I let out the long breath I’ve been holding and count to three before I say, “I have a date this weekend. I…I asked someone on a date.”
My mom stares at me slack-jawed.
Ah shit, I’ve rendered her speechless.
CHAPTER 11
MOLLY
“Better to arrive late than to arrive ugly!”
– Darcy Gilmore, blogger
The rest of the week has crawled by at a snail’s pace, and thank God it’s finally Saturday night. Unfortunately, I’m freaking out. Today was the worst. I literally could not focus the entire day because of the text I received first thing when I woke up.
Weston: I have practice but will text you after
And he did. All morning I waited for that promised text, shuffling around the house. I carried my phone around in the palm of my hand like it was my job, and when Weston’s text finally came, unfortunately, I was sitting next to my mom on the couch.
Talk about embarrassing. You know moms want to talk about everything once they get a whiff of gossip, and I ended up having to tell her every tiny detail leading up to this point.
Oh Lord, I could throw up right now. I have managed to toss almost every article of clothing from my closet onto my floor in a fit of so many clothes and nothing to wear.
Where is Jenna? She’s supposed to be here helping me! It’s five o’clock. Weston will be here in an hour. I race to the window and throw back the curtains. Great. Her car is in the driveway. Opening my bedroom door, I holler, “Jenna, get your butt up here! I need you!”
“Okay, pretty girl, calm down.” Jenna laughs as she trots down the hallway toward my room. She’s got on bright green pants and a gray sweatshirt, and I notice she’s dipped the ends of her long blonde locks in pink Kool-Aid. When the heck did she do that? I just saw her last night…
She stops in the threshold of my room, eyeing the clothes that have been strewn everywhere, and her eyes get real wide. “What the…?”
I stand there helplessly, arms spread in desperation. “Help,” I squeak out.
“Oh my god, Molls, you have to get a grip. Let’s start by putting this all away so I can at least see what you have to work with. Ugh, girl, you are crazy.” Yeah, you heard right; the girl wearing neon pants is calling me crazy. She bends at the waist and starts picking up clothes, placing them back on the hangers that have been haphazardly thrown on the ground. “Hmm,” she mumbles in thought. “This is kind of cute.” She lays a striped navy tank top on my bed.
“Jenna, its cold out!” I whimper.
“Do you want my help or not?”
“Yes.”
“Then start helping me clean up this mess you made. Sheesh. What am I, your mother?”
“I’m sorry. I’m just so nervous.” I start biting my thumbnail, and almost immediately, Jenna slaps the hand out of my mouth and grabs me by the shoulders. She gives me a firm shake.
“You look at me. Look!” She points at her eyes with two fingers. “Molly, you’re funny and gorgeous. That great hunk of a hockey star is lucky to be going out with you tonight. Now get it together before I slap you.”
“Do I have to wear something so tight?” I start whining again as my best friend cleans my room.
“No, but you have to give him a little peek at the goods. Come on, get real—he’s a guy, and you have a great rack.”
“But what if we end up go-carting or something?”
Jenna turns and levels me with a stare. Okay, never mind. “Wear a turtleneck on your own time, okay, Gidget?” Newsflash, for those of you not familiar: Gidget was a television character in the sixties and she was kind of a giant nerd. “Here. We’ll do these for sure.” Jenna pulls out a pair of dark stretch skinny jeans. “If you’re lucky, he’ll slap your ass a few times.”
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.
It doesn’t take her long to pick out an entire ensemble, complete with shoes, a shirt, and jewelry. Motioning to the vanity, she pats my desk chair. “Come on, let’s get your hair and makeup done.” With the determined expression on her face, she could pass for an Army drill sergeant.
Thank god for best friends.
* * *
Weston
I’ve been driving in the country for a few miles when I finally come to a really long driveway. From the road, I can make out a large stone house with a wraparound porch and a high-peaked roof. The mailbox is on the opposite side of the street, and it’s getting dark out already, so I roll down my window to double check the house number: 932.
I let out a nervous breath.
Yup, this is definitely it.