Who's Your Daddy?

by Lynda Sandoval

  His eyes widened, almost imperceptibly. “Like what?”

  I quickly told him about all my nights wasted sitting on the sales floor of Sears. As I related the tale, the whole POINT became crystal clear to me. Finding a boyfriend wasn’t about trying to transform yourself into the perfect image of what you thought he wanted. It was about being exactly who you are and then finding a person who appreciated that. “I can’t be someone I’m not, Ismet. I don’t even want to.”

  “I know.”

  I held up a hand. “But, before I agree to go out with you, you need to know and respect that I will never be the most stylish or hip girl. I have no interest in watching television or going to movies.” I shook my head. “I’ll never choose that kind of passive entertainment over books or conversation or taking a hike through the woods.”

  He nodded.

  I shrugged. “I don’t want to be anyone other than who I am, Ismet. And if that means I’m not the right girl for you, I can make my peace with that and move on. I’m not hip.”

  Ismet did the sexy little mouth twist again. “In case you have not noticed, I am not hip either.”

  “I think you’re kind of hip in an exotic, foreign kind of way.”

  He half smiled. “I thought I wanted to be hip in an all-American kind of way, but I am finding it is easier to just be me.”

  We shared a grin.

  “I want to go out with you because of the person you are, Meryl Morgenstern, not despite the person you are not. It just took me a while to figure that out.”

  “Shefka was right. You are clueless.” I winked.

  He laughed. “She said that?”

  “Many times.”

  When the mood had grown serious again, Ismet gazed into my eyes like I had dreamed he would. “Meryl, you have been right there in front of me all this time, treating me well, being my friend, getting to know my family and my culture like no one else ever has. That means a lot to me, I have realized. And it will mean even more to me if we can go out sometime.”

  “One more condition,” I told him, feeling bold.

  He rolled his eyes playfully. “Gee, girls. Okay, name it.”

  “One of our dates must be going to junior prom.” I bit my lip, hoping I hadn’t pushed my demands too far.

  He raised his eyebrows and looked utterly relieved. “Is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Meryl, I would love to escort you to prom.”

  “Really?” Excitement welled up inside me, and part of me couldn’t wait to get upstairs and email my friends with the news.

  “Really. It is a date,” he said. Then he lifted the back of my hand and brushed his lips against my knuckles.

  DOUBLE SWOON! I almost passed out, seriously. Ismet’s lips against my hand felt better than any kiss on the lips could ever feel.

  At least, I imagined so, since I’d never been kissed.

  But, now that I’d gotten a taste of romance, Ismetstyle, I couldn’t wait to experience that first lip kiss and judge for myself!

  sixteen

  Caressa

  Okay.

  It’s official.

  I’m a complete and total, unredeemable idiot.

  Oh, yes. Bobby Slade received the letter allegedly from my dad, and of course he’d responded. There isn’t a blues musician alive who would turn down a collaboration opportunity with Tibby Lee. That’s about on par with a singer passing up a chance to work with Carlos Santana. Uh, yeah, it JUST DOESN’T HAPPEN.

  So, what I surmise is this: Bobby contacted my dad, who was duly confounded about the letter he’d never written. The two of them started talking, put the puzzle pieces together, concluded what had happened, and had a good-natured laugh about what a SILLY CHILD Tibby Lee’s daughter was (horrors). But then they got to talking and decided working together would be a good move after all, so Dad invited Bobby up to White Peaks to discuss ideas. Dad, however, simply couldn’t pass up the chance to teach me a lesson, so he invited Bobby to just POP into my life without any warning whatsoever.

  Ever heard of NATURAL CONSEQUENCES?

  My dad is big on natural consequences. I’d put him in the awkward position of being caught unaware, and he repaid the favor big time.

  ACKKKKKKKK!

  If only he hadn’t chosen opening week of Beauty and the Beast to teach me this all-important life lesson. But, GOD, had I ever learned. Bobby Slade was indisputably hot, but he was also … old. WAY older than the picture of him I had in my mind. I mean, not OLD old like my dad, but way too old for me, and I was so embarrassed. Why hadn’t I seen our inherent incompatibility before I went and launched my career as the most gigantic village idiot ever? I was so humiliated and ashamed by what I’d done, I can’t even tell you.

