Faking Reality

by Sara Fujimura

  I cross my arms and give him a skeptical look. “Do you remember who my parents are and how much negotiation it took just to come to this game?”

  Alex winces. “Or I could come to visit you in Phoenix. Could I stay at your house? Otherwise, there would be a lot of drama.” Alex gestures behind him at his family. “Exhibit A.”

  If Leo and I aren’t allowed to watch Kitsune Mask in my room anymore, somehow, I doubt my parents are going to sign off on Alex staying at our house. But we don’t have time for an in-depth conversation about it right now. I can see Dad’s truck waiting at the stoplight.

  “There’s my dad,” I say instead.

  “That was fast.”

  “He was eating hot wings around the corner.”

  “I can practically see the walls up around you right now—again, courtesy of my family—but can I hug you before you go? Truth: It’s more for me than you. We’re all coming back to Mom’s house for a family discussion about my college plans.”

  I step into Alex and wrap my arms around him tight. My life is complicated, but at least most of the drama comes from people outside my own family. My home, especially my room, is my fortress of solitude. Now with his younger brother back home and sharing his room, Alex doesn’t even have that.

  Alex leans in to kiss me but aborts that idea when my dad pulls up right next to us with the passenger-side window down. Evil Santa’s glare could weld metal together right now.

  “Thanks, Dakota. I’m sorry about tonight.” Alex gives me one last squeeze before backing away. “I’ll text you later, and we’ll set up our next dance rehearsal.”

  “And dinner. And maybe a movie at my house.”

  “I’d like that.” Alex looks back over his shoulder at his family and lets out a dramatic sigh. “It’s going to be a long night.”

  Evil Santa’s glare doesn’t lessen even after I’m tucked safely in the truck.

  “I knew this was a bad idea,” Dad grumbles.

  “It wasn’t a bad idea. The plan was good. It’s the execution that went sideways.”

  “Did the paparazzi capture it? Do we need to prepare a statement?”

  It was Senior Night. Everybody had their phones out. “No, at least, I don’t think so.”

  “Hmmm. I think you and Alex should stick to home dates for a while.” Dad cuts somebody off in traffic in his rush to put his princess firmly back in her tower.

  “Why? Then it means they won.” I have to grab the roof handle of the truck when the person Dad cut off returns the favor.

  Dad lays on the horn. “Dakota Rae, you are not an average teen. You know our life has some unique challenges. We’re going to have to set better ground rules if Alex is going to be a part of your life.”

  Can Alex even be a part of my life? Can anybody ever be part of my life? Will I have to hide for the next five years until people forget who I am, or move abroad to escape this golden cage? When do I get to be me?

  Chapter

  25

  “Here’s my address.” A senior who hasn’t said three words to me all year in art class suddenly thrusts a slip of notebook paper at me when the dismissal bell rings. “I’m so excited about coming to your party.”

  “Great.” I look down at the paper to double-check what her name is. “Shayla. I’ll add you to the list.”

  I put down my HB pencil and take the paper from her. Shayla leans in like she’s going to hug me. Uh, no. We are nowhere near that level of friendship. I duck to avoid her hug and throw her piece of paper into my backpack with the fifty or so other people’s deets I received today. All thanks once again to Nevaeh and their social reach.

  Yesterday, Phil informed me that three hundred of my closest friends must come to my birthday extravaganza next month. If Shayla wants to fill one of the two hundred slots still available after I invited the Matsuda siblings, Nevaeh, everybody in the Japanese Culture Club, and a handful of genuinely nice people from my other classes, I couldn’t care less.

  “You are so awesome.” Shayla bounces on her toes.

  “Thanks. Glad you can come.”

  I pick up the HB pencil and go back to my sketch. Shayla takes the hint and swarms out of the art room with the other twenty-five people in our class.

  “Something on your mind today, Dakota?” Mr. Udall says from his desk at the front of the room.

  “No, sir. Just enjoying the quiet.” I take a deep breath. Something about the smell of oil paint and pencil shavings is more relaxing to me than lavender. “Plus, I’m behind on this assignment.”

