Yes, Kelly, I’m looking forward to going home—
eventually. I belong in New York.
No, Regis, I don’t want to divorce my parents,
although it’s tempting sometimes.
No, Rosie I don’t think emancipation should be an
option for all teens.
No, Kelly, I don’t think your kids will divorce you.
Judy’s eyes have been rolling back in her head from boredom. “I mean, a dead seal would be more riveting than you’ve been lately,” she says.
I shrug helplessly. “It was Team Fourteen that made me so interesting before. Since you’ve forbidden me to talk about it, we’re back to plain old boring Kendra.”
Judy glares at me, knowing I’ve trumped her. Withholding controversy may be the only tool I have left in my arsenal right now. If there are others, I’m too tired to think of them.
Our three-day trip to promote The Black Sheep on the talk-show circuit has meant appearing on nearly twenty shows across five states. At least, I think it was five states. I’ve spent so much time in planes, hotels, limos, and studios, it all started to look pretty much the same.
Only one city stood out from the rest: New York. I didn’t see much of it during our whirlwind visit, and there was no hope of escape, with Judy attached to my side like a big, toothy barnacle. Still, the glimpses I got of my favorite Manhattan landmarks, especially Rockefeller Center and Central Park, triggered homesickness.
Judy must have picked up on the vibe, because she asked the driver to cruise past my parents’ house as we left for the airport. It was cruel even by her standards, but I know it’s part of her larger plan to wear down my defenses before the Dr. Ernest show. Dr. Ernest is all about emotional breakthroughs, and to improve the odds of my snapping publicly, Judy’s been restricting my sleep, keeping me too busy to eat, and isolating me. It’s probably similar to the tactics that cults use.
Fortunately, I have a finely honed repression mechanism at my disposal, and Dr. Ernest, the Cult Master, won’t find it easy to combat.
I am a vault that cannot be cracked.
Dr. Ernest is so nice when he greets me that I almost feel bad about depriving him of my breakthrough. The guy probably thinks I’m just a regular teen, but he couldn’t be more wrong. I am now a self-trained expert in personal transformation.
Maybe Dr. Ernest will be so impressed with my story that he’ll ask me to cohost his show. Judy did say I might have a future in television—that I have presence. If that’s true, I don’t even need Ernest. I’ll get my own show and use it to promote causes I believe in.
But first, I have to defeat the Cult Master.
“Kendra,” Dr. Ernest says as the show begins, “Y’all have expressed a need to divorce your parents. And I want to tell you, this day is about to become a changing day in your life. Are you ready to begin?”
“Why not?” I ask, smiling. I might as well let the guy take his best shot before laying him flat.
“Tell me about your childhood in New York. Were you unhappy?”
I give an exaggerated sigh. Doesn’t Ernest watch his competition? I’ve answered this question twenty times. “It wasn’t horrible. I had everything I needed.”
He studies me with sympathetic brown eyes. “Except love?”
I feel my back stiffen in spite of my determination not to react. “Families show love in different ways.”
“And how did yours show it?”
“By giving me endless opportunities to learn, I guess. My parents believe that by training my brain, I’ll be able to get the most out of life.”
He pats my arm so warmly that I have an urge to bite it. “But what about training your heart?” he asks.
“Eew,” I say, shuddering, “You’re turning this into a cringing day, Dr. Ernest.” The audience murmurs disapprovingly. “Well, come on,” I tell them, “this whole divorce thing has been blown out of proportion. All I wanted was a chance to explore some things that don’t interest my parents. Thanks to The Black Sheep, I got that chance, and it’s been a great experience so far. Except for doing the talk-show circuit.”
Ernest opens his mouth to ask another stupid question and I cut him off. I am hijacking this interview. “Look, Ernest, I’m fine. For once, I feel good about my life. I don’t hate my parents, I just don’t need them. I’ve come a long way in five weeks.”
Ernest smiles. He has small teeth for a guy his size, but they’re still sharklike. “So what you’re saying is, you’re all grown up.”