  My two best friends had both scored their ultimate dream dates for prom, and all I’d scored was a gigantic ego blow. I’d be stuck at home painting my toenails on prom night, all because I’d stupidly fallen for some older guy on a CD case and I wouldn’t listen to anyone tell me that was INSANE.

  WAHHHHHHHHHHHH! Lila and Meryl had treated me like I’d gone off the deep end ever since my dumb supper revelations, and it was no wonder!

  I’d spent the entire day freaking out, and the stress sent my poor vocal cords into some kind of weird spasm. Curtain time was a mere thirty minutes off, and the only sound I could make sounded like the mix between a gasp and a fake belch. No lie—not a single note would come out when I tried to sing. Still, Cabbiatti forced me to costume up and get ready to go on, because he thought I was faking it.

  No matter how I tried to convince him, Cabbiatti didn’t believe that I couldn’t talk or sing without squawking. I think he suspected it was a cheap eleventh-hour plea to be taken out of the play and reassigned to the makeup crew, but please. Like I’d wait until OPENING NIGHT and sabotage the whole production. On the contrary, I had hoped I would deliver a standout performance now that Bobby Slade was in the audience, but it looked like I’d have to stand out back while the understudy played Belle.

  Yay me—I got to doubly embarrass myself in front of a Grammy-winning hottie, all in a matter of two days.

  I listened to the sounds of the orchestra tuning their instruments and my fellow singers warming up their voices and felt bleak. I tried to run through scales myself, to no avail.

  I paced up to the curtains and peered out at the quickly filling auditorium as the panic bubbled up in my sore throat. Lila and Meryl sat dead center in the front row. I spied their families sitting a couple rows back, then I grimaced and scanned the audience for my family … and Bobby.

  UGH, there they were, right in the front row but off toward stage right. My eyes misted over with tears, and I let the velvet curtain drop from my fingers. Sure, I hadn’t wanted to be in this dumb musical, but I hated to let them down.

  “Caressa.”

  I spun around to find the director looming over me. “Yeah?” I croaked.

  Cabbiatti released a long-suffering sigh. “Look, if you wanted to stage a revolt, you should’ve done it prior to opening night.”

  “But, I’m not—”

  “You know, heart problems run in my family.” He laid his palm on the left side of his chest. “You kids will be the death of me, I swear.”

  “I’m not faking it,” I squeaked and gasped. “I absolutely can’t sing, Mr. Cabbiatti.” I spread my arms. “Why would I embarrass myself like this in front of the cast? Ninety-nine percent of the girls have been praying this entire time that I’d truly break a leg, you know. Would I give them that satisfaction?”

  My raw, raspy monologue went a long way toward convincing him my throat problems were on the up and up. He planted his fists on his hips, took a deep breath in, then released it out his nose. “Sing the scales for me.”

  I touched my fingertips to my throat, took in a breath, and tried. My voice sounded like a cell phone breaking up. Can you hear me now? NOT GOOD!

  Mr. Cabbiatti looked so crestfallen, my eyes filled with tears and spilled do
wn my cheeks. “I’m sorry.”

  In a rare moment of opening night compassion, Cabbiatti squeezed my shoulder. “I am, too. I had a friend in college whose vocal cords would seize up on opening night sometimes. Stage fright.”

  I nodded. “Caroline Weiler is a wonderful understudy, she’ll do a great job in my place.”

  “If only you realized how good you are, Caressa,” Cabbiatti said, shaking his head slowly. “If only you could hear what the rest of us hear. You’d know, then, that no one can ever quite replace you.”

  Strangely, considering my whole stance on the singing thing, The Crab’s quiet words of praise boosted my spirits. Temporarily. Now that it had been settled and Caroline would open in my place, a profound feeling of disappointment draped over me. I scuffed back into the dressing room to remove my beautiful costume and the thick stage makeup. Mark, the humpbacked ET Beast, levered himself out of the makeup chair and shuffled over to me.

