Adorkable(6)
“So Spitz, you coming tonight?”
I turned and came face-to-face with my self-appointed matchmaker. Lillian Hooker was the only person who had permission to call me that name and my closest bestie right after Becks. On paper, she and I looked a lot alike: same height, same pant size, same long hair. In reality? Hooker’s hair was dark chocolate, mine sandy brown. Confidence and curves-in-all-the-right-places set her apart. The caramel complexion didn’t hurt either. She was exotic while I was ordinary.
In other words, Hooker was the Amidala to my Hermione.
“Don’t know, Hooker.” We’d bonded in the seventh grade over a great love of superhero movies and a deep hatred of unfortunate surnames. That first sleepover made our bestie status official. Hooker and I had been stuffing our faces with popcorn and watching TV when we flipped to a cheesy Western called Tombstone. Instant obsession. While other girls were dressing up like pretty princesses, we were Doc Holiday and Johnny Ringo for Halloween. “I’m still recovering from last night.”
“I heard it went well.”
I cocked a brow. “Should I even ask?”
She shrugged. “Martha texted me. She said you and Daisy really hit it off.”
The fact that my mom and Hooker were texting buddies…well…I guess, I should’ve seen that coming.
“Did she also tell you—” I lowered my voice. “—that I’m not batting for the same team?”
Hooker laughed as we walked into our class.
“And by that, I mean: I like boys.”
“I knew it was a long shot. If you were gay, there’s no way you could’ve resisted all this.” She gestured to herself, and I couldn’t stop my smile. “But you haven’t responded to any of my guys. Stella’s been doing my hair for years, and when I saw Daisy the other day, I figured why not?”
“Hmm, let’s see…maybe because I’m. Not. Gay.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” she said. “I’ll make it up to you, promise. Anyway, you are coming tonight, right?”
“I’ve got some reading to catch up on, so I might have to pass.”
“But you can’t!”
I was immediately suspicious. “Why not?”
Once seated, she waved me off. “Oh, no reason,” she said, her face completely guileless. “I was really hoping you’d come, though. It’s going to be a lot of fun tonight. You just have to be there.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”
“Oh now, what kind of question is that?”
“A good one,” I replied, watching her closely. “This isn’t another setup is it, Hooker? I told you I’m through with that. No more mystery dates.”
Instead of answering, Hooker gave a long-suffering sigh and started chipping away at her nail polish. Today’s color was a bright sea blue that perfectly matched the color of her eyes. The same eyes that, at the moment, wouldn’t meet my own.
“I mean it,” I insisted. “I told you before: I’ll start dating when I want to.”
“And when might that be?” Hooker was pushing back her cuticles with short efficient jabs. “Before or after the day of reckoning?”
I crossed my arms, refusing to let it go.
“Okay, okay.” She stopped the assault and looked me in the eye. “Opening night, new X-Men. You in or out, Spitz? I thought you’d like to go to the midnight show and see Storm kick some evil mutant ass. Excuse me if I was mistaken.”
Letting out a breath, I finally relaxed. “Rogue has it all over Storm and you know it.”
“Puh-lease,” she said, rolling her eyes, “Storm could cause a hurricane that’d knock Rogue back to last week.”
“Yeah, and all Rogue would have to do is touch her, and Storm’d be out like a light, transferring her powers to Rogue in the process.” Right as Ms. Vega was walking to the board, I asked once more, just to be sure, “So, no mystery men…or women?”
Hooker held out her palms. “Just Xavier and his crew.”
“Then I’m in,” I said back, and Hooker smiled.
Being so dateable herself, Hooker always seemed to have some guy on the side. For the past three months, it’d been Will Swift, a college boy fresh out of Chariot and attending UNC. Boys were just drawn to her. They’d been calling her up since middle school, and she couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t want her castoffs.
As my best girl friend and an aspiring professional matchmaker, she felt it her duty to “broaden my romantic horizons.” She typically arranged meetings with guys who were either hot and/or experienced—the bad part was she never actually told me beforehand. Sunday guess-who’s-coming-to-dinner was just the start. I’d show up someplace (a restaurant, the mall, a football game) at a time we’d agreed to meet, and instead of Hooker I’d find Joe Piscotti, the second guy she’d set me up with, who I admit had been easy on the eyes—but who had also been twenty-six to my seventeen. Thankfully, Mom had never found out about that fiasco. Or Connor Boone, a nineteen-year-old self-proclaimed artist who’d offered to paint me in my birthday suit. I’d respectfully declined.