“It doesn’t go together. You have to speak the whole sentence, Daisy, not just half of it, or you don’t make any sense. Not that your facts make any sense to the rest of us. We are not listing facts today. You are not Spock. At least try for Uhura and be hot, all right? You are not the History Channel or Animal Planet, and you are not an accountant, so change your major!” Claire catches her breath before starting up again. “We’re shopping. If you would like to offer up a fact about a great purchase, I’m all ears, but if you have anything to say about the two-toed sloth or how many hemispheres may in fact exist, I don’t want to hear about it.”
“I read it in a novel.”
“And? That’s half a thought.”
“I read about the sloth in a novel.” I spin my wristlet around.
She stops the motion. “I’m not getting through. All right, what are you nervous about? Is it the idea we might throw a party and Chase might come?”
“What if I buy the wrong clothes? Worse yet, what if they make the wrong impression? Or no impression? What if it’s our party and no one talks to me?”
“Your parents took care of the ‘no impression’ yesterday. You’re covered there. People will talk to us or we’ll kick them out. I’m totally hiring a bouncer. He’s going to look like Chris Brown, and if anyone messes with us, I’m saying, ‘Do you want him to go all Chris Brown on you? He will, so get out!’” Claire shakes out her hair and lets out a deep breath. “Let’s focus. Clothes are about how you feel. You find clothes that you feel great in, and that emanates from every pore. So you give off this great energy. Great energy, magnetic presence with guys. It’s simple math, so even you ought to understand that.”
I don’t want to put too much faith in a new pair of jeans. Chances are, I’ll go back to school on Monday as the same dork who left on Friday.
“I’ve got to go quit and tell them I’ll turn in my uniform when the stores open. You want to come?”
“I wouldn’t miss it!”
The neon lights of the food court are dark, and the only noise is a song with differing languages. “I wonder if a food court really is supposed to be this international. Like, I wonder if in Topeka, you hear all these languages.”
Claire glares at me.
“Sorry.” Behind the bleached countertop at the hot-dog stand is some poor guy in a horizontal-striped shirt with unfortunate red pants—less intrusive than Claire’s full spectrum of primary colors, but certainly not masculine in any way, shape, or form. “That is just wrong,” I whisper to Claire. Not only does he have to dress like that, today he has to do it alone. “Tsk tsk. I’ll just wait over here.”
“Daisy?” The guy in the bad outfit stands up, and I freeze. Max Diaz is wrestling with a Lucite container of lemons and ice. He stops what he’s doing and wipes his hands on a towel. Oh my goodness, I think I’m speaking Spanish in my head.
“Muy guapo. Caliente.”
I fan my face. “He makes that ridiculous outfit look good.”
“Thanks,” he says. His gorgeous olive skin turns crimson. So apparently I did say that out loud.
“You took French,” Claire says to me.
“I speak French too. I lived in the French section of Buenos Aires.” He stares at Claire in her matching obnoxious uniform. “You’re who I’m training today?”
“Well, actually, I came to tell you—”
“She’s here reporting for duty, Max.” I give him a salute.
“
You
need a job?” he asks Claire, who clearly, with her salon highlights and professional manicure, does not look the part of corn-dog queen.
“Yeah, I hired on with a Mexican manager yesterday. Juan somebody. He said to be here at ten.”
“That was my father,” Max says. “We’re from Argentina.”
Claire looks at me, and I can’t help but laugh.
“It’s in South America,” I tell her and look back at Max. “She’s not racist, just geographically challenged. We were friends with Angie Chen for three years before Claire realized Chinese wasn’t a language.” Max blinks. “Usually, it’s Mandarin or Cantonese,” I explain to Max, as I once did to Claire.
“Isn’t South America where Mexico is?” Claire asks, as though (1) Max can’t hear her, or (2) I might have a useless fact mixed up. Both of which are impossible.
“Mexico is Central America,” Max says. “Close.” He grins. “Well, not really. Mexico’s in the Northern Hemisphere, we’re in the Southern. Some of my country is close to Antarctica.”
“What is with you people and hemispheres? Who talks like that? I know Antarctica. Where the big penguins are!” Claire offers. “I saw
Penguins
.” She turns to me. “Daisy, did you hear that? He knows his hemispheres too. I cannot believe I have said that word twice in a day. Do you see what you’re doing to the good people of Silicon Valley?”
