The Reece Malcolm List

by Amy Spalding

  PRAISE FOR

  The Reece Malcolm List

  “ I loved getting lost in this world of drama nerdery, new friendships, prolonged kissing, and mysterious moms. The Reece Malcolm List is moving and funny; a terrifically satisfying read.”

  —SARA ZARR, author of How to Save a Life

  “ Funny and poignant, this lively book totally charmed us.”

  —HEATHER COCKS and jessica morgan, authors of Spoiled and Messy

  “ Brilliant! With The Reece Malcolm List, Amy Spalding takes you into the heart and mind of her musical-theater-obsessed, fiercely intelligent, achingly funny heroine, Devan. And you will quite literally never want to leave. Ms. Spalding achieved a feat I never would have thought possible—she made me deeply miss being a teenager. Her love and enthusiasm for the theater are thoroughly contagious. Her understanding of the intricacies and heartaches within parent/teenager relationships is spot-on. And her voice as a writer is unique, honest, and quite often flat-out hysterically funny. I laughed, I cried, it was way, WAY better than Cats! Brava Amy Spalding! I just wanted this show to go on and on . . .”

  —MIRIAM SHOR, star of Hedwig and the Angry Inch (Original Cast) and Merrily We Roll Along (Kennedy Center’s Sondheim Celebration)

  “ Amy Spalding deftly explores family and identity in this charming, heartwarming, and thoughtful debut. Devan is a laugh-out-loud funny and beautifully honest protagonist navigating life as the not-so-nerdy-anymore New Girl with a cast of characters just as memorable as she is. The Reece Malcolm List sings!”

  —COURTNEY SUMMERS, author of Cracked up to Be and Some Girls Are

  “ I really enjoyed The Reece Malcolm List. It isn’t often I come across books with just the right mix of humor and emotion. Amy Spalding has a knack for characterization and dialogue. I very much related to the main character, and I feel like lots of teen girls who are scared to trust others will open up after reading this book. Heartbreaking in the best way, this book is excellent YA contemporary.”

  —MIRANDA KENNEALLY, author of Catching Jordan and Stealing Parker

  “ I read The Reece Malcolm List in a bad month and didn’t want to leave sixteen-year-old Devan’s new world of sunny L.A. skies, cool choir classes, sexy but sensitive performing arts school boys, and an enigmatic thirty-two-year-old mother that she’s only getting to know for the first time. This book has so much warmth and charm that you’ll find yourself wanting a second helping.”

  —CK KELLY MARTIN, author of I Know It’s Over and The Lighter Side of Life and Death

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Amy Spalding. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Edited by Stacy Abrams and Alycia Tornetta

  Cover design by Emmett Kenny

  Cover photograph by Jessie Weinberg

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition February 2013

  The author acknowledges the copyrighted or trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Google, BlackBerry, BMW, Converse Chuck Taylors, U-Haul, Facebook, Best Buy, MacBook, Starbucks, Frappuccino, Cheez-It, Altoids

  To my friend Kristin Wennerstrom Guilonard

  At the end of the day, she thought, there was no difference in choices you made and choices made for you. One would define you no less than the other.

  —Reece Malcolm, Destruction

  Chapter One

  Things I know about Reece Malcolm:

  1. She graduated from New York University.

  2. She lives in or near Los Angeles (even the Internet can’t confirm).

  3. Since her first novel (Destruction) was released nine years ago she’s always had at least one book on the New York Times bestseller list.

  4. She likes strong coffee and bourbon, the only personal details she gave in a rare interview with The Daily Beast.

  5. She’s my mother.

  I was in show choir the day I found out Dad died in a car accident. We were singing “Aquarius” right before, which means I’ll always associate Dad being gone with the moon being in the seventh house and Jupiter aligning with Mars.

