How To Date A Christian Dork: A Helpful Handbook For The Datingly Impaired.

Tip 5: Don't Call The Dork Your Friend

Tip 5: Don't Call The Dork Your Friend

"Kayla Anne Rachel Marie Adams, would you get down here?" shouted my mother for what seemed like the millionth time. "We are going to be late!"

"Coming Mom!" I yelled back, slipping my feet into an admittedly cute pair of black pumps and rushing down the stairs, where my father awaited me.

"Are you finally done?" asked Dad, looking amused. I huffed, blowing a stray strand of hair from my forehead.

"I guess so."

"Thank the Lord. Now hurry and get into the car." I obeyed, and hurriedly headed for the car, where Mikayla was already seated, listening to music on her phone.

"Shove over," I said, nudging her with my elbow. She made a face at me, but slid to the right a little.

"You take forever to get ready," she said. "And the end result's not even worth the trouble."

I scowled at her, and was about to reply when Mom got into the car, looking frazzled. My little sister smiled, as if celebrating her victory, but it was short-lived.

"Mikayla, would you please turn that down?" asked Mum, irritably, after a minute of hearing Britt Nicole and Le Crae's Ready or Not blasting full volume from Mikayla's phone in the otherwise silent car.

"But my earphones are missing, and you promised to buy me new ones a week ago!" she whined.

"Then turn it off," said Mom, a note of finality ringing clear in her voice.

"Fine, I'll lower the volume," mumbled Mikayla. Mom leaned her head against the headrest. "Why is it so hard to get you all ready for church?"

"Don't worry," said Dad, as he climbed into the front seat. "They'll be out of our hair soon enough." He gave her a peck on the cheek.

"Ew," squealed Mikayla, covering her eyes. "That's like, so gross!"

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, grow up!"

She stuck her tongue out at me, and returned to her phone. Sighing, I turned and looked out of the window at the clear, blue sky, my mind drifting back to the conversation I had had with Brett-at the break of dawn.

The boy had somehow gotten hold of my number and was more irritating than the Black Plague. In as much I wished I could ignore his calls, he still had that über embarrassing e-diary, which I had no idea how to get back.

Dad parked in the church's parking lot. We all got down, squinting in the bright sunlight, even though it was barely eight thirty.

"Joseph!" boomed a voice, and my larger- than-life teen pastor, Fred Johnson, also known as my Physics teacher, gave my dad a hearty handshake before giving my mom a huge hug and ruffling Mikayla's hair, after which she scowled, trying to fix it up again. I sniggered, knowing how long she had spent working on her hair.

"Fred!" smiled Dad weakly, flexing his fingers, and trying not to wince in pain. It wasn't going too well.

"How's life treating y'all?" he asked, his Southern drawl making an appearance. All that was missing was a cowboy hat and boots.

"We're all right. You?"

"Oh, I'm good, by His grace," he smiled, and turned to me. "Hope you're all geared up for today's debate."

"Oh...the debate? Erm....yeah! Sure am!" I was not. Between the trauma of Val's impromptu shopping trip, and successive events, as well as the homework teachers had piled on us, I hadn't even put a word on paper. And I was the principal speaker.