  “Whaddup, Caressa?”

  “I lost my voice,” I chirp-whispered.

  His eyes widened, then looked sad. “I’m sorry to hear that. You sound awful.”

  “I feel awful. In more ways than one.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “It’ll come back,” I assured him, although I had my doubts. “Maybe even before the show closes. Who knows?”

  Mark popped his hand out of the beast claw and held up crossed fingers. “Rest your vocal cords, Caressa. I’d like to act in at least one performance with you.”

  “I’ll try.” I wrapped my arms around him and patted the misshapen hump on his back. “Break a leg, Mark-o.”

  He pulled out of the embrace and winked. “I’ll do it just for you.” He leaned in. “Hopefully I’ll break off this stupid hump, too. What’s with this costume?”

  We both laughed then, although I sounded like a dying frog. I just wanted the night to be over.

  “I’m such a freak show!” I croak-wailed to my pals as Meryl drove me home from the theater and Lila came along for moral support. My dad had wanted me to ride home with him, Mom, and Bobby Slade, but I couldn’t bear to. I think he could see in my eyes that I’d learned my lesson and needed a reprieve, because he told me to be careful and take my time. “How can I face him?”

  Meaning Bobby, not my dad.

  I felt like I owed him an explanation and probably an apology, too, but my mortification felt too fresh. If only he’d leave and come back in a month. Maybe by then I would have stopped reeling enough to express my remorse without busting into hot tears of shame.

  Lila leaned up from the back seat and squeezed my shoulder. “Can I say, despite how much this all sucks, I’m just glad you finally realized he’s wrong for you?”

  I leaned back against the headrest and tried to groan, but it came out more like a gargle. “Yes. Fine. Say it. I know I deserve it.”

  “It’s okay,” Meryl said. She reached over and patted my knee. “You were just being yourself. We’ve all made mistakes throughout this ordeal.”

  “That’s for sure,” Lila said, “probably starting with agreeing to that dumb supper!”

  “Oh, be quiet, Lila,” Meryl said, playfully.

  “But, it all worked out for you two,” I croaked.

  Neither Lila nor Meryl denied this. I felt like the redheaded simpleton stepchild of the bunch, no offense to Meryl who WAS redheaded, but neither simple nor a stepchild. “What am I going to say to him?”

  “Just speak from your heart.”

  I glanced over at Meryl, trying to absorb some of her quiet confidence. I knew I HAD to apologize to Bobby Slade, but I honestly didn’t even know how to start. “I wish you could wear a Caressa costume and do this for me, Mer.”

  She flicked me a quick smile, but turned her attention immediately back to the roads, which were still icy and snowpacked in places. Sometimes it was so obvious that her dad was the driver’s ed teacher. Not that this was a BAD thing while navigating sketchy mountain roads.

  “You can’t be faulted if you’re honest and you speak from the heart, Caressa,” Meryl said. “You’re sixteen. Teenagers make mistakes every day.”

  “She’s right,” Lila said. “And, if the speaking-from-the-heart option flops, pass the buck big time, girlfriend. Blame anyone and everyone but yourself.”

  “Lila!” Meryl glared at her in the rearview mirror. “We’re all trying to correct our errors, remember?”

  “Hey, I was only joking. But … it could work.”

  I smiled at Lila over the back of the seat. We hadn’t come up with any solutions, but my pals had at least bolstered my confidence. All that dissipated when Meryl drove out of the portico, with a friendly little tap on her horn and a wave. I stood there alone in the silence, desperate to avoid going into the house at all.

  But I couldn’t.

  With a deep breath, I pushed open the front door. I stopped in the entryway and listened; the muffled sounds of a jam session drifted out to me from Dad’s recording studio. I was sort of relieved that Mom, Dad, and Bobby weren’t waiting for me in the living room like judge, jury, and executioner. Feeling a tiny speck of hope, I dropped my purse and duffel bag, then hung my coat in the closet.

  Now or never.

  I wiped my palms on the sides of my jeans and made my way down the hallway to the studio. I knocked as lightly as humanly possible, hoping they wouldn’t hear me and I could skulk away forever, but no such luck.

