Megan: Where are you?
Daisy: KC.
Megan: NO!!
Daisy: Yes. Mason made me.
Megan: So sorry, girl. I know how you loathe Wade. Hang tough, okay? I’ll do an extra great post in your honor tonight. I’m thinking a backstage pass to my closet. You like?
Daisy: Sounds FABULOUS.
Megan: xoxo
Daisy: Same to you
Right then, we pull into the driveway of a house I can only describe as a non-pink, walled version of Barbie’s dream house, complete with a Porsche out front. The license plate reads KCHS FP.
KCHS… Kansas City High School?
“Is that
“Must be,” Mason says. “There’s a student parking sticker on the front window.” Of course Mr. Observant noticed that.
I groan.
“Be nice,” Mason says quietly as we walk to the front porch and ring the bell.
“Always.”
Taller than Mason, and with a square head, jaw, and shoulders, Wade Zimmerman is a big block of a guy. He has decent skin, cropped hair, and white teeth that are mostly straight. His nose is a touch crooked, which would add to his appeal if he didn’t love to tell the story of how he broke it getting bucked off a mechanical bull… well after eight seconds, of course. Girls who like chauvinistic pigs—or maybe even grown women who like young guys —might find Wade attractive. I, on the other hand, do not.
My crap radar goes off the second we walk in the door. Wade is wearing—I am totally not kidding—a sweater-vest. Not a sexy J.Crew sweater-vest; an old-man politician sweater-vest.
“Lovely to see you again, Daisy,” Wade says as he offers his hand to me to shake. I fight the urge to roll my eyes or pretend to be British when I answer.
“Good to see you, too,” I mutter.
“How are you enjoying your new school?” he asks. Why does he have to talk like he’s forty-seven?
“It’s fine,” I say. “What’s with the Porsche?”
“Oh, you like it?” Wade asks. “It was a birthday gift from my parents.” Shrugging, he adds, “It gets me to and from practice.”
“Funny,” I say, not thinking so at all. Instead of pointing out that he’s the cockiest guy I know, I ask about his license plate: “What’s FP?”
Wade chuckles loudly—literally, it sounds like “Ha, ha, ha, ha!” because I guess he’s not even himself when he laughs—then explains the hilarity.
“It means Franchise Player,” he says. “It’s the nickname the other players have given me for my skills as a quarterback. It simply means that I’m a valued member of the team. It’s all in jest.”
Wade tries to appear embarrassed, but there’s nothing remotely flustered about his expression. All that reads there is pride.
Overconfidence.
“Cool,” I say, not really thinking so, but trying to be nice because Mason asked me to.
After a few more pleasantries, scones, and one too many stories about scouts coming to see Wade play, I’m shown into the Zimmermans’ first-floor office to mess around online while Mason and Cassie go to work. I log on and check my email: no reply from Audrey. Trying not to obsess too much about it, I switch over to
“Ah!” I shout, jumping out of the chair. Mason steps back and raises his palms.
“Sorry, thought you heard me,” he says, holding back a laugh.
“You’re like a ninja; how would I have heard you?”
This makes Mason laugh for real, and I find it’s impossible to keep a straight face. His unfiltered happiness is a rare treat, like when comedians laugh themselves out of character while performing sketch comedy. It doesn’t happen all that often, but when it does, it’s contagious.
“I wanted to make sure you’re okay down here,” he says after we’ve composed ourselves, waving a hand at the computer setup.
“I’m fine,” I say, sitting down.
“Okay, good. Because we’re ready to start now and won’t be taking a break for three hours,” Mason replies.
“Great,” I say.
Mason turns to leave.
“Hey, Mason?” I say. He turns around and looks at me expectantly. “I think I’m getting attached to Omaha.” Admitting it feels good, like a weight off my shoulders. I feel even better when Mason responds.
“Daisy, you’re an adaptable young woman, and that’s a great asset for the program,” he says. “But if you didn’t start getting attached to places or people at some point, I’d be worried. Honestly, hearing you say that is a relief.”
“Let’s hope we don’t have to move again.”
“I’ll do everything in my power to see that we don’t.”
I smile and Mason leaves, and I sit at Wade’s computer wondering about what Mason said. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not sure it will do any good. I’ve heard that God likes Mason, but ultimately, God is the one in control.
If God says we move, there’s nothing Mason can do about it.
If God says we move, we move.
eleven
At dinner, the adults encourage Wade and me to hang out together tonight. I can see through Wade’s forced smile and gritted teeth that he’s as thrilled about the idea as I am. When Mr. and Mrs. Zimmerman stand to clear plates and get dessert, Wade starts texting under the table and Mason leans over and whispers in my ear.
“I really think you should do this,” he says.
“I wanted to watch a movie at the hotel,” I protest. “And you know how I feel about…” I jerk my thumb in Wade’s direction so he doesn’t perk up at the sound of his own name.
“That’s the point,” Mason says. “Maybe you just need to get to know each other better. I think it’s important that you have friends, and at least Wade understands your past. You can talk about it with him.”
Mason looks at me pointedly, reminding me that I can’t talk about the program with Audrey or Matt.
“Except that he’s in denial,” I mutter.
“It’ll be fun,” Mason whispers before straightening up, signaling the end of the conversation. Mrs. Zimmerman returns carrying a coffeepot and Mr. Zimmerman trails behind with pie.
“Who likes blueberry?” Mrs. Zimmerman asks. Normally it’s my favorite, but right now, facing a night with
