A silver blur races past us and leaps onto the bed. Manhattan has my watch in his tiny jaws. Taunting me, he bolts for the door.
Judy laughs. “See? It’s symbolic. There goes your old life.”
Bob gives a little yelp as my old life rubs against his leg on the way out.
Unlike most of my friends, I’ve never dreamed of being a star of any kind—not a rock star, an actor, a model, or even an athlete. That’s probably because of the programming restrictions of my urban-Amish upbringing. If it weren’t for Lucy, who lives a fully normal life, I’d be shockingly ill-informed about celebrities. She does her best to keep me up-to-date with what the average person knows, but I still frequently draw blanks when the girls at school are discussing some hot new actor or band. As a result, Lucy and I developed a signal that lets her know I’m in the dark. When I tinker with my earring, she jumps in to provide information about the topic, thereby saving me from looking like a total loser. That’s what best friends are for.
All I have to offer Lucy in return is help with her math and computer science homework, but she seems to think it’s a good trade-off. Lucy isn’t much of a scholar. Her ambitions run the gamut from fashion design to film production to choreography. Lucy’s parents don’t complain. That’s partly because Lucy’s grandmother, Nana Russell, is a big believer in letting kids explore any and all interests, no matter how seemingly unrealistic.
Nana Russell wants to save me from becoming a banker. She’s always urging me to “think big,” but that’s hard to do when you live in a small cage. Even if I had more freedom to develop my own interests, I doubt I’d have considered a career in television. Living in the public eye isn’t in my genes. Being practical is.
Now, thanks to one reckless moment, I am bent over, scraping oily residue from a stinky otter kennel while a couple of cameras zoom in on my backside. Something is so wrong with this close-up. Where is the fun Judy promised? Where is the independence?
And where is the break from nonstop education? Mona couldn’t just hand me a hose and scrub brush. Oh, no. First she had to lecture me about otter pelts. I know it’s horrible that people made coats out of them for centuries, but I couldn’t care less how many hairs they have per square inch.
I tried to derail Mona’s enthusiasm by staring off into space while she listed the biggest threats to otter welfare, but all that got me was skill-testing questions when she was done. Take away the beret, throw in a sensible bra and some scones, and it’s Torture Day all over again. Having been well trained by Mom, however, I quickly regurgitated the key facts: oil spills kill otters because they destroy the insulating properties of the fur and leave the animal vulnerable to the cold; only quick cleansing of the fur prevents death by hypothermia. Mona looked surprised. Maybe her kids haven’t mastered the fine art of processing information efficiently while totally bored. She took off pretty fast after that, leaving me to break out the rubber gloves.
I’m on kennel number two, when a muffled voice says, “Hey.”
I look up to see someone draped in a black cape blocking the doorway. His face is concealed by a metal mask.
I raise the hose. “Don’t come any closer, I’m warning you!”
Darth Vader takes a couple of steps toward me. “Wait a—”
I blast him square in the face mask. He backs off immediately, but I keep the hose going while letting out a scream so piercing it startles even me. Growing up in the big city has made me a survivor.
Chili bursts into the room, camera running. Obviously my welfare comes second to a good shot around here.
“Turn off the damn hose,” Darth yells, his voice now much higher pitched. He removes the mask, revealing a scowling woman in her early twenties.
Chili swings his lens from me to the woman, and I notice that’s where it stays. Even damp and disheveled, she’s attractive in a hug-a-tree, no-makeup sort of way.
I lower my weapon. “Isn’t it a little early for Halloween?” I ask.
“Who are you?” she asks.
“Who are you? You’re the one scaring people.”
“I’m Lisa Langdon, the aquarium’s director of volunteers, and acting manager of the SORAC program.”
She doesn’t look old enough to be that important. The title probably sounds better than it actually is. “I’m Kendra Bishop. I’m staying with the Mulligans.”
“Oh, right,” Lisa says, pulling the dripping poncho over her head, “The movie star wannabe.”
“Excuse me? You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know that your entourage is making it hard to get anything done around here.”
