Father Knows Best

by Lynda Sandoval

  “Prima donnas?” I asked, squinching my nose.

  She raised her eyes heavenward. “Not all of them, but gawd. It only takes one or two to drive you to drink.” She blinked like she realized what she’d said, and her face paled. “Well, not you. You’re too young to drink. Okay? Jesus, your dad would fly out here and kill me if I propelled you onto that downward spiraling path.”

  I held up a hand. “Don’t worry. That’s not my scene.”

  “Really? Good.” She exhaled. “Good for you, truly. Too many young people in this business take the wrong road and destroy everything they ever dreamed about before they ever have the chance to achieve it.”

  This I knew, just from having been immersed in the entertainment world for my entire life. It’s part of the reason the drinking scene didn’t appeal to me. That and the fact that it always embarrassed me to see my peers totally sloppy and out of control, and I didn’t ever want anyone to see me like that. I didn’t ever want to be like that. Most of the time, it seemed like the drinkers didn’t even realize they were acting so…whack. That was the scariest part. Just imagining all the horrors that could happen to a person in that altered state brought a chill to my flesh.

  Which, of course, made me think of Jennifer Hamilton and her shocking predicament. I’ll go on record saying I don’t like the chick, but I wouldn’t wish a teen pregnancy on her either. I couldn’t have been more relieved when Lila, Meryl, and I had our group IM the night before and they gave me the 411 on all the Jennifer data. Somehow I’d known deep inside that the baby wasn’t Dylan’s. He never struck me as that kind of guy. But having that gut feeling confirmed by the dude himself was positive all around—especially for Lila.

  As for the other dish, I still can’t quite believe Jennifer has glommed onto Meryl and the women at Inner Power. Unless she’d gone through a radical personality change, it makes no sense. I mean, Jennifer is notorious at White Peaks High School for making totally inappropriate (not to mention mean) gay comments to Mark Bartlett, one of my best theater friends. And he’s the nicest guy ever! Who’d want to pick on someone so nice, regardless of his sexual preference, except a total bitch?

  But stranger things have happened, I guess. Case in point: in her leg-shaking relief over knowing Dylan wasn’t Jennifer’s baby daddy, Lila even vowed to amend her summer break-up-the-parentals goal to include showing as much kindness to Jennifer as was humanly possible for her, which almost brought me to tears. This was huge for Lila. Epic. Plus, she didn’t sound so adamant about breaking up the Chief and Dylan’s mom anymore either, which, personally, seems like a mature move to me. Not that I’d tell her that.

  Meryl had amended her language goal, too, although Meryl is Meryl, so it was less surprising. Trust me, she is still studying Bosnian, being the ultimate multitasker. But she also wants to spend time being compassionate where Jennifer is concerned, to show her the kind of acceptance that we all know will never be reciprocated.

  I thought, wow, we’re all growing up.

  And it’s just, like, happening.

  Standing there in the makeup room, my eyes misted over just remembering the group IM. I missed my BFFs more than I can say.

  Just then, the stage door opened, and three dancers (I could tell by the way they moved, even though they wore baggy jeans and wrinkled T-shirts just like everyone else) filed in. Two lithe, beautiful girls with impeccable carriage and one guy who looked about my age and was so head-to-toe breathtaking, I nearly passed out. Literally.

  What is up, people?

  The one summer I’d sworn off guys in search of a bigger, more mature goal, and I’d somehow fallen down the rabbit hole and landed in Hottie Heaven. First Thomas (who, okay, is too old for me—I know that. But it rules having a fine bodyguard anyway), and now this guy.

  As if reading my thoughts, Sasha leaned in and lowered her tone. “First step, honeybunch, close your mouth.”

  I snapped it shut and shot her a grateful glance.

  “That’s Joaquin Esquibel, one of the principal dancers,” she whispered. “And because I know you’ll grill me, he just turned eighteen, and he’s been a professional for more than two years. He dances so beautifully, it’ll make you cry. Swear to God.”

  She said it like Sweah to GAWD with her Brooklyn accent.

  “Eighteen?” I asked in a dreamy tone. For once, a guy in my age range. Will wonders never cease?

  She nodded. “He attends the High School for the Performing Arts. A senior, just like you.”

