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was short: “Can’t make it tonight. Got hung up.”
    I read it over and over, as if I could get the words to tell me more. Why didn’t he explain what the problem was? Why didn’t he at least say he was sorry?
    He must have some emergency, I told myself. He must be as disappointed as I am.
    I punched his number into the phone and raised it to my ear. My hand was trembling. I knew I was overreacting, but I was very disappointed. My daydreams had gotten me all psyched to see him.
    The call went right to voicemail. I listened to his voice: “This is Blade. You know what to do.” I didn’t leave a message. I knew I’d talk to him later. I knew he’d explain everything. And maybe we could get together later tonight.
    Dinner with my parents seemed to last forever. I hadn’t told them much about Blade. I usually blurt out everything about my life to them. I’m not the kind of person who can hold anything in. But for some reason, I’d decided to keep Blade to myself.
    My parents are totally great people. They’re not always in my face and pretty much treat me as an adult. They put up with my enthusiasms and my wild mood swings and my general insanity. And they’re not always trying to pry into my life.
    I think they’d love to know what’s in my diary. But trust me, that’s totally off-limits to them. As I said, I keep it locked and I wear the key on a chain around my neck.
    My dad is big and healthy-looking. I guess you’d call him robust. He brags that he still has all his hair at forty-three. Mom teases him that that’s his biggest accomplishment.
    She likes to deflate him whenever he gets too full of himself. She says it’s her hobby.
    He works out at a gym three days a week, and he’s a cyclist. He gets up at six most mornings and rides his racing bike for ten miles along River Road to the top.
    He’s an administrator at Shadyside General Hospital. He says he just shuffles papers all day and deals with hospital staff problems. That’s why he likes to get a lot of exercise and fresh air before work.
    Mom could be really hot-looking if she paid attention to her looks. But she isn’t really interested in what she wears or her hairstyle or anything. She wears a lot of baggy T-shirts and these dreadful Mom jeans.
    She mostly has her blonde hair tied back in a tight ponytail, and she refuses to wear any makeup. She says she likes the fresh look. But just a little blusher and some color on her lips would make her look five years younger.
    She teaches Business Ethics at the junior college in Martinsville. And she gives lectures at companies on the subject. I don’t really understand what she talks about, but she reads three newspapers a day online and every book on business that comes out.
    So there we were at dinner. When it’s just the three of us, we eat in the little breakfast nook beside the kitchen. It’s a snug little area, lots of sunshine through the windows, and a picnic table and benches where we eat most of our meals. The dining room is saved for company, so we use it mostly on holidays.
    Dad had brought home take-out fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy. Usually my favorite, but I didn’t have much appetite tonight. You know why, Diary.
    I stared at the leg and thigh on my plate. Mom was talking about some kind of lawsuit against a company I’d never heard of and why it should be thrown out of court. Dad tsk-tsked and spooned more mashed potatoes onto his plate.
    â€œDo you have a date with that boy tonight?” Mom’s question stirred me from my thoughts.
    â€œUh … not tonight,” I said. “I think I’m just going over to Miranda’s and watch some videos or something.”
    Mom leaned across the table toward me. “What’s his name again?”
    â€œBlade,” I said. “Blade Hampton.”
    â€œFunny name,” Mom muttered. “No one has