“But my entourage could also bring some great publicity to your program, right?”
“Publicity brings people, and people threaten marine habitats,” she says. “But if we’re stuck with you, you might as well learn something.”
Of course. Why go an hour without a lecture?
Lisa leads us down a long corridor and into a dim room full of monitors. Each displays a different otter, some in kennels, some in small pools. I’d envisioned a ferret on a larger scale, but they’re actually very cute, with sleek dark fur and whiskery faces. One of the otters has an auburn face and a bandaged paw.
“Snagged by a fishhook,” Lisa explains. “He almost lost that paw.”
She offers a similarly depressing story for every otter we look at, and I start to see one advantage to the Banker Duplication Program: ignorance. Not knowing means not having to care.
“Will he be okay?” I ask, pointing to the otter with the sore paw.
She nods. “We’ll probably release him in a week or two.”
“What’s his name?”
“I don’t name the animals I treat,” she says, pursing her lips disapprovingly. “They’re not pets. This is number 201.”
“I bet he’d heal faster if he had a name. He looks like a Maurice to me.”
Ignoring this, she says, “If you’re staying with the Mulligans, you must know Mitch. He’s volunteered here since he was ten. I can’t tell you how many nights he’s watched over sick animals.
“He’s great with the kids in our education programs, too,” she continues. “Mitch is the best tutor we have. Did you know he’s entering the marine biology program at UCLA next fall?”
Why doesn’t she start a fan club and be done with it? “We haven’t had much time to talk.”
“He is busy,” she agrees. “He volunteers in half a dozen places and works to save for his tuition. I’ll bet he misses Maya, though. They’re very close.”
“Does she volunteer here too?”
“Used to,” she says. “She’s lost interest lately.”
As soon as I can, I escape to the administrative office to wait for Mona. Someone asks me to help with a computer problem, and I fix it in a second. The Banker Duplication Program promotes exceptional technical skills.
Mitch’s biggest fan eventually finds me and hands me a magazine, in which she’s flagged an article. “How about summarizing this information for a fact sheet?”
It’s a study of sea otter demographics in central California versus those in Washington and Alaska. I recognize another “teaching moment,” but at least it’s a change from my parents’ curriculum, which doesn’t cover anything nature-oriented.
Chili films over my shoulder as I type my summary. After he turns off the camera, he corrects my grammar.
Since Carrie isn’t wearing a bicycle helmet, I break Rule Number Twelve—Safety First—and leave mine behind as we set off for the mall. Without my parents or Rosa around to enforce The BLAH, it’s becoming more a set of guidelines than actual rules—guidelines that I can follow at my discretion. Judy gives me an encouraging wink, probably to suggest that serious head injury or death on the streets of Monterey could boost ratings.
Whatever. I want Carrie’s friends to like me, and that will be harder to do if I have helmet head. Besides, we might run into some hot guys at the mall. One of Mitch’s friends was seriously c
ute, and he looked intrigued when Mitch said I was a voyeur. It’s rare for someone to think I’m more interesting than I really am.
Thanks to the camera crew, the salespeople trip over each other to help us in every store. Some even offer us special deals. Carrie’s friend Tia gets a denim skirt at half price and is so excited that she hugs me. I know I don’t deserve the credit, but I feel proud just the same. It’s like I’m hosting a party where the guests are having a good time. Finding a cool T-shirt and a great pair of jeans for myself is an added bonus.
We spend so long choosing lip gloss that Judy taps her watch, but she doesn’t protest when I offer to treat everyone—including the crew—to ice cream.
I hope they don’t cut the shots where I’m whipping out my mother’s charge card every five minutes. I want her to see I’ve found a way to manage without my allowance. She’s far too cautious to cancel the card on me anyway.
We’re sitting at a table in the courtyard when Tia asks how Maya is doing in New York. “Apparently she’s fitting right in,” I say. “Who knows, she may end up running marathons with my parents.”
Carrie says, “She’d love that. Maya runs track.”
