Who's Your Daddy?

by Lynda Sandoval

  “Hi,” I said to them without enthusiasm before turning to Dylan with the cocoa. I would never fit in with those girls, and I didn’t even want to. What did I care about being cordial? “Here,” I told him. “I thought you might want this.”

  He took it, smiling down at me. “Hey, thanks.”

  The blondes exchanged a series of sucked-cheek glances.

  Finally, Jennifer stepped forward, her entire group of followers sort of bolstering her from behind. “So tell me,” she said, in this sharply sweet tone that ANY female would recognize as snotty and competitive, but most clueless guys mistake for just sweet, “do all the recruits serve refreshments to their superiors, or is it just the females?”

  “Geez, Jen,” I heard Dylan say.

  I whipped a shocked glance at Jennifer, furious and ready to crack open a big ol’ can of whup-ass on her for that innuendo. Why did girls like her always have to be so catty and mean to girls like me? What did I ever do to her?

  Suddenly, though, the truth dawned on me.

  I had the upper hand in this whole situation because I wasn’t the one acting threatened and snitty and on the defensive. Her Royal Highness Hamilton was acting like a heinous bitch from hell because she was jealous. Of me!

  How completely cool was that?

  If I’d only known that all I needed was a shiny parka and man pants to get under Jennifer Hamilton’s skin, I would’ve joined the nares years ago. MOO HA HA HA … Not really.

  But, still. The realization of my own infinite power so cheered me, I started looking at my future in a whole new way. I was being forced into junior narcdom and couldn’t do anything to change that. True. But I could look for ways to make it tolerable … or even fun. Ripping tickets at football games and wearing ugly pants didn’t generate the yuks for me, but making Jennifer Hamilton jealous and insecure would be more fun than the proverbial barrel of monkeys.

  Fun enough, in fact, to make me move just a bit closer to Dylan and sort of flutter my lashes as I looked up at him. “We junior nares do all kinds of nice things for each other, don’t we, Dylan.”

  He looked baffled. She looked flamed.

  And I felt better than I had in weeks.

  eight

  caressa

  The weeks dragged by like my private version of hell, with no results whatsoever in the boyfriend department for me or either of my best buds. Meryl had begun to hang out at the Hadziahmetovics’ house, but it seemed like she spent more time chatting with Shefka and little Jenita than taking smooching lessons from Ismet. I don’t know. I could be wrong, but it sure seemed that way from the outside looking in.

  Lila had finally gotten “ungrounded,” but she had to spend almost all her free time with Dylan and the rest of the Police Explorers, which was a complete bummer. I missed her. I was glad to see she’d really perked up since she realized Jennifer Hamilton was jealous of her time with Dylan, though. Meryl and I loved getting the updates from Operation Make Jennifer Seethe.

  As for me, I was deep into rehearsals for the spring musical, which was due to open in March. In short? It was horrid, I hated it, I didn’t want to be there.

  We were working on blocking and choreography one afternoon right before Halloween, and at the same time going over some of the music. I stood in my designated spot, stage right, singing Belle with the rest of the cast and thinking I might smack one of the “townsfolk” upside the head if they sang, “Bonjour! Bonjour! Bonjour!” to me one more time.

  Argh! I swear, I loved this play before I was forced to star in it against my will while watching amateurs doing the makeup. Behind the scenes, I would’ve been in hog heaven. As Belle, though, I was completely miserable. I didn’t even like the stupid little teacup, Chip, anymore. I wanted to change his name to Shards, if you get my drift.

  Plus, every time the guy playing horrid Gaston said that one part to the guy playing LeFou about Belle being “the most beautiful girl in town,” all the girls in the entire cast broke character and stared eye daggers through me. I mean, please, it wasn’t like I wrote the stupid words, nor was it like he was actually referring to ME, Caressa. His line referred to the character, Belle—duh. I couldn’t care less about playing Belle!

  My attention strayed from the music and the jealousy, and I noticed the costume crew was trying out Mark Bartlett’s beast makeup, backstage in the wings. Mark’s this really huge guy who seems like he should be just another defensive lineman on the football team, but he sings like an angel and is a die-hard Thespian. He’s been in every production since freshman year. He seems like he’s a little light in his loafers, too, if you know what I mean, but no one teases him about it because he’s big enough to kick their butts if they did. Who cares if he wants to date guys, anyway? Mark is one of my favorite people in the whole school. He’ll make an absolutely perfect Beast, too.