  “Come in.”

  I opened the door. My gaze met Bobby’s briefly, but I yanked it away. “Hi,” I croaked.

  “You sound plain awful, chérie. How do you feel?”

  “Terrible,” I said. Understatement.

  My dad crossed the room and felt my forehead and cheek. It was such a sweet, almost momlike thing to do. I smiled at him. “I’m going to go see about some honey tea for your throat. You visit with Bobby while I’m gone,” he said pointedly. So much for a natural segue.

  The studio door opened, then shut behind my retreating dad with a slam that sounded like a prison gate locking. I jumped, clenching my fists at my sides. After a moment, I released a breath and smiled tremulously at Bobby.

  He smiled back, and he looked pitying. Was it because of my stupidity? UGH!!

  “Sorry about your voice, Caressa. You must be disappointed to have missed opening night.”

  Man, was he hot. “Yeah.” I tried to clear my throat, but it made me cough. When the bout ended and I was certain I hadn’t hacked up a lung on the floor, I sank onto the edge of the sofa that ran along one wall of the studio. “Um … Bobby, I wanted to say … I’m sorry.” Perched on the edge of my seat, I tried to follow Meryl’s advice to speak from the heart. Really, what other choice did I have?

  He set his guitar aside and crossed the studio to sit on the couch beside me. “For what?”

  “For … you know.” Sure, make me say it out loud. “For tricking you.” I flicked him a furtive, embarrassed glance beneath my lashes, then refocused on my lap. “To get you up here. I’m sure it was awful calling my dad just to find out he’d never written that letter in the first place.”

  “Not so bad, actually.”

  His words brought my head up, and my eyes went round with surprise. “Really?”

  He shrugged. “Was being a little embarrassed worth it in order to meet Tibby Lee? Hell, yeah. And now look what’s transpired.”

  “W-what?”

  “He’s going to produce my next single.”

  Shock zinged through me. “He is?”

  “Yep.” He leaned in and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial purr. “If you think about it, Caressa, I actually owe you.”

  I crinkled my nose, but my spirits lifted. “You aren’t mad then? To have been lured up to Colorado by deluded jailbait?”

  Bobby barked a laugh. “No. It’s all good, Caressa. No harm, no foul.”

  I blew out a breath of relief. “Thank God.”

  “But tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “How di
d the whole thing come about?”

  ACK! Ladies and Gents, welcome to White Peaks’ production of “Hello, I’m a Dumbass,” starring Caressa Thibodoux. I gulped back my mortification and gave him the glossed-over, Reader’s Digest version of the dumb supper and the events that followed. I could feel my face and neck grow hotter the more I explained. “The thing is, we were really just trying to find dates for junior prom, and it all got out of hand.”

  He crossed one ankle over the opposite knee. “Prom, huh? Believe me, I can see how that would be a motivation.” He rubbed his jawline with the back of his knuckles. “You know, I never got to attend either of my proms.”

  “Why not?” Surely girls would have paid hard, cold cash to go to prom with the lethally hot Bobby Slade.

  “Well, work, I guess. I released my first album when I was sixteen.” He made a regretful face. “By the time prom rolled around, I was working long hours in the studio. No time to go.”

  Wow. I hadn’t thought of that at all. “That sucks.” I hunched my shoulders up and then relaxed them on a sigh. “But, it looks like I’ll be in the same boat, except without the excuse of working.”

  “Tell you what.” He dipped his chin and studied me. “You and I both know I’m way too old for you, right? We’re on the same page there?”

  “Uh, yeah. Totally.” God, KILL ME NOW.

  “But, I’d still like to know what it’s like to attend a prom.”

  My throat tightened, and I blinked up at him in disbelief. Was he saying—?

  “How about—as a thank you for hooking me up with your pops—how about I fly back up here and escort you to your prom.”

  The world stopped.

  My heart stopped.

  Thankfully, my bladder function also stopped.

  Had Bobby Slade just asked me to prom?

  “Are you kidding me?”

  He grinned. “Not at all. It won’t be a date, of course, because—”