  “He’s…”

  “Totally kill-me-now hot. I know. But try to hold back the drool just a teensy bit, kiddo,” she said, then stepped forward, holding her clipboard and taking charge. “Hello, people. Oksana, chair number eleven today. Lisette, you’re in number four. And, Joaquin”—she ran a finger down her list—“Ah. You’ll be with us today in chair one.”

  “Cool,” Joaquin said, slinging his duffel to the scuffed floor next to the designated chair, then taking a seat, his lean, ripped dancer’s legs sprawled.

  She tossed me a sly wink.

  My heart fluttered.

  Darn Sasha.

  A few more backstage details: Sasha had first chair always so she could get to work on her actor or dancer right away and still direct the others as they arrived. She is the ultimate gatekeeper.

  I watched as Joaquin glanced lazily into the lighted mirror at his disheveled self with eyes the color of caramel and lashes so long he should be locked up for the unfairness of it all. He looked like he’d just woken up, and it was so so so so sooooo hot.

  I needed the backstory on this guy, like, now.

  I grabbed Sasha’s sleeve and pulled her toward me and out of earshot from Mr. Gorgeous in Chair Number One. “Sasha, is Joaquin straight?”

  It was a legitimate question in this industry, but probably inappropriate for the workplace. I didn’t care right then, though. I had to know. After the Bobby Slade fiasco (long story), I don’t want to crush on any more unattainable guys, whether or not I’m actually looking for one. Which I’m not. From here on out, new rule: I will only sigh over guys who have potential.

  She laughed knowingly. “Straight, single, and your age,” she said under her breath. “Now, keep your mind on the job at hand, young lady.”

  I straightened. “O-of course.”

  “At least until the after party,” she added, with a wink.

  I tittered nervously as we approached her station.

  Joaquin spun in the 360-degree chair and pinned me with a mesmerizing stare. “You the new intern? Tibby Lee’s daughter?” he asked, with this luscious half-New York, half-Latino accent that made my mouth go dry.

  My eyes bugged that he even had a clue who I was.

  He grinned, pulling dimples into both perfectly sculpted cheeks. “Sorry, I’m a fan.”

  “Fanatic. And he’s nosy as all hell,” Sasha said.

  “That, too,” Joaquin said, unapologetically.

  I cleared my throat, quickly got myself together—no easy feat—then extended my hand. “Hi. I’m Caressa Thibodoux. And yes, Tibby Lee is my dad.”

  “Cool,” Joaquin said. He had this way of saying it that made the L disappear. Kind of like he was saying Coo. “So what’s it like having a famous musician for a dad?”

  I laughed at the familiar question, all of a sudden calmer. Guess I wasn’t the only starstruck person in the room. That eased my nerves. “I don’t know. It’s like having any other dad, I guess. He wears slippers, tells me to turn my music down, nags me about homework. All that. He’s just…my dad.”

  Joaquin’s beautiful face took on a pained tightness. “Right. Stupid question. Sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. Everyone asks.”

  “Chop, chop,” Sasha said.

  He turned around in the chair as she began pulling out her tools of the trade: pots of makeup, brushes, cotton swabs. “Take off your shirt, sweet cheeks,” she told him.

  He reached
one muscle-sculpted arm over his shoulder and gripped his T-shirt at the neckline, pulling it over his head in that totally guy way.

  I averted my eyes, but not before getting an eyeful of his chestnut brown, ripped upper bod. He is seriously the finest dude I’ve ever seen in my life. I sorta wanted to sit on the floor and collect myself, suck in a few deep, centering breaths. Maybe nap. Dream.

  Sasha, unfazed, began coating his chest and arms with thick stage makeup, powdering his skin, full-on touching him—all the stuff I might be doing within days, I might add. Yikes! I was going to have to get a grip if I wanted to be effective in this job.

  “So what’s your scoop, Caressa?” Joaquin asked, startling me out of my inappropriate worship mode.

  He has this exotic way of saying my name, rolling the R just so, that makes me sound way more exciting than just some girl from a hick town in Colorado. I swallowed. “My scoop?”

  He closed his eyes as Sasha continued with the makeup application on his face. The whole process seemed like a choreographed dance. It was as if they’ve been through this hundreds of times before, because oh yeah, they have. Lucky Sasha.