  Or at least he would if I could do his makeup.

  My mouth sort of fell open when I caught a glimpse of him. I was AGHAST. This bogus costume crew completely dropped the ball on the whole beast look. He looked like a gigantic ET with some sort of malignant back growth. I swear, a three-year-old could’ve done a better makeup job than these guys had.

  “Caressa!”

  Startled, I whipped around to face Mr. Cabbiatti, our director. His bushy brows dipped into a V in the middle of his forehead as he scowled at me.

  I swallowed tightly. “I’m sorry, did you say something?”

  He released this majorly dramatic sigh and let his eyes flutter shut, then pinched the bridge of his nose in between his forefinger and thumb. After a moment of silence, he drilled me with an exhausted glare. “If you’ll recall, we’re rehearsing the first musical number.”

  I tensed up, feeling superhot under my clothes from being singled out and yelled at in front of the entire group. Didn’t the man watch Dr. Phil? This could scar me for life. Everyone was staring at me gleefully, and I was pretty sure no one other than Mark was on my side. Most of them actively disliked me, for no good reason that I could figure, and they were absolutely eating this up. “I-I know.”

  “Well, if you know,” he said snottily, “then perhaps you could sing along to your part.”

  I heard some muffled laughter off to my left, but I just lifted my chin and ignored whoever it was. I was used to it, but it still hurt. “I’m sorry.”

  “Can you keep your mind in the here and now, please?”

  NO, I wanted to say. No, I can’t keep my mind in the here and now, because I don’t want to be here, now or ever. I either wanted to be backstage fixing that stupendously pathetic makeup job on the Beast, or I wanted to be home with my friends, thinking up ways to meet Bobby Slade.

  But I was stuck. My parents didn’t believe in quitting something once you’d committed, and even though I hadn’t WANTED to commit, they were unsympathetic. They didn’t get it. I’d explained my predicament of having been railroaded until I was hoarse, but it looked like I would be reading and singing the part of Belle in the stupid play, like it or not.

  I blinked away a stinging feeling in my eyes and smoothed my damp palms down the sides of my jeans. “I’m sorry. Can we just start again?”

  Mr. Cabbiatti—whom all of us called Mr. CRABbiatti or The Crab because of his bipolar mood swings during productions—crossed his arms and huffed. He could never just let anything go. And the funny thing was, during off-times, when no one was rehearsing for anything, Cabbiatti was one of the coolest teachers out there. But he started pulling the “Mommy Dearest” act almost immediately after any cast list was posted. It was sort of like he thought a big-time director was supposed to behave that way, so he did. Someone needed to remind the guy he was the theater director in White Peaks High School, White Peaks, Colorado, for Pete’s sake.

  Small freakin’ potatoes.

  “You know, Caressa,” he started in, which made me brace myself for the worst, “your father will be at the play opening night, I’m sure. You wouldn’t want to slaughter a song in front of the lege
ndary Tibby Lee.”

  I heard barely stifled groans coming from the same vicinity that the laughter had come from earlier, and my heart sank. Just great. Everyone acted like I was throwing my famous dad into their faces, when I hadn’t mentioned a thing. How many times did I have to tell people, he’s just my dad? Why did this always happen to me? God! I didn’t flaunt anything, much less my parents. To be frank, I spent a lot of energy trying to HIDE the identity of my father, just to make my school life tolerable.

  Then, along came people like The Crab.

  I blew out an exasperated breath and flicked my hand toward Crabbiatti, but my chin quivered ever so slightly when I spoke. I had enough trouble fitting in with my peers without some wannabe Steven Spielberg making it harder for me. “Fine. I’m sorry. Let’s just do it again. Okay?” I hoped no one had seen evidence that The Crab had gotten under my skin.

  “Don’t get snippy, young lady.”

  “I’m—” not, I started to say, feeling the need to defend myself. But why bother? I clamped my lips shut, crossed my arms, then waited for him to restart the song. When he finally did, I sang the words by rote and with absolutely no feeling or spark. I was totally the rice cake of actresses right then—dry, boring, zero “flavah.”

