by Amy Spalding
“I don’t think it works that way,” she says. “But, yeah. Let’s stop.”
This is beyond weird. Long-lost mother finally sitting next to me, and we’re discussing cell phone laws and lunch.
Once we’re off the freeway, my mother parks behind a hamburger place she claims is both “a-ma-zing” and the closest to her house. I follow her inside, wondering how hamburgers can be a-ma-zing, but this place is actually super fancy with red vinyl chairs and shiny chandeliers and a bar displaying—for whatever reason—a stuffed swan. But the only thing I’m trying not to stare at like some kind of stalker is my mother now that she’s taken off her sunglasses. Her eyes are brown, just like mine. I wonder if she already noticed, or if it even means anything to her.
Luckily, once we’re seated, her attention is on her menu, so I can survey her. No jewelry on her hands and no watch, either, but she is wearing tiny diamond earrings that are way too boring for my taste but obviously really nice. The most striking thing about her, though—well, besides the fact that in most ways she looks like an older version of me—is that she’s more like a not-that-much-older version of me. Dad said once that she was young, but he hadn’t made it sound like a big deal. But Reece Malcolm is young. And for some reason I never imagined that, either.
“Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” She looks up at me. “We can take this to go, if you’d rather.”
“No, I’m fine, sorry.” I force myself to look at the menu, in case her concern stems from me gawking at her. “Just tired.” It’s sort of a lie, but a plausible one at least.
“I hear that,” she says. “How early did you have to get up?”
“Four thirty.”
“Two thirty my time,” she says. “I wasn’t even in bed yet. God, poor you.”
I can’t think of anything to say to that.
“Though I’d assume you keep more reasonable hours than I do,” she says. “School and all. Mine didn’t get out of hand until after college.”
I nod as a waiter walks up to get our drink order. Two Diet Cokes. I know it’s lame to get excited, but I like having it in common with her. Also, when you’re a self-identifying choir and musical theatre nerd, you pretty much accept that some a lot of things that excite you are going to be lame.
“Speaking of school, you can wait a few weeks,” Reece Malcolm says. “I can’t imagine you’re anxious to start.”
“Well,” I say, in no way able to control what’s about to come out of me, “the thing is that it’s already the second week of school—I mean, it was for me in Missouri at least—and the longer you wait, the harder it is to get into the good choirs. Even now it might be hard, but I’ll have a better shot at Honors and Show and whatever else they have if I go right away. Plus depending on when they hold auditions for the Fall show . . . ”
By now she’s staring at me like the freak I am.
“I mean, we used to move a lot.” I decide not to go into how I’d never figured out if Dad was actually convinced a better opportunity was ahead of him or he just got bored with things really easily. “So I just kind of learned that.”
“All right then.” She takes a leather-bound organizer out of her purse and jots something down. “I take it you’re an actor.”
“Well, not really, I’m only sixteen, it’s just been for school, but . . . ”
“You have to start somewhere.” It’s the nicest thing she could say to my geeksplosion. “I’ll make some calls when we get back to the house.”
“If it’s not a big deal or anything.”
“Definitely not.” She shuts her organizer with a slam and tosses it back into her bag. “And, God, I meant to say something sooner. I’m so sorry about your father.”
I shrug, shoving one of my hands into my pocket, clutching my fingers around the key I slipped there this morning. (I had to take it out to walk through security but besides that it hasn’t left me.) Its teeth dig into my fingers and the metal’s warmer than I expected. For a split second, I feel the glow of using it to sneak into the choir room with Justine and take advantage of the acoustics as well as the piano. That had been my first time at breaking the rules, ever.
I’d only hesitated a little when Justine handed over her iPod, but the key? I never thought she’d part with it. If Ms. Stanford realized she’d never asked for it back after granting us access to the choir room the night before state competitions, we would have returned it as if we’d just forgotten. But not voluntarily. To most people a grimy old key to a choir room wouldn’t sound like that big of a deal. But to us it was.
