5. Chase Doogle
I’m starting with Brian Logan because he’s probably the longest shot, and if he drops off early, that’s only to be expected. He’s super popular, which means in addition to not knowing I exist, getting on his radar is that much more difficult because he’s always surrounded by throngs of hangers-on—people with names.
So Brian hangs around with the cool kids, he drives his mom’s old Volvo convertible (sexy and yet oh-so-safe—my dad has to approve!), and he goes to my church, so my parents know his, though they won’t admit to this if the time comes. He’s probably out of my league, but I have to aim high, am I right? I mean, do I want to enroll in community college before trying for Stanford? So Brian’s on the list, which I think says a lot for my optimistic view of my senior year.
Steve Crisco. He’s on-fire hot, but not the sharpest knife in the drawer. His life’s goal is to surf for Jesus. I’m not exactly sure how you do that, but he probably doesn’t have the intellect to figure it out anyway, and his lifetime goals are not my worry. This is about the here and now, living in the present. I’m not getting married or anything. But like I said, he’s a definite prom possibility—he’s fun and the life of the party, so I’d be with the “in” crowd that night.
Steve cheated off me in Geometry, which is totally not okay, but I know he at least knows my name. In fact, I’m surprised he hasn’t written it down on his test once or twice by accident.
Greg Connolly. I’ve known him since kindergarten, and he’s more like a brother than a date possibility, and he’s sort of reserved for when I get really desperate. He’s the bench warmer of prom dates. Incidentally, he may not have had a date before either, but he can probably tell you any random fact about space movies. He’s sort of the male version of me, which explains why he’s not at the top of my list. If I wanted to date myself, that would be wrong on so many levels. With Greg, our limo might look like the bar scene in Star Wars because his friends tend to be as strange as mine, just on a more science-fiction level.
Greg has grown up to look like Orlando Bloom, and unless he made the Spock sign in the photo, he’d look great in the picture. He hasn’t been marred by figuring out that he looks like Orlando. Zero self-confidence. So he’s my secret weapon to pull out when it looks bleak, but of course, it’s not going to look bleak because I, Daisy Crispin, have a plan. And you know, even if he doesn’t open his mouth at all that night, or dance with me, he’ll look smokin’ in the picture. Besides, if the conversation gets thin, we can share math facts or talk about our PSAT scores.
Kelvin Matthews. Number four on my list keeps to himself, with his head to the ground and somewhere to be at all times. He’s the shy, silent type and doesn’t say much to anyone, but he knows my name and will smile if I call out to him. At this point, that’s cause for hope. He’s clean-cut, probably the best-dressed guy in school, and would look steamy in a photo, but the downside? He has better hair than me. I don’t know, his nickname is Kel, but I want to call him Gel because his hands look like a jellied Halloween mask. So weird. But he’s cute. And coiffed.
I suppose a journal to find the perfect date for prom is kind of perfectionistic and future-oriented, which I’m supposed to be working through, but if I don’t record what I do wrong and what I do right, how will I get a date by next March? It’s not like I have any record to go on here. And let’s not forget, I still have to talk my parents into letting this happen, but I have nearly six months to move this mountain. The entire world could change in that amount of time—how hard could a simple date be?
The other reason I can justify a prom journal is that I felt it was wrong to put this in my prayer journal. I mean, sure, God knows how pathetic I am on my quest for high school meaning, but I didn’t want to tempt fate by writing out real prayers for sick church members and soldiers in Iraq next to Chase Doogle’s school schedule so I might stalk him a bit. I know that’s probably all wrong biblically. God’s not a Magic 8-Ball and he’s on to me.
Claire isn’t going to be any help in what I’m sure she must think is a ridiculous goal. She’s currently sporting painted-on skinny jeans and straight, funky black hair over her one eye. (I preferred the green lectures she gave me on refraining from flushing the toilet so often, since being an environmentalist was her last phase.) Now, Claire is all negative about everything—and I’ve told her she needs to put on some pink (life giving) and be happy again, but she proceeds to recite dark poetry about how God’s work on earth is serious business and to recite statistics on Darfur.