“You’re from Buenos Aires?” I’m staying pressed against the counter so that Max won’t notice I’m dressed like a street person in my jammies.
“Recoleta. We lived right by the famous cemetery where Eva Peron is buried. It’s the French section of town—that’s why I speak French.”
“Don’t cry for me, Argentina!” Claire says. “My parents made me sit through that play in London. It wasn’t my favorite.”
“You saw a play in London,” I mumble. “Let me do the complaining here.”
Claire starts speaking loudly. “So what kind of houses do you have there? Tin roofs? Grass huts? Was it weird to get running water?”
The back of his jaw twitches on both sides. “We have French-inspired buildings. Buenos Aires is called the Paris of South America. About thirteen million people in the city and surrounding areas. Makes San Jose look like a paltry suburb.”
“Oh, so, like, you have indoor plumbing.”
“Yes, Claire. I think we might even be able to impress you there.”
I like how he’s not offended by Claire’s blatant ignorance. He’s very gentle with her, and his kindness endears me to him. The fact that he speaks three languages and knows what hemisphere he lives in doesn’t hurt either. Nor does the fact that he’s talking to me, plain and simple.
He steps down off the platform and comes beside me. He takes a look at my pink and green pajamas, smiles slightly, then grabs my waist and hand. “We are famous for the tango.” He starts to dance me around the food court. “Which is not only a dance but a style of music too. Did you hear that, Claire? A style of music,” he shouts over my shoulder. “We have ice cream delivery bikes to offer you a
limon
when you’re parched.”
I’m so lost in the movement, I forget what I’m wearing until I see Max focus on my legs. “I—uh—”
“Nice pants.” His eyes twinkle, and right then I think I’m in love because Max seems to find it charming that I’m in sleepwear. Chase who?
Claire sticks her head between us, and Max pulls away. “So, Max, Daisy and I were talking about the party we’re going to give. Maybe right after Halloween or so. Kind of an All Saints’ Day party. Do you know any good bands that we might get to play?”
“Bands?” I never said I’d go along with this.
“Bands?” Max asks.
I pull him away by the arm. “Never mind. We don’t need any bands.” I glare at Claire, then turn back to Max. “So if Buenos Aires is so fabulous, why come here?” I don’t make mention of the bad hot-dog suit. I figure he must have his reasons, and who am I to judge?
He says something back to me, but it’s like a one-sided tennis volley. I’ve lost sight of what he’s saying. I’m mesmerized by both his intellect and his gorgeous bone structure. He hops back onto the hot-dog platform and starts fiddling with the cash register.
“You should be a model,” I tell him dreamily.
Claire has her lip upturned, but I ignore her.
“So is it like Rio? I’ve always wanted to go there after seeing the
Christ the Redeemer
sculpture in the modern seven wonders of the world.”
“It’s better than Rio. More sophisticated. I think you’d prefer the educated porteños to the club scene in Rio.”
I’m lost in his eyes, and in the idea of international travel. “I would love to go anywhere. Claire’s been to Europe.”
“I’m going back next year,” Max says. “For college. The University of Argentina is one of the best in the world. And it’s free.”
“Free?” My ears perk up. “For Argentians?”
“Argentines,” he corrects me. “And foreigners. You’d have to complete your compulsories and take up residence. But that only takes a year, and the University of Buenos Aires has one of the best reputations in the world.”
“Get that look off your face,” Claire says to me. “You are not going to Argentina. Listen to your best friend. Switching from accounting to science, that’s your deal. That’s all you have to think of right now besides the party. You are not going to a foreign country. You have to master this one first.”
“Finance, not accounting. Completely different majors.” “Whatever. Can we go?”
Max ignores Claire—and I like him for that too. Knowing when to ignore Claire is a gift. “Science?” Max says. “The university has won many Nobel Prizes in science.”
For a moment, I allow myself to dream about attending school in a different country. The idea glistens in my brain, like new numbers not found yet.