  The only thing I could think of was Bobby Slade, and I focused on him for the rest of rehearsal in an effort to ignore the awful, yet sadly familiar, feeling of being ostracized. What did I care about these kids when I had Bobby to look forward to? (Okay, I kinda cared. I couldn’t help it.) Junior prom was in May, which was only seven months away. I needed to figure something out ASAP, or I’d never meet the guy in time to fall madly in love—

  Wait a minute!

  My heart started to pound and my palms grew moist. If Crabbiatti and the rest of them insisted on using my famous dad against me, maybe this one time I could use my famous dad for my benefit! Wasn’t it only fair? An idea so stupendous blossomed in my head, I couldn’t wait to run it by Lila. I checked my watch; forty-five minutes until I could leave rehearsals and share my brilliant brainstorm.

  It was so simple!

  Why hadn’t I thought of it weeks ago??

  Lila

  I’d been a junior narc for almost a month, and my life hadn’t ended. Sometimes that still surprised me. Don’t get me wrong—I still loathed the thick polyester get-up with the white-hot fiery passion of a thousand burning suns, but I enjoyed making Jennifer Hamilton squirm so much that it kind of made up for having to wear it. One part of me felt bad that she seemed to take out her oh-so-unattractive insecurity on Dylan, but hey, since when did I need to coddle Mr. Dad Clone? He’d have to fend for himself, much like I’d been forced to do.

  We’d just finished a stupid training on defensive tactics and Dylan and I were walking out of the building together. Although I grumbled, I actually liked defensive tactics, which was a big, fancy title meaning “how to royally kick someone’s butt while avoiding having your own kicked.” Hey, if my dad approved of me learning this stuff, who was I to argue? I frankly looked forward to using some of the cool moves I’d perfected on Luke the Puke.

  Dylan had offered to give me a ride home, and since I DIDN’T HAVE A CHANCE IN HELL OF EVER DRIVING MYSELF, THANK YOU, FATHER, I’d taken him up on it. To my surprise, though, Caressa was waiting outside the police station, idling away in her little Beemer. It was a relief to see her.

  Sometimes when Dylan drove me home, there was this weird tension in the car. It’s hard to explain. I mean, we chatted and sniped at each other and stuff like normal, but, there was this creepy less-than-comfortable edge to it all. It was kind of like how it feels when someone farts in public, and everyone knows it but, by unspoken agreement, everyone totally ignores the fart and just goes on like nothing happened. Know what I mean? Totally fake and uncomfortable.

  Anyway, I was more than happy to see Caressa waiting for me. A little beepity-beep-beep sounded from her horn, and she waved. I waved back, then turned toward Dylan. “Hey, I’ll see you later, okay? I’ll catch a ride home from Caressa. My house is on the way to hers.”

  He shrugged. “Sure, whatever. Hey, Lila,” he called, after I’d jogged off. I turned back. “You did good today.”

  The comment made me feel warm and fuzzy, but I worked up a prodigious scoff and spread my arms wide. I continued walking backward toward Caressa. “Yeah, because I was going to lose sleep over it if I sucked. Have a clue much, Dylan?” I formed my thumb and forefinger into an L shape and smacked it onto my forehead. “Lila does not CARE about the junior narcs or any of the dumb classes that go with being one.”

  He laughed, as always unduly cheered by my snarkiness. “Whatever. I’ll see you at school.”

  “Not if I see you first,” I retorted. Had to maintain my not-nice status, after all, or he might think I was going all cheerleader on him. GAG.

  I hurled myself into the safety of Caressa’s BMW 325xi and pulled the seatbelt across my body. “Hey, woman.” I grinned. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Yeah, I … thought I’d try to catch you.”

  She seemed nervous, which piqued my curiosity big time. I swiveled in my seat to face her. “What’s up, pup?”

  Caressa bit her bottom lip for a minute, studying my face. Finally, she said, “I have a favor to ask you,” in this timid, totally non-Caressa tone of voice.

  “Okay.” Color me baffled. “Shoot.”

