by Aimee Ferris
“Wait, Anne! I’ve got it. The perfect shot. I’ll snap right as you open the door and catch her reaction and your mutual perfect, emotional, authentic moment! You just need to cheat toward me so I can get at least half your profile, maybe three-quarters, and still see her face. Just turn the knob with your arm wide so I can get a clear shot, and don’t forget to look as happy and excited as you are right now.”
We busted into giggles a few times and finally steadied ourselves for the “candid” shot.
“Okay. One, two—”
I brought the camera into focus and nodded. She threw open the door, and I heard the click as I snapped a picture worth millions, of three very shocked faces, two of which featured perfectly matching chin dimples.
Chapter Sixteen
Keith Gordon was the first to speak, though his eyes stayed glued on Anne’s face. “I am so sorry, Victoria. You said she wouldn’t be—”
“I know,” Ms. Parisi said. “Anne? Are you okay?”
Anne nodded, staring at Keith Gordon.
“Quigley, would you—”
“Go? Sure, I’ll go. Let me, I’ll just—”
“No, sweetheart,” Ms. Parisi said. “I was just going to ask you to step in and close the door. If it’s okay with Anne?”
Anne nodded again. Her whole body was trembling. I nudged her forward a little so we could close the door behind us.
“Water?” My voice came out in a squeak.
Anne nodded. Ms. Parisi and I dove for the cooler, anxious to help in any small way. Keith Gordon seemed paralyzed in a half-seated lounging pose on the dressing table.
Anne glugged half the bottle down at once, nostrils flared as she tried to suck in air.
“Victoria, may I?” Keith asked.
Ms. Parisi sat down hard on the cooler. “Sure.”
“Anne, I’m at a loss for words,” he said. “I have the advantage here, I know. I planned the trip assuming I’d be seeing your mother, but I didn’t realize you might … I’m sorry. There’s just this mixed-up bundle of happy, ecstatic, pissed-off, sad, and about every other emotion you can think of hitting all at once right now.”
Anne’s nod was so slight he probably missed it.
“I want to grab you and hug you. I mean, my God! This is just … amazing! I mean, look at you! I don’t know what to say. I’m scared as hell you’re going to think I’m some nut you don’t even know. Do I have any right to even be talking to you? From what your mom says, my suspicion was right. It’s hard to swallow everything I lost—we lost—but you’re just so …” He shrugged and swiped at tears that accompanied his joyful laugh.
My head spun from holding my breath. Anne still hadn’t moved a muscle or said a word. Keith Gordon slid down into the dressing table chair with his head in his hands.
“God, I’m sorry; I’m just a mess. Since I saw that photo, every minute of every day this past week, all I could think of is what I’d say, how I’d act—God, even what I’d wear! How stupid is that? You know how many times I changed my shirt this morning? Then I sweated right through that one and had to change again.
“And here I am, rambling on like an idiot, when I just wanted to make a good impression and maybe be somebody you might like or want to get to know or something. And there you were up there on that stage looking so beautiful, looking out so confidently with my mother’s eyes, next to your mom, who is still every bit as beautiful as when we met almost two decades ago, both of you so full of life and strength—please, Anne. Help a guy out here, tell me what you’re thinking.”
Anne opened her mouth and shut it. With a little frown between her eyes she asked the golden question. “So, it’s true?”
Mr. Gordon and Ms. Parisi looked to each other before nodding. Seeing the biggest superstar in the world so hopeful, practically begging for acceptance, I worried the old Anne would resurface and cut him to shreds. Instead, her expression softened into an emotion I never thought I’d see on my best friend’s face. It took a minute to recognize it. She was shy.
“So, you’re … happy?” she asked. “About me?”
Mr. Gordon’s hands were clenched together so tight his knuckles went white. His head bobbed up and down like one of those dashboard bobblehead dogs on steroids.
The long silence while she considered this was pure torture. “Cool,” she said, and smiled.
Mr. Gordon rose and stepped forward, arms outstretched, and then stopped just short of hugging her. He looked to Ms. Parisi and back at Anne. “May I? Sorry—I’m just so nervous about doing the wrong thing.”
Anne laughed and stepped forward into his hug. I raised my camera instinctively and caught their laughter and wonder with a click. Ms. Parisi stepped forward to join them, and I stepped back to capture another family moment and give them some space. More than a few tears were wiped away.
“I just knew it,” Mr. Gordon said. “The minute I saw that picture on the news, I told my wife ‘My God, I think that’s my daughter.’ ”
Anne stiffened and pulled away. “Look. My mom’s a great mom. She’s done a great job. It’s not her fault I screwed up and got into trouble. I don’t need someone coming in trying to take me—”
“No, no. God, no. Anne—nothing like that would ever happen,” Mr. Gordon said. He looked to Ms. Parisi for backup.
“No, baby. Keith’s not taking you anywhere. Nothing’s changing at all.”
Anne eyed the two warily.