  “You know,” he said in a tone that sounded like he was teasing, but not in a bad way. “What brought you here, your life history, favorite pizza topping, most embarrassing experience, favorite topic in school, the whole nine, dig?”

  “Mouth closed. Powder,” Sasha directed.

  Joaquin clammed up.

  “Oh.” My brain raced, trying to come up with something that wouldn’t sound utterly dull. I grew up in White Peaks, Colorado, for God’s sake! “Well, this is what I want to do for a living after I graduate from school. So my friend, Bobby Slade—”

  “Damn,” Joaquin said, his eyes popping open. “You know Slade, too?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “Step back. You run with the big dogs, chica.”

  “Joaquin, dollface, close your friggin’ eyes before I powder them,” Sasha said in a slightly impatient tone. “Or you’ll look like a red-rimmed heroin junkie on stage tonight. You want that photo to wind up on Page Six tomorrow?”

  He complied without comment.

  She shook her head at me and I stifled a giggle with the side of my fist. Then she angled her head toward Joaquin as if to say, answer the boy.

  I cleared my throat. “Oh. Bobby’s a friend of my dad’s, really. Dad’s producing his next single.” No way was I going into the whole story of how that had come about, with me crushing on Bobby from afar and not realizing he was, well, old. “But, yeah, he—Bobby, I mean—arranged the interview. And afterward, I landed the internship on the show.” I shrugged, glancing to Sasha for a prompt.

  She mouthed, Go on.

  What else could I say? My life was actually quite mundane, and my most embarrassing moment? Off-limits, as already stated. “I like English and Drama best in school, and I’m a boring cheese and onion topping girl.”

  Ugh! Why did I say onions?

  Then again, what did it matter? I wasn’t going to kiss the guy. I cleared the humiliation from my throat. “But I’m really psyched to be here working with Sasha. And everyone.” Great, Caressa. Way to end with pageanty-sounding drivel.

  He laughed, deep and rich. “You’ve already mastered rule number one. Get on Sasha’s good side,” he joked.

  “Oh, be quiet,” Sasha said, tickling his nose with the huge powder brush. She glanced at me. “Don’t listen to him. I’m not the evil one on the show.”

  “No, that would be the stage manager, Yul,” Joaquin said.

  “Shh,” Sasha cautioned, glancing around. “Don’t fill her head with that crap on her first day, ’Quin. Yul has a difficult and important job to do and he has to deal with you creative boneheads all day long. That’s all.”

  One corner of Joaquin’s mouth curved up in a smirk.

  “You going to the after party, Caressa?” Joaquin asked, his eyes still closed.

  I flapped my hands at Sasha, like a panicked goose, for another prompt. She nodded.

  “I guess,” I said. “I-I’ll have to talk to, uh, my bodyguard.”

  “Bodyguard, huh? Cool.” Joaquin paused while Sasha powdered the area around his mouth. “If you don’t want to hit the party, we can go for a slice or a cuppa. If you’re down.”

  Again, I looked to Sasha. She mouthed, Pizza or coffee.

  “That sounds good.” I laughed nervously. “I think I might need to work my way up to the infamous after party. I’m a small-town girl, after all.”

  Joaquin chuckled, eyes still closed.

  Sasha winked her approval.

  For the rest of the time, I sat back and absorbed the atmosphere, trying to catalogue all the stuff I’d learned on day one. My brain already felt overstuffed.

  Note to self: avoid Yul.

  Note number two to self: get to know Joaquin better.

  Screw the No Guys edict. Dude is hella-hot, people.

  I mean, Lila and Meryl had revised their summer goals, right? How could I not find out more about Joaquin Esquibel when he was so utterly mesmerizing and perfect? And asking me out for pizza or coffee? Well, a slice or a cuppa.

  I just keep remembering the quote that Thomas had printed and laminated, then attached to the dashboard of his Town Car. I’d asked him about it on that first day, and he told me it was from some unnamed Russian fairy tale and said:

  Go—not knowing where. Bring—not knowing what.

  The path is long, the way unknown.