My mom thinks Claire might have a demon (Mom hasn’t seen the worst of it), so she’s praying all over the house whenever Claire enters. Which I find highly ironic, since Claire is always praying for my mother to see the severity in the world and stop buzzing around like a hummingbird. The truth is probably somewhere in the middle, but since kindergarten, Claire has drifted toward the latest trends, taken on the newest causes, and prides herself on being completely aware of the global plight of the world.
Claire tries to get her parents’ attention, is all, and their dinner conversation tends toward what’s current in the world. Their social calendar doesn’t make room for Claire, so she makes herself known any way she can by being able to discuss hedge funds. You’d think Claire’s parents would get a clue and pay attention to her, but no. They sign themselves up for one more funniest video moment after another in ignoring their daughter. She simply ups the stakes until they have no choice but to turn her way.
Emo is so yesterday anyway, which is out of character for Claire, so I know she’s doing it only to annoy her mother and get a rise out of people. She’ll be on to the next thing soon enough. All I can do is wait it out. She waited out my “High School Musical” fetish. I owe her.
Did I mention that Claire does not have the capacity to get embarrassed? I think she’s actually missing that gene, so if Claire found out about my prom journal? She’d have no problem whatsoever humiliating me into dropping such a stupid quest, and she’d find me a date in her own way. She’d make it happen, no doubt, but at a cost I’m not willing to pay.
We go to a Christian high school, but a lot of the kids who go there are just wealthy, not Christian. I read in “Time” at the dentist’s office that the San Francisco Bay Area is the narcissist capital of the world. If I were judging by some of my classmates, I’d have to agree. Like my mom says, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Oh wait. Yes it does. Or I am absolutely without a prayer.
So the rich parents send their kids to a Christian school to keep them out of trouble (which doesn’t work, but you have to applaud the effort). Claire’s not like that, though. She’s rich, but she loves Jesus—it says so in henna on her arm right now. She will be much less emo when school starts and she has to pass the dress code, which specifically forbids the tattooing of oneself, even if it’s temporary. Thank goodness, because I’m not sure how much depression-as-an-act I can take. Seriously!
Claire’s parents belong to the country club, where she summers. Okay, I’m with her sometimes, and I am not ready to abandon free Cokes, brought to me by a pool boy dressed in a uniform, because Claire is going through an identity crisis. I mean, dress like death and all, but can you get a black bikini and move on? I need a tan! If anyone should be emo, it’s totally me. For obvious reasons.
But back to my prom date list and the frosting on the cake: Chase Doogle!!
I know his name is beyond bad. What were his parents thinking? You’ve got the whole cool “Chase” thing, and it’s such an obvious juxtaposition with “Doogle.” They should have named him Dane or Daniel.
Can you imagine if I married him? Daisy Doogle. So wrong. It’s not bad enough I’m named after the world’s cheapest flower—practically a weed! But now, you combine it with my dream date’s last name, and I can’t even practice writing it without bursting into laughter. Daisy Doogle. Daisy Doogle. Daisy Doogle. It never sounds like anything but a Saturday morning cartoon.
Chase . . . sorry, I got lost there for a minute. The first time I saw Chase in kindergarten, my stomach went all Jell-O on me. He held my hand then, and stole a kiss at lunch by the big tree. (He got in big trouble for that one, but I like to think I was worth it.)
I can look into Chase’s eyes and it makes me feel tingly every time. It’s as though he’s got this electromagnetic field around him, and when he comes close, I feel the buzz. In a way, I’m afraid to write his name down here, because I know it involves disappointment and I get into that jinx thing again. I don’t deal well with rejection, especially by the one option who matters.
Chase Doogle is hotly photogenic, with his Adam Brody curls and his intense hazel eyes (sometimes more green, sometimes more brown—he’s like his own mood ring). He’s got this smile that is infectious and a laugh that makes everyone within range smile—just that special magic that exhilarates if he looks at you. But what makes him the pinnacle of all prom dates is that he’s brilliant on top of that inexplicable charm. And dang, if I don’t love a nerdalicious guy.
I wouldn’t have to make the photo look perfect. It would be perfect.
Let the games begin.
September 7
First Day of School
Fact: $6.6 billion was spent on back-to-school clothes. None of it came from my house.
St. James Christian Academy is an enormous, private high school, set atop a hill on fifty sprawling acres in Northern California. If I were reading the brochure, its selling points would be that it boasts two Olympic-sized swimming pools, a dance studio, a full gymnasium, and world-class academics. It also has 2,000 students, 1,995 of whom have no idea who I am.
