Chapter Seven
Daisy slotted into the space next to me, and our arms touched. The sensation made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
“I’m sorry they won’t be there,” she said.
I shrugged. Despite giving my mom and dad advance notice, they had a “very important work dinner” next Thursday. Of all the days, they had to pick that Thursday.
“I thought high school might be different,” I said, placing the fish back on the shelf. “This is dumb.”
“It’s not dumb. I just think if you wanna piss them off, you’re going to have to do better than a fish that sings ‘Stayin’ Alive’ every time someone walks by your bedroom door. You need to be intentional but subtle.”
“What says ‘here’s a big middle finger for missing my first showcase’?
” I looked around the store to find something else, but my frustration boiled over.
“God, I can’t wait until I can move out and become famous and go to exhibits, and my parents will never be on the guest list, and if they ever show up I’ll make sure they get turned away.
They can’t even pretend to care about what I’m interested in. ”
Daisy’s mouth curved downward. She couldn’t understand.
Her parents had issues, but at least they were supportive.
They watched her horseback riding lessons every week, her dad took her camping on the weekends, and her mom didn’t pressure her for the best grades.
C’s get degrees, she’d say whenever Daisy brought home her report card.
“Will I be on the list?” Daisy asked quietly.
“Always.” No hesitation. Of course I’d want her there. I always wanted Daisy around.
She smiled and trailed her hand across a clothing rack. One of the overhead lights flickered, casting a yellowish glow on the three other shoppers sifting through piles of potential treasures.
“What about a weird outfit?” She held up a pair of chaps.
“I could never pull off the cowboy look.”
“Some home decor?” Daisy perused a shelf full of sheep figurines. “I love picking out that kind of stuff.”
“Don’t waste your talents on this.”
We meandered toward the furniture section, testing out some sofas and a desk. Daisy gasped.
“Max! It’s perfect.”
She pointed to a stool tucked behind a filing cabinet. The base had a twisting, tornado-like shape, and the entire thing was the color of a neon-orange construction vest.
“That’s definitely something,” I said, giving the chair a dubious look.
“Exactly.”
“And the wrong height for my desk.”
“Impractical. Heinous. Bizarre.”
“It’s probably uncomfortable.”
Daisy looked at me. “Only one way to find out.” She grabbed my hand and led me to the barstool with the dangling price tag.