by Meg Cabot
“We have to talk about it sometime,” Rob said in that same gentle voice. But his grip didn’t loosen one iota. “I’m not letting you go until we do. Not this time.”
“You have to let me go,” I said, still keeping my gaze glued to the front door. My mother had painted it blue. When had she done that? It had always been red before. “The paper boy will call the cops in the morning if he gets here and finds us like this.”
“I don’t mean we have to do it tonight,” Rob said. And now he did relax his grip. I yanked my arm away and turned to glare at him. It was safe, I knew, to look at him. So long as he wasn’t touching me.
“But we’ve got to talk about it sometime before you leave to go back to New York,” Rob went on. His expression, in the light from the moon that was just beginning to rise, was as serious as I’d ever seen it. “I know you don’t want to, but I do. I have to. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to move on if we don’t.”
I had to laugh at that one.
“Oh,” I said. “You haven’t moved on?”
He frowned. “No. What makes you think I have?”
“Gee, I don’t know,” I said sarcastically. “Maybe it was that blonde I saw you making out with.”
The frown deepened. “Jess. I told you. That—”
“Jessica! There you are!”
My mother’s voice rang out across the lawn.
Thirteen
I turned around to find Mom on the front porch, looking down at us.
“Aren’t you going to invite your friend inside?” Mom wanted to know.
Then she flicked the porch light on and saw who “my friend” actually was.
“Oh,” she said, startled. “Hello, Robert.”
Rob looked as if he tasted something foul. But his voice, when he spoke, was friendly enough. “Hey, Mrs. Mastriani.”
“Well,” Mom said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—I didn’t mean to interrupt—”
“It’s okay,” I said, bending over to retrieve my boxes. I lifted them both without a problem. That’s how freaked out I was. I didn’t even notice how heavy they were. “You didn’t interrupt anything. We were just saying good night.”
“Right,” I heard Rob say as I hurried to cross the lawn. “We were just saying good night.”
“Call me in the morning, Rob,” I said, climbing the steps to the porch. “So we can talk about what we’re going to do about that situation.”
“I’ll do that,” Rob said, behind me. “Good night.”
“Good night, Robert,” my mother called to him. Then, to me, as I was crossing the porch, she said pleasantly, “What have you got there, Jessica?”
“Just some videotapes,” I said, brushing past her and heading into the house in the hopes of getting away before she noticed how red my face was…and how hard my heart was slamming into my ribs.
Fortunately, Mom didn’t seem to notice how discombobulated I was. She wasn’t interested in what was in the boxes I held, either. She was more interested in finding out what was going on between Rob and me.
“Videotapes?” she echoed, closing the front door behind us. Outside, I heard Rob start up his truck. “I see. Well. I didn’t know you and Rob Wilkins were back in touch.”
“We’re not,” I said. “Well, not really. We’re just…we’re working on a project together, that’s all. Something to do with his sister.” I had started towards the door to the basement—my dad had set up a den down there where he could watch sports undisturbed.
“I didn’t know Rob had a sister,” Mom said.
“Yeah. Well, neither did Rob.”
“Oh.” My mom had always been able to put more meaning in a single word than anyone I knew. That Oh spoke volumes—mostly about how not surprised she was that someone of Rob’s ilk would turn out to have an illegitimate sibling.
“And what about that girl?” Mom wanted to know. “That one you said you saw him kissing that day?”
Now more than ever, I wished I’d kept my mouth shut about Miss Boobs-As-Big-As-My-Head. At least where my parents were concerned.
“Was that his sister?” Mom asked.
“God, Mom. No!”
“Oh,” Mom said. “Well, what, then? Are you just going to forgive him for that? You were off, risking your life, fighting a war, while he—”
“Mom,” I said with a groan. “Knock it off, okay?”
“Well, I’m just saying,” Mom went on, “if it happened once, it will happen again. That’s the problem with boys like that.”
