As I reach out and squeeze my father’s hand, I resolve that I won’t end up in the same situation as him. I won’t be alone, friendless, and afraid of life. With Nick at my side, I can do anything.
I simply have to try harder.
***
At lunch between classes, I head to my usual table to sit alone, and then I stop. There, at a bench in the patio area, the girl from Principles of Architecture is there. She is bent over a book—a paper one—and furiously working on what looks like the homework from the day before. I see her sitting there, and I clutch my brown bag lunch a little tighter.
She’s all alone. We have something in common. How hard can it possibly be to sit down and make a friend?
My stomach clenches in fear at the thought, but I ignore it. I have to try. So I suck up my courage, hold my lunch in front of me, and approach the table.
She looks up and flinches as I sit down across from her, as if startled.
“You’re looking at me as if I’m waving a gun,” I say, and I’m trying to make my tone all casual, but it comes out choked up and awkward.
Her eyes widen and she starts to gather her things.
I’ve done it again. “Oh, please don’t go!” I blurt out. “I don’t bite and I don’t have a gun, I promise.”
She looks startled at my words.
“Please,” I repeat. I’m not above begging. “I’m sorry if I’m strange. I’m just . . . I don’t have friends and don’t know how to make one. And the more nervous I get, the more words just fall out of my mouth.”
She hesitates, but she’s not leaving anymore. Her big brown eyes blink at me a moment, and then she offers the tiniest of smiles. “I’m Christine.”
I exhale an enormous breath. “I’m so relieved. I mean . . . I’m Daisy.”
Her smile grows a bit wider, as if my audible discomfort is relaxing to her. “New student?”
“Homeschooled up until I started college,” I tell her. It sounds overly simplistic, but I don’t share my background with others.
The look on her face turns utterly sympathetic. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” I say, smiling. “I did better when I had an outgoing friend, but she’s moved away and now I don’t know what to say to people without her here.”
“Ah,” Christine says.
We smile at each other an awkward moment longer, and then she gestures at the paperwork in front of her. “I really should work on this. I’m close to failing class as it is.”
“Do you need help?” I offer, eager to be of assistance. I fumble to take out my notes. “I finished the questions last night.”
“Can I copy your papers?” she asks.
I feel a twinge of unhappiness at that, but she’s smiling at me, so I stuff that feeling away. “Of course.” I give her my paper and she begins to immediately copy down all of the answers I spent hours poring over last night.
There’s nothing new to converse about, and I watch her work, feeling awkward. I feel as if I speak, I’ll interrupt her. So I grab my brown-bag lunch instead and pull out my food. Nick is in charge of lunches, and he always crams the bag full of things because he wants to make sure I am well fed. Today I have a huge stuffed sandwich, two kinds of chips, a cookie, an apple, and a bottle of soda.
As I unwrap my sandwich, Christine’s gaze jerks up from the paper and she stares at my food. She looks hungry, but she’s not eating. I bite my lip in worry. Have I made a faux pas by pulling out my food? “I’m sorry—should I put this away?”
“No, of course not,” she says. “It’s lunchtime. You should eat.” Even as she says this, her stomach growls. She ignores it and bends over her textbook again.
For the first time, I note her clothing. She wears an old T-shirt and jeans, and her jacket is threadbare at the cuffs. Her textbook is old, highlighted from previous users, and the pages are puffy with water damage. It must have been dirt cheap. She has no iPad, no smartphone, nothing.
Me, on the other hand? I am wearing matching La Perla panties and bra, a cashmere sweater Nick bought me, and an expensive pair of black slacks. I refuse to wear the floor-length fur Nick bought me when it’s cold, so I bundle with soft alpaca scarves that probably cost more than this girl’s entire wardrobe.
I’m such a jerk. Maybe she can’t afford lunch. I think for a moment, and then pick up one bag of chips. “I . . . I hate to ask,” I say, not sure how she’s going to take my lie. “But I have too much food here and I’m trying to watch what I eat. Do you want some of this?”
She looks at me hungrily again, and then looks around. I wonder what she’s looking for. Eventually, she stops scanning the area and hunches low over the table. “I shouldn’t eat your lunch,” she says. “I’m . . . my boyfriend wants me to lose weight, too.”