Emancipated
Page 1
DEDICATION
For Hoku,
with fond memories of a wonderful drive through
Malibu Canyon and lunch at the beach cantina
—all in the name of research, of course!
CONTENTS
Dedication
Grace
Paolo
Ariana Calls Charlie
John-Michael
Candace
Paolo
Ariana Calls Charlie
Grace
Lucy
Paolo
Maya
Charlie Calls Ariana
Paolo
John-Michael
Grace
John-Michael
Paolo
Maya
Ariana Calls Charlie
Paolo
Lucy
Ariana Calls Lucy
John-Michael
Paolo
Maya
John-Michael
Grace
Paolo
Lucy
Lucy
Ariana Calls Lucy
Grace
Lucy
Maya
Lucy
Paolo
Paolo
Maya
Ariana Calls the West Coast
Grace
John-Michael
Candace
Grace
John-Michael
Lucy
Candace
Grace
Lucy
Maya
Lucy
Paolo
Grace
John-Michael
Grace
John-Michael
Grace
Maya
Ariana Calls the West Coast
Acknowledgments
Back Ad
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
CALIFORNIA FAMILY CODE SECTION 7120-7123
EMANCIPATION:
7120.
(A) A MINOR MAY PETITION THE SUPERIOR COURT OF THE COUNTY IN WHICH THE MINOR RESIDES OR IS TEMPORARILY DOMICILED FOR A DECLARATION OF EMANCIPATION.
(B) THE PETITION SHALL SET FORTH WITH SPECIFICITY ALL OF THE FOLLOWING FACTS:
(1) THE MINOR IS AT LEAST 14 YEARS OF AGE.
(2) THE MINOR WILLINGLY LIVES SEPARATE AND APART FROM THE MINOR’S PARENTS OR GUARDIAN WITH THE CONSENT OR ACQUIESCENCE OF THE MINOR’S PARENTS OR GUARDIAN.
(3) THE MINOR IS MANAGING HIS OR HER OWN FINANCIAL AFFAIRS.
GRACE
SAN ANTONIO, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 1
It happened like this: Candace needed to leave home and Grace found the solution.
The two stepsisters had taken as much as they could of Grace’s mother’s behavior—the screaming fights, the threats to get a divorce. Since her seventeenth birthday, Candace had been sharing confidences with Grace, anxious that she herself might be the cause of their parents’ unhappiness.
The girls lay on the lawn, long fair hair trailing in the grass, bare legs tan against the bright green. Grace peered through her fingers at her stepsister. At sixteen, she was the younger of the two, but often she felt like the older one. Candace had spent so much of her life in various forms of coaching: voice, drama, dance, horseback riding, fencing; she’d had a lot less time to read, think, listen, and reflect.
Or maybe Grace was simply more mature because of something that had happened much earlier in her life?
“It’s probably not you, Candace. But isn’t that totally classic?” Grace rolled over onto her side. “It’s the first place therapists go when they counsel kids from ‘broken homes.’”
“Oh. Right,” Candace muttered. “I’m a cliché?”
“You are, but how is that relevant?”
Grace grinned as Candace kicked at her shins with bare feet.
The problem was, Grace suspected deep down that her stepsister’s fears were real. That she was the cause, 100 percent. Without a single moment of bad behavior, Candace had managed to put their folks’ marriage on the line. The girls could both hear the argument raging inside the house.
Grace’s mother said, “I won’t stand by to see our daughter throw her career away just because you won’t move.”
“Tina, sweetheart, what am I going to do in Los Angeles?” Candace’s father asked.
“Fine, stay here then. But let me take Candy to Hollywood.”
Grace heard Candace’s father pause, try to get past the nickname again, and fail. “Don’t call her that.”
“Candace, fine,” said Tina, straining audibly to keep her voice under control. “I’ve already lined up her first TV audition. It’s in a month. She needs to be living there, goddamnit. That’s what all the experts say. Move to LA.”
“Look, Tina, you—we—have four other kids to worry about.”
