by Amy Spalding
“I guess it’d be nice to do some vocal warm-ups,” I say. “But you don’t have a piano, so I’ll be fine.”
“Hmmm.” She digs her phone out of her bag. “I do have friends with pianos, though. Let me see what I can do.”
“You don’t have to—”
She’s already calling. “Hey, it’s me. Are you free tomorrow? No, I wondered if Devan could use your music room. Auditions Monday for school. Right. I’m aware. Fan-tastic, we’ll see you then.”
She clicks her phone off and tosses it back into her bag. “You’re set.”
“It’s really okay?”
“I hate to put any pressure on you, but competition seems pretty cutthroat at New City. You should have every possible advantage.”
I shrug, trying to look modest. “I usually do pretty well in auditions. It’s, like, my one skill.”
“And, like, a good one to have,” she says. “Whereas I make terrible first impressions, and am therefore lucky to have a career where they don’t matter.”
It’s the first thing she’s said even sort of about her books. I guess I could take it as an opening, but I’m not quite ready to mention the dedication. My dedication. We’re only twenty-four hours in, after all.
“So I feel like we should go out tonight,” she says. “You should see more of L.A., and despite my love of Brad’s cooking, all the domesticity is starting to get to me.”
“Um, okay, if you want.”
“It’s a lot of togetherness,” she says, and I’m worried for a moment she means me. “He’s there when I go to sleep and he’s there when I wake up, and we eat almost every dinner together, and—” She kind of cuts herself off and chugs a bunch of soda. “God, sorry. I doubt you want to hear the minutiae of my relationship.”
“It’s fine,” I say, like we’re on Sex and the City or something. “Brad’s nice, though.”
“Oh, God, yeah. I’m dating a Boy Scout. I feel like handing him badges when he takes care of things so eagerly.” She laughs really loudly at that. “Seriously, let me shut up about this. I promise I’m not one of those people who wants to sit around and dish about her damn boyfriend. Anyway. I can always kick him out if it gets to be too much.”
I’m going to be around all the time, too, so does that mean she’ll kick me out if I get to be too much?
“I really am sorry about timing,” I say, softly. “Since he just moved in and all. I know it must be pretty crappy.”
“Don’t look at it like that,” she says. “You have enough on your plate.”
In other words, it must be pretty crappy indeed.
After we finish eating, we knock out the rest of the list and head back to her car. I thank her when it doesn’t feel awkward and stay quiet the rest of the time. Lunch must have been some kind of anomaly. As surreal as it is listening to my mother at all, much less regarding her Boy Scout of a boyfriend, now I kind of miss it. You know things aren’t great when an awkward moment is what you’re longing for.
“This is it, right?” I ask as we head to her car again. “I feel like this is a lot.”
The air seems thick with silence, which is why I decide to tack on another “Right?”
“For now, sure,” she says as we get into the car and she begins navigating out of the garage. “Let’s go home so you can organize all of this. Hopefully Brad—”
She stops as her phone rings. I automatically dig it and her headset out of her bag without asking, which hopefully isn’t overstepping any boundaries. Or just plain weird.
“Thanks,” she tells me, clicking on the phone. “Hey, I was just theorizing to Devan about how nice it would be if you’d already gotten those shelves and unpacked your—fan-tastic. No, we’re heading back now, no, I didn’t kill anyone, yes, we had lunch already, and yes, I’m using my damn headset. Oh? No, it’s perfect; Devan and I are going out tonight anyway. See you in a while.”
She tosses everything back at me. “He gets a merit badge in shelf-purchasing.”
“And headset-programming.”
She laughs. “Right.”
“Is it, like, a rude question to ask how you met?” I hardly understand how anyone meets anyone. How are you just a person going about things in your life when suddenly another person becomes more to you? I never look at boys like possibilities that way.
