by Meg Cabot
Since we have this conversation approximately every three to four months, I knew the script and have my part down fairly pat. All I had to say was “Jordan. We’ve been through this. You and I never worked. You’re much better off with Tania. You know she loves you.”
This time, however, he veered from his accustomed dialogue by saying, “That’s just it. I don’t think she does. I know this is going to sound crazy, Heather, but I think…I think she just married me because of who I am. Of who my father is…the owner of Cartwright Records. This baby thing…I just don’t know…What if it’s just so she can score better alimony later on?”
I’ll admit, I was shocked.
On the other hand, it was Jordan. And he was drunk. And liquor and Jordan don’t mix.
“Of course that’s not why she wants to have a baby,” I said soothingly. “Tania loves you.”
The truth, of course, is that I have no way of knowing this. But I wasn’t going to stand there and tell him otherwise.
“But a baby,” Jordan said. “How can I be a dad? I don’t know anything about babies. I don’t know anything about anything…”
This was a shockingly self-aware statement…especially for Jordan. It exhibited an amazing amount of growth and maturity on his part. At least I thought so.
“Just the fact that you realize that, Jordan,” I told him, “shows that you’re more ready for fatherhood now than you’ve ever been. And seriously…as long as you remember that—that you don’t know anything about anything—I think you’re going to be a terrific dad.”
“Really?” Jordan brightened, as if my opinion on this subject actually mattered to him. “Do you mean that, Heather?”
“I really do,” I said, giving his hand a squeeze. “Now what do you say we get back to dinner?”
It was shortly after this that Cooper convinced his brother that he’d done enough celebrating for one night, and ought to let Cooper take him home. Jordan finally acquiesced—on the condition that Cooper let him play his new demo in the car on the way uptown, a condition Cooper agreed to with a visible shudder of distaste—and I convinced Dad to sit and enjoy one of his herbal teas while I did the dinner dishes.
“It’s been quite a day for you,” Dad observes, as I scrub at the caked-on goop that lines the pot he made the short ribs in. “You must be exhausted. Didn’t you go running this morning?”
“If you could call it that,” I grunt. Seriously, the short ribs had been delicious, but did he have to use every single pot in the house to make them?
“Tad must have been very proud of you. That’s quite a feat for you—running. He called the house again, you know, a little while before you came back. I’d have invited him to dinner, but I know he doesn’t eat meat, and I didn’t have another protein prepared…”
“That’s okay,” I say. “I’ll call him back later.”
“Things are getting pretty serious with him, huh?”
I think about Tad’s odd behavior earlier this morning. Was it only this morning? It seems so long ago.
“Yeah,” I say. “I guess so. I mean…” He’s going to ask me to marry him. “I don’t know.”
“It’s nice,” Dad says, a little vaguely, “that you have someone. I still worry about you sometimes, Heather. You’ve never been like other girls, you know.”
“Huh?” I’ve found a particularly stubborn piece of baked-on gunk, and am working at it with my thumbnail. I wonder if a scouring pad will scratch Cooper’s enamel cookware, purchased for him by a professional chef girlfriend whose name has long since been lost to history.
“I’m just saying,” Dad goes on. “You’ve always been more like me than like your mother. Not one for the status quo. Never much of a nine-to-fiver. That’s why I’m surprised you seem so devoted to this job of yours.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m devoted to it.” I give up and grab the scouring pad. Maybe if I’m careful, I won’t scratch the enamel. “I mean, I like it…”
“But your true love is singing,” Dad says. “And songwriting. Wouldn’t you say?”
“I don’t know.” The scouring pad isn’t working, either. “I like that, too.”
“What would you say if I told you I knew of an opportunity where you could do both again? Write and perform your own songs? For money. Good money, too. How would you feel about that?”
Success! The gunk has come off! But there is so much gunk to follow.
“I don’t know,” I say. “What are you even talking about? You know, Patty’s husband, Frank, is always trying to get me to go on the road with his band, and I gotta tell you, it’s not exactly my kind of thing anymore…”
“No, no,” Dad says, leaning forward in his seat. Behind him, I can see the lights of Fischer Hall gleaming in the kitchen windows. The kids are home from dinner, studying or getting ready to go out. It doesn’t matter to them that it’s a weeknight…or that their interim hall director was murdered this morning. Not when there’s beer flowing somewhere. “This is a real opportunity Larry and I would like to offer you. We know how you feel about the record business—once burned and twice shy and all of that. But this is nothing like that. This is something totally different. You’ve heard of the Wiggles, haven’t you?”
I pause in my gunk assault. “That British children’s program? Yeah, Patty’s kid loves them.”
