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by Tish Cohen

  But here’s the strange thing. It made me feel so sad for the lady with the chipped teeth. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she’d go hunting through the glove box, then look up and flash me that broken smile. Don’t get me wrong, I get why Mom was upset. But there was something so childlike about that smile. As if she wasn’t much older than Lee-Ann herself or something.

  Anyway. There’s no way Mom will bring me into the house to care for the children now. I’ve been tainted by Nigel’s arrest.

  I walk back to Skyline Drive more slowly than I’ve ever walked in my life. There’s no reason to hurry. I’m not all that excited to find out what, exactly, Nigel did to land himself in jail—and why did he have to go and do something stupid anyway? Here’s the world thinking he has it so good: big rock star guy, totally generous, his song just goes platinum. But the truth is he doesn’t. How could he—he lives with a daughter who couldn’t care less about any of it.

  The house is dark when I arrive. No surprise, I guess. Nigel is, as they say, detained. I dig through Joules’s purse for keys and come up empty. Great. Just freaking great. I walk around the house, stepping over the bushes, and catch the first bit of luck I’ve had in days. The bedroom window isn’t locked. I climb inside, fall into Joules’s bed and go to sleep.

  When I wake Friday morning the house is full of people. I can hear loud voices coming from the kitchen, along with the sounds of cupboard doors slamming and pots and pans clashing. Nigel must be home.

  I forgot to close the bedroom window last night and the wind blowing in is cool. I shower, floss Joules’s precious teeth like she begged me to and pull on a thick cotton sweater and jeans. Maybe I feel like I’m going into battle or something, because I reach for a pair of tough-looking motorcycle boots and slip my feet into them. With my hair still damp, I head into the kitchen.

  I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe another party, but the atmosphere in the kitchen is serious. Newspapers are spread out across the island where Nigel sits looking terrible in a sweatshirt and jeans. Bare feet with hairy toes. When he sees me, he half smiles. “Hey there, kitten. I hope we didn’t wake you.”

  About six or seven men and women drip from counters and stools, or lean against the table. Some are on cellphones, one guy is rooting through the fridge, two women are madly writing on pads of paper.

  “What’s going on?” I say.

  “You know Eddie. Clara, Sue, Aidan and the Hendridge boys. Old Nige’s Dream Team.” He motioned toward each as he said their names. “We’re building me a new image.”

  “How did you get out so fast?”

  I ask. “Bailed myself out.”

  The short, muscled guy Nigel introduced as Eddie, in a tight black T and gelled hair, picks up one of the papers and raises his eyebrows at Nigel. When Nige nods, Eddie tosses it onto the island close to me. There, on the front page, is a huge picture of Nigel. A mug shot in which his eyes are only half open, his cheeks are sunken in, and his hair is a mess. The headline reads “Nigel Adams Arrested for DUI.”

  Driving under the influence. Drinking and driving—of course. He did it the other night, when I was with him.

  “We’re doing a bit of damage control here,” Eddie says. He nods toward the two women with the notepads. “Nothing Nige’s brilliant publicists can’t handle.”

  A tray of coffees appears atop the newspapers and everyone reaches for one. There seems to be one for me left over so I take it and sip. Sure enough, it’s spiked. I set it down again, once again disappointed that Nigel is willing to go to such lengths to make his daughter love him.

  “I’m screwed,” Nigel says into his coffee cup. “Mel Gibson screwed. Look at that photo. It’ll be seared into people’s minds forever.”

  An older guy with long hair and ripped jeans laughs. “You ain’t pretty, dude.”

  “Hey,” says Nige. “It was the middle of the night.”

  “It was barely six o’clock. In the evening.”

  “What happened, exactly?” I ask. “Were you drinking champagne again to celebrate or what?”

  Nigel waves my question away. “I wasn’t doing anything that would hurt anybody. I’d had a few sips over a late lunch and got pulled over on the freeway. Not because I was too wasted to drive. I was fine. I’d just dropped my CD and was fishing around for it on the floor. Damned cops just needed a celebrity to make an example of, that’s all.”

