After only three hours of real sleep—which feels more like three minutes—my wakeup call sounds and I want to throw the phone out the window. Instead I roll over, pick up the receiver, and then slam it down again without answering. Then I go back to sleep. Ten minutes later, there’s a knock at the door. The interior one, of course.
“Daisy, are you up?” Mason’s muffled voice calls through the wall.
“Yes,” I groan, exhausted.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” Mason calls back.
“I am!” I shout back. Mason doesn’t answer.
Annoyed at the daylight, I throw off the covers and climb out of bed, tripping over the laptop cord on my way to the bathroom. I land with a thud on the hideous carpet and lie there, wondering what else could go wrong. Eventually I manage to shower and get ready, which makes me feel a little better, until I remember where we’re going today.
To Wade’s house.
The Zimmermans have upgraded to an even bigger house—for three people—since the last time I was forced to come to Kansas City, so the neighborhood we’re driving through now is new to me. Compared to the McKeans’ development, this one is a poseur. The massive houses are set back from the street, and there are kids out playing on the sidewalks. The difference is that here, the homes are new, matching, and only pretend to have character. I realize that there aren’t individual mailboxes in front of the homes when I see a postal worker pull up next to a large metal community box with a locked section for each family. Something about not having your own mailbox bothers me.
As if reading my mind, Megan texts.
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 Wade’s car?” I ask loudly.
“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?”