He’s trying to make me look like an immature brat, but he’d have to get up a lot earlier to outfox me. “No, Ernest, I’m definitely a work in progress.”
“Well, I’m glad you think so, because I brought in some people to help you with that work.”
The panel behind him rises to reveal my parents. I gasp, and I hear the sound echoed throughout the audience as people recognize them from the show.
Okay, so Ernest is good, but I’m better: I recover quickly enough to give my parents a casual wave. If Ernest thinks he can use shock tactics to manipulate me into a bogus breakthrough, he’s wrong. I’m going to give his PhD a run for its money. He’s not even a real doctor.
“How does it feel to come face-to-face with your parents after being separated for so long?” he asks.
“It’s nice to see them,” I say, turning slightly in my seat so that I can’t actually see them. If I can’t see them, I can keep the upper hand. It’s just Ernest and me duking it out.
“Look at your body language,” he says. On the monitor, I see my arms crossed and my head averted—not quite the image I’d hoped to convey. “I think you need to be a little more honest with yourself about how you’re feeling.”
Oh, I’ll be honest with myself—I feel like I’m going to hurl—but I won’t be honest with him. Instead, I uncross my arms and say, “I’m feeling the urge to discuss my activism, Ernest. Maybe you can help my parents understand why it’s important to me.”
There’s a fleeting glimpse of recognition in Ernest’s eyes. Perhaps, like Terrance, he has a membership at Boulder Beach to protect. “Let’s chat about your relationship with your parents more generally,” Dr. Ernest says.
Why should Ernest and Terrance call all the shots? If they’re going to spring my parents on me to induce an emotional meltdown, I’m going to launch evasive maneuvers. “But the activism issue is way more interesting, Ernest. You see, I’ve joined this group called Team Fourteen, and we’re trying to save endangered sea otters in Carmel. Unfortunately, we haven’t been able to get the right people to listen.”
Ernest’s smile is fixed and more sharklike than ever. “It sounds like you’re directing the anger you feel for your parents into this cause,” he says. “How’s that working for you?”
“I’m pretty happy with the way things are going so far.”
“Why don’t you tell us what your parents did to make you so angry that you’d want to divorce them?”
“The divorce wasn’t my idea.” He’s clinging to the whole divorce thing like a ferret to a diamond ring.
“Does your anger have anything to do with our other guest?” he persists.
Another panel rises to reveal Rosa. She’s wearing her favorite multicolor cardigan, as if it were just a regular day.
“Oh, no,” I say. If anyone can crack this vault, it’s Rosa.
“Tell everyone who this is, Kendra,” Ernest says.
My mouth has gone dry. “Rosa—my former nanny.”
Rosa leaps out of her chair and hurries over to crush me in a bear hug, muttering in Spanish.
“Care to translate?” Ernest asks me.
“She says I’m too skinny, too pale, and too mouthy.”
The audience laughs.
“And in big trouble,” Rosa adds, still clutching my arm.
Ernest beckons my parents. “Come over and join us, Mom and Dad.”
My parents silently take their seats beside Rosa. Up close, I see they’re both w
earing a thick layer of makeup, which has pooled in the lines around Mom’s eyes. The bright lights show the silver in Dad’s hair. They look almost as old as Mona and Max.
“Well, go on, Mom and Dad,” Dr. Ernest says. “Give your daughter a big ol’ hug.”
Mom steps forward and puts her arms around me gingerly.
Dr. Ernest shakes his bald head. “You call that a hug?”
To demonstrate proper form, he comes over and crushes me against his chest. “She’s not a porcupine, she’s your daughter. Put a little heart into it.”
When he finally releases me, I can feel the imprint of his tiepin on my cheek.
“We’re not demonstrative people,” Mom says, “but that doesn’t mean we don’t love our daughter.”
“In our family, we have unspoken communication,” Dad supplies.
Dr. Ernest crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. “The daughter you say you love wants to sever her relationship with you. So how’s the unspoken communication working for you?”
“It isn’t working at the moment,” my mother admits. “But that’s because of this silly TV show. Until Kendra got involved with The Black Sheep, everything was fine.”