“It’s fine,” I finally say. I figure I should say something. “I mean—now. It’s been . . . a while.” Three months and a day and a couple hours.
“Right,” Reece Malcolm says, though carefully, the way people spoke at Dad’s funeral. I don’t remember much of that day—because I don’t want to—but that tone I can’t get out of my head.
By the time the waiter brings our drinks, I still have no idea what I want, so I just let Reece Malcolm order two things for us to split. You know you’re desperate to bond when fancy hamburgers are your best plan.
It’s quiet again while we wait for the food, and the silence continues once we’re served, outside of Reece Malcolm saying, “See? A-ma-zing.”
To be fair, she’s right.
Chapter Two
Things I know about Reece Malcolm:
8. She always runs late, even to pick up her long-lost daughter.
9. She is bizarrely really enthusiastic about hamburgers.
After lunch I follow Reece Malcolm outside to her car, and she makes a few turns until we end up, just minutes later, on a hilly, winding street where houses jut out from every conceivable angle. She drives up to a big oak house with lots of glass and right angles, kind of modern but in the way I bet people in the past imagined modern would be someday. I’m not sure what I thought houses would be like here—pink and stucco and mansion-sized?—but this is definitely not it.
Since we did move so much, it’s normal to pull up to a place I’ve never seen before with the understanding it would be my home—at least until Dad changed jobs again. With Reece Malcolm’s house I don’t feel that understanding settling in my gut.
Still, even though L.A. is one of the last places I should be—New York has to be where my future is—I do like this house. If it were Dad and Tracie pulling up to it, something in me would click into place, I’m sure of it.
I wait near the door as she takes my bags out of the trunk (she refused my help). “Your house is amazing.”
“Thanks.” She lugs the bags behind her and steps past me to unlock the door. “I apologize for what a mess it is right now. By the time the weekend’s over I promise it’ll be in better shape.”
I walk in and glance around, preparing for a disaster but instead notice a few open boxes in the midst of a huge living room. The floors are dark wood, and all the furniture is sleek and streamlined and shiny shiny shiny leather. The glass everywhere ensures you can see blue skies and green trees from every angle. Bookcases line one wall, and there’s a fireplace where a TV would go in most living rooms. (Why does someone in L.A. need a fireplace?) There’s artwork that looks like original paintings, but no photos at all. Total designer house.
“Oh.” I notice the U-Haul logo on the boxes that don’t exactly disasterize the room. “Did you just move? I’m sorry, this is like the worst timing ever—”
“For your father to die?” She raises an eyebrow. “Anyway, no, I didn’t just move. My, uh, my boyfriend—I guess that’s what I’m calling him—just moved in with me.”
Somehow I know that’s so much worse. Here she is, starting a life with someone, and here I am, messing it up. Not like I know anything about living with boyfriends—or, well, about boyfriends at all—but I’ll guess the best start would not include your long-lost daughter getting dropped in.
Plus now I don’t just have to deal with her, but some guy as well.
“Seriously,
I’m so sorry—”
“Why are you apologizing?” She sighs and drops her purse on the little table near the side door. “None of this was within your control.”
That’s so different than something actually being okay.
“No, but—” I cut myself off because I’d definitely start crying otherwise. “I’m sorry anyway.”
“Oh, God, stop apologizing.” She slides my backpack’s straps over her arms and rolls my suitcase toward the stairs. “Come on, I’ll show you your room.”
I follow her up the staircase, down a narrow hallway that overlooks the whole open living room downstairs, and to the very last door. The room’s seriously amazing, not all sleek and scary-modern like downstairs, just a normal room with a huge bed, bookshelves, and an entertainment center with a TV bigger than the one in Dad and Tracie’s living room—just Tracie’s living room now. The rug and bedspread are both striped in shades of blue, and the walls are a nice creamy tan. And, wait— “My room?”
“No, I thought you’d sleep outside,” she says. “Yes, your room. I know it’s a little dull, and I’m not entirely sure I’m sold on the blue—”
“The blue’s nice,” I say. “Thank you, really, it’s like a perfect room.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” she says. “But I’m glad you approve. Bathroom’s through that door. I envy you for having your own.”