  Those words, so full of possibility, had intrigued me from the first time I’d read them. They seemed to epitomize promise and excitement, taking that leap and knowing you’ll land in a safety net. In the hot noisy makeup room, the quote got me thinking. Maybe it was okay for me to focus both on obtaining a Broadway job (because no way was I abandoning that plan) and on getting to know a really cute, age-appropriate guy a little better. After all, the path in this life is long and the way unknown, at least according to some Russian dude. I didn’t have to date Joaquin, after all. I could just be his friend. His slice / cuppa friend.

  Dig?

  *

  Lila

  Before I knew it, a month of summer had passed, and to say that I loved being an office assistant at the travel agency would be a gross understatement. The positive energy of the employees—Alan, Bonnie, Francesca, and yes, even Chloe—amped me up from the moment I arrived each day. I always wanted to stay longer, do more, learn everything.

  Maybe I could be a travel agent after graduation!

  Sure, this was the era of Internet travel planning, but you’d be surprised how many people still rely on the professionals—older folks especially. And, thank God, or I’d be wearing a French fry hat right now, probably wanting to face-plant a few of my coworkers—and a bevy of rude customers—into the vat of boiling French fry oil, which I’m pretty sure is felony assault.

  Plus I’d have zits.

  As it was, my complexion was as clear as a CoverGirl model’s and I’d even dropped a few pounds from all the “go-fering” I’d been doing. And, oh yes, I’d finally caught on to the fact that an office GO-FER was not spelled like a ground-dwelling, uglyish gopher. Color me stupid. Whatever. I still liked my revised job title much better, because (1) FER is not a proper word, despite the globally humiliating fact that America still spells cheese K-R-A-F-T, and (2) mistakes can be easily made, people, when you don’t actually see a word written on paper. GO-FER sounds like gopher, and I’m just not down with a rodent-esque job title. Call me shallow.

  But the most shocking news of the summer boiled down to this: I had basically abandoned my “break-up Dad and Chloe” plot. It seemed like a miscalculation, now that I knew her better.

  The thing is, Chloe’s really nice. Confident, fun, goofy, independent, laid back and yet totally in charge. And the more time I spent with her (in a capacity other than my boyfriend’s mom), the more I realized she doesn’t act like she’s merely biding tim
e until Dad pops the question so she can quit her job and spend her days painting her toenails and bragging that she is Mrs. Police Chief. On the contrary, she loves her career. She seems just fine with the way things are—dating my dad, raising Dylan, kicking butt at her way-cool job.

  I really liked her.

  Sure, I still can’t think of her and my dad in any kind of, um, romancey-schmancey way without getting skeeved, and the whole boyfriend / potential stepbrother notion freaked me, but that’s normal if you ask me. In any case, I’d put the break-up plot on my mental back burner and turned down the heat.Wait and see mode felt better for now.

  That super-mature (in my book) decision happened on a perfect Colorado July day. Cloudless, turquoise skies, perfectly warm but not sweaty-hot temperature. People smiled at each other on the street, and we all knew that the evening would cool off enough for us to sit on our back patios to watch the spectacular sunset, comfortably decked out in sweatshirts and jeans. All seemed swell in my world.

  Chloe had given me a boatload of packages to cart down to the FedEx store, which I dragged along behind me in one of those metal rolly things that cute grandmas use to lug their groceries home. I was fully leaded on java, loving my outdoor task, and looking forward to an evening spent with Dylan after we both got off work.

  I’ve never been able to whistle, but I was easing out this lame pseudowhistle-rasp as I hoofed it up the sidewalk toward FedEx, staring up at the endless beauty of the sky. So when I slammed into the other pedestrian, it threw me out of my mellow for a sec. My grandma cart careened to one side and dumped its load on the sidewalk.

  “I’m so sorry,” came the voice above me as I bent down to gather up my goods, thankful nothing was breakable.

  “It’s okay. My fault. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “I was staring up at the sky,” said the voice.

  “Yeah, same here.” I peered up at none other than Jennifer Hamilton.

  “Oh,” we both said. It had become a pattern with us, that “Oh” thing, as if we were simpletons.

  I faltered, but maintained my cool as best I could. My gaze dropped to her tummy, which had started to protrude in an impossible-to-ignore, totally-not-the-normal-skeletor-Jennifer kind of way. She’d even gained a ton of weight in her face. I mean, come on, this was a girl who wouldn’t eat in front of the opposite sex last year. Yet here she stood, all pudgy-like, and seemingly cool with it.