He doesn’t look me in the eye, and I think of the fact that liars look to their left. Chase fidgets and wipes his mouth. A couple times. His nervousness makes me tense.
“I can’t believe you’d even ask me that, Daisy! It’s ridiculous and you know it’s ridiculous! There’s a reason that guy isn’t at our school anymore. If he didn’t have something to hide from, where is he? I’m back. I owned up to my mistake, and I’m going to the Air Force Academy. I did not even know Amber was in Claire’s room.”
My heart jumps. “I never said Amber was in Claire’s room.”
“You did. You totally did. You said that night, ‘Run up and get her, she’s in Claire’s room sleeping.’ You were so stressed, and see, now you can’t remember anything. You were in shock.”
“I wasn’t in shock,” I tell him. “That night I thought
Claire
was in her room, but she wasn’t. Somehow you knew that, didn’t you?”
Chase’s face is getting red, and I want to stop myself. I want to go back to the way things were, where we forget all about my ridiculous accusations and he’s just Chase Doogle, prom date of my dreams. But something won’t let me drop it, and my mouth keeps talking, keeps accusing as though it’s got a mind of its own.
“You knew Claire wasn’t in her room, didn’t you?” The way he looks at me, with such venom that I don’t remember the “truth” according to him, scares me. It’s as if there’s something else altogether dwelling inside that perfect form I’ve loved since childhood. “What happened to you, Chase?”
“Me?” He slaps his chest. “Yes, it’s me. You’re the one having the Nancy Drew fantasies about something that never happened, and it’s me who has the problem.” He shakes his head. “All my friends tried to tell me about you. They said I was out of your league, but you know what? I stood up for you. I said, ‘No, guys, Daisy is cool,’ and this is what I get for my trouble. Accused of knowing where your friend what’s-her-name was all night.”
“But you did know,” I say quietly.
“I don’t have to take this!” He picks up the flowers and throws them at my feet, and they scatter into hundreds of red petals dotted with sprays of baby’s breath. “I came here to ask you to prom because that’s what I thought you wanted. I came here to make peace, but you can’t let it go. You won’t be happy until you save the reputation of your slutty friend. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” He snorts in disgust. “Find yourself your own ride home. And I’m not taking you to any prom or—I’m not taking you anywhere!” He runs out the door, leaving the roses on the floor.
Gil comes out of his office and stretches out his arms. “I heard everything,” he says, and I let him hug me, thankful for the backup.
I have myself an ugly cry and use the back of my shirt sleeve to wipe my nose. Gil pats me on the back and just lets me snort it all out.
“He’s a liar, Daisy. It’s one of my best tricks, getting the girl to think she’s crazy, and I’ve used it way too often. I’m learning a lot here. It’s a real eye-opener.”
I squint at him as I pull away. “Good, because it sounds like you need to. I’m glad my pain benefits you.”
He chuckles. “Come on.” He puts my sweater over my shoulders. “I’ll give you a ride home.”
“I think my dad would appreciate that,” I say.
Saturday morning, I awake at peace. My hand still aches at times, but the day of my vanity has arrived. Los Gatos is the kind of town where the men wear Italian shoes and silky slacks that hang as though there is money sewn in the cuffs, and on occasion they carry a “man bag,” known to the rest of us as a guy’s purse. I can’t get past the idea of a man with a handbag. I get that it’s European, but somehow it doesn’t translate.
I’ve waited a month for a Saturday appointment. I wanted to make the most of this day and my makeover, and that took a bit of understanding of the new me. Gil’s sister even offered to come in on Sunday. Sunday in Los Gatos has the frenetic energy of a puppy after breakfast. Everyone turns into Al Gore for the event, with an unstated competition of who is greener. People show up on their bicycles, carrying their cloth bags and shopping for vegetables in the sunlight. Others stroll with their designer dogs and hang out in their yoga wear while sipping nonfat soy lattes. It’s a bit like my high school with better clothes and cars.
On Saturdays, however, Los Gatos is only foreign in that way where the high-end shops are too pricey for me to shop in, and the all-glass Apple Computer boutique tells me by its exterior that I cannot afford anything inside. I drive a battered, domestic car, and everyone dresses better than me here. That’s the kind of world I’m used to.
