“Those are all the stores that are for my age group. Would you like me to head to Coldwater Creek and get me a sweater with autumn leaves on it?”
“The more you spend on fashion, the less time you have for what really matters. These girls are only transferring their own insecurities, and look at you, you’re buying into it.” She picks up the laundry basket. “They’re not your friends.”
As evidenced by their rampant use of epithets in my direction.
Thank you, Mom.
I have no idea why my mother sees this particular store as the devil incarnate (her words, not mine), but there it is. “I don’t want to be their friends. I just want to fly under the radar and escape their wrath.”
“So why don’t you try talking to them?” She pulls her hair out of its cotton headband.
“About what, Mom?”
“All those facts you come up with. You remember everything like you’re reading an encyclopedia. It’s just amazing to me. Don’t you think the other girls would find that fascinating?”
“Could be, but I think it would be fascinating like how people are fascinated by the freak at the circus you pay a dollar to see, not like, ‘Wow, how did we miss Daisy? She should be popular!’”
“Now come on, that’s an incredible skill what you do with numbers.”
I have a skill with random number facts. I can remember everyone’s phone number since kindergarten. If I call for a pizza? That number is with me for life.
“I don’t have room for the stuff these girls care about. So can’t we compromise, Mom, and say the T-shirt can stay?”
“Wearing a tight T-shirt with the name of a store famous for erotic advertising is not the message I want my daughter sending to boys.”
“Boys don’t even know I exist. The chance of one of them being overcome with passion from my T-shirt? Very slim.” I hold my thumb and forefinger together.
“This discussion is over.” She puts her hand on the doorknob.
“Seriously, Mom, I could walk down the hall naked and I’d be lucky if I garnered a stare, so what’s the big deal about a T-shirt?”
Mom’s cheek twitches, and she looks like she’s about to have kittens over my visual. Seriously, Claire wears a nose spider, and do you think anyone will look at her? We’re totally invisible. They might as well park our desks under the bleachers, but in my mom’s world, we’re having to beat the boys away with a baseball bat. Don’t get me wrong, I love that she thinks I’m so valuable, but I wish her view lined up a little better with reality.
I exhale as I watch my new favorite shirt muzzled into the laundry basket. All my hopes of looking semi-normal this year are wadded up with it. “But can we at least talk about my clothes?”
“There’s nothing wrong with your clothes.”
“I mean, can we talk about my clothes in the realm of the world’s reality and not yours?”
“The economy is finally catching up to the way your frugal father and I have lived our lives. You’re ahead of the curve, Daisy. I’ll bet some of the kids you went to school with last year won’t be there this year because of all those Mercedes and Land Rovers. If they had lived like your father and me . . .”
I’ve tuned out. I love my parents, but as much as the other parents bury themselves in the pride of their fancy cars and giant houses, mine bury themselves in the pride that they’re above all that. They’d live “poor” no matter what they had—like there’s never enough to go around. Nothing is given freely. Even the worst-worn blanket from the closet is given to the Salvation Army as if it’s a prized treasure. Is there anything worse than the guy at the Salvation Army giving you a dirty look for your donation? If there is, I do not want to know about it.
“Are you giving boys some sort of idea?” Her eyes get round. “Because any girl can get attention if she’s willing to give a boy ideas.”
I hate to admit if I knew
how
to give a boy an idea, I might have tried it. Once anyway. “Mom, I just want to wear a pair of jeans to school.”
“Christians aren’t of this world, Daisy. We’re not supposed to fit in easily. If other Christian parents choose to put their children’s clothes in front of their morals, that’s their business, but as for me and my house—”
“We will serve the Lord,” I finish for her, throwing myself backward on the bed. “I don’t see why we can’t serve him in jeans. All I’m saying.”
This is sort of my pet peeve. My mother makes us total freaks of nature, with her homemade clothes and hand-woven purses (and not the cool kind!), then says we’re being punished for our faith. No, um, people in China are being punished for their faith. People in the Middle East are being punished for their faith. We’re just reaping the rewards of being defiantly bad about fashion. Hello? The last time I checked, being called “nerd girl” wasn’t spiritual warfare, just your standard high school misery.