“Is, um, your boyfriend, is he mad about this?” It’s not any of my business, not exactly, but I should know what I’m getting into.
“I’m not entirely sure my boyfriend’s capable of being mad.” She sets my backpack on the bed. “But, no, God, don’t worry about him.”
I nod even though of course I can’t just shut off my worry. Tracie had my whole life to get used to the idea of me—and never had—while this guy only had a couple of days.
“Why don’t you unpack or take a nap or something? You must be exhausted. I’m going to make some calls to figure out the school situation.”
I nod, and she walks out of the room. It’s way too weird to even think about unpacking my things into this room that doesn’t feel like mine no matter what Reece Malcolm says. Back home my room was only about half the size of this one, but I taped up theatre posters and programs and photos all over, and I framed my mirror with pictures from plays and musicals I was in. It’s the kind of stuff I wish I had with me to trick myself into feeling like this room is mine. In the rush and weirdness of the last few days I haven’t thought about it until now, and I seriously can’t believe I left all of it behind.
I don’t feel like thinking of it any more, so instead I curl up on the bed and do my best to doze off. Normally even a little bit of stress keeps me up, but it’s like all at once the last three months catch up with me. One minute I’m lying down, and the next Reece Malcolm is calling me.
“Sorry.” I try to feel more human and less like a nap. They’re supposed to rest and invigorate you, but it never goes like that for me. “Has it been, like, hours?”
“It has been, like, hours,” she says. I don’t miss her voice really landing on that like, just a little bit of mockery to make me notice she notices I talk like an idiot. “Brad’s home and he wants to make dinner. I want to go out. What do you think?”
I’m not sure whose side is safer to be on. “Either’s okay with me.”
“You’re no help. Come on downstairs.”
I get up, slip my shoes back on, and follow her to the living room where this guy with shaggy hair, hipstery black glasses, and a scruffy face like he hasn’t shaved in days is waiting at the foot of the stairs. My brain can’t handle the fact that this guy who doesn’t look much older than me and is dressed in a faded concert T-shirt and jeans more worn than my mother’s can be the person in question. I mean, Reece Malcolm has bestsellers and probably a ton of money and a freaking Pulitzer.
Does not compute.
“Hello, Devan,” he says, waving to me. It’s a geeky move, but his posh British accent makes up for that. (Well, almost.) “Welcome, it’s wonderful to meet you.”
“Take it easy there.” Reece Malcolm pushes him back from the staircase. “She just woke up, and you don’t need to be the welcome wagon.”
He shakes my hand really enthusiastically, despite her warning. Up close he still looks young, but at least closer to my mother’s age than mine. Cute, too, not that I’m judging my mother’s boyfriend’s attractiveness on any level, just that I guess after closer examination he seems acceptable enough for her.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Brad Harper,” he says. “I apologize for any welcome wagoning.”
“Shut up,” my mother says, but she laughs. She’s much less terrifying when she laughs. “Let’s go out for dinner. I’ve had a long day, and Devan an even longer one—”
“Which means it does make more sense to stay in.” Brad glances at me. “We’ve literally had this argument every night since I moved in.”
“I usually let him win,” my mother says. “But only because he’s an amazing cook.”
I can feel that they’re not really talking to me, so I just kind of stand there hoping I can go back upstairs soon. This whole day has been some kind of exercise in awkwardness.
“Sit down,” my mother tells me. Commands, really. “We’ll stay in. Sadly, I think Brad has a point.”
I walk past them and gingerly sit on the sofa. It’s surprisingly comfortable considering how angular it is. One of the moving boxes is close enough to look into, and so chockfull of CDs I have to resist the urge to dig through.
“Devan, what’s your favorite meal?” Brad asks. “I’ll do my best to accommodate.”
No one has ever asked me that before. I like Brad already. “Whatever’s fine.”
“You’ll have to tell him something,” my mother says. “He’s relentless.”