Claire comes around and pulls Max by the arm, apparently forgetting her role as an employee. “Look, Don Juan, this girl is ripe for your romanticized version of South America, where the education is free and the clothing is optional. Let’s get to work, shall we?” She looks back over her shoulder. “Daisy, you go shopping. I’m going to learn how to stomp lemons.” She crosses her arms and waits for Max’s full attention, but blissfully, he’s still looking at me, and I’m seeing our future. He’s teaching at the university. I’m teaching English to the other young mothers.
At that point, it registers that Claire isn’t coming shopping with me.
“I thought—” I pull away from Max. “I thought you weren’t working. You were going to quit, remember?”
“Here are my keys so you can leave when you’re done. Just come back and get me at—what time, Don?” she shouts at Max.
He ignores her barb. “Come back at six. The rush will be over by then, and I can close down alone.” Max looks at me again. “I meant to tell you, it’s smart of you to wear pajamas shopping. So much easier to try things on, it’s a wonder no one’s thought of it before.”
I brush my fingertips on my collar. “Well, you know—”
Claire pushes me away from the hot-dog stand. “Look.” She blocks my view of Max and forces me back with her staccato words. “How does someone from the French section of Argentina go to a public high school in San Jose and end up at St. James while running his father’s hot-dog cart? Do the math, Daisy. Guys don’t come from Buenos Aires to run hot-dog joints. This guy is a player, and you’re putty in his well-practiced hands. Now go, shop and stay away from here. Max is not invited to our party.”
I have to keep reminding myself that this is my best friend and she only wants what’s best for me. Otherwise it may result in physical pain for her.
Prom Journal
September 22
166 Days until Prom
Fact of the Day: Your legs get sticky working with lemonade all day. Somehow I thought after our first-grade lemonade stand at the corner, Claire and I were done with that avenue of high finance. Claire was like a giant piece of cotton candy when she finished working.
Life is a mess! Claire stayed over the weekend, but she said nothing about her parents both being gone and the maid not being there. I know my mother would have called Claire’s mother and ratted her out. Then I’d be off the hook. I hate the thought of her rattling around in that big house alone at night. I’m not so much worried about her safety as how completely comfortable she is without anyone around. She calls up the grocer, orders weekly deliveries like she’s been doing it her whole life, and then signs the slip without thought to who pays the bill—and someone must, or they wouldn’t keep delivering.
Right now, her only friends are “Gossip Girl” and Rory Gilmore when reruns of “Gilmore Girls” are on. Which, with the size of Claire’s satellite dish, is way too often. I tell you, she probably gets television programming from Mars!
This totally surprised me: Claire’s still working at the lemonade shack, and she loves it! The second day Claire worked, Amber Richardson came by and recorded her on a cell phone.
Claire took it as her fifteen minutes and totally started dancing. Amber, evil as she is, uploaded the video to You-Tube. But remember, you cannot embarrass Claire. Claire herself downloaded the video and added Beyonce' music, and only then was it obvious she was doing the “Single Ladies” dance. Justin Timberlake on SNL has nothing on my BFF in her Hot Dog on a Stick uniform. Her version went viral, and she became a star at St. James.
Amber tried to tell everyone she did it. She thought of it, but her desperate cries for attention went unheeded. (Oh, and if you’re wondering why my prom journal is filled with useless facts about other people and not myself, it’s because I have absolutely nothing to report on prom, a prom date, or the male population in general.)
Claire used her dance as her platform to talk about the hugest party of the season—ours (until our parents find out and have us burned at the stake). Claire tweeted for everyone to see that unless she got a personal apology online for all the mean stuff Amber’s done to us, Amber would not be invited! I still cannot believe we’re going through with this.
The thing is, Amber did apologize, and now we have to invite her bony self or we look like the jerks. I’m so glad I’m dressed decently for the newfound popularity. I went to PacSun for all my school gear. My mother doesn’t know it exists, and therefore it is not on the forbidden list. Woo-hoo!!
Here’s the thing about flying high that Amber might want to take into account now that she’s one of us. It’s our nature as the invisible kids to wait to come crashing back to earth. Most days at school, we are on shaky ground at best, but Sarika, Angie, Claire, and me? We ate on the other side of the popular equator for once in our lives, and unlike the fourth grade where nothing was different, this experience rocked my world! Chase Doogle and a cold Fizzy Izze in a can? It doesn’t get any better than that. I used to be jealous of Amber, and my mom would say there was nothing there to envy—but now I know the truth!