The Girl of Sand & Fog

by Ward, Susan

  “Sure, I could have. But meeting on the detention bench makes a more interesting story, don’t you think?”

  “Interesting for who?”

  “My mom and dad, who by the way, think that I am gay.”

  That level of honesty wrapped in self-confidence is too appealing. I don’t want to get close to any guy, something tells me especially not this guy, but somehow I feel myself being drawn to him.

  I sink farther back into my seat. “And are you gay?”

  “Hell no. I just like to fuck with my dad.”

  I find myself laughing again and I really don’t like it.

  “Well, do you want to get out of here or not?” he asks, starting to collect his things.

  I let out an aggravated sigh and rise to my feet, jerking my heavy tote bag over my shoulder. In the deserted hallways he doesn’t talk and just kind of lumbers indifferently beside me. There is a scattering of students in the parking lot when we get there, and I continue purposely toward my car, thinking maybe he intends to cut out here.

  I fumble in my shoulder tote for my keys to keep from looking at him, but when I lift my face I find him standing by my passenger door even though I haven’t invited him to leave campus with me. “Are you going to tell me who you are? I’d have to be an idiot to let a complete stranger in LA into my car, even here.”

  He looks amused. “We already know each other.”

  Over the roof of my car I give him another sharp study. “Drawing a blank here. Can you give me a clue?”

  He leans with his elbows on the roof and fixes those interesting green eyes on me. “I know your dad. More importantly, I know Alan Manzone is your dad.”

  Impatient now, irritated and showing it, I snap, “Why do you keep saying that? How the fuck would you know what I don’t even know for sure? You are some strange stalker, aren’t you?”

  “Yep, you’re Alan Manzone’s daughter. I know because my parents say you are. My dad is Len Rowan. I’m Bobby Rowan.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Oh fuck!

  Bobby Rowan. Shit, how could I have not recognized him? He was practically my only friend when I was little, a card-carrying member, just like me, of that strange insider circle I’m forced to live in.

  The son of Blackpoll’s legendary bass player, Len Rowan. He’s part of my prick of a father’s neat, tight little elite rocker universe that used to include Mom and me until the asshole got tired and walked out on us when I was eight. Bobby’s mother, Linda Rowan, is still friends with my mom, but hell, I haven’t seen Bobby since my dad banished us from his world, and my mom quickly jumped into marriage with husband number two, Jesse Harris, a bestselling novelist.

  Fuck, Bobby Rowan.

  Yep. It’s him. I shouldn’t have missed that one, because even as hot as he is now I can still see my childhood playmate somewhere in those intense green eyes.

  Then I cut myself some slack because it has been ten years since I’ve seen him and he has changed. Crap, how the hell did a geek like Bobby Rowan grow up to be one hot motherfucker?

  Shit, he’s hot, but I shouldn’t let myself forget who he is.

  He’s danger, Kaley. Danger.

  Being friends with him would not be a good thing.

  What should I do?

  “Hey, Bobby. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” a chubby blond girl sitting on the hood of a Mustang next to my Lexus SUV shouts out none too softly.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know who she is, Zoe,” Bobby says. “And if you want to talk to her, get off your ass and walk over here.”

  She grabs her things, slides off the hood and bounces across the parking lot. “I was trying to be polite,” she says, annoyed.

  “Too late for that,” he counters, but there is a change to his tone that tells me they’re friends and he likes this girl. He looks at me. “Don’t be rude. Zoe is OK.”

  That comment prompts me to give the girl a more careful study. She’d be pretty if she just lost twenty pounds. But she is very attractive even plump and doesn’t seem malicious in any way. The way she smiles at Bobby makes me wonder if they are more than friends, if she might be his girlfriend.

  “Kaley, this is Zoe Kennedy,” Bobby says. “Her dad’s Ian Kennedy the music producer. She is the other corner of the Bermuda Triangle of industry brats here.”

  Oh crap, this day just keeps getting better. Is everyone I meet today going to have parents who are friends with Chrissie? Way to suck the fun out of my life, Mom. Drop me in a school surrounded by the children of your warped universe.