I paused in the basement doorway and looked back at her from over my shoulder.
“Boys like what, Mom?” I asked her in a very quiet voice.
“Well, you know,” she said. “Boys who haven’t had the same advantages you had growing up.”
“You mean Grits,” I said, impressed at how even I managed to keep my tone.
“No, that is not what I mean,” Mom said, looking offended. “I’m sure Rob is a very nice young man—his penchant for kissing other girls behind your back aside. But you know perfectly well he’s never going to leave this town.”
“What’s wrong with living in this town?” I demanded. “You and Dad live here. Douglas lives here. If it’s good enough for you, why isn’t it good enough for me? I mean, for Rob?”
“How can you even ask that?” Mom asked with what I’m positive was genuine wonder. “Jessica, you have so much potential. Why would you want to waste all that staying here in this backwater town, when you could have a real career—travel, meet exciting new people, make a real difference in the world?”
“You know what, Mom?” I said. “I’ve actually done all that. And look where it got me.”
She gave me a sour look.
“You know what I mean, Jessica,” she said. “You’re a sought-after inspirational speaker, thanks to your former powers and all the good you did with them. Why, I’ve had letters from groups asking if you’d address their organization from places as far away as Japan. They’d pay all your expenses and as much as twenty thousand dollars in speaking fees. You have a very profitable career ahead of you….”
I looked her dead in the eye—which was kind of hard because I’d started down the steps to the basement and she was standing above me, and she’s taller than me under normal circumstances anyway.
“And that’s the future you see for me,” I said. “Traveling all around the world, talking to people about a power I used to have, the good I used to do. What about doing good now? Without benefit of my powers? Because there are things I can do now, Mom, that don’t involve extrasensory perception.”
“Well, of course, sweetheart,” my mother said. “All of your professors say you could easily become part of a world-class orchestra if you’d just apply yourself. You could tour the globe, playing in exciting places like Sydney, Australia. And since Skip will probably get a job with an investment firm in New York City, if you got a position with the Philharmonic, why, that would be just perfect! You two could get a little apartment together, and come back to visit us at holidays, and…well, who knows? Maybe even get married and start a family of your own!”
I just looked at her. What could I say? I couldn’t admit that the thought of being in a world-class orchestra made me want to run screaming down the street. I couldn’t admit that I was so sick of traveling, I balled up every single one of those speaking gig requests she forwarded to me, and threw them down the incinerator. I couldn’t admit that the thought of marrying Skip made me feel like I’d never stop barfing.
Because if I said any of those things, I know she’d be like, “Well, then what do you want to do instead?”
And if I told her, she’d be the one who’d never stop barfing.
So I just said, “Look. I have stuff to do.”
And continued down the stairs to the basement.
“Well,” Mom said to my departing back. “Don’t stay up too late! That nice Karen Sue Hankey called a few minutes ago. She wants to take you to brunch in the morning. I�
��m so glad you two made up. I never understood why you didn’t like Karen Sue. She’s such a nice girl.”
Great. I rolled my eyes. I was still rolling them when I got down to the basement and found my dad sitting in front of the television, which he’d put on mute, evidently so he could eavesdrop on my conversation with Mom.
“I always thought that Karen Sue girl was a bit of a drip myself,” he said to me. “But maybe she’s improved with age.”
“She hasn’t,” I assured him, and set down my boxes as Chigger, who’d been sleeping on the couch next to my dad (a definite no-no, in Mom’s book), jumped up to give me a lick before settling down again.
“What have you got there?” my dad asked, curious.
“Amateur pornos,” I said.
My dad raised his eyebrows. “Interesting. I assume you brought them down here to watch them.”
“Just to see if they’re for home use or distribution.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Well, one’s protected under the First Amendment,” I said. “The other is a crime if the girls are underage and didn’t know they were being filmed.”
