Hey There, Delilah

Meghan grabbed my arm all the while pointing to the TV, her finger shaking. "Oh my God. Talk about daaarama in a bag."

I laugh, attempting to pry her fingers away from me, "Meg, I recommend you remove your hand from my arm unless you actually plan on drawing blood."

She rolls her eyes playfully, "I do have that cousin who needs type A positive ever since he had that surgery, so in that case..." she squeezes my arm harder until I slap her hand away.

Shaking my head, I think about what she said, about how she knew my blood type and how I know hers. Was it possible -- or even normal, for that matter -- for us, for anyone, to be this close? I mean, we had a legitimate reason why we knew our blood types, but still. We can name each other's favorites, what we hate, what kind of boy we look for, the middle name of each other's great-aunt...

"I don't even understand why you're flipping out this much," I say, studying the indentations her nails left in my arm, "It's Toy Story 3."

Her head snaps toward me, blonde waves relaxing around her face once her stare is steady on mine. "Did you not just see how close all the toys were to dying? Did you not understand the significance of that entire scene?" For a second, I almost thought she was serious in scolding me. And then the corners of her lips twitched upward unwillingly. "Well, did you?"

I burst out laughing, "I did the first time we saw this, in the theaters. Not the twelve time sitting on my couch."

"Eleventh." She corrects, smiling and reaching forward in attempt to grab her Sunkist.

The front doors opens and my mom walks in, groceries in hand. Her car keys clank against the doorway table, the top of her head barely visible above all the paper bags.

"Mom, close the door! You're letting all the cool air out!" I shout from my position on the couch, smiling. Her brunette head pokes out to the side as she gives me THAT look. The don't-push-it-young-lady look.

I shut up.

"It's so nice of you to help me with these groceries," she calls from the entrance way before huffing and heading into the kitchen.

"Hey Mrs. J!" Meghan shouts from beside me still glued to the TV. I dive for the remote and pause it, earning a glare as the sounds of my mom unpacking the food fills the room.

I get up and tuck the remote in the pocket of my shorts. Meg sticks out her tongue at me, but follows when I head into the kitchen, taking a seat at the island.

"Hey, Meggo," my mom says, her back turned toward the refrigerator. "And don't think I'm not mad at you, too. You could have very well helped with the groceries as well."

"Sorry, Mrs. J. You know how I get when I watch Toy Story 3." I smile because I know it's true. My mom knows exactly how Meghan gets.

"Haven't you seen that movie ten times already?" My mother asks, taking the ripe red apples out of the bag and placing them in the bottom drawer of the fridge.

"Eleven," Meg and I both say as I eye a new loaf of bread conspicuously. I loved French bread.

My mother sighs, "And how many times have I told you to call me Elizabeth, Meghan? You know you're practically family." I inch my fingers toward the bread, thinking my mother hasn't me seen yet but she rolls her eyes, "You might as well just take a chunk of the loaf already, Del."

I smile and fist pump the air and rip off the corner piece of the bread, shoving a piece much larger than necessary into my mouth. "I wub wis bweadf."

Meghan giggles and grabs a small chunk too. "I know, Mrs. J, but I just can't. I love calling you Mrs. J too much."

My mother shakes her head and continues to unpack the groceries. "By the way, Del, there's some new people in town. I ran into the nice woman at the store and invited them over for dinner. She apparently has a son about your age." She says this last part with a sly glance in my direction and I groan. She loved playing matchmaker, especially when my love life is non-existent for 99.9% of the time.

"Uh, mom," I say delicately, swallowing the delicious bread. "That's very nice of you, to think of me, but...you know, I, uh, want to focus on my school work and --."

"There aren't gonna be any ifs, ands, or buts about it, alright? They're already coming over." My mother gives me a stern look, one that says if I continue to argue, the piece of bread I just ate will be the last piece I ever will eat.

"Fine..." Then an idea hits me. "Oh, do not bring me into this," Meghan whispers into my ear, sensing where I was heading with this.

"But can Meghan stay over too?" Too late.

"Of course," my mother answers.

I smile gleefully at Meg, "Fantastic."

Handing her the remote as she gets up, she snatches it out of my hand and heads toward the living room. I lean over the island when she's out of ear shot, the cold marble sending goose bumps up my bare arms. "Mom, seriously. I know how non-existent my love life is, but setting up a dinner with a family we don't know will not fix that."

She rolls up the paper bags and puts them under the sink with the stash of other ones under there. "Delilah. It's done. There's nothing that could even be done about it now if you somehow miraculously persuaded me to do so." She sighs, "And on that note, I recommend you go clean yourself up. They're coming over a bit earlier so we can chat before and what not."

"Oh, God," I muttered, pushing myself away from the counter. If their son was instead a girl, I wouldn't mind half as much. In fact, I wouldn't mind at all. But knowing my mother partially did this so I could find a boyfriend is so embarrassing I don't even think there are words for it.

"Why so serious?" Meghan asks, faking the Joker's voice.

I plop onto the couch sideways so my feet end up in her lap and my head is hanging off the side of the couch. I watch Buzz turn into a flirtatious, Spanish stud all the while wooing Jessie as he dances with her.

I point to the TV, "Why can't I find a guy so head over heels for me like Buzz and Jessie?"

Meg pats my feet in a comforting manner while propping up her's on the coffee table, "You'll find the right guy. I promise." She smiles down at me, brown eyes glinting with something I can't quite put my finger on. "But if the guy who comes over tonight is gorgeous, I get dibs. He could be the love of my life."

"Or mine," I point out, reaching for my Sprite.

"Ah, true," she says, a hint of consideration in her voice, "But you don't even want him to come over do you?"