As I park my father’s Pontiac on the street in front of a Japanese restaurant, I worry that it will be towed simply for the crime of being a Pontiac. I don’t set the alarm for obvious reasons as I prepare for my hair appointment. I have reservations about being a charity case, but the hope of redefining myself is too great.
As I enter Leighton, Chelsea’s shop, there’s the trickle of a waterfall and New Age music playing. I immediately want a nap since I was up late last night.
A girl about my age greets me. “Good morning, welcome to Leighton.” She reaches out her hands, and I’m unsure of what to do with my own, so I keep them plastered on my handbag handles. “May I get you a cappuccino or a glass of wine?”
“Um, no. No thank you.” I stiffen, immediately aware of how I don’t fit into this pampered world. “I’m Daisy. I’m here for my ten o’clock appointment with Chelsea.” I don’t sit down, just stand nervously until a tall blonde in clicking heels comes around the waterfall and smiles broadly at me.
“Daisy!” Chelsea is taller than me, and she’s wearing a gorgeous pair of black slacks with a white shirt and fitted black vest that elongates her perfect figure. “Oh my goodness, you are so cute! I mean, my brother told me you were cute, but you are darling! Maybe he didn’t want to go overboard so I had to yell at him. Look at that skinny little frame. Do you model? I have someone who could do your book, if you’re interested. With legs like that, well . . .”
The only things that look remotely model-like on me are my gorilla arms and flat chest. I’m the kind of girl designers would love because I’m little more than a wire hanger, but I appreciate her gesture anyway.
“I’m just here for a haircut.”
“And those cheekbones! I’m going to have a field day with you. Gil didn’t tell me I was getting such a blank canvas. Don’t you wear makeup?”
“I prefer au naturel,” I lie. As if there’s anyone on earth who doesn’t mind highlighting her bad complexion. I may like the feel of no makeup, but I definitely do not like the spotted-leopard look I’ve been known to sport on my face. As if there’s something more we girls need to make these years feel darker, we have to have acne on top of it all. When I get to heaven, I am definitely having a chat about that one.
“Even nature loves some help. I have some great tinted sunscreen I’m going to try on you. You’ll be fabulous!”
“I don’t want to take advantage of Gil.”
“Oh, take advantage of him. Think of it as payback for the female race. It’s not like you’re asking him to pay for implants, right?”
“Do it, sweetheart!” A redhead bursting out of her black knit top nods at me.
Chelsea whispers in my ear, “She dated my brother for a while.” She pulls back and flips her hair, her blonde tresses floating as though she’s on the beach and time is standing still. Without thinking about it, I try this move and bang my head on the hard-wire brush in Chelsea’s hand.
“Oooh, are you okay? I’m so sorry.”
I hold up my good hand. “No, no. It was me.”
“So what are we going to do today?” She runs her long, slender fingers through my hair and flips it up a few times. “You’ve got great body, so I think we need something swingy so you have lots of movement.”
“Can I have movement like your hair?”
“You have better hair than me.”
“I don’t.”
Chelsea bends down and puts her face next to mine in the mirror. I look out the window and see Gil’s blue Porsche park along the curb. “Looks like Gil’s here.”
“He probably wants to see what I’m going to charge him.” She laughs. “Come on, let’s go get you washed up.”
Chelsea takes me back to the sinks, and someone else comes in to take over. “My name is Jenny, I’ll be washing your hair today. What type of pressure do you prefer?”
“I didn’t know there was a choice.” I shrug under the wrapping of towels. “Clean pressure?”
She laughs. “Lay back.” After a head massage, I am limp like a wet noodle when I walk back out to the main room of the shop. I stop abruptly and pull the towel off of my head.
“Dad!” I look at my father, who is standing next to Gil. “What are you doing here? How’d you get here? I have your car.”
“Gil brought me.”
“Gil?” I look at my boss.
“He came to talk to me this morning about Chase Doogle.”
“I’m confused.”
“I know about the party. Your mother believes I’m much more infirm than I am. My only child doesn’t come home one night, I’m going to notice. I love your mother so much, honey. I haven’t been the best provider, I understand that, but look at my girls. They take care of themselves so well.”
“Why are you here, Dad?”
“Last night, Claire helped me out with a show. You should have seen her. You would have been so proud. That girl has a lot of talent.”