  Mr. Udall appears at my elbow. “As always, Dakota McDonald takes my simple assignment and—”

  “Overcomplicates it?”

  “I was going to say refines and elevates it.” Mr. Udall pulls up a stool next to mine and slides my sketchbook toward him. He flips through my last couple of sketches before closing the cover and resting his hands on top of it.

  “That bad, huh?” I say.

  “Quite the opposite. Did I overhear you telling Beth today that you aren’t doing your calligraphy project in pen and ink? Why? You don’t like that medium?”

  “No, I love pen and ink. In fact”—I dig in my backpack and pull out my latest purchase—“I’m hand addressing all my closest friends’ invitations for the party.”

  Mr. Udall cracks open the highly decorated wooden box and dramatically takes out the glass-nibbed pen like he’s discovered an ancient Mayan artifact. “Ah, and you have a bottle of glittery gold ink too.”

  “I know, I’m overcomplicating a simple task.” The other criticism I’ve heard multiple times in my school career bubbles up. “And I can’t follow directions.”

  The corners of Mr. Udall’s deep brown eyes crinkle. “Dakota, understand that it’s the can’t-follow-the-directions, off-the-chart creative people like you who change the world.”

  “Yeah, can you talk to my sixth-grade English teacher? Pretty sure she’d fight you on that.”

  Though Mr. Udall laughs, I’m still salty about that C- on my report card. I spent twenty hours building a historically accurate replica of the barracks the Wakatsukis lived in during WWII, instead of regurgitating those same facts into a paper during our unit on Farewell to Manzanar. Dad and the principal talked Mrs. Henry out of the zero she originally gave me for not following the directions. Still, the D I received on that major assignment wrecked my English grade for the quarter, especially when I refused to redo the assignment to specifications, even though it would have meant a higher grade.

  “What’s the intention of this piece of art?” Mr. Udall taps the closed sketch pad. “Because, let’s be honest, you don’t need another A+. What’s the heart behind the art?”

  Emotions swirl inside my chest. While most people are celebrating spring and Easter, here in the McDonalds’ Alternate Universe, my family is lost in time. Over spring break, we put on sweaters and did a photoshoot for Better Homes and Gardens’ October issue. Last weekend, we previewed the cringetastic, canned part of what will be our last show in May. Tomorrow, Mom’s going back in time to 1942 to shoot a special crossover show with The History Makers about the Akagis and life in Phoenix during WWII. Some people don’t know where they are. I don’t know when I am half the time. I shake my head to come back to the present.

  “My intention?” I chew on the inside of my lip and think. “I want to create something physical that my parents can hold on to after I leave for college that reminds them of me every time they see it. The heart behind the art is to thank them for giving me all the tools—literally and figuratively—I needed to create that successful life outside of the TV world and away from them too.”

  “You don’t want to have your own show?” Mr. Udall quirks an eyebrow at me.

  “Not a network show, no. Besides, I already have a show. The spin-off digital series on the HGTV website. Maybe one day I’ll have my own YouTube channel or something. That way, I can do the projects that are close to my heart, versus what will prominently feature the sponsors’ p
roducts. Remember”—I point at myself—“can’t follow directions.”

  “Sounds like you already know what you want to make.” Mr. Udall opens my sketch pad to a clean page and slides it back across the workbench to me. “I have a staff meeting in thirty minutes, but you’re welcome to stay until then. Don’t overthink it. Start sketching. Let it flow.”

  As Mr. Udall walks away, I knead my gum eraser and stare at the blank page. My brain finally sparks. And just like how I discovered the exact shade of red to paint the yakisoba booth, I add a little bit of this to a little bit of that until I finally come up with the perfect design.

  “What do you think?” I show Mr. Udall my crude design as he herds me out the door twenty-five minutes later. “I wish I could use our laser cutter at home, but Dad insists that he has to be present when I use it, which would ruin the surprise. Maybe I could try burning it by hand?”