I laugh and shake my head, "Fine, you get dibs. He'll like you better anyway Miss New York." She rolled her eyes, but I knew she knows it was true -- how pretty she is, I mean. Meghan makes all the guys practically fall over her when we walk through the mall. She swears I'm just as pretty, but I know it's not in the way that she is. With her perfect wavy blonde hair, tan skin, and eyes full of coquetry she makes the guys want.

I'm "cute," not sexy. My brown hair is almost always unwilling to work with me and the freckles that dot my skin, the obnoxious things that multiply by the hundreds in the sun, make me have a little kid look. I make the guys think that I'm just a friend and that I can't be anything more.

I feel like an seven year old and not an eighteen year old.

My cell phone rings, Hey There Delilah filling the living room, and I attempt to dig it out of my short's pockets.

"Creative ring tone," Meghan says, grinning at me. "It is weird though. Since your name is Delilah and we live in New York..."

"But not New York City," I reply, smiling before answering the phone.

"Delilah Jennings speaking. How may I be of your assistance today?"

"Hey, honey," my dad says. "Can you ask your mother what salad fixings she wants for that dinner tonight? I'm at the super market and I never knew this many combinations of lettuce and spinach existed."

I rose from the couch and found my mother in the kitchen, bent over a cook-book she never uses, and tap her shoulder. "Your Prince Charming would like to know what kind of salad fixing you would prefer for the dinner this lovely evening."

She smiles at me and take the phone, "The one in the green and blue package. With -- yes, that one. Salad dressing? I think we have some...but get Italian just in case. Alright, thank you." Her smiles widens, "Love you, too. Bye."

Sometime I'm jealous of the young, true love my parents have. It's like they're still teenagers in high school, blushing and flirting and slyly passing notes. Nothing in their relationship has faded over the past twenty years. I think I've heard them fight once, and it was over something ridiculous.

My mother hands me my phone and pats my arm while glancing at the clock. "The Watsons will be here in a hour, so if you and Meghan actually want to change out of your pajama's, I recommend you do so soon."

I roll my eyes, but drag Meghan from the couch and up to my room. It's still a mess from the sleepover we had before, junk food thrown all over the place, DVD cases sprawled out near the TV in the corner, all various romantic comedies.

I jump at my reflection in the mirror hanging on the back of my door. "Oh dear God, it might take a bit longer to clean myself up than I thought."

Meghan laughs and digs through her overnight bag on the floor. "I don't have anything decent to wear though, I only brought a t-shirt and those ripped jean shorts."

I wave a hand at her, telling her it's not a big deal, "Borrow something. Half those clothes are probably yours anyway."

<<>>

Within forty-five minutes, I was showered, hair dried and actually looking decent, make-up on and dressed in a simple blue shirt and shorts.

Meghan was fussing over my closet, running her hands over various outfits, trying to decide. Her hair was still up in a towel and her make up wasn't even close to being done.

"I just don't know," she mutters.

"Just decide!" I say growing slightly irritated, "You'll look fine in anything."

"But I want to look more than fine," she responds, "I want to look supermegafoxyawesomehot."

I laugh. Good ol' A Very Potter Musical...

The doorbell rings and my mother calls upstairs from the kitchen for me to answer it. I groan, checking my reflection in the mirror one last time before seeing Meghan wink at me and push me out of my bedroom.

I trudge down the stairs as the doorbell echoes throughout the house again and my mother yells at me again.

"I'm right here, Mom," I say while I walk as slowly as possible toward the entry way. I pasted a smile on my lips and yank the door open, revealing a boy, around my age (like my mother had mentioned), staring down at me.

My smile falters because my brain freezes and my blood pressure shoots through the roof. "You - you must be the boy my mother is shamelessly trying to set me up with," I say, trying to control my heart beat. His hair is dark, but not too dark, and even though it looks wind-blown from the car ride over, it looks like every strand is exactly where it's supposed to be.

His hazel eyes sparkle as he smirks at me. He must be able to hear my heart beat stutter when he does this. The whole world must hear it. "And you must be the girl my mother has told me to dress nicely for for the past hour." His voice rough but it has this rhythm to it...something so perfect...

I glance down at my shirt and shorts and regret choosing something so casual. A blush creeps up my cheeks and open the door further, realizing his parents aren't with him. He must sense me about to ask this because he says, "I took my own car. My parents should be here shortly."

I can finally feel my heart beat return to normal and I yell upstairs to Meghan, "The love of your life is standing in the entry way!" Her embarrassment almost radiates from upstairs as she responds, "I'll be right down!"

"Sister?" The supermodel of a teenage boy asks me as I lead him into the living room.

I shake my head, "Best friend, but she might as well be my sister."

He nods, "That could be complicated when I decide to date one of you."

I raise an eyebrow at him and perch myself on the armrest of the couch, across from him. "Are you always this charming?"

"It's in my genes."

"But apparently the ability to sense sarcasm isn't." I reply, trying to fight a smile. That was a pretty good come back, I must admit.

"As is your hospitality to your guests," he says, not bothering to hide a grin. He stretches out a hand to me, "I'm Matt, by the way. I'd thought you'd want to know the name of the kid you're insulting."

"Are you insulting the guest?" My mother calls from the kitchen, her voice chaotic and her hands probably covered in whatever dinner she's cooking.

"No," I reply, "We're enjoying a nice conversation."

Matt laughs as I take his hand, "Delilah."

"Hey there Delilah," he says easily and I roll my eyes. Like I haven't heard that one before. "What's it like in New York City?"

"I've never been," I reply easily just as Meghan comes down the stairs. I glance at her, looking perfect as always and then back at Matt. There's that boy look on his face, that look boys get whenever they first see Meghan. Their lips form a perfect 'O,' eyes become sparkling and wide, and they immediately forget they've ever even met me.