Grace knew that the “we” was euphemistic. All four were, biologically speaking, her mom’s kids and not his. Tina’s obsession with the sole child he’d brought to their blended family was something that none of them could openly address. But now Tina wanted to leave him, Grace, and her three younger brothers in San Antonio and head for the madness of a Hollywood dream.
Grace watched the frustration grow in Candace’s face. Her eyes strayed to Candace’s long legs stretched in front of her from under denim shorts, lithe and slender. She watched as Candace turned her head slightly, reaching over her right shoulder, just enough to get a quick look into the house. Their parents had moved from the living room, with its French windows, and into the kitchen. The girls couldn’t hear them clearly now.
Grace concentrated on the sensation of hundreds of blunt prickles under her thighs, the coarse blades that she’d mown that afternoon. When Candace finally glanced up at her once more, there was a rueful grin on her face. Grace smiled back. The fights were becoming a bore for everyone in the house. A repetitive, predictable bore.
Candace scowled. “Man, it’s like Tina thinks that if she keeps whining he’ll eventually crack.”
“She’s doing it for you,” Grace reminded her carefully.
“You know I love your mom, Grace. But we both know she’s not just ‘doing it for me.’ You saw how she was about the jeans commercial. Me, this—it’s all part of Tina’s vicarious Hollywood life.”
Grace nodded. “I saw.” It was a strange thing about stage moms. Their motives seemed so altruistic, but they rarely escaped the scrutiny of intense examination.
Grace hesitated. “There’s another way.”
“I know,” Candace said. “I already said I’m cool with waiting until after high school.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Gently, Grace added, “And we both know you can’t. This is your time, Candace. Now.”
They were silent for a moment. It was the inescapable truth at the heart of the family’s dilemma. Candace was a fruit on the cusp of ripening. Her hair was long and fell as straight as honey being poured, golden brown with hints of strawberry. Her skin was, without any recourse to a strenuous routine of diet and cleansing, clear and smooth with a peachy tone. Her eyes were light brown, her lips full and soft; a perfect shade of raspberry. She had a way of moving that looked like a ballet dancer unfolding from a tight hold.
It even surprised Candace herself. Grace had seen it on occasion—noticed the way Candace would catch sight of herself in the mirror and pause. Not admiringly, but as if startled by a stranger. Sometimes Grace wondered who was sharing her room. It wasn’t the lanky girl she’d spent the past few years with, years over which they’d forged their firm, sisterly bond. Candace had become someone else, a young woman of understated sensuality and grace. If she slouched a little, curled her lip just a tad, a smoldering teenager returned her gaze. Total transformation. As though all it took was a
small shift inside her brain, a subtle tweak of an attitude, and she could be whatever anyone wanted to see.
Of all the people on the planet to receive the undeserved gift of the face and body of a chameleon-goddess, it had to be the first person Grace saw when she woke up every day.
It wasn’t fair, but there it was.
“Stay in San Antonio,” Grace said, “and your best years are going to waste away.”
“I’d be getting an education.”
“I hear they even have schools in LA these days.”
“It’s about time.”
Grace smirked. “Yeah, those airheads. No fair they all get to make a living from being pretty, like, forever.”
“Whiny brats,” Candace retorted.
“Get yourselves to school already, 90210.”
The two girls laughed. Candace gazed into her stepsister’s eyes for a second. “I can’t leave. And you of all people should know why.”
“I know, you’d die without me,” Grace returned, deadpan. “But what if I could come, too?”
“Never. Gonna. Happen. Tina’s going to give in to Dad. Any day now he’ll make me apply to UT. And that’ll be the end of it.”
“You could always move back in with your mother.”
Candace frowned. “The Wicked Witch of Malibu? She can barely stand to stay in the country long enough to get through a week of visitation.”
“But she’s loaded, right?”
“Strictly speaking, the cash belongs to the Dope Fiend.”
“Pretty disrespectful term to apply to your stepfather.”