  “Hmmm.” Mr. Udall strokes his silver-flecked beard. “Usually, only the seniors in my advanced art class get to work on the laser cutter as their final project. But as your dad donated pretty much all the equipment in our school’s Industrial Arts program, Mr. Ledbetter and I might be able to make an exception.”

  I cringe. The considerable donation of state-of-the-art tools and equipment was made to our school in honor of Dad’s sixtieth birthday, and as part of the bigger, nationwide trade school initiative Dad’s been a part of for years. Dad specifically picked Cholla Vista High School because he knew I would be coming here the following fall. Then I turned around and chose Visual Arts as my elective. Even Leo, who loves a good power tool, let him down, choosing Game Design over Industrial Arts.

  “If you can get the final design drafted and inked by Friday, I’ll see what Mr. Ledbetter says.” A conspiratorial smile lights up Mr. Udall’s face. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he says yes. Can you stay after school one day to run it through the laser cutter? This design looks too complicated to complete in one class period.”

  I look down at the rough sketch for my newest sign:

  赤

  城

  AKAGI HOUSE

  Tamlyn Akagi-McDonald & Doug McDonald

  “I need Iwate-sensei to double check my kanji first. Also, I’m not sure I like this Goudy font for the English part.” I scribble a note to myself on the upper right-hand corner of my sketch. “I want to see what other classical-style fonts are out there. Or maybe I’ll come up with my own twist on one. I know, don’t say it. Plus, I should probably add the date on there somewhere too.”

  Mr. Udall holds the door open for me. “Dakota, let’s talk about you joining my Advanced Art class next year. Maybe getting you on a path toward a degree in industrial design or something that will help you blend your artistic eye with your advanced technical skills. You’re going to do big things, kiddo. I take that back. You’ve already done big things. You’re going to do even bigger things, kiddo.”

  A warmth spreads in my chest because Mr. Udall can see it, even if I can’t just yet. Life beyond Dakota McDonald, child star and DIY Princess. He sees Dakota McDonald, the visionary. The Dakota who is not only praised, but makes bank for her won’t-follow-the-directions big ideas.

  * * *

  I think about Mr. Udall’s words all the way home. I was going to take a gap year, but maybe I want to go straight to college now after all. Maybe Mr. Udall can help me find a college that fits my goals versus one that makes me look the best in People magazine. I take the front steps of our house two at a time.

  “Mom? Dad?” I yell through the house after I set the alarm. “Stephanie?”

  “Unless you want three hundred teenagers showing up at your house, Phil, then you better get the brass to cough up some more money for a new venue.” Stephanie’s voice travels down the hall from Mom’s office. “I’ll keep working on my end. You work on yours.”

  I knock on the open door of Mom’s office. “Everything okay, Steph?”

  “No. It is not.” Stephanie bangs her fist on the table so hard that her teacup rattles on its saucer. “Chez Versailles caught on fire this morning. Between the smoke and water damage, there is no way that it can be renovated and back up to code in one month.”

  My stomach drops. I know I’ve whined and complained about this ridiculous party, but the idea has grown on me. And if I’m totally honest, it feels like the final step in shedding the DIY Princess version of Dakota.

  “What are we going to do?” As much as I have joked about it, I don’t think Nevaeh throwing me a pool party with pizza at their house instead is going to cut it.

  “Doug and Tamlyn are there right now talking with the building inspector to see if we can work some Hollywood magic and make it into a plotline. They hope to find some new sponsors to help rebuild at least parts of Chez Versailles quickly. Meanwhile, I’ve spent all day calling around for a possible backup venue.” I can hear the weariness in Stephanie’s voice. “Between it being prom season, the beginning of wedding season, and the Phoenix Phoodie Phestival the following weekend, locations are already booked. We may have to move the venue out of town. Is Globe too far?”

  “Yes! I know my party is important, but not drive-to-Globe important.” My heart squeezes at the thought of HGTV trying to make the ten friends who come in the limo with me to Globe look like the three hundred they expected. And here’s a shot of the empty dance floor.