“See?” I tell Ernest. “We were fine.”
Dr. Ernest turns to Rosa and she shakes her head. “Not fine,” she says.
My mother spins to stare at Rosa. “Excuse me?”
“I’ll thank you not to comment on my family’s business,” Dad says.
“I was invited to comment,” Rosa tells Dad. “I’m part of Kendra’s family, too.”
“Now, now, Dad,” Dr. Ernest says. “Rosa is only trying to express how she feels. And God bless you, Rosa, for claiming that right.”
Rosa beams at Dr. Ernest.
“I understand you keep your daughter on a very strict schedule,” Dr. Ernest continues.
“Too strict,” Rosa says.
“Maybe Mom and Dad can tell us why—” he begins, but Rosa cuts him off.
“I’ll tell you why.” She jumps up off her seat and comes to stand beside me. “Because they’d rather work than spend time with their child. It’s always been that way.”
Even though I’ve said the same thing myself, it hurts to hear it coming from Rosa—and in front of an audience.
“That’s not true,” my mother objects.
“We work hard to give Kendra all she needs to have a good life,” my father adds. “A nice home, private school, tutoring, music lessons…”
Dr. Ernest says, “I think that’s a valid—”
“You’re her parents,” Rosa interjects. “You should be raising her yourself, not outsourcing the job.”
Rosa is speaking my parents’ language now.
Mom appeals to Dr. Ernest. “We invest plenty of time in our daughter. Kendra and I go to art galleries all the time.”
“Once a month,” Rosa says.
Dr. Ernest turns to me. “Do you enjoy visiting art galleries?”
Sometimes I do, but Rosa doesn’t give me a chance to say so. “She calls it ‘Torture Day.’ They never ask her what she might like to do.”
“We have a plan for cultivating her mind,” Dad says.
“She has a mind of her own now,” Rosa says, pacing in front of my parents.
To my knowledge, Rosa never argued with my parents in all the years she worked for them. I can see her relief in being able to say how she really feels. Part of me wants to cheer her on, but another part wants to leap to my parents’ defense. The two parts cancel each other out, leaving me paralyzed.
“We don’t always enjoy the things that are good for us,” my father says.
“My point is that you don’t want Kendra to think for herself because she might realize that she doesn’t want the life you want for her,” Rosa says.
The audience bursts into spontaneous applause, and Rosa looks around, startled, as if she forgot they were there.
My mother doesn’t wait for the applause to die before responding. “Kendra can live whatever life she chooses.”
Rosa puts her hands on her hips. “Then why aren’t you supporting her decision to take a stand against that golf course in Carmel?”
“That’s just some foolishness the Mulligans dragged her into,” Dad says.
“It’s not foolish to Kendra,” Rosa says. “It’s important to her.”
“Kendra isn’t the type to challenge authority,” Mom says. “Someone has been feeding her ideas.”
Rosa throws her arms in the air and utters a string of Spanish expletives. “You’re the expert,” she tells Dr. Ernest. “Why don’t you say something?”
Dr. Ernest mugs for the camera, and the audience howls. “I think Doctor Rosa has made a good case, here. Mom, Dad, you’re not listening to your daughter, and you’re not taking responsibility for what’s going wrong with your family. Does your daughter look happy to you?”
Three cameras zoom in for close-ups of my face, and I see on the monitors that while I was distracted the vault began to leak. Dr. Ernest takes a tissue out of his pocket and hands it to me. I’m ashamed of myself. Bishops don’t cry—especially not on TV. Obviously, my defenses have been weakened by exposure to the Mulligans.
“Why assume it’s our fault?” my mother asks. “Some people are actually happy living with us.”
Mom points to a familiar head of shiny black hair in the front row of the audience.
“That’s different,” Dr. Ernest says. “Anyone can get along with a houseguest for a month. Unless y’all are willing to take ownership of the problem, you’re not going to be able to move ahead as a family.” Ernest turns to Rosa. “Any suggestions?”