  Dad and I weren’t close, not lately at least. Maybe really never. I tell myself it’s because Dad wasn’t the kind of guy who seemed to get close to people, but honestly I’m afraid I inherited that from him, too. Sometimes days would blur by and it would hit me that Dad and I hadn’t talked at all. So I know it’s dumb that I cried for about three days straight after it happened, if you can even keep track of time during something like that. Mourning should be for kids who have a billion happy memories, like Disneyland and learning to ride a bike and whatever else dads are supposed to do.

  Still, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to listen to the cast recording of Hair again. Or go to a planetarium.

  Now it’s three months later, and I’m on a plane to L.A. Technically Burbank, but thanks to Google Maps I learned that Burbank might as well be Los Angeles. It’s very close. That probably sounds like a good thing, but I’m more than a little convinced L.A. is the epicenter of everything superficial and overly tanned.

  My mother’s lawyer is next to me. Until the plane went up up up into the blue(ish) St. Louis morning sky, he’d been tapping out messages on his BlackBerry. Now that it’s off, he fidgets with it, and occasionally he picks up the pamphlet about safety. Since this is my first flight, I’d read it with way more interest. But after trying to imagine myself zipping down an inflatable slide into the depths of the ocean, I figured maybe it was okay to limit my knowledge as far as disastrous possibilities were concerned.

  With regard to the airplane, at least.

  “Your mom tells me you’re a junior in high school,” the lawyer says pretty much out of nowhere. I guess he’s finally bored with his powerless device.

  “Stepmom,” I correct. Knee-jerk reaction by now. People always mean Tracie.

  He takes a sip of coffee. “No, your mom.”

  I realize he is talking about my actual mother. It washes over me that he actually knows her. As her lawyer he probably knows a lot about her. Unlike me, he doesn’t only know her as a name on a book cover, a name I plug into Google on a regular basis. “Didn’t speak much to your stepmom.”

  “Don’t feel special,” I say without thinking, though he chuckles.

  “It’ll be good,” he says. “To be with family at a time like this.”

  I shrug. No one said anything about me right after Dad died. Not just, specifically, who had custody of me and where I would live, but hardly anything about me at all. Kids in musicals without parents always ended up okay—Annie got Daddy Warbucks, Cosette got Jean Valjean, Christine got stalked by the Phantom, though she did get to make out with Raoul—but I doubted anyone would show up and rescue me. (Or make out with me.) People swooped in around Tracie. But even though I didn’t know how to function without a dad any more than she knew how to function without a husband, no one offered to help me figure it out. So when all the legal stuff finally got sorted and the lawyer showed up, that much didn’t seem like a surprise. Or even a bad thing.

  Until I heard where I was going.

  “Must have been tough on you,” he continues. �
��Dad here, mom in L.A. I felt bad enough when my wife and I divorced and I left the Valley for the Westside.”

  I nod to him as politely as I can manage given what’s going on and how early it is. I guess he figures out I’m not up to talking because he turns his attention to the catalogue of bizarre items available to purchase while in the air.

  After what I figure is a respectable wait, I get out the iPod my best friend Justine gave me as a good-bye gift. It’s loaded with musical theatre cast recordings (the only music I ever listen to, which, okay, is maybe a little totally geeky, but it counts that I know that, right?). I scroll to Little Shop of Horrors, which we performed in together back in April. Only about three notes in I’m barely managing not to cry, so I switch it off.

  “Did you have to come because you’re a lawyer?” I ask. His name is Roger Berman but I don’t know if I’m supposed to call him Mr. Berman or Roger so I just don’t call him anything. “Or did my— Did she just not—”

  “Want to leave the house this month?” Roger Berman laughs. “That’s always a safe bet with Reece, isn’t it? I guess if you write like that, you’re allowed to be a hermit sometimes.”

  6. She is a hermit sometimes.

  “Well, yeah,” I say, as if I’m some expert on Reece Malcolm. Her talent probably does allow her a lot. I wonder if my talent will ever allow me anything. So far it kind of feels like the opposite.