“Don’t even remind me,” Candace said. “It’s too bad I don’t want to break into the art world. At least then the Dope Fiend might be of some use.”
“If you could switch your official residency back to your mom’s, we might have another option.”
“Grace, I’m serious. I don’t want to live with them.”
“What if—technically—you didn’t have to?”
“Okay,” Candace admitted, “you totally lost me. How can I live with my mom if I don’t live with my mom?”
Grace pulled a slow, revelatory grin. “I have one word for you, my defeatist friend. Emancipation.”
“Huh?”
“If you’re a California resident, you can petition the courts to be legally freed from parental control at fourteen. Keep all the money you earn, rent your own place. And your mom lives in California, which makes you a California resident.”
“So Tina wouldn’t get my cash?” Candace said with a sudden, wicked grin. “Hey, cool. Or is this about getting your room back for yourself?”
Grace’s smile widened. “Not so fast, sis. In Texas, you have to be sixteen. Which, of course, I am.”
“So this would be both of us?” Candace asked. “You and me, emancipated minors?”
Grace nodded. “Heck yeah.”
PAOLO
MALIBU LAWN TENNIS CLUB, WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 5
Things had gotten to the stage where Paolo wasn’t even sure why he bothered. No one at the tennis club could beat him. He still coached a couple of people, rich girls who insisted on Paolo and only Paolo. But the money was, relatively speaking, a pittance. The last competition he’d entered had netted him more than he’d earned in all his time as a part-time coach.
Then he remembered the bottomless pit of tuition. Unless he could swing some major scholarship to Stanford or the Ivy League—which wasn’t all that likely—an undergrad degree and law school was going to add up. So, even though he was exhausted from his training session, Paolo headed for the shower. He scrubbed away the sweat, washed his hair with a shampoo that smelled of green apples, and then dried off. From his locker he took a fresh set of tennis whites, neatly laundered and pressed by his mother. He dressed. He checked his watch. His student would be here any minute. He checked his hair. Slicked back wasn’t the best look for him. With this girl, that was all good. He was running out of ways to turn her down.
Livia Judge was waiting for him on the court. She called out to him: “Hey, sweetie.” She drawled on the “hey.” She probably thought it sounded seductive. A couple of months ago, Paolo might have agreed. Since then, he’d slept with a couple of “slow-hey” types at the club. They hadn’t been all that. There was more to seducing him properly. Paolo knew that much now. He didn’t know what, but these pampered princesses didn’t do whatever it was. He was looking to have his mind blown and his heart shredded. People told him that love was painful, yet all he’d found was an endless stream of pleasant but insipid smiles. Beautiful smiles, prizewinning orthodontic work. Empty, nonetheless.
But sex was sex. He grinned at himself in the mirror. The cute little boy he’d always seen grinned right back at him. To Paolo, he looked about twelve. He couldn’t imagine what these twentysomething women saw in a boy like him. But hey, why fight it?
After the lesson, Livia invited him back to her place. For “cocktails.”
“I don’t drink,” he reminded her politely. “I’m in training.”
“A cup of chamomile tea then.” She smiled a slow grin. Her face and chest were glowing a healthy pink, moist as if from stepping into a mist. He could smell the faint aroma of clean sweat. He tried to imagine her naked and reaching for him. But, nothing.
“I need to get going,” he said. “My mom’s making a special dinner for me tonight.”
“Ooh, aren’t you the special son.”
He nodded. “I guess I am.”
“Lucky Caroline. I’d love to have a son like you.”
Paolo bit his lip. I bet you would.
Livia patted his arm affectionately. “Until next week?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And maybe next time you’ll keep the rest of the afternoon free?”
He swallowed. “Maybe,” he managed to say.
What was wrong with these women? Livia Judge was the daughter of a Hollywood studio executive. She mixed with movie and TV stars. Why didn’t she leave him alone? He just wanted to do his job and move on. But no. Not a single lesson could go by without some comment about the power in his thighs, his washboard abs, or the glimpse she’d caught of his waist when he’d reached for a high ball.