“They’re an Australian children’s band, actually,” Dad corrects me. “But this would be something along similar lines, yes. Larry and I plan to produce and market a line of children’s music videos and DVDs. The production costs versus the amount of money you can take in is actually quite literally staggering. Which is where you would come in. We’d like you to be the star—the hostess and singer/songwriter—for these videos. You’ve always had a strong appeal to children, even when you were a teenager…something about your voice, your manner…maybe it’s all that blond hair—I don’t know. You would be the lead in a cast of characters, all of whom would be animated…you’d be the only human, as a matter of fact. Each episode you would address a different issue…using the potty, going to day care, being afraid of going down the drain in the bathtub, that kind of thing. We’ve crunched the numbers, and feel that we can give the competition—Dora the Explorer, the Wiggles, Blue’s Clues—a run for its money. We’re thinking of calling it Heather’s World. What do you think?”
I have stopped scrubbing. Now I’m standing at the sink, staring at him. I feel as if my brain is a DVR that somebody has just set on Pause.
“What?” I say, intelligently.
“I know you have your heart set on going back to school, honey,” Dad says, leaning forward in his chair. “And you can absolutely still do that. That’s the magic about this. There’s no touring, no promoting…at least, not right away. We just want to get the songs written, get the videos recorded, then get them out on the market and see how they do. I have a feeling—and Larry agrees—that they’re going to take off in a big way. Then we can work with your schedule to arrange for any kind of publicity we might like to do. You’ll notice I said we. It’s totally up to you how much or how little you’d like to do. I’m not your mother, Heather. Under no circumstances would I want you to do anything more than you’re comfortable with…”
I can’t seem to wrap my mind around what he’s saying.
“You mean…give up working at Fischer Hall?”
“Well,” Dad says slowly. “I’m afraid that would be necessary, yes. But, Heather, you would be generously compensated for your work on this project, with a sizable advance that would be—well, a hundred times what you’re making yearly at Fischer Hall…as well as royalties. And I believe Larry would not be averse to letting you in on a percentage of the gross as well—”
“Yeah, but…” I blink at him. “I don’t know. I mean…give up my job? It’s a good job. With benefits. I get tuition remission and everything. And an excellent health insurance package.”
“Heather.” Dad is starting to sound a little impatient. “The Wiggles g
ross an estimated fifty million dollars a year. I think with fifty million dollars a year, you could afford the health insurance package of your choice.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But you don’t even know if these video thingies are going to take off. Kids might hate them. They might end up being really cheesy or something. End up just sitting in the bargain bin at Sam Goody.”
“That’s the risk we’re all taking here,” Dad says.
“But…” I stare at him. “I don’t write songs for kids. I write songs for grown-ups…like me.”
“Right,” Dad says. “But writing songs for children can’t be that different from writing songs for disaffected young women like yourself.”
I blink again. “Disaffected?”
“Instead of complaining about the size of your jeans,” Dad goes on, “complain about why you have to use a sippy cup. Or why you can’t have big-girl pants. Just give it a try. I think you’ll be a natural. The truth is, Heather, I’m going out on a limb for you. Larry wants to approach Mandy Moore. I told him to hold off a bit. I told him I was sure you could come up with something that’d knock our socks off.”
“Dad.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to write—or sing—about sippy cups.”
“Heather,” Dad says. “I don’t think you understand. This is an extraordinary opportunity for all of us. But mainly for you. It’s a chance for you to get out of that hellhole you’re working in—a place where just today, Heather, your boss was shot in the head, just a room away from where you sit. And also a chance for you to—let’s be honest with one another, Heather—get a place of your own, so you don’t have to live here with Cooper, which can’t be the healthiest arrangement for you.”
I turn quickly back toward the dishes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t you?” Dad asks gently. “Why haven’t you returned Tad’s calls yet, Heather? Is it really because you’ve been too busy? Or is it because deep down, you know you’re in love with someone else?”
I nearly drop the wineglass I’m scrubbing.
“Ouch, Dad,” I grumble. “Way to hurt a girl.”
“Well.” He gets up from table and comes over to lay a hand upon my shoulder. “That’s just it. I don’t want to see you hurt. I want to help you. Lord knows you’ve helped me these past few months. I want to return the favor. Won’t you let me?”
I can’t look into his face. I know if I do I’ll say yes. And I don’t want to say yes. I don’t think.
Or maybe part of me does. The same part of me that’s ready to say yes to Tad, too, when he decides the time is finally right, and he pops the question.
Instead, I look into the sudsy brown water in the sink.
Then I sigh.
“Let me think about it, Dad, okay?”
I don’t see Dad smile, because of course I’m not looking at him. But I sense the smile anyway.
“Sure thing, honey,” he says. “Just don’t think about it too long. Opportunities like this don’t last forever. Well…you know that from last time.”
Do I ever.
12
* * *
Play date
(I wish I had one)
Play mate
(Wish I had one of those, too)
Play straight
(No cheatin’ with this one)
No fake
(I really mean it this time)
“Play Date”
Written by Heather Wells
* * *
I don’t have a clue anything out of the ordinary is taking place over on Washington Square West until I round the corner of Waverly Place the next morning, sleepily slurping the whipped cream topping off my grande café mocha. (About which, as Gavin would put it, whatevs. Like I totally didn’t go running yesterday. I deserve a little whipped cream. Besides, whipped cream is dairy, and a girl needs dairy to fight off osteoporosis. Everyone knows this.)