“You’re the one who chooses to spend your money saving for a car. No one is stopping you from shopping.”
Okay, I beg to differ.
“Besides,” my mom continues, “you look so cute in the clothes I make you.”
“And Daddy looks cute as a goose, but that’s hardly the point.”
My mom sits beside me and pats my knee. Sometimes I think she grew up with too many of those old shows where the parents doled out wisdom like floss at the dentist. “Now is the time to focus on your future, not what other kids think.”
Ugh. I am getting nowhere. Why do I waste my breath? “You want me to go to school looking like a total dork, don’t you? It would make you happy if I never had a date!”
“Daisy.” Her voice softens, and she puts her arm around me.
Here we go. The I-was-your-age-once spiel.
“Dating is for couples who are ready to marry. What would be the point of dating while you’re trying to get into college?”
“Um, a social life? Because the male gender is half the school’s population? Mom, I’ve never given you reason to distrust me. Can’t you step out on a limb and let go of the leash a little bit?”
She holds up the shirt again.
“Besides that, I’ve never given you a reason not to trust me.”
“It’s not you I don’t trust. It’s the boys, and your father will confirm that if you have any questions there. You and Claire don’t seem to be suffering any. Did I ever get to play tennis and swim at a country club all summer?”
“No, but I bet your dad never showed up to your ‘Back to School Night’ dressed as Batman either.”
“Your friends loved that! They all wished their father could be so creative. You’re not exactly suffering, Daisy. I think it’s not too much to ask that you focus on what school is for and leave courtship for later.”
“Mom, I am suffering. Okay, maybe
suffering
is too strong of a word, but I’ve been going to school with most of these kids my entire life, and they don’t even know my name! I’ve become completely invisible and irrelevant.” Not irreverent, irrelevant.
“So say hello and introduce yourself. That’s not too hard, is it?” She balls up her fist and plops it on her hip in that “you are so ignorant” way. “Would you feel better if they thought your name was Abercrombie?”
“Abercrombie is a better name than Daisy Crispin. I sound like a breakfast cereal.”
“You’re far too worried about what people think, Daisy. You have a beautiful name.” She squeezes my chin. “And a beautiful face, and one day when you don’t have anything to look back on to regret, you’ll thank me. On your wedding night—”
“No!” I clamp my eyes shut. “No, we’re not going there!”
She laughs at me. “All right.”
“Mom, look, I understand how you and Dad feel about dating, but it’s my senior prom this year. I’m planning to go with my friends, and you can’t expect me to go without a date. I don’t even think they let you do that. Promise me that you and Dad will at least have this conversation, all right?” I flutter my eyelashes in my most innocent expression.
“Your father said this day was coming.” She drops her head as if I’ve just told her I’m with child. “A boy called here yesterday, and I tried to tell your father it meant nothing, but he’s proved me wrong yet again.”
“A boy?” I try not to sound too interested. “I’m sure someone is only selling senior candy or the like.”
“It was Chase. I realize you’ve been friends for years, but I don’t think it’s appropriate for Chase to call you now as you get older. I tried to explain courting to him, but he acted flustered, said goodbye, and hung up. Maybe a teacher should explain it to him. I may have overstepped my bounds. It’s not my place to lecture him if his parents aren’t up on the concept of courtship.”
Yeah, a lecture on courtship. That’s going to happen.
“Mom, please. Please don’t make me any more of a freak than I already am. You know Chase; we’ve known his family since kindergarten. Wouldn’t you rather I test-drive dating while I’m here rather than off at college when I don’t have to come home at night?”
“Daisy! I’d rather you not test-drive anything. I don’t like your metaphor at all. Life is hard enough as it is. Just focus on what you do well, which is school. The dating will come when it’s time. Besides, kids today don’t dance, they grind.”
My eyes bug. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“I won’t grind at the dance. Gross.” I like my mother better when she’s ignorant. It’s less taxing. “Mom, I am the only girl I know who is not allowed to date at seventeen.”
“I find that hard to believe. Surely there are other parents at St. James who feel the same way we do.”
