Daisy and I had gotten along fine, but I wasn’t so sure about the whole heartbreaking thing.
I gave Mom’s hand a pat. “I’ll let her down gently,” I said as we walked back into the dining room.
Daisy was typing something on her phone, texting someone. When we came in, she looked up and said, “Sorry, but I’ve gotta go.” She stood, and I followed her to the door. “Mom just confirmed my flight. It looks like it’s been moved up a few hours, so we’re going to have to leave really early tomorrow. It was good meeting you, Sally.”
“You, too,” I said, noticing only now that Mom had somehow managed to disappear. Apparently, she was leaving this up to me. Well, I supposed there was only one way to say it. “So Daisy, there’s kind of been a mistake. As much as I liked talking to you, I’m not—”
Daisy placed a hand on my shoulder, giving me a sympathetic look. “Listen, no offense, okay? You’re cute and everything, but you’re a little…dorky for my tastes.” I opened my mouth, but she went on, “Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying that as a bad thing. It’s just not what I’m looking for right now. You understand, right?”
I swallowed then said, “Of course.”
She leaned in and gave me a peck on the cheek. “If you’re ever up in New York, give me a call, okay?” As she opened the door, she glanced back over her shoulder. “We’ll do lunch or something.”
I stood there stunned, watching her taillights disappear around the corner, until Mom came up behind me a few minutes later. “So, how’d it go?”
“She said I’m not her type.”
“Oh.” Mom shrugged. “Well, that’s too bad.”
I was indignant. “She called me a dork. She just met me. How could she possibly make that call after only one dinner?”
Mom eyed my outfit critically and then said, “You do realize you’re wearing your Gryffindor jersey, right?” I opened my mouth to tell her it was a collectible straight off the Harry Potter official clothing line, but Mom cut across me. “And you know that when Daisy walked in, you had your right hand up, fingers splayed in that strange Star Trek signal.”
Yeah, I thought, but that was just because I’d assumed it would be my date walking through the door—which I guess, it actually had been—and I’d wanted to scare him off. In my experience, boys didn’t look twice at girls who employed Trekkie references, let alone wore Potter memorabilia.
“It was the Vulcan Salute,” I muttered.
“Okay,” Mom said, “but did you have to say ‘Live long and prosper’?”
“I wasn’t sure she knew what it meant.” Daisy might’ve thought I was shooting her the bird in another language or something. I lifted my chin. “And you know what? I’ve gotten quite a few compliments on this shirt.”
“From who, ten-year-olds?”
I flushed. “Becks said he liked it, too.”
“Becks doesn’t even care that you’re a girl.” It only took a second for Mom to realize what she’d said, but by then I was already heading up to my room. “Sally, I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright,” I said, waving over my shoulder so she wouldn’t see just how much she’d hurt me. “Night, Mom. Love you.”
“Love you, Sally,” came the solemn reply as I shut my door. I could tell by her tone that she already regretted it, felt sorry for speaking so bluntly. But how could I be mad? She was just speaking the truth, and I knew that as well as anybody. Still didn’t take the sting out of it, though.
Plopping onto my bed, I dug into my nightstand and pulled out my journal. Blogging wasn’t really my thing, and for the yearbook, my senior quote would read, “Facebook steals your soul.” Twitter wasn’t my bag either, as I considered it one small step away from legalized stalking, so for me social networking was pretty much out. But then, I’d always been a fan of the classics anyway.
The first page was dedicated to Date #1 Bobby Sullivan. Hooker had met Bobby at a wedding last spring, where they’d gone to second base in the church. He’d agreed to go out with me only after she promised not to tell his grandma. Catholic guilt, still alive and well today. But the worst was still Cromwell “The Spitter” Bates, Date # 7. I was officially scarred for life.
Flipping to my latest entry, I started up a new page. At the head I wrote, Mystery Date # 8 Daisy W. I followed it up with a short summary of the night, starting with how I’d been completely oblivious of the fact that she was my date until the talk of prom, followed by Mom’s reasons for thinking I was gay, and ending with our little conversation by the door. At the bottom, as I’d done in each of the previous entries, I gave the night an overall success rating of six—notably my highest rating so far. It didn’t surprise me that the date I’d rated highest had been with a girl who’d called me a dork. The others were simply that bad.