flowers on the page and half the package spills on the floor. I leave my post to help pick them up. “I keep telling your dad I need a scrapping area,” she says with a sigh.
“Why don't you use Bella's room?” I ask. Mom gives me a look. “She's not home three-quarters of the year.”
I want to say it's either that or have Dad build you an extension. We certainly have the property for it. Right now our house doesn't have a room to spare. We live in a restored early 1900s farmhouse, which has big rooms, but not a lot of them. There are three bedrooms upstairs, a large kitchen and dining room downstairs, a family room, and an enclosed front porch, but no basement. Apparently they didn't build them back then. My parents have restored the house inside and out since we bought it, and most people can't tell how old it is. I only know because when something breaks, it costs a ton of money to fix it. We're in a historical section of Cliffside and in order to do any sort of renovation, you have to get permission from the town and the historical society to make changes to the structure. You also need permission when you're updating inside, which is a major pain.
Not that I don't love this house. Mom and Dad's taste is pretty traditional when it comes to furniture and paint (“It has to feel like the rest of the house, Charlie,” Mom is always telling me when I pick something that doesn't gel with her vision), but the country vibe is cozy. We have lots of hand-painted wood signs that say things like “Long Island” or “Dust is a country accent” and a ton of knickknacks in some variation of a rooster or an apple or a sailboat. Nautical is a big theme in the Reed household. Living so close to the water, there is not a room you can enter without seeing a seashell. Still, no matter how cute I think this place is, I'm not ready for Mom to give Zac a tour. Or let him be subjected to a lengthy conversation with her. Thank God Dad went from the ferry to his fantasy baseball draft pick tonight.
“Did you call Bella and tell her about your date?” Mom asks, after we've found the last of the gold flowers and placed them back in their container. She's trying not to smirk, but I can tell she wants to.
“No,” I say, not looking her in the eye. “It's not like this is the first date I've ever been on.” Okay, so maybe it's the first date I've had in months after my short-lived relationship with Ethan Prose. It went south when he told me that whatever “this thing was” it would have to end by summer because he was always single in July and August. I saved him the trouble and dropped him in January.
“I'm surprised the girls aren't here to send you off,” Momadds.
“They all have plans,” I tell her. “Plus, it would look weird if I had an entourage waiting for him when we're going out alone, don't you think?”
Not that my friends weren't excited. Brooke was so thrilled she brought three outfits to school that I could borrow. We talked about my date all day since this was our day off of taping. I settled on my own jeans and Brooke's red peasant top, which bunches at my waist and has loose sleeves. My hair is down and wavy, per Brooke's instructions (“Leave it wet and put product in it, then dry it an hour later.”) and I'm wearing makeup, but not so much that it looks like I'm trying too hard (Hallie's words, not mine).
“You've been talking about Zac for months,” Mom says. “I just thought you would be a bit more worked up about tonight.”
“It's no biggie,” I lie again. Wow, my third lie in less than an hour. What is wrong with me?
The phone rings and we both jump. I get to it first and see from the caller ID that it's Brooke. “I'll take it inside,” I tell my mom. I race into the family room, which is the farthest from the kitchen I can get without going upstairs, and pick up. “Hey,” I whisper.
“Are you ready?” Brooke asks. “How did your hair come out? Did you do your nails? Don't bite
“Why don't you use Bella's room?” I ask. Mom gives me a look. “She's not home three-quarters of the year.”
I want to say it's either that or have Dad build you an extension. We certainly have the property for it. Right now our house doesn't have a room to spare. We live in a restored early 1900s farmhouse, which has big rooms, but not a lot of them. There are three bedrooms upstairs, a large kitchen and dining room downstairs, a family room, and an enclosed front porch, but no basement. Apparently they didn't build them back then. My parents have restored the house inside and out since we bought it, and most people can't tell how old it is. I only know because when something breaks, it costs a ton of money to fix it. We're in a historical section of Cliffside and in order to do any sort of renovation, you have to get permission from the town and the historical society to make changes to the structure. You also need permission when you're updating inside, which is a major pain.
Not that I don't love this house. Mom and Dad's taste is pretty traditional when it comes to furniture and paint (“It has to feel like the rest of the house, Charlie,” Mom is always telling me when I pick something that doesn't gel with her vision), but the country vibe is cozy. We have lots of hand-painted wood signs that say things like “Long Island” or “Dust is a country accent” and a ton of knickknacks in some variation of a rooster or an apple or a sailboat. Nautical is a big theme in the Reed household. Living so close to the water, there is not a room you can enter without seeing a seashell. Still, no matter how cute I think this place is, I'm not ready for Mom to give Zac a tour. Or let him be subjected to a lengthy conversation with her. Thank God Dad went from the ferry to his fantasy baseball draft pick tonight.
“Did you call Bella and tell her about your date?” Mom asks, after we've found the last of the gold flowers and placed them back in their container. She's trying not to smirk, but I can tell she wants to.
“No,” I say, not looking her in the eye. “It's not like this is the first date I've ever been on.” Okay, so maybe it's the first date I've had in months after my short-lived relationship with Ethan Prose. It went south when he told me that whatever “this thing was” it would have to end by summer because he was always single in July and August. I saved him the trouble and dropped him in January.
“I'm surprised the girls aren't here to send you off,” Momadds.
“They all have plans,” I tell her. “Plus, it would look weird if I had an entourage waiting for him when we're going out alone, don't you think?”
Not that my friends weren't excited. Brooke was so thrilled she brought three outfits to school that I could borrow. We talked about my date all day since this was our day off of taping. I settled on my own jeans and Brooke's red peasant top, which bunches at my waist and has loose sleeves. My hair is down and wavy, per Brooke's instructions (“Leave it wet and put product in it, then dry it an hour later.”) and I'm wearing makeup, but not so much that it looks like I'm trying too hard (Hallie's words, not mine).
“You've been talking about Zac for months,” Mom says. “I just thought you would be a bit more worked up about tonight.”
“It's no biggie,” I lie again. Wow, my third lie in less than an hour. What is wrong with me?
The phone rings and we both jump. I get to it first and see from the caller ID that it's Brooke. “I'll take it inside,” I tell my mom. I race into the family room, which is the farthest from the kitchen I can get without going upstairs, and pick up. “Hey,” I whisper.
“Are you ready?” Brooke asks. “How did your hair come out? Did you do your nails? Don't bite
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