“Um, I guess pasta’s good.” It feels like a safe choice. “If that’s okay.”
“Pasta’s always fine,” says my mother, as Brad says, “I can definitely accommodate pasta.” He leaves the room, and my mother sits down across from me in the big leather chair.
“See?” She folds her legs under her. “Try to imagine Brad angry about anything.”
“Well, right,” I say, because she has a point. Though I can imagine her angry pretty easily, and just because Brad is the welcome wagon doesn’t mean she’s okay with any of this.
“So.” She stretches her arms above her head. “After some research, it turns out the school down the street has a great performing arts program, and it’s not too late to have you audition for a couple open slots in the advanced choirs, since I guess some kids have moved away and left them. Hardly shocking in L.A. You’d have to audition first thing next week, though.”
“Oh my God, seriously?”
“Yeah, Monday, nine o’clock sharp.”
“No, I meant . . . performing arts program. For serious? In a high school?”
“For serious.” The ease with which she can turn a phrase into an insult is strangely impressive. Dad could be distant but I never felt like he was trying to make me feel like crap. “And you probably don’t care, but their academic standards are fairly high, too.”
“I do care,” I say, even though I don’t.
She leans forward to pick up a laptop from the floor, and moves over to sit next to me. “Here’s their website. I should probably offer to assist Brad in the kitchen, so, you know, do whatever else you need to, email, Facebook, I have no idea what else relevant people do online.”
“Thanks,” I say, to the MacBook resting on my legs as well as to the insinuation that I’m relevant.
New City School actually looks, as Reece Malcolm might say, a-ma-zing. It’s a private school with tons of acting and choir classes, and the alumni page features bright shiny headshots of people apparently actually on Broadway and television and in national tours of musicals. In case she asks, I look at the academics page and memorize class size (no more than twenty), destination co
lleges of recent graduates (all the best performing arts programs plus all the Ivy League ones, too), and historical information (founded in 1979). Finally I click on the tuition link. My heart figuratively sinks and my mouth literally falls open.
Just because I went all geektastic about choir and fall musicals doesn’t mean I want her to do . . . well, this. If she’s already annoyed about the total intrusion I must be on her life, I can’t imagine what she’s thinking now.
Okay, technically, right now music is blasting from the kitchen, and she and Brad are laughing loudly. So I tell myself to relax for a second and at least drop an email to Justine to fill her in.
My mother’s email is still logged in when I go to pull up mine, and I tell myself a little really sternly to log out right away. But I don’t. Of course I click on the most recent exchange between her and Brad, though I find nothing bitching about or even mentioning me, just an argument about putting a TV in the living room (Brad is pro, my mother is con). The next email is from her agent, Vaughn Sinclair, and he’s sending a snarky fake congratulations on letting the English invade. It’s kind of weird to see, because even though it wasn’t helpful in learning about Reece Malcolm, I would read Vaughn’s agency’s blog all the time, hoping eventually he’d drop some little tidbits.
Hopefully that makes me smart and enterprising vs. creepy and stalkery.
The email after that is dated a couple days before we even heard from Dad and Tracie’s lawyer and then my mother’s with the news, so of course it’ll have nothing to do with me. I read it anyway. Spying is kind of hard to stop once you start. It’s from Kate Logan, who I know is Vaughn’s wife—he blogs about her a lot—as well as a Tony and Emmy Award winner. I guess she’s one person in Hollywood I wouldn’t call a sell-out. Kate’s just checking that my mother hasn’t killed Brad in their first few days of living together.
Clearly, my instincts about my mother’s nature are to be trusted.
Finally I log in to my own account, but I can’t make myself email Justine. Putting this day into actual words doesn’t seem possible. Plus, I’m not sure I’ve had one truly honest conversation with her since Dad died or she went to choir camp at the beginning of the summer. So instead of trying, I log myself off and set the computer on the coffee table. I feel only a little guilty for snooping in my mother’s email; isn’t it fair to know what I’m getting into?