  Her words came in a big jumble. “I don’t want you to think I’m trying to get you in trouble, though. You know I wouldn’t do that. Plus, I’ll give you a full manicure and pedicure if you do this for me. I just got that new OPI shade you liked in the magazine, It’s Greek to Me.”

  Now I was really intrigued. “Just tell me, Caressa!”

  “Okay, okay.” She gave me another nervous grin and raised her eyebrows. “I’ve figured out a way to meet Bobby Slade.”

  Inside, I groaned. HELLO, it was mid-October. It had been WEEKS since the dumb supper, and Caressa still hadn’t given up on the Bobby Slade nonsense. I gave her this big-eyed sarcastic look. “Okaay, but what does that have to do with me?”

  “I need your expertise.”

  I glanced around the car to make sure she was talking to me. “Newsflash, loco one, I have no expertise with meeting regular guys, much less famous musicians.”

  “Not that kind of expertise.”

  “Then what? Spit it out.”

  “Don’t say no right away.”

  “Caressa!”

  “Okay! Sheesh!” She sucked in a big breath, then eased it slowly out her nose, meditation-style. With slightly shaky hands, she reached for a large manila envelope that I hadn’t noticed sitting on the dashboard, undid the little metal clasp, and slipped out a letter … typed on her dad’s letterhead.

  I grabbed it. “What the heck is this?” I asked, unnecessarily. I mean, I could read the thing myself. DUH. I skimmed through it, then frowned up at my jittery friend with a startled expression. THIS I had not expected. “Your dad wants to produce Bobby Slade’s next single? Wow, talk about a weird freakin’ coincidence.”

  “It’s actually sort of … not true.”

  Confused, I blinked at her and then held up the letter and kind of waggled it. “But, he wrote—”

  “I wrote it.”

  “Huh?”

  She bit one corner of her bottom lip. “My dad knows nothing about this. That’s where you come in.”

  I rolled my hand impatiently so she’d give me the full 411 ALL AT ONCE. This was like pulling teeth.

  She clasped her hands together, imploring me. “You’ve got to do this for me, Lila. I’ll die if you don’t.”

  “WHAT?!?”

  “Forge my dad’s signature on the letter.”

  My jaw dropped open, and I gaped at her cringing expression.

  “Please? Pretty, pretty please?”

  “Are you trying to get me sent off to juvie?”

  “Lila, no one will know. It’s not related to school, so you
can’t get expelled or anything. Pleeeeeease?”

  “Forget expulsion. What about my dad?”

  “Come on, how’s he ever going to find out.”

  How, indeed? The risk-taker in me weakened and took the bait. I reread the letter, then looked up into Caressa’s overly bright, crushingly hopeful face. I couldn’t say no to her. I mean, I would never voice this to her, but what were the odds something could come of this? I felt quite certain that Bobby Slade’s managers or whoever would skim the letter, come to the instant conclusion it was bogus (not to mention lame), and round-file the thing without even responding. Bobby himself would probably never even see it.

  At the risk of repeating myself, he is a famous musician! HELLO!!

  Besides, I’m sure if Tibby Lee wanted to produce someone’s single, HIS people would call THEIR people and blah, blah, blah … lunches would be had, martinis would be downed. I mean, what the heck do I know about how musical deals happen? Nada. But my sense was, there wouldn’t be a letter at all.

  I narrowed my gaze. Might as well lay down some ground rules before I potentially signed my freedom away. “Do you promise, if I sign this, that you’ll stop your nutso, stalkerish preoccupation with Bobby? I mean, if something comes of it”—yeah sure—“then fine. I’ll even say you were right and I was wrong. But until then, you have to promise to let it go and see what fate has in store. AND, you have to start looking at guys our age and within our universe.”

  Caressa clapped and bounced in her seat. “Fine, yes, whatever. Just sign it.”

  “Promise, Caressa.”

  “I promise!”

  “Swear on something important!”

  “I swear on something important!” She laughed. “Just kidding. I swear on … Sephora.com.”

  My brows shot up. Whoa. She really was serious if she swore on THAT. I held out my palm and snapped my fingers inward with feigned impatience. “Give me a pen, then. Make it quick.”

  “You won’t regret this, Lila.” She fished in her handbag, then handed over a pen. “I promise.”