seats that remain are in the front, next to all the freshmen.

“I told you we’d be late,” I say.

“I told us not to come,” Claire says. “No one takes roll.”

We pile into the available seats in the second row, and the overhead lights dim. The school band plays some praise song that is unrecognizable with the blare of the horns and off-key, out-of-practice musicians.

Principal Walker, looking tidy and uptight in his gray suit, knocks on the microphone, and the band quits as they see fit. The speakers overload, and the students groan.

“Good afternoon, students of St. James Academy. It’s been a fine year so far, but we’d like to keep it that way throughout the year. One of the things we pride ourselves on here at St. James is the quality of peer communication and the lack of bullying that goes on in our hallways.”

“Yeah, if you’re the principal,” I say.

“Today we are very fortunate to have a group of guests who have come to teach us what can happen when there is no respect in the hallways. Bullying is not tolerated in our school, nor should it be in any Christian environment, but this is one more way we’d like to drive the message home. Please help me welcome Mr. and Mrs. Crispin and their troupe as they act out ‘Pretty in Peer Pressure.’”

My face goes white, and I do believe my PB and J is backing up on me. My friends look at me, and I shrug and shake my head.
Please, please, let it be another Mr. and Mrs. Crispin.
Surely I have some long-lost relatives in the area.

The music starts with “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” and my mother bops out dressed as Cyndi Lauper, twisting her skirt with zeal as she skips across the stage. It might even be her hideous, hot pink dress from prom. Only now it’s just a skirt, because let’s face it, my mom is no girl, and her dance could easily be confused for the dry heaves.

I shut my eyes, hoping it will be over soon, but I hear the word
puberty
, followed by
purity
, and then the roar of laughter in the audience. My face is hot, and I sink as low as I can into my chair without sliding onto the wood floor.

The music of the first act wilts, and my father appears on stage, dressed as Elvis. His sideburns are a rich, glossy black, and I can only pray the kids think it’s part of his costume.