“Anne, I have a lovely wife, who I do think you’d like. She also happens to be a big fan of your mom’s, as an artist and a person. She loves design and was addicted to that reality show. Her complimenting your mom’s style and compassion with the young people really opened the door for me to mention our past. And thank God I did. I’ve been shooting out of the country for the past four months. She was the one who e-mailed me the tabloid shot and encouraged me to come speak with Victoria. Oh! And you have a new baby sister.”
He pulled out his wallet to show her pictures. Opposite the tiny little toddler with big brown eyes was the infamous Parisi police station photo, cropped so it looked like a regular headshot of Anne. “Or you could, if you wanted. I don’t know. I guess she’s not blood related, so there’s no pressure for you to make room in your life for this crazy unexpected side of your extended family.”
His eyes measured Anne’s reaction, but she was still guarded. “Or even me, if that’s not what you want,” he added. “Look, as much as I would have loved to raise you and see every little step you made growing up, you’re already there. Anyone can see what a great job your mom did. It’s your life, and I don’t want to cause you any pain if you don’t want to share it with me. We’d love for you and your mom to maybe come out for a visit. When you’re ready. We have a big guesthouse. You could maybe bring your friend, too?”
They all suddenly remembered I was in the room.
“I’m sorry!” Anne said. “Mr. Gordon, this is my friend, Quigley.”
“I know I just promised not to be pushy, and though I’d be tickled, I’m not saying you should, or would ever want to, call me ‘Dad,’ but Mr. Gordon? Please, at least ‘Keith.’ We can maybe see how things go from there?”
Anne nodded. Mr. Gordon stepped over to shake my hand. Without the “deadbeat” status hanging over him, he really was gorgeous.
“I’d love to dump this movie I’m shooting, and hang out with every picture album and old wrinkled report card you have, to relive every minute I missed. And I will, if that’s what you want. But I have to be straight with you—”
“You don’t want anyone to find out about me,” Anne said with resignation.
“God, no. The opposite, actually. You might not want to have anyone find out about me. As glamorous as it all seems, I really don’t have a normal life. You need to decide for yourself if that’s the way you want to live. If it were my choice, I’d walk out right now screaming this amazing news to everyone. But outside those doors is a team of the fourteen well-trained professionals it took just
to sneak me in here for a half hour.
“That’s life for me, but it doesn’t have to be life for you. I’m sorry that my reality requires this kind of decision for you—hey, maybe I’ll blow this next film and make the flop of the century. Just to loosen up the pressure?”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Ms. Parisi put her arm around Anne.
“I’ve apologized to Keith for not coming clean with him all those years ago. It’s no excuse, but I wasn’t much older than you girls are now. I truly tried to do the best thing for everyone. Some decisions are tougher than others, and making them too quickly cuts off your ability to see all your options. We still have a lot to talk over, but knowing where we were and where we planned to go at the time, he’s chosen to forgive me. I just want you to know, our issues have nothing to do with how the two of you proceed from here.”
Anne smiled and nodded. “I get it. Maybe it’s best right now to keep things low key. Can we e-mail or talk on the phone, at least?”
“Absolutely. Come to think of it, I think my wife needs a whole new look. I can’t think of a better designer for the job. Of course, that will mean spending quite a bit of time putting together a new wardrobe?”
“Well, with proper fittings, it really would be most convenient to come for an extended stay,” said Ms. Parisi. “I think my schedule opens up right after graduation.”
“Great! We’re all set. I need to sneak back out of here before someone notices the extra security loitering about and starts getting nosy. Your mom’s got my direct contact info, Anne.” He pulled her into a last, long hug. “Nice to meet you, Quigley. When you come out to California, we’ll have more time to talk, and you can fill me in on all the real dirt about my daughter’s life.”
The word daughter hung in the air, and from Anne’s beaming face, it seemed our earlier claim that life didn’t get any better had been very premature.
“Okay, guys—don’t laugh.” Keith stepped to the door and knocked three times before pulling a baseball cap low over his eyes, adding shades, and throwing the hood from his sweatshirt over the combo. A burly guy from earlier, who I’d assumed was a dresser for the models, opened the door and escorted Anne’s dad away while talking in a low voice into a headset.
Crossing from the busy special exhibit hall, I dragged Anne toward the modern art wing. Ms. Parisi had left us to wander on our own while she used her influence to see about pulling some strings in the Art Institute’s Admissions Department. Desperate times called for desperate measures, and considering I couldn’t even remember what I had written in the motivational essay, I needed help if I was going to have any chance of getting into my dream school.
The long weekend lines masking the front of the buildings carried through into the Monet exhibit. Something just felt off. Maybe it was claustrophobia from the mass of tourists flooding the museum, CityPasses clutched tight in their hands, but the picture I’d been carrying in my head over the years didn’t fit the reality.
“What are you looking for?” Anne asked as I pulled her into yet another room and back out.
“I’ll know when I see it.” I stopped short. A couple sat, back to back, on a wide marble bench. Sketch pads balanced across their laps, they were lost in each other and the art surrounding them. The art was all wrong—large, graphic, modern abstracts. Nothing at all like the statues and figurines at home. But I found what I was missing. “I want that.”
Anne looked around the room. “I think they might have prints in the gift shop.”