  “You know how she is,” he says in a conspiratorial tone, us bonding about what a kooky recluse my mother is or whatever. “I wouldn’t make anything out of it.”

  I have this fantasy of responding that since she ignored me my entire life and then didn’t even bother to leave the house, there’s probably a lot to be made out of it. But I never say things like that.

  And, anyway, Reece Malcolm has clearly explained things to her lawyer in a way that makes us seem like a perfectly normal mother-daughter combo that just happens to live half the country away from each other. I’m not going to ruin her planned illusion.

  I’ve thought about meeting her. Of course. It’s not just that I had the clichéd evil stepmother who couldn’t stand me. It’s not just that a lot of times—well, most of the time—Dad acted like I didn’t exist. Okay, sometimes I thought about nothing but leaving them for my mother. But I never wanted Dad to die. No hypothetical versions happened this way. I wanted a real reunion, not being forced on her. That was the worst part of this. Maybe. It’s almost amazing how many bad parts one thing could have.

  When the plane lands at Burbank Airport (the only other slightly scary part of flying besides a tiny bit of turbulence is touching down, but, really, it was just a little bump and then we’re back on the ground like we never left), I guess I did hope she’d be waiting for us the second we passed through security. But I just follow Roger Berman into the bright sunshine to the baggage carousel like this is exactly what I expect.

  I seriously can’t even explain how clear and crisp the sky is, the bluest blue I’ve ever seen. I feel like Dorothy waking up and walking into the colorized Oz, though it’s not a witch who’s dead, it’s someone who shouldn’t have been, and it wasn’t a tornado-induced falling house, it was a thunderstorm-induced five-car pile-up.

  And, anyway, I’m not a blue skies and sunshine person. Life is just life, no matter the weather.

  I realize the lawyer is on his BlackBerry, and a woman’s voice rings out of the speaker just enough that if I were a dog my ears would prick up. I bite my lip to keep from asking if it’s her. A normal kid would recognize her own mother’s voice.

  “Where are you? No, we’ll wait; it’s fine, Reece. Great, we’ll see you then.” He clicks off the phone and smiles at me. “I’m sure you’re not shocked she’s running late.”

  “Oh, um.” I nod. “Right. You don’t have to stay with me or anything.”

  “Actually, legally, I do,” he says. “And it’s no problem. She’ll be here soon.”

  My heart shoots into my throat at that full realization.

  “So, um, like, what happens if this doesn’t work?” I ask. If I wasn’t wanted there, and I’m not wanted here, I should at least know what’s next.

  “You being in L.A. full-time?” he asks. “We can cross that bridge if we come to it. I know Reece is . . . well, Reece. And L.A. probably seems overwhelming to you, I get that. But I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  7. Reece is Reece, which never really describes someone likable.

  We’re quiet for a little while. I keep scanning the crowd, even though if she were here I’d know it. Not like I’d get some Mother Detection Spider Sense, just that she’d find Roger Berman.

  It’s weird how different people are here. I’ve never really left Missouri (driving over the river to a concert choir showcase in Illinois doesn’t, in my opinion, count), so maybe this kind of thing is obvious once you’ve traveled. But the crowd around the outdoor baggage claim is more tanned, and definitely better dressed, and everyone looks younger. Not like I’m going around asking ages, but it’s the kind of thing you can just tell.

  “You a writer, too?” he asks. He’s a very random person for a lawyer. “That kind of thing hereditary?”

  “Definitely not. I mean, I wish.”

  “Don’t we all.” He looks out to the line of cars stopped at the light across from us. “Speaking of.”

  I follow his gaze, but I don’t really know what I’m looking for. A black BMW pulls right up to the stretch of curb lined with cars making drop-offs or pickups, and she jumps out of it. I’ve only seen one fuzzy little picture (Reece Malcolm is practically unGoogleable), but there’s no doubt this is her. I tell myself to really suck down this moment, get every detail because I’ll want to remember it forever. So it’s weird that she’s just this person, one out of lots and lots at the airport.