  Fuck, at least in Santa Barbara I didn’t have to deal with this shit: newbie at school, fucked-up home life, and a shitload of things I’ve been ordered not to tell anyone.

  Great fucking move, Chrissie. Yep, Pacific Palisades was a good call when you decided to relocate.

  I shake off my irritation and frown. “Bermuda Triangle?” I hate feeling like I’m totally left out of the joke. “What are you talking about?”

  Zoe smiles. “There are only three of us now, music industry brats. Last year there was a herd of us and they were definitely out of control. The faculty expects us to be hell-raisers. That’s why the teachers call us the Bermuda Triangle. Given who your dad is, I think they were in terror of you coming here. Why do you think they are all terrified of you? The actors’ brats do drugs. The rich are pretentious wannabe-famous stalkers. But the music industry kids—”

  “We’re considered the worst,” Bobby explains. “You’ll figure out pretty soon that none of the teachers like us here. And that you can pretty much do anything you want.”

  “I know your dad, too,” Zoe says in a satisfied way. “You look just like him. Even the stare. Positively eerie.”

  Bobby tosses her a mean look. “Fuck, I hate it when you eavesdrop, Zoe.”

  “Well, I could hardly not listen. You both are very loud.”

  I unlock the car. “My dad is an ass. Don’t compare me to Alan Manzone.”

  Zoe nods in earnest. “Where are you guys going? Can I go, too?”

  Bobby ignores Zoe and studies me for a moment. “Do you really hate him that much? You don’t give him an inch. Why are you so angry?”

  I flush. I’ve already been more honest with Bobby Rowan than anyone else I’ve known in my life.

  I shake my head. “I thought we’d settled that.”

  Zoe climbs into the backseat without being invited. “So where are we going?”

  “Don’t you both have cars?” I ask. “I’m not bringing you back here for them.”

  “I rode my motorcycle and I’ll get my mom to bring me back if you’re going to be a bitch about the whole thing,” Bobby says.

  “I’m not a bitch.”

  “Of course you are. Deliberately,” Zoe says in approval. “It’s what I like about you. You scare the crap out of everyone.”

  Well, there is no bullshit in this crew, I reluctantly note as I climb into the driver’s seat. That’s something. As irritating as it is, it is refreshing after wading through knee-deep false flattery, backhand innuendo and just plain phony acts of friendship.

  I make a careful sideways glance at Bobby as I turn the key in the ignition. I feel it again: that little flutter of interest inside me. I bite my lower lip. “I need to make a stop at my house before we go where you guys want to go.”

  Zoe frowns and shakes her head. “Can’t you just text your mom?”

  “No, I can’t. I have to check on her and going home is a rule.”

  Bobby is studying me again, strangely. “Check on her? What does that mean?”

  Oh shit, this guy doesn’t miss a thing.

  I give him a back-off glare. “Never mind. I’ve just got to go home first, OK?”

  I pull out of the school parking lot and begin to drive home. I should probably text Chrissie first to make sure it is OK to bring friends home, but fuck it, I’ve been punished enough with forced relocation and isolation because Chrissie’s life is a mess. Chrissie’s life is al
ways a mess. The only predictability I’ve ever known was during the Jesse years. Jesse. I feel myself wanting to tear up and force myself not to.

  “Hey, you OK?” I hear Bobby say.

  Not trusting my voice, I nod. I’m grateful to hear Zoe chirping from the backseat, preventing Bobby from probing any further.

  “You know, the adults here are the worst gossips. My mom and dad talk incessantly about everyone. That’s how I knew Alan Manzone was your dad. My mom saw your mom last week at the grocery store. That started a shitstorm of speculation, since I guess they used to be friends, and your mom just brushed by her like she wasn’t there and hasn’t called since she moved here.”

  “My mom hasn’t called anyone,” I say, hoping my voice sounds casual.

  “That’s true,” Bobby confirms. “My mom hasn’t heard a peep out of her. Not since the funeral. She calls. Chrissie never calls back. Linda has been sitting around our house all butt-hurt for months now.”

  “Can we drop it and talk about something else?” I snap in frustration. “You don’t know how irritating it is to live trapped in Chrissie emotional botheration and to have every conversation circle back to Chrissie.”