“I’m the only girl without a cell phone and the only girl who dresses like a hostess at Denny’s.”
“You’re also the only one whose mother cares enough to sew for her. If everyone jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge—”
“I get it, Mom.” I cross my feet at the ankles. This is pointless. She really leaves me no choice, because I am not going to college without that prom photo. And I am not using my Photoshop skills to get it. “So what did Chase want?”
“I told him directly that you don’t take phone calls from gentleman callers and he hung up on me, so I have no idea, but I should speak with his mother about her son’s phone skills.”
“Mom! It’s Chase from kindergarten! You’re going to pretend you don’t know who he is?”
“I know who he is, and when he was in kindergarten, a playdate was one thing, but now you two are older and there are repercussions to gentleman callers.” She puts her fist on her chin.
“Gentleman callers! Mom, I don’t live in your Jane Austen novels, all right? He probably just wanted to know if we had any classes together so we could exchange homework information.”
Mom ignores my rational, plausible response. Come to think of it, my mom has one of those antique chaperone couches for three in the living room. That is not a good sign. I see my future with my dad between Chase and me on that sofa, and I am mortified.
“So you might want to explain to Chase when you get back to school about the courtship process.” She taps her foot, annoyed I’m not listening.
I bang the back of my head on the wall in a steady rhythm. Explain courtship to Chase? I’d rather explain YouTube to my mother.
“Mom, Chase
has
to call me because he can’t text me. I am the only human being at St. James Academy without a cell phone! I probably won’t be able to get a job because my thumbs won’t operate any equipment properly, having never learned how to text. People will think I don’t have opposable thumbs.”
“Spare me the drama, Daisy. We decided as a family that cell phones were a waste of money.”
As a family, she means my dad and her. She distinctly left out a prominent member—and incidentally, the only one who wants a cell phone! She’s already gone, though, taking her affixed laundry basket with her.
In my mother’s defense (if she has one), she and my dad both had pretty wild backgrounds. The kind of stuff you don’t want to think about in terms of parents, and I’m happy not to hear about it. My dad went to juvy for smoking pot in the school bathroom, and my mom did some things with boys she doesn’t want to mention. Gah! If having my fingers in my ears while I hum is any indication, I don’t want to hear it either!
Anyhoo, they feel they didn’t get enough guidance as kids, so they’ve put me on one of those underwater tracks, guiding my every movement so I won’t make the same mistakes. Honestly, I think if they could pipe in “It’s a Small World” and shield me from the sounds of life, they would. I wonder if they have any idea how lonely it is being perfect? And once you’ve tried, you know you can’t be perfect, you can only pretend. I’m tired of pretending. I just want to be a little normal.
My half-thought comes out of my mouth. “I’m not perfect, I just play it at home.”
“What did you say?” My mom reappears in the hallway.
“I said I’m all set for school. My backpack is perfect.”
I lean back with my hands behind my head. Chase Doogle called me! And I can live for an entire week on that alone. What else is there?
With my mom gone from the room, I realize that school starts tomorrow, and I have yet to put anything important in my prom journal—meaning, the point of it, so here goes. The facts . . .
Prom Journal
September 6
Despite my mother’s adamant protests, I have five possibilities for the perfect, photogenic date—six if you count a brooding Robert Pattinson (a girl can dream, can’t she?).
Five is my favorite number, plus it’s a prime number and a positive integer. I don’t know why that brings me peace, but it does.
I read this article called “Boy Catcher’s Eyes,” and you know, it is probably written by someone like my mother, because who calls a guy a boy? But I’ll practice it on someone who’s not a real option at first. Then I’ll go for the big guns later. I’m supposed to let him know I’m interested in him with my eyes. Sort of the way a lioness would devour a gazelle with her eyes before making a move, but without the teeth. I practiced in the mirror and it simply looks like I’ve lost a contact, but I’m totally working on it, and with a little practice, who knows who I might attract?
Back to my options for the ultimate prom photo:
1. Brian Logan
2. Steve Crisco
3. Greg Connolly
4. Kelvin Matthews