The Right Guy

by Kate O'Keeffe

  Father of the Year? Hell, no.

  Cece’s shoulders drop. “Until then, we’ll be stuck here with Cruella Devil and her rodent daughters.”

  I press my lips together to suppress a laugh. It’s the perfect metaphor for Sylvia Tremaine, although Cruella Devil is probably kinder to puppies. In her eyes, Cece and I are simply the stepdaughters she didn’t expect to have to deal with when she fell for our dad’s millions, err, I mean, charms.

  Yeah, on top of it all, she’s that type of woman.

  I hold Cece’s school bag out to her. “Look, Dad’s last text said he’s coming home soon, right? He’s doing so much better, and his heart meds seem to be doing the trick. We just have to trust him.” I’m saying this to myself as much as to my sister. Trust and Dad are not two words I use in the same sentence a whole lot.

  She takes the bag from me and flicks her long, silky, dark hair over her shoulder, a genetic gift from our mom we both share. “I’ll believe it when I see it, Gabby. He’s been gone forever.”

  I open my mouth to defend him, then close it again. Sure, I may be old enough to look after myself, but Cece’s just a kid—even if she thinks she’s not. As our one living parent, Dad should be here with her, not secluded in some ashram in the Andes, no matter how important his doctors told him it was to de-stress his life.

  Cece searches our room before she leans toward me. “And anyway,” she says in a hushed tone, “you’re getting us out of here soon, right? You’ve got The Plan. Because without it we’re back to waiting for your trust fund to kick in, and that’s years away.”

  I grasp my hands behind my back and force a smile. “We won’t have to wait for the money. In fact, today could be the day that my plan begins to fall into place. We’ll be away from her soon, I prom—”

  “What are you two gossiping about when you should be working?”

  I flinch, shoot Cece a look, and steel myself as I turn around to face our stepmother, the force that is Sylvia Tremaine. “Good morning, Sylvia. It’s another gorgeous day.”

  Sylvia glares at me, her eyes rimmed with enough eyeliner to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel black. Her platinum blonde hair is in stark contrast to the severity of her black haute couture, her lips painted an appropriate blood red.

  Warm, caring, mother-figure, Sylvia Tremaine is not.

  She harrumphs in response as her cold stare shifts from me to Cece. “Have you done your chores, Cecelia? You know you can’t go to that school of yours until you have.”

  “Yes, I’ve done them.”

  Sylvia twists her mouth into a questioning pout. “Are you absolutely certain?”

  Cece juts her chin out. I shoot her a warning look. Sometimes my kid sister is a whole lot braver than me—and when it comes to Sylvia, that’s not ever a good thing. “Yes. I’m certain.”

  I hold my breath.

  “Really?” Sylvia’s thick lash extensions give her eyelid muscles a workout. “You’ve made Britney and Kylie’s beds? Cleaned up after their breakfast? Sent the laundry to Hilda?”

  “I, err—”

  “I’ll do it for her,” I say in haste.

  “Will you now? What about all your chores, Gabriella?”

  “Almost done.”

  Sylvia’s eyes rove our bedroom. I know she’s looking for something to complain about. Finding nothing, she harrumphs once more. It’s one of her favorite responses. “Come and see me when you’re finished. I have errands for you to run.”

  “Yes, Sylvia.”

  With nothing else in her armory, she throws us one final disapproving glare before she turns on her heel and sweeps out of the room.

  Cece lets out a puff of air. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  “Just do the chores next time, okay? I can’t keep covering for you.” I glance at the clock on my nightstand. “You’ve got to go.” I pull her in for a quick hug. “I’ll pick you up after school.”

  “You don’t have to. I am fourteen, you know.”

  I ignore her protest. Cece is the reason I’m still living here, the last thing I’m going to do is let her go. “I will see you there. Now go!”

  As Cece disappears out of the room and down the spiral staircase, I glance in the mirror above the chest of drawers. I slave on some lip balm, the sum total of my makeup routine for the day. I blink at my reflection. My mother’s green and gold eyes stare back at me, reminding me of another time, another life. A life when the step-monsters, Sylvia, Kylie, and Britney were nothing but strangers to us.