  Eddie and the other guys start shaking their heads in anger, completely offended on Nigel’s behalf.

  “How many drinks had you had?” I ask. “Did the police have you blow into the breathalyzer?”

  “Those things are never accurate,” Eddie says. “The cops set them high so they can meet their arrest quota for the month. It’s all a big money-grab.”

  A tall blonde with a headpiece in her ear—Sue, I believe, one of the publicists—brings her notes over from the table. She’s very competent-looking, dressed sharp with her hair pulled back in an efficient ponytail. “Clara and I have got it all worked out,” she says after sipping her coffee. “America loves a comeback.” She looks at Nigel, hunched over a piece of toast, his hair pointed every which way, his face more wrinkled than ever. “Celebrity makes a bad choice. Celebrity repents, shows himself to be serious by checking himself into rehab and comes out humble and full of remorse but determined to keep himself on the straight and narrow in the future. It happens all the time.”

  Nigel thinks about this. “Rehab?” He laughs. “No way. Seriously, I messed up but I don’t need rehab.”

  “I agree,” Sue says. “You won’t go to rehab. But the world will think you’ve gone to rehab. There are many, many facilities in many, many countries. All we need is a good photo of you hugging your daughter goodbye as you get on a plane. Believe me, we’ll make it look so real the pilot himself will be weeping.”

  “Wait,” I say. “I have to get on a plane? I’ve never been on a plane!”

  Nigel looks at me like I’m high, then starts laughing. “You’re killing me, Jujube. Seriously.” He sips from his probably rum-soaked coffee and wipes his mouth. “Never been on a plane!”

  “You won’t be flying anywhere,” Sue explains to me. “Nigel boards the plane while paparazzi snap pictures they will then sell to People magazine, In Touch and Star. You’ll wave at him from the tarmac and look every bit the loving daughter of the most generous man on earth. The plane will be sealed up, it will taxi away from the gate, and the paparazzi will leave and go sell their photos for megabucks.”

  “But where will the plane go?”

  The other publicist—the shorter one with the dark bob, Clara—stands up and stretches. “The plane will pull into a hangar on the other side of the airport. Nigel will exit in disguise and step straight into a limo. A few hours later, once it’s nice and dark out, a different car will pull into your garage and your dad will hole up in the house for the next twenty-eight days.”

  Sue says, “Nigel reemerges a changed man. He appears looking healthy on a few magazine covers and we sell the exclusive story to People magazine for hundreds of thousands of dollars, positioning him as the wholesome, loving father who is asking his daughter’s forgiveness. America will eat it up. It’s a no-fail scenario. Nigel will become the most read-about musician of the year.”

  Nigel starts to nod, clearly in favor of the scheme. “It’s like I always say, for every itch there’s a scratch. And this, my friends, is one hell of a brilliant scratch.”

  Eddie rubs his hands together. “Ca-ching. I like the sound of all this publicity. It’ll sell a lot of records.”

  “You oughta be my agent, Eddie,” says Nigel.

  “I am your agent, dude.”

  “So?” says Clara. “What do you think, Nigel?”

  Nigel frowns a minute. “Most read-about musician of the year, you say?”

  “That’s right.”

  He sits back in his seat and clasps his hands behind his head. Then he nods. “I like it.”

  Everyone is gr
inning like it’s the most genius plan on earth. Then Eddie starts to clap very slowly. One by one, they all join in until the whole freaking room is clapping for Sue and Clara, who laugh and take these fake bows in front of Nigel.

  When things quiet down, Sue puts her arm around my shoulders. “The key to pulling this off is this beautiful young girl here. What do you say, Joules? Want to help your darling father out of the terrible mess the police have put him in?”

  No, I want to say. I don’t. I don’t want any part of this ugly lie. And no one put him in any mess, he did it to himself. He drank too much, drove, got caught and now has to suffer the consequences just like any other criminal.

  Nigel watches me with this big worried smile on his face.

  Any other father—a father like my own—would stand up and say no way. My daughter is not going to lie to cover up my own mistakes. Nigel doesn’t. But that isn’t what’s bugging me right now. Nor is it that Nigel messed up in the first place—that bugs me, but not as much as this.