I feel a prickle of resentment, but swallow it before Bob abandons his banana split to zoom in on my reaction. I’m getting better at this game. “My parents have a lot of rules and they’re goal-oriented,” I say. “She won’t have a lot of freedom.”
“That won’t bother Maya,” Tia says. “She’s an A-student and totally focused. In fact, she’s too mature for her own good. Her parents give her a lot of freedom and she doesn’t even take advantage of it. Last month they let her take the train into San Francisco, and she wasted the day at some art gallery.”
The stork must have switched us at birth, because Maya sounds like the daughter my parents really wanted. Unfortunately, her visit will make my shortcomings all the more obvious when I get home.
Carrie continues, “Maya used to be into environmentalism, but she’s gone off it. She hates the way her parents are always chasing some cause. And they embarrass her all the time.”
Tia nods in agreement. “Before Maya left, Mona put a box of condoms into her suitcase and gave her the ‘safe sex’ talk. The crew caught it all on film and Maya wanted to kill her.”
The Mulligans might be eccentric, but they’re also well-meaning and laid back. If Maya decided to drop out of school to become an astrologer, for example, her parents would probably rush out to buy charts of the cosmos, whereas mine would most likely have me hospitalized.
Since the conversation is killing my good mood, I change the subject. “What’s with Mitch? He’s been kind of mean to me.”
“I told you how he felt about the show, remember?” Carrie says.
“Yeah, but it’s not my fault Maya applied. And if he’s so miserable, Max and Mona should just let him stay at your place.”
She shakes her head. “He had to participate. It was part of the deal.”
I glance at Judy, who’s suddenly riveted by her ice cream. Before I can explore the issue further, however, some guys the girls know from school arrive. This time I really do forget about the cameras for a moment. One of the guys, Aaron, invites us to a party this weekend, saying his parents will be away.
I’m going to a party with my new friends! A party without parents! I’ll be breaking at least six of the top twenty rules, and my parents will get to witness it on TV.
It’s Maya’s turn to have her mature, A-student, art-loving spirit crushed under the weight of The BLAH.
I chopped all the vegetables for dinner and mixed my first vinaigrette. It took a while, but I painstakingly layered equal amounts of cubed beets, carrots, cucumbers, tomatoes, and peppers over two kinds of lettuce. It was a marvel of precision. Max commented that he’d never seen a more attractive salad, before grabbing a pair of tongs to give it a hearty toss.
He was probably worried it would steal the glory from Mona’s tofu loaf, which looked like dog food straight from the can. It was surprisingly tasty, though, because she used so much garlic and spice. You could season a dead ferret like that and no one would recognize it. Not that I hate Manhattan as much as usual tonight: the twins found my watch under the anti-sonar placards in the closet, and I was able to wear it to dinner. I’m never taking it off again.
I tell Mona and Max about the party invitation, coming clean about the absentee parents. It’s the right thing to do. Besides, Judy will tell them anyway.
Mona’s usually genial face clouds over. “We’re going to the same rally as Aaron’s parents, dear, and we hoped you’d camp out with us.”
Max’s eyes light up at the thought of the tent rally and one hand disappears under the table. Mona giggles, and Meadow and I, in agreement for once, roll our eyes.
“Please, Mona?” I ask. “This is a huge opportunity for me. I never get to go to parties at home.”
She ponders as she rises to clear the table. “Well, I suppose there will always be another rally.” My heart soars, until Max gives her nudge and tilts his head toward Chili’s camera. Suddenly mindful of the fact that she’s on national television, Mona adds, “But I’m not happy there won’t be any adults in attendance. It’s easy for parties to get out of hand.”
So much for all that freedom I keep hearing about. “I’ll be with Carrie, and I can be home early.”
Mona looks at Max and he shakes his head. “We can’t let you go alone.”
“But—”
She holds up a hand. “It’s settled: Mitch will take you.”
“Mitch!” I’m horrified and I sound it. “There’s no way he’ll agree to go.”