“No, not the art. I want that. Them.” My whispered words made no sense. I wanted what they had. What I had had and lost. The feeling overwhelmed me, and I swallowed past the lump in my throat.
“So get them,” Anne whispered back.
“Huh?” I turned to see Anne holding out my camera. “You can’t have a camera in here!”
“Well, I do. I tucked it in my bag just in case,” she said. “You want them, go for it. Just don’t use a flash.”
“But these pieces are too modern. It would probably be a copyright violation.”
“Do you want shots of the art?”
“No. But what about invasion of privacy?”
“Sometimes, if you really want something, you’ve just got to take your shot, Quigley.”
Before I let myself think any more, I snatched the camera. The girl stretched, and then let herself lean back into the guy. Her neck lolled intimately against his shoulder, and he leaned back to nuzzle her, still sketching. Click.
The sound echoed through the high-ceilinged hall, and the couple started.
“Sorry!” Anne called over her shoulder and grabbed my hand to pull me away toward the exit, giggling with exhilaration. “I sincerely hope you got it.”
“I think I did,” I said, and tucked the camera down inside my top, holding my jacket up to shield the large lump from being so noticeable.
Chapter Seventeen
“So, it came out well?” Anne asked.
I shoved my books into my locker.
“Really, really well. I don’t even care if I get into the show or not. I think it’s my favorite piece.”
“Wouldn’t it be funny if it got into the show, and Foster Neuwirth walked up and it turned out to be one of her collages in the background?”
“Yeah, hilarious,” I snorted. “I found a workaround that ended up making it even better. I used a technique I read about to smear the background while developing it. It made the couple really stand out, kind of like the whole world was swirling away because they were so into each other … and covered the contraband images.”
The school announcements crackled through the speakers. “Good afternoon, students. We would like you to join us in congratulating senior Quigley Johnson, who has won the regional Rotary Club essay contest, and a one-hundred-dollar prize. Quigley will be reading her essay at the Annual Rhode Island State Rotary Club banquet dinner this Thursday evening, along with the state’s other regional finalists, in the hopes of winning a five-thousand-dollar scholarship to the college of her choice. Thank you, Quigley, for doing our school proud.”
“Oh my God, Quigley—you won! Did you know you might win a scholarship?”
People were clapping me on the back as they passed.
“No! Maybe Mrs. Desmond said something about it. I didn’t pay attention because I didn’t think there was any way I’d even come close.”
“You’re going to win, I just know it,” Anne squealed.
“I don’t even remember what I wrote. It was the day after I had that big fight with Zander.”
“You never told me what started that whole mess.”
I considered hiding the truth from Anne again, but now that things were cool with her dad, maybe it would be okay to be straight about it.
“It was about you, in a way.”
“Me?”
“Not you, exactly. He wigged out about the collecting expeditions—just furious.”
“Oh nooo! I’m so sorry, Quigley. I can’t believe I was so stupid. But you didn’t even have anything to do with that.”
“It’s fine. He found out I knew about the sign in your room and didn’t tell your mom, and then he went completely berserk.”
We walked toward the office to collect my prize.
“Did he really say you weren’t good enough for him?”
All the excitement from the essay contest slipped away at the painful memory. “Yeah.”
“Well, I’m truly sorry. If it makes you feel any better, that Friday night, after our reality marathon, I called T-Shirt and found out where the sign came from. Mom went with me and we put it back up. You should have seen her sneaking around, diving in the bushes when a car passed, then running back out and tightening each screw until it was back up, good as new.”
Imagining the elegant Ms. Parisi decked in camo doing anti-vandalism made me smile.
“I’m glad,” I said. “I felt weird when I saw the sign in your room, but I didn’t want to say anything.�
�
“Next time, do. I was being lame.”
“Okay.”
She stopped short of the office. Never a big fan of the administration, I knew her recent brush with trouble made her more leery of getting too close to the ones holding suspension passes. “Are you sure you’re okay? You seem pretty down for a girl who just won a hundred bucks.”
“Yeah. I just really miss Zander. The swirly effect from the print sparked a few other ideas and I started sketching, but every picture I drew kept leading me back to him. Talk about a tortured artist.” I shrugged. “I made him a copy of the contest print for his birthday, not that I’ll even get the chance to give it to him. Besides, even if I found a way to apologize or explain, I’m not sure we could find our way back to the way it was. He was pretty harsh.”
“I don’t blame you. But Zander is so … Zander. I’d hear him out. Maybe he’ll be the one apologizing?”
“I guess we’ll see Wednesday at class, if he shows this week. I’d better go get my check.”
Anne hugged me. “Seriously, great job. Can I come to your dinner and hear the speech?”
“Only if you track down T-Shirt. He’s been AWOL since the parade. I was in such a rush, I only printed off the copy of my speech I turned in. My speech is still on his laptop!”
“Okay, fine.” Anne made a face. “I hope you see how much better of a friend I’m being now.”
The secretary made me pose with a beaming Mrs. Desmond, the principal, and the check, like it was one of those giant Publishers Clearing House awards. I gracefully accepted the fact that after four years of near anonymity, apart from a badly retouched headshot, it seemed I could no longer escape the notice of the yearbook editors.
