Page 67 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“Someone who won’t ruin their program,” I say.

Her eyes stay on mine.

“A man who won’t scare the parents,” I add. “Who won’t make the school board nervous. Who won’t look like he’s one bad day away from proving every headline right.”

“You’re grumpy,” Daisy says. “Not violent.”

The words come fast.

Like she didn’t have to think before deciding.

That hits harder than it should.

“I’ve been both.”

She doesn’t flinch.

Fuck.

Most people do. Not always visibly. Sometimes it’s just their eyes changing. The quick inventory. The revised distance.

Daisy stays there.

Sandwich in one hand, pen in the other.

Puck on her boot.

Like I have given her a fact, not a reason to leave.

“So,” she says, “you’re going there to show them you can play nice?”

“Among other things.”

“What other things?” she asks, pen hovering like she’s already trying to solve me.

“You don’t have to help me.”

“Sure, but maybe—” She presses her lips together and shakes her head. “Never mind.”

“Say it.”

“No.”

“You know you’re going to.”

“I know many things. For instance, I know the difference between a macaron and a macaroon, and yet I do not force that wisdom on everyone.”

“Daisy.”

She looks down at the notebook and clears her throat. “Since I’m there, I could help you not look like a hockey gargoyle, and you help me not accidentally seat the boosters according to jersey number or whatever.”

I point at the notebook. “Answer your questions?”

“For starters.”

I pull the notebook closer.

At the top of the page, I write: Do not call icing a dessert.