  I let out a sigh. There’s no point wanting something that’s gone.

  I work my way through the girls’ rooms, making their beds, collecting plates and cups, and hanging up the clothes they’ve left strewn across the floor. Usually, Sylvia and her daughters are snoring their heads off this early, but today’s different. Today’s important—for them and for me.

  “Gabriella! Have you not finished yet?” Sylvia’s voice echoes down the hall.

  “One second!” I put the dishes into the dishwasher and run back up the creaking stairs to my room. Hurriedly, I scoop my hair up into my usual high ponytail and collect my purse from my bed.

  In the living room, I find Sylvia sitting on one of the new, plush leather sofas she bought as part of her renovation of our penthouse. Everything in the room is either stark black or chrome, perfectly reflecting her warm and loving personality. Among the many crimes I can never forgive her for, making our once warm and comfortable family home look like a gaudy Italian fashion designer’s showplace is up there at the top of the list.

  Well, after the way she treats me like a freaking slave, that is.

  I come to a stop in front of her. “Sorry, all done. What do you need me to do?”

  She runs a critical eye over me, and it makes me want to squirm. “You know, Gabriella, you could be quite pretty, if you tried. Not like my girls, of course. They have a natural beauty you simply don’t possess.” She bobs her head at the sofa where her two daughters sit glued to their phones, completely ignoring her. They’re wearing the expensive designer clothes Sylvia lavishes on them, paid for with my dad’s cash, naturally.

  She lifts one perfectly manicured hand and examines her long red nails. “Who knows? If you’d put in more of an effort to be a good daughter, maybe your father would still be here?” Her eyes land on mine, a spiteful smile teasing at the edges of her artificially plumped mouth.

  I press my own lips together into a thin line. We both know me wearing some fancy dress wouldn’t have made a blind but of difference in Dad’s decision to leave. I do my best to ignore the tension spreading across my chest. I refuse to let this woman see my pain.

  She raises her head in triumph, seeing right through my bravado. After a beat, she collects a bulging black plastic bag from the seat next to her and thrusts it at me. “Take these to High End Cleaners. Not that place that virtually butchered them last time. My girls can’t look like they scrub toilets for a living when they perform. Not like some people.” She arcs one of her eyebrows.

  I take the bag from her and peer inside. Dresses. Lots of them. Sparkles, cut out bits, butt-skimming in length. No one could ever accuse my stepsisters of being classy. “High End Cleaners. Got it.”

  “And here.” She holds out another plastic bag. It’s bright yellow with a picture of a green grinning frog, a crown atop its head.

  I take it from her and pull out a single silver high-heeled shoe and admire it. It has the most exquisite crystals on the strap of the toe of the sandal, the heel high, thin, and elegant. It’s a fairy-tale shoe, the kind a girl would wear to a ball to meet her Prince.

  Not that I need one of those, of course. I’m a New Yorker, doing it for myself, not waiting for a prince. Yada, yada, yada. But nonetheless . . . it is a beautiful shoe.

  “That sandal needs to be taken to The Cobbler King. I can’t have Britney falling on the biggest night of the band’s career.”

  “Sure thing.” I slip the shoe back into the bag.

  I�
��ve long thought Sylvia only likes The Cobbler King because she fancies herself as a queen. And if Sylvia Tremaine’s a queen, my worn-out old sneakers are a pair of exquisite glass slippers.

  She leans back in her seat and puts her hand over her heart, her sharp features softening as she gazes at her daughters. “I can barely believe you girls are opening for Rex Randall next Saturday. Rex Randall. I remember when he was part of that band back in the nineties, The Wrong Side of the Tracks. They were the most successful boy band of the decade, you know. Oh, Rex was easily the best looking, and the most talented.”

  An image of an aging rocker enters my head. Rex Randall had been famous for a few things other than being a member of that band. Things like repeated visits to rehab and sex scandals. You know, good old-fashioned family fun.

  “My girls are destined for great things, Gabriella. Great things. Aren’t you, my darlings?” Kylie and Britney grunt, not taking their eyes from their phones. “This concert is just the beginning.”