“Actually, if they’re underage, I think they’re both crimes,” Dad said. He lifted his remote and turned off the cable. “Be my guest. I assume it would be highly inappropriate if I stuck around to keep you company.”
“Not at all,” I said, inserting the first tape—marked TIFFANY. “Since I’m just going to watch the beginning to see if they’re all the same or all different.”
“Well, then,” Dad said, “if you don’t mind, I’ll stay. I don’t get to spend much quality time with you these days—”
I watched as a young girl I assumed was Tiffany—wearing only a bra and panties—flung herself across a bed I recognized as the one in Apartment 1S.
“—though I’m not sure this is exactly what Dr. Phil means when he encourages fathers to spend more time bonding with their daughters,” Dad went on.
A man who was unmistakably Randy Whitehead appeared on screen, wearing a pair of tighty-whities. Before anything untoward could occur, I ejected the tape, and inserted the next one titled TIFFANY.
“May I ask where you got these masterpieces of modern cinema,” Dad wanted to know, “and who that young man might be? He looks familiar.”
“He should,” I said, pressing PLAY. “He’s Randy Whitehead Junior.”
“Son of wealthy land developer Randall Whitehead Senior,” my dad said, sounding impressed, as we watched Tiffany fling herself across the bed in 1S all over again. “Randy’s peddling amateur porn now. His father must be so proud.”
“I’m not sure his father knows,” I said, popping out the tape. It was obviously a copy of the first one we’d seen.
“But why do I have the feeling,” Dad said, “that he’s going to find out shortly?”
“Because that’s the kind of daughter you raised,” I said, and popped in a tape marked KRISTIN.
“Be careful, Jess,” Dad said. “Randy Whitehead Senior is a pretty powerful guy around here these days. He’s rumored to have connections up in Chicago.”
“By connections,” I said, watching as the dark-haired girl I’d seen Randy kiss outside of 1S appeared on screen, “I’m assuming you mean the Mob?”
“You assume correctly.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, popping out the tape and inserting the next one marked KRISTIN. So that was the dark-haired girl’s name. Kristin. Where was Kristin now, I wondered? Holed up with Randy at his parents’ house? He’d have a hard time explaining to them what he was doing with a girl so much younger than he was. “I’ve got backup.”
My dad’s face was blank, his tone completely neutral. “So I heard. At least, I thought I overheard your mother mentioning something to you about Rob Wilkins.”
“Yeah,” I said. The second tape marked KRISTIN was obviously the same as the first one. I pressed EJECT again. “That’s why I came back. His sister—it turns out he has a half sister—ran away, and he asked me to help find her.”
I don’t know why I felt comfortable explaining all this to my dad, but not my mom. I guess it’s because my dad had always liked Rob, and Mom…hadn’t.
“And did you?” Dad asked, again in that carefully neutral tone.
I inserted a new tape. I said, keeping my eyes on the TV screen, “Yes.”
“So. It’s back.”
I didn’t have to ask what he meant. I knew what it was.
“Yes,” I said, still looking at the TV screen, on which a redhead who couldn’t have been more than fourteen or fifteen was jumping up and down on the bed—the one in 2T.
“What are you going to do about that?” my dad wanted to know.
“I don’t know yet,” I said. I ejected the tape as soon as Randy appeared on screen.
“Do these tapes,” Dad wanted to know, “have anything to do with Rob’s sister?”
My hand hovered over the tapes marked HANNAH. I pulled out one with the redhead’s name on it instead.
“Yes,” I said. I didn’t feel as if I were betraying Rob’s confidence in admitting this to my dad. Because he was my dad.
“That’s tough,” Dad said. “He’s gotta be hurting.”
“He’s not too happy about it,” I admitted.
“Unhappy enough to do something stupid to Randy?” Dad asked.
“If I don’t stop him,” I said.
“Anything happens to Randy,” Dad said, “and his father will call in some favors from his friends in Chicago. Rob could find himself in a heap of trouble.”