“He’ll go,” Max says, his tone indicating that it really is settled.
Why did they have to choose this moment to get all normal?
After dinner, Mona, Meadow, and I make chocolate-chip cookies. I’ve never baked before, but I find precision comes in handy, especially when you’re quadrupling the recipe. My biggest challenge is keeping the twins’ busy hands out of the chocolate chips. Finally I promise the biggest cookie to the twin who can track down my watch. It went missing again when I took it off to scoop the flour.
“More chocolate chips,” Meadow commands. “You need to gain a few pounds.”
“Then you wouldn’t be able to steal my jeans,” I say. Not that I want them back, after the damage she’s done to them. They’re hers now, and her smile says she knows it.
Mona cranks up the stereo and hits repeat on Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi.” She teaches Meadow and me the words and soon we are all bellowing, “They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.”
A shout drifts up the basement stairs. “Mom! Will you quit it? I’m trying to study!”
It’s Mitch. I didn’t even know he was home. He usually leaves before I’m up and returns when I’m in bed. “Studying?” I whisper. “School’s over. He graduated.”
“Mitch is always studying,” Meadow says. “He’s getting a head start on college.”
Who knew nerds came in such nice packaging?
“Did you know he’s already been published?” Mona asks. “He wrote a first-hand account of his tracking experiences for a local travel magazine.”
Mitch sticks his head out of the stairway. “Don’t talk about me.”
Too bad the packaging can’t hide the personality.
“Lighten up, honey,” she says. “Can’t a mother be proud?”
“Just cut out the yodeling,” he says, disappearing as fast as he came.
Mr. Likable is going to be thrilled to hear he’s escorting me to a party.
“I’m not doing it,” I say.
Judy stacks warm cookies onto a plate. “What’s the big deal? Just go downstairs, offer Mitch a cookie, and have a little chat.”
“Forget it. He tried to kill me with a basketball.”
She throws an arm around me. “That’s how boys show girls they like them.”
“Not in a civilized society,” I say.
&
nbsp; Mona laughs. “There’s nothing civilized about teenage boys, Kendra.”
“I’m not chatting with him,” I say. “He’s rude.”
“My point exactly,” Judy says. “Judy thinks you two got off on the wrong foot and you need to smooth things over.”
I step out from under her arm. “I thought Judy liked conflict. Ratings, remember?”
She shifts gears with her usual split-second timing. “Sure, but too much conflict about the same thing gets old fast. Viewers have short attention spans.”
“Mitch isn’t so bad,” Mona assures me. “He’s just cranky about the cameras. No offense, Judy.”
“None taken,” Judy says.
“I’m not a fan of television myself, to be honest,” Mona continues. “Ours broke a year ago and I had no intention of repairing it.” She turns to me and shrugs. “Judy arrived with a new one and I’ve hardly seen the kids since.”
Judy puts the plate of cookies in my hand and propels me toward the stairs. “Think about how much easier the party will be if you’re getting along. Go patch things up.”
“Only if you and your cameras stay up here.” I brace myself in the doorway with one elbow and my free hand as she pushes.
“It’s all fair game, KB, you know that.”
“I can’t patch things up unless you back off.”
“Fine,” she says. “Have it your way.” She presses the button on her walkie-talkie. “Attention, Black Sheep crew.” Several crew members are in the kitchen with us, and their walkies squawk because of the close proximity. “We’re standing down on the lamb. Repeat: stand down on the lamb.” Taking her thumb off the button, she says, “Consider this your one free pass, KB.”
Halfway down the stairs, I turn and run back up to make sure they’re keeping their word. Mona has left the kitchen and Judy is kicking back at the table with the rest of the crew. The cameras and mikes are on the floor. “Go,” she says, around a mouthful of cookie.
I start down the stairs again, feeling a little nauseous, either from nerves or from eating too many cookies. Winning Mitch over is one of the tougher challenges I’ve faced in my life, but I’m sure he’ll come to like me when he knows me better. It’s not like he has a good reason to hate me.
The Black Sheep Page 5