He drove his Chevrolet Malibu home and parked on the road. Both his parents’ cars were in the driveway beside his older sister’s. He sniffed the air—the unmistakable aroma of charred fish. He strolled into the backyard to find his mother, father, and sister, Diana, sipping from glasses of white wine. When she saw him, his mother, Caroline, gave him a welcoming smile. She poured him a tall glass of freshly made iced tea. He noticed her glance sideways at his dad. Paolo’s father looked away from his conversation with Diana and met his mother’s eye. They were nervous, Paolo was sure of it.
“I hope you’re hungry,” his mother said. “Always.”
“Then I suggest we get to it!” His father laughed a hollow sort of laugh and clapped a hand to Paolo’s back. “Are you okay, son?”
“I’m great.”
“Everything okay at the club?” continued his father.
“Everything’s cool.”
His father stuck a fork in his own food, which was piled high. “Get some of that good salmon your mom made, go ahead. And take some of the coleslaw. I made it myself. Special recipe!”
“Yeah, I know, the secret ingredient is Tabasco sauce.”
It usually was.
Paolo relaxed into a chair and ate rapidly, watching his parents. He really was hungry, but something about his parents’ behavior this evening was unnerving. He ran through all the possibilities that might be linked to him. There was no report card due from school. As far as he knew, his parents weren’t undergoing any medical examinations. His sister was visiting from UCSF, where she was a biochemistry major, so it wasn’t likely to be anything to do with her. He found himself stealing a peek at his mother’s belly. She couldn’t be pregnant again, could she? She was forty-seven years old; it wasn’t possible. Was it?
But they wer
e obviously waiting to tell him something. With every second that went by, the air grew thicker with tension. Strained smiles met him when he caught their eye. Paolo put his plate down carefully on the grass. He stood up and joined the other three where they were clustered around the grill, slicing up a large, smoking hunk of salmon.
His mother spoke first. “So, Paolo, darling, we kind of have something to tell you.”
He nodded.
“Your father’s been offered a great new job. It’s an incredible opportunity.”
“Cool, what’s the hitch?”
His mother’s face fell. “What makes you say that?”
Paolo’s dad shook his head. Reluctantly, he grinned. “Caroline, you didn’t raise any fools here.” He turned to Paolo. “You’re right, there’s a hitch. The job’s in Sonora. In Mexico.”
“Sonora?” Paolo said. “That copper mine you’re always visiting?”
“Yup. They need me on-site full-time. It’s just for two years.”
“But it’s, like, in the middle of nowhere!”
His father nodded. “That it is.”
“Can’t you just . . .” Paolo stopped. He didn’t understand his dad’s business even close enough to follow any argument. A few years back he’d have argued anyway. Now he knew there was little point. He gazed imploringly into his father’s eyes. “Dad. Please. Can’t you turn it down?”
“I can’t. They’re my main client. If they pull out that’s like eighty thousand I gotta find from someone else. And they’re gonna pay me twice that if I move there for a couple of years. Plus relocation costs.”
“But, school. And my tennis.”
Paolo’s mother squeezed his arm, reassuring. “It’ll be okay, Paolo. There’s a way.”
In disgust, Paolo said, “Some Mexican international school and an occasional tennis coach? I don’t think so.”
She shook her head. “No. You can stay here in California.”
“With Aunt Janet? Tell me you’re kidding.”
His dad coughed. “I think we can all agree that Aunt Janet isn’t the answer.”
Paolo’s mouth was half open. “So what is? You gonna leave me here alone? I’d totally manage.”
His father shook his head. “Legally, we’d be responsible for your actions. Frankly, son, we’re not comfortable with that unless we’re in the same state at the very least. We know what teenagers can be like—we survived your sister. Plus, this way you legally get to keep all your earnings from coaching and tennis competitions. Although we’d prefer it if you still put them straight into a high-interest savings account. There’s college to save for, after all.”