  “Thanks, Roger,” she says, no eye contact with me at all. “Sorry I’m—”

  “Ten minutes late is practically on-time for you,” he says. “Early, even.” He hands over a folder to her, the one my birth certificate is in. I saw it when we went through security and I had to show ID. “Give me a call if you need anything.”

  “I always do,” she says in this voice that’s, somehow, halfway between monotone and perky. I’ve imagined my first conversation with my mother many times, but she never sounded like that in my head.

  “Devan, good luck.” He shakes my hand and gives me a warm smile. “L.A.’s not so bad, I promise.”

  “Thanks.” I try to return the smile. Really he only had to bring me here, but he’s been nice the whole time.

  She sort of barely turns to me as Roger Berman walks away, which is my first chance to actually look at her, even if it’s a lot like staring into the sun. She’s taller than me, though not by much—which I guess I didn’t expect—and her hair’s much better: glossy and chestnut brown, not the mousy shade mine is, hanging to her shoulders. I guess we’re built the same, sort of curvy, thin-not-skinny.

  And, very depressingly, she’s wearing faded jeans, a fitted T-shirt, and fairly grungy Converse Chuck Taylors, while I’m in cropped jeans, a red and white shirt with tiny pearly buttons, and white flats. Up until this moment we haven’t been able to share my life, but can’t we at least share a duty to style?

  She gestures to my suitcase as well as my backpack that I rested on top of it. “Are those all your bags?”

  “Um, yeah, I—”

  She grabs them both and deposits them in her car’s trunk. “They take the no-waiting or -parking rule pretty seriously. Come on.”

  I get into the car’s passenger side and buckle myself in, wondering if I’m being dumb to expect maybe not a hug but at least a hi?

  My mother hops into the driver’s seat and squeals off from the curb. “Sorry I was late. I’m sure Roger filled you in that it’s not exactly an uncommon occurrence.”

  “Yeah. Um, thanks,” I manage to squeak out. “For picking me up.”

  “Oh.” She adjusts her sunglasses as she merges across a few lanes
of traffic. “Yeah, of course.”

  I look out the window as L.A.—or Burbank?—flies past us. I expected the palm trees and sunshine, but I thought everything would be blanketed in smog and way more glamorous than a bunch of strip malls and car dealerships.

  A cell phone rings as my mother pulls onto the freeway, and she sighs loudly and gestures to her bag, which I realize is at my feet. Also: soft black leather, amazing detailing, very enviable. Immediately I put a lot of hope into that bag.

  “Can you grab that?” she asks. “Sorry.”

  I reach into her purse tentatively but luckily locate the ringing phone right away. She doesn’t take it when I hold it out, though.

  “Who?” she sort of barks. I feel like I might never get used to her tone.

  I check the screen: BRAD CALLING , and let her know.

  She holds out her hand to take the phone, clicks to accept the call, and holds the phone to her ear. “Yes, I got up in time. I can’t imagine you’re calling for any other reason. Yes, she’s here, and— No, I haven’t. Your priorities are very strange.” The last one is the only thing she’s said so far that doesn’t sound rushed and vaguely annoyed. I wonder who Brad is to earn a nice moment from Reece Malcolm. “I’m hanging up, all right? I’m completely breaking the law right now— If I knew where it was I’d be using it. No, don’t— Brad. I’ll take care of— Fine, fine. Right, you, too.”

  She clicks off the phone and tosses it onto my lap. “I don’t know about the laws in Missouri, but here you can’t hold your phone to your ear while driving,” she says. “Not that I follow it. Are you hungry? Are you even up for food? I hate flying.”

  “Flying’s okay,” I say, while I try to gauge if I’m hungry or not. My stomach makes interesting decisions when I’m stressed out. “I guess I’m hungry. If you are.”