7.40PM, Sunday, Nov. 31th
400 West 37th Street, New York
“Hello,” Blane said, standing on my doorstep. He passed me a big bouquet of roses, which I took, fumbling a little. I held them to my chest, so the petals tickled my chin.
“Uh…thanks,” I stuttered. What the hell was the etiquette here? I hadn’t covered this in my research.
I sneezed. Damn it. I’d forgotten about my allergy. I handled it gingerly, and tried to look pleased, until a big thorn shoved itself into my hand. I almost dropped it.
“I’ll just put it in a…vase,” I said, trying not to smudge my new, painted-on face. I’m pretty sure we didn’t have a vase. Sammy – my little brother – loves breaking things, especially china and glass things. In the end, Mom just stopped bothering to replace them.
Do I have to go buy one, now? Was that part of the dating ritual?
Tip One: Make sure you have a vase or two spare, because if Mr. Right brings you flowers - and he probably will – then you have to have somewhere to put them.
I made a mental note to beg Oscar to go out and get me one.
When I was back, I finally saw Blane. I blinked. Whoa. I mean, I knew he was cute, but when he really made the effort, and put on tux, he…just whoa.
I looked down myself, at my casual non-designer-brand jeans, and tank top (which, to be honest, was totally different for me – I’m normally in a pair of army pants, and a casual tee), I kind of felt I was underdressed. I pulled out my notebook, and scrawled that down.
Tip Two: Before a date, always check where you are going, and try where appropriate clothes, otherwise he’ll turn up in a tux, and you’ll be in jeans.
“What are you doing?” he asked, trying to see what I was writing. I snapped the notepad shut, and shoved the thing into my pocket.
“It’s my Senior project,” I blurted out, blushing a little, even though I’d already rehearsed my lie – in front of my mirror. All Alone. In my room. In the middle of the night.
My parents totally think I’m normal.
“I’m writing a book, and I just got, um, inspired. I keep a notepad with me, so I don’t forget my thoughts.”
He looked at me weirdly, probably because of the strange stuttery voice I was talking in. I smiled, trying to make my lie believable. Damn it, I was bad at this. This project was going to be hard.
“Anyway,” I said, trying to distract him, “I think I’ve kind of underdressed.”
He laughed, and smiled.
“Don’t worry about it. You look better than me in everything.”
I blushed, and this time it wasn’t because I’d lied. Damn it, why was he such a smooth talker? At this rate, by the end of writing this book, I might just fall for him.
“Um, should I get changed?” I asked, biting on my lip-glossed lip nervously. I was not used to very make-up, or even skirts, really. “I have this dress thing my Mum got me…it’s pretty…dressy.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Blane said, smiling. He was so charismatic, I practically drooled. “Just go like that. It’s not really a high-class place, anyway.”