“My friends had a party, we were both there, I thought nothing of it, but he somehow commandeered my number from someone and called me the next day. We sort of ended up going out every night for a couple of weeks, so it was Instant Relationship. Not my style, but sometimes life falls into place and you just have to accept it.”
For someone like Reece Malcolm, who has everything a person could want, life probably works like that all the time. For someone like me, I’m pretty sure it’ll never be that easy.
Chapter Four
Things I know about Reece Malcolm:
12. Even though she has no personal style, she’s pretty good at shopping.
I get up early again on Sunday and get dressed in one of my new outfits—perfectly cut jeans and a strappy but super-casual sleeveless top—before sitting down with the laptop my mother insisted I needed for school. It’s exhausting deciding what’s worse: accepting all the money she spent on me or arguing against it. Okay, I never actually argued. If I’m stuck here against my mother’s wishes, an amazing wardrobe at least cheers me up and hopefully looks like I’m learning to stop apologizing.
“Good morning, Devan.” Brad knocks on the doorframe and stands a very respectful distance from the actual doorway. “Breakfast?”
“If you’re making it anyway,” I say.
“Always on the weekends.” He nods at the MacBook. “How’s the computer?”
“I can’t get the Internet to work, but good otherwise.”
“May I?” He gestures to the doorway like he’s a vampire who has to be invited in.
“Yeah, of course.”
He sits down on the floor and takes the laptop from me. “How was your night?”
“Really good; the restaurant was so nice.” I don’t mention that my mother and I didn’t talk much, especially because I’m sure it’s my fault as much as hers. It would just be better if one of us was good at conversation, period. Justine is so far the only person I’ve ever communicated well with, and even that didn’t totally last.
“Here you are.” Brad hands the computer back to me. “I know at some point today you’re going with Reece to Kate and Vaughn’s so that you can prepare for your audition—”
Wait, that’s where I’m going?
“—but if you need anything for your room or to settle in otherwise, let one of us know. I’m happy to take you to pick up anything remaining.”
“Oh, um, sure.” I doubt I’ll ask my long-lost mother’s boyfriend to take me shopping, but the offer’s nice.
“We may be able to drag along Reece as well, but you may have noticed her patience is a bit lacking when it comes to shopping.”
“She was totally fine yesterday,” I say. “I can’t believe how much she got me. It’s kind of crazy.”
“For such a restrained person, she does go a bit overboard at times,” he says. “For her birthday I bought her a new coffeemaker, and then for mine she had my car stereo upgraded quite dramatically. I, understandably, felt a bit lacking in comparison.”
“Yeah, but she seems to take coffee really, really seriously,” I say. “So probably it totally evened out.”
“You’ve a point. I’ll call you when breakfast is ready.” He leaves the room, and I pull up my email, praying that Justine has written.
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: L.A.!!
Hi Devan,
What’s L.A. like? Amazing?
You won’t believe it but Noah called and wants to meet up soon. Details to follow . . . Call me if you can!
Love, Justine
I wonder if I’m a bad friend for being pretty much ove
r Justine’s drama with The Tenor she met at camp. Justine was the best friend I’ve ever had, but something shifted when Dad died and I didn’t know how to talk about it. “You’ll feel better if you talk to me,” she said, and often. And probably she was right.
But I didn’t know how to explain the tangled mess of emotions heavy in my heart, and even worse I couldn’t find the words to define what was the hardest for me, the idea of peeling back my outsides and letting people just know what I feel. That stuff is all easy for Justine; she cries over greeting cards and freaking pet food commercials, and she tells me everything. It took five minutes alone for her to detail what she thought the first moment she saw The Tenor. I probably can’t even fill five minutes with explanations of what and how I feel. Dreams of New York and Tony Awards are one thing. The deeper stuff is another story I seriously don’t know how to tell.
So it’s pretty easy to guess things shifted even further from wherever it was they started—best friends forever?—over the three weeks she was away at camp. Then again, if even one boy had ever so much as breathed on me, maybe I would be more understanding.