SJCA has that white-washed, clean concrete that shocks the eyes without sunglasses. It’s like Disneyland without the fun. In fact, if you’re caught littering, scraping the gum off the sidewalk is your punishment. The school emphasizes academics and intellectual pursuits but also offers a full athletic program, making jocks and cheerleaders a necessary evil.
I would say the campus is more intellectual than Christian, though all of the teachers are believers, and we have chapel every morning. The students themselves tend to come from four categories: (1) geeks on the fast track to a prestigious college; (2) uppity, rich slackers, whose parents are more hopeful than mindful; (3) athletes looking for that hard-won scholarship; and (4) students like me—sheltered Christian kids whose parents have sacrificed everything for the outlandish tuition so that the world cannot inflict itself upon us. You can tell my lot by our ratty, sturdy backpacks (not new every year), our cheap gym shoes, and our all-around inability to fit in.
I slog up the long staircase, behind all the glistening new backpacks and store-punctured jeans. Scanning the main courtyard, I see that Claire isn’t waiting for me, and my heart completely drops. Momentarily I wonder if she met new friends and will be creating dark haikus at lunch without me. What if she’s suddenly grown the humiliation gene?
Before I have time to panic, I hear her voice. “Oh my gosh, where have you been?” Claire sidles up to me and puts her mouth next to my ear. “So I was outside Mr. Walker’s office getting out of Calculus this semester, like I need that kind of stress, and Amber was in there. She got sent out of zero period for having too much Amber, not enough clothing. Her mother had to come and bring her a shirt!” Claire, whose hair has magically turned brown for school and the dress code, shakes her head. “I cannot believe you missed it. With all she’s said about your clothing, I would have loved for you to have been there. I wanted to tell Mr. Walker he should have seen her at the club in her bikinis this summer—they couldn’t send her home from there.”
“Didn’t her father come bail her out?”
Claire raises her brows. “Daddy’s in Washington.”
We shouldn’t rejoice in other people’s misery. We understand that, but Amber Richardson has picked on us since the day she first saw us in preschool Bible class at church. She came up and pulled a chair out from under Claire and then laughed, pointing at her on the ground. I helped Claire back up, but even as a preschooler, Claire wasn’t going to take that garbage. She got up and pushed Amber to the ground with full force.
Of course Claire got in trouble, but we smiled at one another that Sunday morning, and a pact was made. We’ve been friends ever since. It was a fluke Claire was even there that morning too. Her parents needed to finish some project and dropped her off at church, having heard that parents didn’t need to be there. Free Sunday babysitting!
“Amber hasn’t changed a bit,” I say. “She always needed too much attention. Remember her pulling up her lacy baby-doll dress so Matt Gimler could see her fancy panties in kindergarten?” Truth be told, I wanted those panties, and I wouldn’t have shown them to any boys!
“Amber never gets caught, and when she does, her senator daddy just pulls out the wallet and everything goes away—but not today. I can’t believe you missed it. You’re always early, what happened?”
“Look at me,” I say.
Claire looks horrified as she peers at me. The shock and awe on her face cannot be masked. She pulls me by my arm to the nearby bathroom. “You have the hugest zit I’ve ever seen.”
I cover my face. “That’s why I’m late! Thank you for confirming my worst fears, by the way. I tried to tell my mother I needed to stay home, or at least get her concealer, but do you think she’d let me? She said it wasn’t that bad.”
Claire pushes me toward the fake, unbreakable mirror and whips out a compact. “What are you thinking? Come on, there’s listening to your parents, and there’s this. There is no excuse for this.”
I feel my forehead and the third eye I’ve grown overnight. “My mother said it wasn’t that bad, and right now I’m inclined to believe her, because what else can I do about it?”
“Girl, your mama lies! Mt. Vesuvius looked less like it was about to blow than your forehead. That is disgusting!”
“Don’t hold back for my sake, Claire,” I say. “Mom wouldn’t let me put makeup on it. She always says it makes things worse because it’ll clog your pores. You’re not making me feel any better about it.” My confidence is waning. “This was supposed to be my senior year. A thrill ride, you know?”