“Maybe a taste of their own medicine,” Rosa says. “Parenting lessons.”
Ernest smiles. “I like the way your mind works, Doctor Rosa. Boot camp for the parents it is.”
I know she means well, but Rosa’s gone too far. She’s made my parents sound much worse than they are. After all, they didn’t turn me into a psychopath.
Dr. Ernest turns to the crowd. “Do y’all agree with us?”
“I don’t,” I say, but my voice is drowned by the crowd’s cheer.
Dr. Ernest rests a hand on my parents’ arms. “Mom, Dad, this train was heading for derailment, but I think we caught it in time. We need to reeducate you. We need to help you let go of your old thinking and open your minds to new ideas. We need to tear you down so we can build you up to become the best parents you can be.”
“Parenting lessons?” my father says. “I don’t think so.”
Mom shakes her head in mute solidarity.
“You may not want to attend my boot camp but I am telling ya, ya’all need to. In two short weeks, America is going to be voting on whether your daughter should divorce you. You’d better build your case now if you want to hold on to her.”
“Wait a second, America can’t vote on my future,” I say. “That’s unfair.”
“That’s ridiculous,” my parents chorus.
“That’s crazy,” Rosa says.
“That’s show business!” Dr. Ernest says.
Like magic, my barnacle has disappeared. It takes a while to find her, but I finally spot a pair of flip-flops under a rest-room cubicle. “Judy?”
Silence.
“Judy, I recognize your feet.”
The toilet flushes and Judy emerges. “Oh, hi, KB.”
“What was Dr. Ernest talking about?”
“You mean the boot camp? Better talk to your beloved nanny about that.” She turns off the faucet and hits the button on the hand dryer.
I raise my voice to be heard over the noise. “I meant the vote.”
“Oh, that.” The dryer stops and Judy turns to me. “Didn’t I mention it? Terrance thought it would be great to let America decide about the divorce.”
“This is a free country, Judy. I get to make my own choices.”
“Sure you do,” she says, patting my arm with a damp hand. “Just as soon as the show ends.”
Th
e only good thing that’s happened today is that I’ve discovered Maya isn’t nearly as pretty in person as she is on TV. Her hair is definitely amazing, but her eyes are mere pinpoints of blue, unlike Mitch’s. Plus, she’s built like a linebacker from all those years of lugging her own kayak. There’s no place for that kind of muscle on Fifth Avenue.
When I find her outside my parents’ dressing room, she doesn’t even pretend to be nice.
“What do you want?” she asks.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I say, reaching for the door.
Maya’s hand closes like a steel clamp over mine. “You’re not going in there.”
“My parents don’t need a bodyguard.”
“But they do need someone who cares about their feelings. Unlike you.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know everything about you—just like the rest of the country. I’ve seen how mean you are to them.”
“Yeah, well you’re not known for your sweet personality in Monterey, either.”
She tosses her hair and glares at me. “I bet you’re trying to turn everyone against me. You totally suck up to my parents.”
“I don’t suck up to your parents. I don’t need to, because they already like me.”
“They like anyone with a cause. Don’t think you’re special.”
“Maybe not, but the cause is special.”
“Yeah, yeah, Team Fourteen…That’s all you ever talk about. I volunteered for seven years at that aquarium, and no one made a big deal out of it. Now it’s all about selfless Kendra saving the otters.”
“I don’t know why you’re so bitter. You’ve had it pretty good in Manhattan. ‘Oh Mrs. Bishop, let’s go to another gallery. If I could drown in culture, I’d die happy. Oh, Mr. Bishop, let’s run another ten-K this weekend before I lose my endorphin high.’”
Maya’s eyes narrow until they virtually disappear. “I call them Deirdre and Ken. They asked me to.”
“Well, good for you. I call them Mom and Dad, and if you don’t mind, I’m going to speak to them.”
“I do mind.” She blocks the doorway. “You’ve hurt them enough for one day. Deirdre is crying, you know.”
Crying! Impossible. It’s never happened in my lifetime. “She’s just embarrassed.”
The Black Sheep Page 18