After breakfast I help with dishes again and then sort of assist Brad organizing the CDs and records from the remaining boxes onto the new shelf. He clearly doesn’t actually need my help but is nice enough not to state the obvious.
My mother sits near us in her leather chair with her laptop, glaring at the screen and occasionally typing. At some point it hits me that I’m probably witnessing her at work on a future bestselling novel, which feels pretty special.
Back in freshman English for extra credit we could write an essay about a modern classic. I already had an A, but extra credit always seemed stupid to turn down, plus the shelf of books to choose from looked way more interesting than slogging through The Odyssey. I picked a book, Destruction, completely at random (okay, not completely at random—I liked the cover) but once I opened it, I wondered if a higher power—Fate? God? . . . My English teacher?—was at work.
To Devan, the dedication read. While our paths may never cross, be sure you’ve never left my mind.
Back then—and my whole life leading up to it—I basically assumed every woman of a certain age was my mother. I didn’t know her name or have any photos, so I did a lot of guessing. If she had mousy brown hair or brown eyes, total mom contender. All that and a little younger than Dad and Tracie? Bonus points. I never knew when I’d turn a corner and smack right into her. And we would know, and it would be amazing.
I’m aware that sounds more than a little crazy, but when no one tells you anything, what are you supposed to think? There never was a big talk; I just always knew Tracie wasn’t my mother. As I got older and overheard things and figured out the timeline of events, there was enough to put together: Dad cheated on Tracie when he was away at college, and it resulted in me. Lucky us. Maybe without my existence Tracie could have gotten over Dad’s mistake, but instead she had to see me every single day.
It was probably even worse that she couldn’t have her own kids. When I was little I kept expecting to eventually get a younger brother or sister, and I asked Tracie about it once. Of course it was a super invasive question but at the time I didn’t know that. Little kids think super invasive questions are just part of conversation. It was a long time ago but I still remember how she completely froze.
“You think that’s funny?” she asked. “You think you’d be here if I could?”
I mean, of course she hates me.
So, okay, maybe it was jumping to conclusions to assume Reece Malcolm, who wrote this book, was my mother. But on the other hand, my name isn’t exactly common. Plus the only other thing Dad ever said about my mother, besides that she was younger, was that she liked to write. It was a big leap from liking to write to writing an award-winning bestseller, but my brain makes big jumps all the time. And Dad had gone to college in New York, and Reece Malcolm’s bio in the back of the book confirmed she went to college in New York, too.
So I tested out this theory. I took Destruction out at home where Tracie could see me. Honestly, I was prepared for her not to react at all. By then I was used to having crazy thoughts about who might or might not be my mother.
So I literally jumped when she swiped the book from my hands.
“I can’t believe you’d read this in front of me,” she said. Like I knew for sure and planned it. Sometimes Tracie gave me way too much credit.
But also—I realized that meant it was true. For once I hadn’t put way too much stock in my imagination. That book was written by my mother. My mother was an actual person who actually existed and I finally had tangible proof of that. My mother dedicated a book—a modern classic to me.
“What, you have nothing to say about this?” Tracie asked.
I hadn’t meant to say nothing. I just couldn’t stop thinking about Reece Malcolm. “I didn’t— No one told me—”
“Right,” she said. “Did your dad brag or something?”
“Dad’s never said anything.”
“I don’t want to see you with that again,” Tracie said. But the next time we went shopping I slipped into Barnes & Noble to buy my own copy.
I never said a word to anyone about it, most especially to Dad. I promised myself that eventually I would. I wouldn’t stay silent and I wouldn’t hint around and I wouldn’t change the subject if I got nervous. Just because he didn’t want to tell me didn’t mean he didn’t have to. Except now Dad’s gone and I’m here and it’s way way way too late.