  “I can spin this. Let me think about it.” Stephanie closes her eyes and rubs her temples. “I know. How about we make it a ‘secret location event’? It’s so top secret and exclusive that attendees will meet at … Matsuda, let’s say, and then chartered buses take them to the event. There you go. Boom. Situation solved.”

  “Phil is going to sign off on chartered buses for three hundred teenagers?”

  “Oh, the production insurance nightmare that would be. Don’t worry. I will figure it out.” Stephanie stands up and collects her teacup and saucer. “This is going to require another cuppa and many biscuits. Would you care for some?”

  “I’ll have something later. I want to change first.”

  “Okay, and come try on these shoes so I can get them out of the office. I want to get one thing checked off my massive to-do list today.”

  I’m just heading back downstairs when the front door slams. To say that Phil is in full freak-out mode would be the understatement of the century. He slams the door to Mom’s office too for good measure. Even with the door closed, the language coming out of Phil’s mouth would make a pirate blush. Raw. Heated. Emotional. Welp, I’m out.

  Dr. Berger says when things start to get messy, and I feel out of control, to come back to the things that ground me. The things that make me feel confident, proud, and secure. I grab my work boots and safety glasses out of the hall closet and tiptoe down the hallway and out the back door.

  * * *

  I take a deep breath and turn on the video camera.

  “Hey, guys, thanks for tuning in to DIY with Dakota. A lot of you have been asking what my next project is. Today, I’m ready to reveal it.” I step in front of my build, and in one dramatic flourish, I pull the cloth off the top of it. “Tah-dah! But wait, there’s more.”

  I step out of frame for a moment to flip a switch. The lights in the dollhouse mansion come on. I pick up the camera so I can do a close-up of all the rooms.

  “This dollhouse is for some special friends of mine. I hope it brings them as much joy as the dollhouse my mom made for me when I was five.” I dig in my back pocket and pull out a parting gift. I even signed it. I tuck the plastic pony into one of the doll beds and pull the handmade, tiny blanket over the top of it. “Take care of my friends, Pinkie Pie.”

  I turn off the lights.

  Later, I’ll edit out the small sob that sneaked out of my chest. After almost six weeks—and a lot of hot-glue-gun burns, and accompanying swearing because of those burns—I’m ready to release my industrial design, or maybe it’s better to call it “functional art,” into the world. But not until I take a few pic
tures to show Mr. Udall. That’s why I am so far behind on the calligraphy project. I was too busy racing to finish the dollhouse in time for Raising Hope Women and Children’s Shelter’s tenth anniversary gala tomorrow. Maybe I can use this project as part of my portfolio for my college applications? Mom walked me through the electrical part, but all the work is mine. I pull the sheet back over the dollhouse.

  I yelp when I turn back around. Alex leans in the doorway with his backpack slung over one shoulder.

  “Just so you know, your front door was unlocked. Also, Ms. Stephanie almost impaled me with a high heel shoe when I let myself in. She’s a little stressed today.”

  “I thought we were getting together on Friday.” I leave the video camera in the Fab Lab. I still need more close-up footage of the dollhouse before I edit it all together.

  “I couldn’t wait until then.” Alex’s voice lacks its usual playfulness.

  I secure the workshop and lead Alex into my backyard. “Let’s talk out here where we can have some privacy. Stephanie is freaking out because we may have lost our venue today. But don’t worry. Stephanie and her Magic Handbag are on it.”

  Though Mom gets on me every time I do it, I crawl on top of the picnic table instead of sitting on the attached bench seat. I tap the table.

  “Uh, is that going to be able to hold both of us?” Alex says.

  I catch myself before I say, “Leo and I sit on it all the time.” Instead, I go with, “I made it. It’s stable.”

  Alex still looks doubtful, but he crawls onto the table beside me. We turn and sit cross-legged facing each other.

  “Wait. I have an apology gift from Abuela.” Alex rotates his upper body until he can dig something out of his backpack. He puts a red, plastic container between us. When he pulls the lid off, a sweet, milky smell wafts out. “Abuela was so embarrassed by how my parents acted at the game that she’s trying to bribe you into giving the Santos side of the family a second chance with an extra big slice of her famous cake.”