  I pull into my driveway and open my door. “I’ll just be a second.”

  Without being invited, they follow me again. Oh shit, that’ll piss Mom off, and knowing that somehow makes it something I just do. I open the front door and gesture them in.

  The loudness of the house always hits me like a brick when I step through the front door. The twins are running wild in a way that tells me that Chrissie is still in bed. Two months. Crap, shouldn’t she be out of bed at least the majority of the day by now? How long does it take to recover from a C-section?

  “Kaley, is that you? Can you do something about those boys?” I hear my mom call out from the opposite direction of the master bedroom.

  I roll my eyes and throw my bag onto the front tile. “They’re your kids. You take care of them. Or hire more help. You’re perfectly capable of doing both. Where’s Lourdes?”

  “Please, Kaley. She’s at ballet with Krystal and my hands are a little full right now,” Chrissie replies, unruffled and irritatingly tolerant.

  “Whose fault is that?”

  “Is it always so chaotic here?” Zoe whispers.

  I shrug. “Just since the move. You don’t have to whisper. My mom can’t hear a thing from the back of the house.”

  Eric and Ethan run down the hallway like the terrors they are, and I motion for my sort-of friends to follow me as I ignore my six-year-old twin brothers since it’s pointless to try to manage them. They won’t listen to me. They never do. They hardly listen to Chrissie.

  In the kitchen I spot Chrissie in the family room area. “I brought friends home, Mom. You can stop calling the teen crisis line. Socially well-adjusted again.”

  Chrissie laughs. “Very funny, sweetheart.”

  I study her. She looks good today. Better than she has for weeks. I hate that I am relieved to find my mom curled in a chair, dressed, and with Khloe in her arms nursing. She is nursing, not in bed. That is the cause of the twins running wild. She got up today. She is dressed. Maybe she’s finally starting to feel better.

  I drop down on the arm of my mom’s chair. I kiss her head. “You have a good day, Mom?”

  Chrissie smiles, looking up from the baby. “A good day. Both of us. Khloe finally slept through the night.” She looks over her shoulder, and her stunning blue eyes widen in surprise. “You did bring friends. Kaley, I thought we discussed—” She breaks off without finishing.

  “They’re OK. I thought it would be OK,” I reply, defensively.

  Chrissie’s smile fades from her face. It is clear the moment my mom realizes who the guy is.

  “Bobby Rowan,” Chrissie says in unflustered surprise. “I haven’t seen you since you were ten, but I’d recognize you anywhere.”

  I stare at Chrissie, stunned, since I know damn well she’s going to be pissed about this one later. I don’t know how my mom does it, I really don’t, but she can playact in her life is wonderful way through anything. I know she’s not happy about me bringing Bobby Rowan into her protective, isolated universe of ungodly secrets, but not a hint of that shows on her face.

  Both Bobby and Zoe say hello.

  I smile at my mother, a really shitty thing to do since we both know she’s ticked at me and has reason to be.

  “See, Mom. No worries here.”

  Chrissie’s eyes sharpen. She stares at me in a silent communication of disapproval and I drop my gaze first. That easily she makes me feel it, the unfairness of what I just did to her today. It may be a complicated mess, but it is Chrissie’s mess, and she does have a right to privacy if she wants it. Bringing Bobby here has definitely not been fair, but I’m tired of the bullshit.

  I rise from the arm of my mom’s chair. “Since you’re OK, Mom, I’m going to head out and have some fun for a change. Maybe orchestrate a flash mob or an OWS rally. What do you think?”

  “Kaley…”

  “I know, Mom. But I can’t live this way, OK? Homebound isolation isn’t healthy for me. I shouldn’t have to suffer your life choices and mistakes. At least in Santa Barbara I had some freedom.”

  I can see how those words cut my mother and I really hate that it matters to me that they do. I don’t want to be unkind to Chrissie. I just can’t seem to stop it. There is just too much simmering inside me since the birth of my sister Khloe.

  I grab my keys and get out the front door before Chrissie can say anything to stop me.

  We all pile back into my car and no one says a word until we’re driving down the road again.