  The smile on Nigel’s face isn’t the smile of a spoiled-rotten rock star who is used to getting his way. It’s the smile of a father who really wants to believe his daughter loves him. Other dads—dads who are waiters and engineers and daycare workers and bottled water delivery guys—might go about their business with the security of knowing their kids love them wholly. But not Nigel. Not the guy whose publicist says he’ll be the most read-about musician and father on the planet.

  His daughter can’t disappoint him, no matter how immoral their plan. Joules can’t let him down in front of all these people. It would devastate him.

  I walk around to where he sits, put my arms around his shoulders and kiss him on the cheek. “Of course I’ll help. I would do anything for this old guy.”

  He beams. Looks at me, looks at his people, and just beams and beams and beams. Then he laughs, reaches for a tea towel and pretends to snap me with it for calling him an old guy. He chases me around the kitchen, roaring. At this moment, he just might be the happiest father in America.

  I don’t go to school at all today. One of the publicists calls in and says I have a family emergency. So instead of fighting with Joules, staring at Will and hoping to catch a glimpse of my mother in the parking lot, I pose for father–daughter pictures with Nigel. Me and him packing his bag. Me and him at the piano as he sings me a goodbye song. Then, later, at the airport, there will be me and Nigel hugging beside a private plane. This photo will not be shot by Clara and Sue, however. One of them called the paparazzi and claimed to be Nigel’s snitch of a housekeeper who wanted to give them a tip: that Nigel would be at LAX, at Gate 13C, 4:45 p.m. sharp. Sure enough, the photographers are there when we pull up.

  Nigel and I stand on the tarmac, drinking in jet fumes. It’s cool again now that the sun is getting low in the sky, and I’m under-dressed. I didn’t realize how windy it can get out at the airport—mostly because I’ve never been to the airport. A fake flight attendant keeps poking her head out of the plane, which has its engines roaring. At first we just sort of stand there on the steps up to the jet, looking like morons, but then Sue—who’s about a hundred yards away in a car—flashes the headlights to signal to us that enough paparazzi have shown up. Then Nigel moves into action.

  He pretends to tell the flight attendant that the plane has to wait because he has to say goodbye to his daughter. He sets his hands on my shoulders and looks into my eyes as fuel-infused wind blows all around us. To be honest, even if he was saying goodbye, I wouldn’t be able to hear him over the sound of the jet engines. Nigel blinks hard as if he’s crying and pulls me close. Then he steps back to take one last look at me. He acts all remorseful, as if he’s thinking he just doesn’t deserve a daughter like me.

  I swear to God, Nigel Adams could be an actor. He could win an Academy Award for this performance.

  He starts talking to me—no doubt the paparazzi are supposed to think he’s apologizing, explaining how long he’ll be gone and how it’ll be different once he’s back. Telling me he’ll miss me. But really he’s saying this: “Have you heard about that new Chinese place over on Chapman? The egg rolls are supposed to be incredible.” Then he looks out at the horizon and shakes his head, so sad. “Let’s have Eddie pick some up on the way home, what do you say?”

  I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his sweatshirt. “Sounds good. Can we get egg drop soup? And cashew chicken?”

  He backs away, gives me a wave. “For sure. I’ve invited Clara and Sue back to the house. We’ll make a party out of it.” After blowing me a kiss, he disappears into the plane and the flight attendant bangs the door shut.

  The walk down the rickety metal steps is rough with all those photographers pointing their cameras at me. I keep my head down as if I’m sad—which is fairly easy since I’m terrified—and make my way to where Clara and Sue wait in the town car with its tinted windows. Then I turn to watch the plane begin to move and I wave and wave and wave until the jet has pulled out of sight.

  When I climb into the backseat, Clara and Sue turn around and smile. “You did great. Just great,” says Clara.

  “Absolutely. A flawless performance.” Sue stuffs a couple of tortilla chips into her mouth and passes me the bag. “I’m starved, what about you guys? Shall we order a round of pizzas to meet us back at the house?”

  “Chinese,” I say, taking a handful of chips.