We’re all supposed to go to Vaughn and Kate’s that evening—which is why I switch out my jeans for a skirt that matches my new shirt—but as we’re getting ready to leave Brad suddenly remembers some work he has to finish before Monday morning. From my mother’s raised eyebrows I know she thinks he’s lying, but she says nothing except that she’ll meet me in the garage. I take that as a hint and head out ahead of her.
My mother walks in behind me a couple minutes later and points to the passenger side. “Get in; it’s just us.”
“Is that okay?” I ask, only because her eyebrows aren’t quite in place and she’s stomping a little.
“Of course.” She gets into the car and slams the door. “It’s just—”
“Just what?”
“Just that you are not my sounding board for all things Brad-annoyance-related,” she says. “I apologize. Moving on.”
Except neither of us says anything else.
This time we turn off one winding road onto another one even more winding (and another one I recognize from pop culture or whatever, Mulholland), and then progressively hillier ones like we’re in the middle of nowhere until we pull up to this house straight out of a fancy Hollywood party—or at least how they look in movies, absolute cliché. Walls in earth tones, like a makeup palette and not at all what houses are normally colored like, a flat roof like a warehouse, and giant windows all over.
“Right?” My mother catches my gaze. “I call it the Logan-Sinclair Compound. It’s ridiculous.”
“I’m glad you have a normal house.”
“God, me, too. Come on.” She jumps out of the car and walks up the driveway, me right on her heels. “I should warn you . . .”
“What?”
“They’re a lot to take. Separately, together, in groups, one-on-one. They’re my best friends, but I won’t act like that isn’t true. So.” She rings the doorbell.
The door opens so quickly it’s like someone was waiting on the other side. A woman at least a few years older than my mother with very artfully messy light brown hair and huge green eyes who all at once looks just like Kate Logan and yet smaller and different, somehow, rushes out and throws her arms around my mother. Up until then I truly couldn’t imagine anyone hugging Reece Malcolm. Maybe when you’re famous you can get away with more?
Actually I guess to most people, Kate Logan isn’t super famous. She’s been in, seriously, dozens of Broadway shows (if you count the ones that only lasted a few performances) and sung
on a ton of cast recordings. Now she lives here, obviously, and acts in TV shows and sometimes little parts in movies. Probably a lot of people won’t know who you’re talking about if you mention Kate Logan, but to me she’s a huge star.
“Hey, sweetie, you look great,” she says to my mother. “I presume cohabitation is treating you well.”
“It’s feeding me well, at least. This is Devan. Devan, this is my friend Kate.”
“Devan, it’s so wonderful to meet you.” Kate grasps both my hands in hers. “Come on in, dinner’s very nearly ready. Brad couldn’t make it?”
“Don’t ask,” my mother says.
“I’m not asking right now.” She giggles at her own joke, when a man I recognize as Vaughn—thank you, Google—walks into the room. He’s also shorter than I expected. His brown hair is thinning a little, which you can’t tell in photos, but his smile is one of those mega-watt ones I’d kill for, and he moves with ease, like nothing in life is uncomfortable.
I’d kill for that, too.
“Malcolm, good to see ya.” He crosses the room to join us and leans in to kiss my mother’s cheek. “Where’s your English schoolboy?”
“Shut up, Vaughn. This is Devan. Devan, this is Vaughn Sinclair, who I’m ashamed to tell you is also my agent.”
I pretend like that’s news to me and shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, kid. How’s L.A. treating you? You see anything besides the Valley yet? A shame your mom settled herself there, but if I could figure out the weird stuff people do, I’d go be a shrink. Drinks, cocktails, wine? Full bar as always.”
“She’s sixteen,” my mother says.
“Right, you never drank at sixteen.” Vaughn makes his way to the bar at the back of the living room. And when I say “living room” I mean giant space decorated entirely in an Art Deco style, with the kind of light fixtures and divans and whatever else I’ve never seen in a real house before. Compared to this, my mother’s house is down-to-earth and homey, though weirdly enough this feels way more my style. If you’re going to keep your house like a magazine spread, at least make it one you’d want to read, right?
