Davis was right: Everybody disappears eventually.
EIGHT
DAISY WAS STANDING NEXT TO MY PARKING SPOT when Harold and I arrived at school the next morning.
Summer doesn’t last in Indianapolis, and even though it was still September,
Daisy was underdressed for the weather in a short-sleeve top and skirt. “I have a crisis,” she announced once I was out of the car.
As we walked through the parking lot, she explained. “So last night, Mychal called to ask me out,
and I could’ve handled myself via text but you know I get nervous on the phone,
plus I remain unsure Mychal can handle all . . this,” she said, gesturing vaguely at herself.
“I am willing to give the giant baby a chance. But in a flustered moment, not wanting to commit to a full-on proper date,
I may have suggested he and I go on a double date with you and Davis.” “You did not,” I said.
“And then he was, like, ‘Aza said she wasn’t looking for a relationship,’
and I was, like, ‘Well, she already has a crush on this dude who goes to Aspen Hall,’
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