“Wait a second,” my dad said, running a hand over the back of his neck. He looked distinctly uncomfortable, like he was an actor in a bad play, speaking words he hadn’t totally memorized. “I, uh . . . Should you be going out with someone I don’t know?”
I looked at him for a second, trying to decide if the question was rhetorical, or if he actually wanted an answer. Also, I didn’t understand why he was suddenly acting like a father in a sitcom. I hadn’t asked my dad for permission to go anywhere in years. He either hadn’t been around to ask, or if he happened to be home, he’d nod and wave at me, usually while taking a call, as I yelled that I was going out. This had to feel as weird for him as it did for me. “Look,” I started, just as I saw a slightly dented Jeep signal and then pull slowly into our driveway.
I tried as fast as I could to think of something, then felt my pulse start to pick up when I realized I no longer knew how to get out of this. But the last thing I wanted was for Clark to be here, in my house, talking to my dad. I hadn’t realized how much I liked keeping these worlds separate until it appeared they were about to collide. I looked out to the driveway, wondering what my dad would do if I just left, walked out the door and met Clark before he’d even made it halfway to the porch. But before I could do anything, Clark came into view, and I realized my moment to escape had passed and this was inevitable. I wondered, as I watched him walk up the path and then climb the front porch steps, if this was what pilots felt like when they realized they were going to crash but still had to wait for the impact.
My dad frowned as Clark got closer, then looked at me, his jaw falling open like he’d just figured something out. “Andie—are you going on a date?”
“Kind of,” I muttered as I reached to pull open our door. Our front doors were half glass, and I knew it already looked weird enough that I was standing around waiting for my date—along with my father. My plan had been to pretend to read a magazine in the kitchen, not even coming close to the foyer until I heard the doorbell. You weren’t supposed to let your date know that you’d been waiting around for them to arrive. You were supposed to be much too busy and interesting for that.
I opened the door, and there was Clark, standing on the porch, hand half-outstretched toward the bell. “Hi,” I said, giving him a quick smile, wishing I had more time to really appreciate the fact that he was wearing a light-blue button-down with his jeans, that his brown hair looked like it had been recently combed, and that he was just so cute it was almost unfair. “Come on in,” I said, hearing how high-pitched and stressed my voice sounded, which I was pretty sure wasn’t making the best first-date impression. “My dad’s . . .” I let this trail off when I realized there wasn’t an easy way to sum this up, and just stepped back to let Clark inside.
“Hi,” Clark said to me, smiling wide, then looking at my father and standing up a little straighter. “Hello, sir,” he said. My dad’s eyebrows shot up, and I knew Clark had gained some points in his eyes. First impressions were big with him.
“Dad, this is Clark Goetz-Hoffman,” I said, just as Clark said, “McCallister.”
“What?” I turned to look at him.
“Clark McCallister,” Clark said.
“I thought your last name was Goetz-Hoffman.”
“You two need a minute to confer?” my dad asked, looking between the two of us.
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head, trying to get my bearings. Maybe his parents were divorced and this was his mother’s new name or something.
“Alexander Walker,” my dad said, reaching out and shaking Clark’s hand with his politician’s handshake—two pumps, lots of eye contact. Then he paused and turned to me. “That’s right, isn’t it? Walker?”
“Ha ha,” I said, trying to silently tell my dad this was not the time to try to be funny.
“Well, whoever you are, Clark, it’s nice to meet you.”
“You as well.” Clark looked at my dad for a beat longer, frowning slightly, before he turned back to me. “You look great,” he said quietly to me.
“Thanks.” I took a step toward the door, which was still open. “So we should go. . . .”
“Just a second,” my dad said, and I noticed his voice had dropped to his authoritative TV-spot timbre. “You two go to school together?”
Clark glanced at me, then turned back to my dad. “No, sir. We . . . uh—don’t.”
My dad paused mid-nod. “But you’re going into senior year as well?”
“No, um . . .” Clark looked at me again. We hadn’t talked about it, but I had assumed that he was going to be an incoming freshman at a college somewhere in the fall, or maybe that he was going into his senior year at a different school from me. “I actually got my GED a few years ago,” Clark said, looking from me to my dad as he spoke. “So I’m, uh, not in school.”
“You’re not?” I asked, not able to stop myself.
“I was going to mention it over dinner,” he explained.