  Bobby breaks the silence with a harsh whistle. “That was weird. Really weird.”

  I look into the rearview to find Zoe watching like a hawk. I shift my gaze back to Bobby. He’s staring at me as if waiting for me to explain, too.

  Fuck.

  “If you want to ask, then ask. I hate bullshit. I never do bullshit,” I snap, angry.

  Bobby shrugs. “OK, a simple observation. It’s just what I saw on your face in there. Why do you hate your mom? Why do you hate the baby?”

  My cheeks flush. I didn’t realize it was so obvious, and I’m feeling even worse now because I’m wondering if Chrissie can see it and if that’s why she is committed to tiptoeing around me these days.

  “When did your mom have another kid?” Bobby adds. “I didn’t read anything about that in the online tabloids.”

  I struggle for a controlled response. Nope, not happening. The words fight their way out of me. Fuck, I’m just going to tell them.

  “Khloe is Alan Manzone’s newest donation to overpopulating the planet. Like there wasn’t enough of us without Daddy Dearest dumping another new bastard on our doorstep last August. At least that’s what Chrissie told me. That Alan Manzone is Khloe’s father. The truth this time. It was refreshing.”

  There, I’ve said it. The very thing my mom has forbidden me from talking me about to anyone. But fuck, Chrissie, I can’t keep it bottled up inside me any longer.

  My fingers tighten on the steering wheel.

  Bobby searches my face. “No wonder you hate him.”

  “I don’t understand.” Zoe is sweet, but a trifle slow.

  Bobby turns toward the backseat. “Christ, Zoe, you can’t be that dumb.” Clearly it is beneath him to explain to her because he turns his focus back on me. “My mom never said a word. Does Linda know about the baby?”

  I bite my lower lip.

  I’ve already said too much.

  Shit, I’m shaking my head anyway.

  Why do I keep telling this guy my mom’s private shit?

  “I don’t understand how or when,” Bobby says slowly, as if he can’t make sense of this. “Alan Manzone’s been on tour for a year. Are they together again? Does he fly in during the breaks to see your mom?”

  I shake my head. “The night of Jesse Harris’s funeral was the last time my mom saw Alan. Only
time they’ve been together in over a year. Makes it pretty clear what they did that night together.”

  Bobby’s eyes widen.

  God, it sounds even worse aloud than as a suspicion in my head.

  “That’s fucked up,” he says in a heavy way that confirms he’s pieced this one together.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” I whisper, feeling the tight lid on everything suddenly blown away. “Why do you think I’m so messed up? It just never ends. It just always is, my mom and Alan Manzone, and I can’t take it anymore. I mean, shit, couldn’t they think of a better time to start fucking again than with my stepdad still warm in the grave? It made me so angry when I saw Khloe and figured it out. She sent all us kids away the night of Jesse’s burial and when I came home I just knew. And then, there was Khloe nine months later. I just wanted to scream at her ‘how obvious is that, Chrissie?’”

  I start to breathe in a rapid, overly emotional way. “Then, seeing Khloe, the truth about me became something I can’t pretend away. It’s so obvious we are not half sisters. And now I can’t push it from my head. Why does she lie to me? Or is it Alan? Does she lie to him and I just have to live with it? And now I’m angry all the time. Angry at her. Angry at Alan. Angry at the lying. Angry at the silence. I’m angry all the time. I usually feel like I’m going to explode. But I can’t. I’m not even supposed to tell people about Khloe.”

  Bobby takes a moment to digest that thoughtfully. “You mean no one knows about the baby? Not even him?”

  I shake my head. “And I’d really appreciate it if the two of you keep it that way. What I did to Mom back there, it wasn’t cool. Not cool at all. I don’t know what’s going on. But she hasn’t spoken to Alan since the funeral. I don’t want her hurt.”

  I watch Bobby’s gaze shift to fix on my fingers clutching the steering wheel and it is then I see they are trembling even though they are curled around the wheel so tightly my knuckles are white. It is one thing to behave badly. It is another thing to feel the aftermath of something you’ve done to someone you love. I hurt Chrissie today and I did it on purpose. I start to cry.

  “I am such a bitch!”