Hey, sorry again for that thing with that girl tonight. You seemed sort of out of it on the way home: are you mad at me for something? I mean I know I made us leave early but I didn’t think it was that big of a deal. But if I did something, I’m sorry.
Anyway, thanks for the fun night and tell Matt the same. And okay, fine, I guess hiding behind my computer screen I can admit that I do sort of like him. A little. Hope that doesn’t make you want to upchuck. But you said my dad was hot so I guess now we’re even.
Daisy
I hit send and watch the email move from my outbox to the ether. Then I scoot off the bed, retrieve pajamas and toiletries from my bag, and walk to the bathroom to get ready to go to sleep. When I return, despite it being the middle of the night, I’m disappointed to find that there’s no reply. Audrey’s emailed me later than this, and now I can’t help but wonder whether she really is mad at me for some reason.
I crawl under the overbleached sheets, wired on soda and adrenaline, confused.
After only three hours of real sleep—which feels more like three minutes—my wakeup call sounds and I want to throw the phone out the window. Instead I roll over, pick up the receiver, and then slam it down again without answering. Then I go back to sleep. Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. The interior one, of course.
“Daisy, are you up?” Mason’s muffled voice calls through the wall.
“Yes,” I groan, exhausted.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” Mason calls back.
“I am!” I shout back. Mason doesn’t answer.
Annoyed at the daylight, I throw off the covers and climb out of bed, tripping over the laptop cord on my way to the bathroom. I land with a thud on the hideous carpet and lie there, wondering what else could go wrong. Eventually I manage to shower and get ready, which makes me feel a little better, until I remember where we’re going today.
To Wade’s house.
The Zimmermans have upgraded to an even bigger house—for three people—since the last time I was forced to come to Kansas City, so the neighborhood we’re driving through now is new to me. Compared to the McKeans’ development, this one is a poseur. The massive houses are set back from the street, and there are kids out playing on the sidewalks. The difference is that here, the homes are new, matching, and only pretend to have character. I realize that there aren’t individual mailboxes in front of the homes when I see a postal worker pull up next to a large metal community box with a locked section for each family. Something about not having your own mailbox bothers me.
As if reading my mind, Megan texts.
Megan: Where are you?
Daisy: KC.
Megan: NO!!
Daisy: Yes. Mason made me.
Megan: So sorry, girl. I know how you loathe Wade. Hang tough, okay? I’ll do an extra great post in your honor tonight. I’m thinking a backstage pass to my closet. You like?
Daisy: Sounds FABULOUS.
Megan: xoxo
Daisy: Same to you
Right then, we pull into the driveway of a house I can only describe as a non-pink, walled version of Barbie’s dream house, complete with a Porsche out front. The license plate reads KCHS FP.
KCHS… Kansas City High School?
“Is that Wade’s car?” I ask loudly.
“Must be,” Mason says. “There’s a student parking sticker on the front window.” Of course Mr. Observant noticed that.
I groan.
“Be nice,” Mason says quietly as we walk to the front porch and ring the bell.
“Always.”
Taller than Mason, and with a square head, jaw, and shoulders, Wade Zimmerman is a big block of a guy. He has decent skin, cropped hair, and white teeth that are mostly straight. His nose is a touch crooked, which would add to his appeal if he didn’t love to tell the story of how he broke it getting bucked off a mechanical bull… well after eight seconds, of course. Girls who like chauvinistic pigs—or maybe even grown women who like young guys—might find Wade attractive. I, on the other hand, do not.
My crap radar goes off the second we walk in the door. Wade is wearing—I am totally not kidding—a sweater-vest. Not a sexy J.Crew sweater-vest; an old-man politician sweater-vest.
“Lovely to see you again, Daisy,” Wade says as he offers his hand to me to shake. I fight the urge to roll my eyes or pretend to be British when I answer.
“Good to see you, too,” I mutter.
“How are you enjoying your new school?” he asks. Why does he have to talk like he’s forty-seven?
“It’s fine,” I say. “What’s with the Porsche?”
“Oh, you like it?” Wade asks. “It was a birthday gift from my parents.” Shrugging, he adds, “It gets me to and from practice.”
“Funny,” I say, not thinking so at all. Instead of pointing out that he’s the cockiest guy I know, I ask about his license plate: “What’s FP?”
Wade chuckles loudly—literally, it sounds like “Ha, ha, ha, ha!” because I guess he’s not even himself when he laughs—then explains the hilarity.
“It means Franchise Player,” he says. “It’s the nickname the other players have given me for my skills as a quarterback. It simply means that I’m a valued member of the team. It’s all in jest.”
In jest?
Wade tries to appear embarrassed, but there’s nothing remotely flustered about his expression. All that reads there is pride.
Overconfidence.
“Cool,” I say, not really thinking so, but trying to be nice because Mason asked me to.
After a few more pleasantries, scones, and one too many stories about scouts coming to see Wade play, I’m shown into the Zimmermans’ first-floor office to mess around online while Mason and Cassie go to work. I log on and check my emaiclass="underline" no reply from Audrey. Trying not to obsess too much about it, I switch over to Anything Autopsy and blog about sensible versus nonsensical cars for teens, then do a “she said” reply to Megan’s diatribe about the newest YouTube pop sensation. Just as I’m hitting publish, Mason puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Ah!” I shout, jumping out of the chair. Mason steps back and raises his palms.
“Sorry, thought you heard me,” he says, holding back a laugh.
“You’re like a ninja; how would I have heard you?”
This makes Mason laugh for real, and I find it’s impossible to keep a straight face. His unfiltered happiness is a rare treat, like when comedians laugh themselves out of character while performing sketch comedy. It doesn’t happen all that often, but when it does, it’s contagious.
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay down here,” he says after we’ve composed ourselves, waving a hand at the computer setup.
“I’m fine,” I say, sitting down.
“Okay, good. Because we’re ready to start now and won’t be taking a break for three hours,” Mason replies.
“Great,” I say.
Mason turns to leave.
“Hey, Mason?” I say. He turns around and looks at me expectantly. “I think I’m getting attached to Omaha.” Admitting it feels good, like a weight off my shoulders. I feel even better when Mason responds.
“Daisy, you’re an adaptable young woman, and that’s a great asset for the program,” he says. “But if you didn’t start getting attached to places or people at some point, I’d be worried. Honestly, hearing you say that is a relief.”
“Let’s hope we don’t have to move again.”
“I’ll do everything in my power to see that we don’t.”
I smile and Mason leaves, and I sit at Wade’s computer wondering about what Mason said. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not sure it will do any good. I’ve heard that God likes Mason, but ultimately, God is the one in control.