“I know,” I said. Although I wasn’t as worried about Rob ending up with cement blocks on his feet as I was about him ending up inside a cell block. “I’m working on a plan that will be mutually satisfying to all parties.”
“Hmmm,” Dad said. “That’s a nice change of pace. Usually if a fight were brewing, you’d be the first in line.”
“Well,” I said. “I’ve had my fill of fighting.”
“That’s good to know,” my dad said. Then, in a tone that was no longer neutral, but filled with fatherly concern, he added, “Jess, I heard you and your mother up there. Don’t let her get you down. You know we’ll support you—she and I both—no matter what you decide to do.”
And suddenly, my eyes were filled with tears. The images on the screen before me swam.
“I don’t want to be a concert flutist, Dad,” I heard myself saying.
“I know,” was all Dad said.
“And I don’t want to go on the lecture circuit and talk about my powers,” I told him, not looking away from the blurry TV screen.
“I know.”
“And I don’t want to marry Skip.”
“I wouldn’t want to marry Skip, either. But what do you want?” Dad asked.
“I want…” I sniffled. I couldn’t help it. “I don’t know what I want. But I can’t go back to Dr. Krantz. I can’t.”
“No one’s asking you to. And if they do, I think you should say no.”
“But how can I, Dad?” I asked, looking at him, finally. Although I couldn’t really see him, because of the tears. “Douglas was right. People need me.”
“They do,” my dad said with a nod. “Only I’m not sure they need you in the way that you mean. There are other ways to do good, you know, than the way you’ve been doing it. And I think you’ve done more than your share of that. Maybe it’s time to try something new.”
“But what, Dad?” I asked, my voice cracking.
“Something you actually like doing,” Dad said. “Something that makes you happy. Any idea what that might be?”
I tried to think back to the last time I felt happy. Really happy. It was kind of horrible that I couldn’t remember. All I could think of was the look on the faces of the kids at Ruth’s day camp—the look they gave me when I handed them a shiny flute, donated from some corporation, and told them I could teach them to play it.
“Well,” I said slowly. “Yeah. I guess I have an idea.”
>
“Good,” Dad said. “Now see if you can figure out a way to do that all the time. That’s what life’s all about, you know. Finding what it is that you love to do, then doing it as much as you can.” He glanced at the television screen. “So long as it’s legal, that is.”
I reached up to wipe away my tears. I don’t know why, since I was no closer to figuring out what I wanted to do with my life. But I felt a little better.
“Thanks, Dad,” I said. “That…that helps.”
“Good,” Dad said. And then he stood up. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m beat. I’m going to bed. I’ll leave you to this, if that’s all right.”
“Okay,” I said. “Good night.”
“Good night. Oh, and Jessica. About Randall Senior. I don’t know if this will help, but it’s something that might come in handy.”
And then he told me something. Something that made my jaw drop.
Then he said, “Turn the light off when you’re through down here. You know how your mom doesn’t like us wasting electricity.”
And he went upstairs to bed.
Fourteen
When I came downstairs the next morning, it was to find my father—Chigger at his side, as usual—looking out the living room window. The way he was ducking behind the curtain made it clear that whoever it was that he was spying on, he didn’t want them to see him looking.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Unmarked four-door sedan with tinted windows.”
He turned to me, looking astonished. “How did you know?”
“Unbelievable,” I muttered, though not in response to his question. I went into the kitchen and found Mom there making scrambled egg whites. Dad’s not allowed to have the yolks anymore since his cholesterol checkup.
“Morning, honey,” Mom said. “Sleep well?”
Until she’d asked, I hadn’t actually thought about it. But the surprising answer was “Yeah, actually. I did.”
Not that I hadn’t dreamed. I’d dreamed plenty.
And had been on my cell phone all morning because of it.
“I didn’t make anything for you,” Mom said, “because I know you’re going to brunch with that nice Karen Sue Hankey.”