  I take a step closer to her, hoping the evil stepstep-monsters won’t overhear what I have to say. “Errr, Sylvia?”

  “What is it?”

  “When I get to the recording studio today can I talk to you about doing, you know, the thing?” My breath catches in my throat.

  “The what?”

  “The thing,” I repeat under my breath. The last thing I want is for the girls to overhear our conversation. I don’t need their derision thrown in my face.

  “Speak up, Gabriella. I can’t hear you.”

  Britney’s ears prick up. She peers at me over her phone, her interest clearly piqued.

  I square my shoulders. Dad had reluctantly agreed to allow me to leave college on the proviso I become a fully-fledged member of the Pop Princesses, not their underpaid, overworked general dogs-body. Sylvia had given him her word—which seems less like a bond than an outright lie.

  “Look. I’ve been working on some new stuff. I really think you’ll like it.” Although it’s a last resort, I force a pleasant smile and add, “Please, Sylvia.”

  Her laugh is low and deeply unpleasant. “Oh, dear, sweet Gabriella. Can’t you see? That’s an absolute impossibility, not when the Pop Princesses are opening for Rex Randall.”

  “But you said I could. You gave Dad your word.”

  Sylvia and Britney share a look before she returns her attention to me. “Your father isn’t here, Gabriella,” Sylvia replies. “And, you see, the problem is, your music is, well, how do I put this? Let me find the words.” She taps her chin. “Oh, yes. That’s right. Your music is not very good.”

  Britney snorts. I shoot her a glare and she pokes her tongue out at me in response. What is she, seven?

  “And anyway, you just don’t have what Britney and Kylie have,” Sylvia continues.

  “What’s that?” Porn star fashion sense? A total lack of talent? The I.Q. of a gnat?

  “They have star quality, Gabriella. That undefinable thing you’ve either got or you don’t. Just look at them.”

  I glance over at my two stepsisters. Britney has lost interest in eavesdropping on our conversation and is now scratching her head and examining what she’s scraped off her skull embedded under her nails, while Kylie’s chewing on her cuticle, her belly poking out over the top of her skirt as she reads her screen.

  Star quality my ass.

  “You’re—” Sylvia waves her hand in the air, “—just you: Gabriella, the helpful gatherer of ice.” Her look tells me the topic of conversation is well and truly closed.

  “Yeah, it’s really great for them.” I try to keep the bitterness from my voice.

  She snaps her head up and glares at me. “Your father made you an empty promise, saying you could become one of the Pop Princesses.”

  “But you said—”

  “Well, I’ve thought about it and have changed my mind, Gabriella. You can perform with the girls another time when they’re not playing at somewhere quite as special as Maddison Square Garden. And besides, you’re much better suited to the role of assistant. You’re so,” she flicks her wrist, “useful.”

  Although Sylvia’s continued refusal to follow through on her promise to Dad that I could become the third member of the Pop Princesses shouldn’t surprise me, any remnant of hope I’d clung to is dashed with her cruel words. Dad had reluctantly agreed to allow me to leave college on the proviso I become a fully-fledged member of the Pop Princesses, not their underpaid, overworked general dogs-body. Sylvia had given him her word—which seems less like a bond than an outright lie.

  This was going to be my big break, my chance to show the world my talent. I fight to hold back the tears that sting my eyes.

  “And my girls are very talented musicians. They don’t need you. See? ‘The Pop Princesses are the new darlings of pop.’” She brandishes the magazine at me and I spy a small image of Kylie and Britney on one of the pages with the caption Are they the new Darlings of Pop? Really, the article is so small you could easily miss it.

  “Who else is being called that today? Hmm?” Sylvia continues.

  Kylie looks up at me just long enough to sneer, “Not the new assistant to the darlings of pop.”

  Britney snorts. “That would be, like, so hilarious.”

  “I know, right?” Kylie replies.

  “Exactly, my precious girls.” Sylvia shoots me a self-satisfied smirk. She flips the magazine over and scans the article, her lips curving into a smile. “Oh, yes. It’s all starting to happen for you two.” She looks up at me. “Kylie and Britney were named for the most famous pop stars of the Nineties, you know.”