“Drama’s her specialty,” I say.
“She told me she sent Chase to pick you up and what happened between you, but Mom told me Gil brought you home.”
“He called to read me the riot act,” Gil says, holding up his hands. “But I told him I’d never threaten my best employee.”
“You accused Chase of something terrible,” Dad says.
I fiddle with my hands.
“Do you believe it’s true?”
“I do, Dad. But I don’t want his whole future destroyed. But then I think, what if he’s really capable of these kinds of things? Does he belong in a place that trusts him with a multimillion-dollar jet?”
“I’m more concerned that I can’t trust him with one of our daughters, and that’s worth far more to us dads whether we’re senators or partially employed actors. Get your hair done. We have an appointment this afternoon with Principal Walker.”
“You believe me?” I force myself to hold back the tears. I can see it in my father’s eyes. “You trust me?”
“Always. It was myself I didn’t trust. I didn’t want you to make the same mistakes.” He laughs. “And you didn’t. You made some bigger ones. In all my years of rabble-rousing, I honestly never burned anything down.”
“Can I have my ‘CrackBerry’ back?”
He grins. “Don’t push it.”
Prom Journal
February 3
30 Days until Prom
Fact: For every door God closes, a window opens . . . but it might be painted shut and you might be better off just staying put.
All freshened up and nowhere to go. Gil’s sister made me look as good as I can, but it wasn’t enough to send me into the world where I have a date to the prom. But somehow it hardly matters.
Prom is an ideal. It’s not real. In my new, godlier state, I know this. I was searching for an ideal, and maybe I missed noticing some reality in the process. I imagined that if I had the perfect photo opportunity, my memories of high school would be fabulous, they’d float to the sky like a helium balloon, and my whole future would be reframed.
In fact, my dad’s right. Ugh! It kills me to say that! But I am no worse off having failed miserably as a popular, high school party hostess. Or even as a dateless wonder on prom day. There are worse things than being dateless. I could have gone to prom with Chase and questioned all night if I could really trust him. It’s nice to have my dad as an excuse. I don’t date. That’s why I’m not going to prom.
I mean, let’s say I am right about Chase—that he does have some tendencies toward the deviant, scary, and downright perverse. Let’s just say there’s an 8 percent chance—heck, a 2 percent chance. I’m better off to realize it now, before anything might happen. Maybe God knows I wasn’t strong enough to ward off his charms by myself, forget adding pharmaceuticals to the equation. If that’s true, then my dad’s prayers and freakish worry are a good thing. I’ve learned if I can make my dad’s life more comfortable so he won’t worry, maybe that’s all God wanted from me.
But I’d be lying if I said I still don’t think I could handle a prom date. Sure, I got burned the last time I ventured outside my box (third-degree in one place!), but as Christians, we press on, right? Toward the goal and the hope and all that. Thirty days is not impossible for God. It is impossible for Daisy Crispin, as evidenced by the previous six thirty-day periods.
Life does look different to me when I look back on the last six months, so that’s something in terms of perspective. I always thought that Claire had it made. Her mother was elegant and knew the right things to say, the correct gift to bring for the occasion, and the right people to stand next to in the society pictures, but that was only on the surface. Underneath, her mother was broken, and her parents’ marriage nothing more than a mirage.
Their house partially burning down was a blessing. No, really. Practically everyone whose kid was at the party sued them for child endangerment, neglect, personal suffering, and worse. (Apparently that verse about Christians not suing one another is valid only in certain states.) Claire’s dad’s back home and going into litigation again, rather than teaching like he's been doing. I imagine it’s going to be a full-time job to keep what they have left. Mrs. Webber took control of the insurance, the rebuilding of the left side of the house, and the attempt to piece together what Claire and I destroyed in one night.
Financially they’ll probably end up with practically nothing. But emotionally? Her family is whole for the first time. Claire’s parents came back to lean on one another. Since everyone else abandoned them, they didn’t really have a choice. They came to lean on Jesus, faith, and each other—since there wasn’t a lot of anything else left.
So it’s all about perspective. Burning down the house—not such a great idea, but refining the Webbers through heat? That was a beautiful thing. And when I look at the blank page in my scrapbook marked “prom,” someday that will be a beautiful thing too.