  “What’s that?” Sue asks as she pulls the car down a lane that will lead us out of LAX. A plane is taking off and the roar has rushed through the open windows. “What’d you say?”

  “I said Nigel wants Chinese,” I shout.

  “Decision made, then,” says Clara. “What Nigel needs, Nigel gets.”

  I stare out the window at the passing cars, pedestrians, baggage carts full of luggage, palm trees, fuchsia flowers, white buildings. It isn’t true, what Clara said about Nigel. I wish it was true, but it isn’t.

  chapter 17

  Monday morning my face is everywhere. On the front page of the L.A. Times, on covers of gossip magazines, even People, it’s the same photo: a zoom-in close-up of Joules’s face as Nigel hugs me on the roll-away steps beside the plane. I must have looked devastated as Nigel was talking about egg rolls because that’s the shot every paper and magazine chose, and it doesn’t even show his face.

  If I thought life was weird as Joules before, it’s completely insane now.

  The house is surrounded by photographers, some of whom I recognize from the airport. And since Nigel is supposed to be in rehab we’ve had to keep the curtains shut tight all weekend. Clara and Sue have been bringing in food, as well as booze disguised in cartons meant for paper towels and macaroni. The neighbors are unimpressed and have called the cops about a zillion times because they can’t get in and out of their driveways, and because they keep finding photographers peeing in their azaleas or off the side of the canyon across the street.

  I tried to leave the house twice on Sunday, but both times someone shouted, “It’s her!” and cameras started clicking like mad. One photographer hopped on his motorcycle and got ready to chase me, most likely in hopes I would lead him to Nigel’s secret hideaway. Little did anyone know the great one was about fifteen feet away, in the den watching baseball, flicking beer caps and eating Cheetos. Both times, I ducked back inside and slammed the door. Where could I possibly go with these guys following me?

  So today, there is even more excitement, I guess because they figure Joules has to leave the house to go to school. Sue, who might actually be getting used to the attention, and who is probably hoping someone will snap her picture and slap it on a magazine cover, volunteers to drive me. It’s scary, sitting in the backseat as she navigates through the crowd in the driveway—in reverse. These guys don’t clear out of the way. They lean right over the trunk of the car and start taking pictures of me with no concern whatsoever about the car rolling over their feet.

  As we cruise along State College, a great thing happens. There’s another
roadblock that takes traffic down to one lane. The police are looking at every car as it passes between two cop cars, and the paparazzi behind us are forced to let other cars in ahead of them.

  “Is this for the black SUV?” I ask.

  “It’s happening all across Orange County. They’re calling it a registration check but yes. You know, they’re looking for the person who hit that couple over by Disneyland.”

  We cruise past the police, who are uninterested in our sedan but give a throwaway glance at our front license plate for good measure.

  “I guess they haven’t caught the person yet?”

  “Nope. I’m sure the driver is long gone anyway. Too much media attention in this state.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Sad about those parents,” she says, switching lanes. “I heard on the radio this morning they’re still in the hospital.”

  It feels like a boulder has dropped into my stomach. I picture Michaela, wrapped around Mom’s neck the first night. “Are they going to live?”

  Sue shrugs. “Report just said they’re in ICU.” Then she guns the engine and the car shoots forward. “Say goodbye to our photographer friends, Joules.”

  I look back to see the first of them, sure enough in a dark SUV, being forced to roll down his window and answer a few questions. Which gives us plenty of time to lose them.

  It’s weird … when you look at celebrities, you think it must be so amazing to live their lifestyles. But honestly, if this is what it’s like, count me out. It’s scary to have these people chasing after you. Their cars and motorcycles follow so close you’d swear you’re about to be rear-ended. Plus, forget about scratching your nose or adjusting your underwear. You’re on display.

  I’m glad they’re gone.

  Sadly, I guess it wasn’t too hard for them to figure out where Joules goes to school since there’s just the one high school for the district. More photographers are waiting on Orange Road outside the school. As Sue pulls into the parking lot she says, “Remember, your dad isn’t at home. He’s in a very exclusive facility that you are not at liberty to reveal.”