  “Yes, I know.” Of course I know. Telling how she had plans for her daughters before they were even out of diapers is one of Sylvia’s favorite stories.

  The softness in Sylvia’s eyes disappears. “Don’t you have somewhere you need to be, Gabriella?”

  “Of course, Sylvia.” I clutch the bags to my body and obediently walk toward the front door, hating myself more with every goddamn step.

  “And meet us at the recording studio as soon as you’re finished,” she calls out. “We’re leaving here as soon as the car comes.”

  I leave without a backwards glance. At the elevator, I press the “down” button as heat grows behind my eyes, my chest numb. Since Dad left I’ve taken their crap, day in day out. Even though I act like it doesn’t bother me, even though I tell myself this won’t last, it’s getting harder to keep up the pretense. Especially when she snatches my big chance at a music career from me.

  The doors slide open and I step inside. I drum my fingers against my thigh and bite my lip. Why did I let myself get my hopes up? Sylvia was never going to follow through on her promise to help me. I was a fool to think there was even one iota of honor running through those veins.

  I need a new plan, and fast. One that doesn’t involve Sylvia Tremaine. I’ve got to make this happen—for me and for Cece.

  The elevator reaches the first floor and I walk out into the lobby. I spot Jerome at the front desk, dapper as always in his crisp uniform. He throws me a smile and a wink. I smile back as I trudge past him, deep in thought, through the glass double doors, and onto the tree-lined street.

  “Good morning, Miss Gabriella,” the doorman in his top hat says with a grin.

  I paste on a smile. “Clive! Howzit hangin’?”

  His face glows as his grin widens. “It’s hanging well today, thank you.”

  Usually, I love it when he plays along. Today? Today I’ve got things on my mind.

  I make my way down the tree-lined street, passing its elegant buildings with columns and wrought iron detailing. This has been my neighborhood my whole life, and I love everything about it, from Central Park to the hustle and bustle of Park Avenue, to the shelter entryway awnings give you when it rains. It’s my place, my family’s place—and no gold-digger of a stepmother can take that from me.

  Even if right now, she thinks she’s won.

  I reach the intersection and scan the traff
ic for a cab. I know a lot of people use services like Uber, but to me, Yellow Cabs are a New York institution. I could barely imagine the city without them. Spotting one driving toward me, I stand on the curb and raise my hand and whistle loudly. Sylvia hates it when I do that, so I like to do it a lot.

  I jump in the back and give the driver the address for High End Cleaners. Then, I sit back on the vinyl seat and watch while we glide past the traffic, the people, and the buzz that is the city of New York, the city I adore.

  When I reach my destination, I get out of the cab and push my way through the doorway into the cleaner. I spy the ancient owner, behind the counter. “Hi, Priscilla.”

  “Gabby, it’s lovely to see you.” She shoots me a grin, her lined face creasing up like a raisin.

  “You, too. How’re tricks?” I place the bag of dresses on the counter beside her.

  “Tricks are good if by tricks you mean business?”

  I lean against the counter. “What else?”

  “Oh, you’re a cheeky one. Always have been. All these, honey?” She pulls the dresses out of the bag and spreads them out.

  “Yup.”

  Priscilla holds up one of the glittery outfits. I raise my eyebrows and Priscilla shoots me a look. “There’s not much to this one, at least.”

  “They’re all like that.”

  “I see. Not yours, then.”

  I adamantly shake my head. “Not in this lifetime.”

  “We’ll get onto these.” She hands me the receipt, which I slip into my purse. “What are you up to now? More errands?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got to deliver this shoe to—” I search the floor, the counter, everywhere. Panic sets in. My hand flies to my mouth. “Oh, my god. I must have left it in the cab!”

  “Whatcha leave in a cab, honey?”

  “I’ve lost a shoe. A beautiful, fairy-tale shoe.”

  Now I truly sound like Cinderella.

  “Well, I hope you find it.” Priscilla puts the dresses back in the plastic bag and places them on a counter behind her. “Delicates!” she barks to some poor schmuck out back.