I’m licking off my whipped cream mustache when I see it—or think I see it, anyway: a giant rat.
And I don’t mean your everyday, gray-brown, cat-sized subway rat, either. I mean a GIANT, twelve-foot, inflated, semi-lifelike replica of a rat, standing on its hind legs and snarling directly across the street from Fischer Hall’s front door.
But how can this be? What would a twelve-foot inflatable rat be doing in front of my place of work? Could I be seeing things? It’s true I only just woke up. Relishing the fact that I got to sleep in this morning—no running for me—I rolled out of bed at eight-thirty, and, forgoing my morning shower—well, okay, bath. Who bothers with a shower when you can bathe lying down?—I just pulled on a fresh pair of jeans and shirt, ran a brush through my hair, washed my face, slapped on some moisturizer and makeup, and was out the door at five of nine. Time to spare for that grande café mocha. I didn’t even see Cooper or my dad. Both of them being early birds, they were already up and out—Dad had even taken Lucy for her morning walk. I was definitely going to miss that when Dad was gone, that was for sure.
But it doesn’t matter how many times I stand there and squeeze my eyes shut, then reopen them again. The rat doesn’t disappear. I’m fully awake.
Worse, marching back and forth in front of the rat, carrying picket signs that said things like New York College Doesn’t Care About Its Student Employees and Health Care Now! were dozens—maybe hundreds—of protesters. Many of them were raggedy-looking grad students, baggy-pantsed and dreadlocked.
But many more of them were in uniform. Worse, they were in New York College campus security, housekeeping, and engineering uniforms.
And that’s when it struck. The cold, hard terror that crept around my heart like icy tentacles.
Sarah had done it. She had convinced the GSC to strike.
And she’d convinced the other major unions on campus to strike along with it.
If my life were a movie, I’d have tossed my grande café mocha to the sidewalk just then, and sunk slowly to my knees, clutching my head and screaming, “Nooooooooo! WHY???? WHYYYYYY????????”
But since my life isn’t a movie, I settle for tossing my drink—which I suddenly feel way too queasy to finish—into the nearest Big Apple trash receptacle, then crossing the street—after looking both ways (even though it’s one way, of course—you can never be too sure on a college campus if a skateboarder or Chinese food delivery guy on a bike is heading the wrong way)—cutting between the many news vans parked along the sidewalk until I reach a tight circle of reporters clustered around Sarah, who is giving the morning news shows all her best sound bites.
“What I’d like to know,” Sarah is saying, in a loud, clear voice, “is why President Phillip Allington, after assuring the student community that their tuition wouldn’t be raised and that neither he nor his trustees would receive a salary increase this year, went on to raise tuition by six point nine percent, then received a six-figure salary increase—making him the highest paid president of any research college in the nation—while his graduate student teachers are not offered stipends equal to a living wage or health benefits that enable them even to use the student health center!”
A reporter from Channel 7 with hair almost as big as Sarah’s has gotten from lack of sleep (and Frizz-Ease—although I assume the reporter’s hair pouf is on purpose) spins around and points her microphone into a surprised-looking Muffy Fowler’s face. Muffy’s only just stumbled onto the scene…literally stumbled, on her four-inch heels, having just arrived via a cab, clutching a red pocketbook to her tightly cinched Coach trench, and trying to pull stray curls of hair from her heavily glossed lips.
“Ms. Fowler, as college spokesperson, how would you respond to these allegations?” the reporter asks, as Muffy blinks her wide Bambi eyes.
“Well, I’d have to check m-my notes,” Muffy stammers. “B-but it’s my understanding the president donated the difference in his salary between this year and last year b-back to the college—”
“To what?” Sarah calls with a sneer. “The Pansies?”
Everyone laughs. President Allington’s support of the Pansies, New York College’s less than stellar Division Three basketball team, is legendary, even among the reporters.
“I’ll have to check into that,” Muffy says stiffly. “But I can assure you, President Allington is very concerned about—”
“Not concerned enough, apparently,” Sarah goes on, loudly enough to drown Muffy out, and cause every microphone in the vicinity to swing back toward her. “He’s apparently willing to let students at his own college suffer through the last six weeks of their semester without assistant teaching instructors, security guards, and trash removal—”
“That’s not true!” Muffy cries shrilly. “President Allington is totally willing to negotiate! What he won’t be is held hostage by a group of radical leftist socialists!”
I know even before Sarah sucks in her breath that Muffy’s said exactly the wrong thing. The reporters have already lost interest—the networks have moved on to their mid-morning programming anyway, so they’ve begun to pack up their equipment. They’ll be back—maybe—for an update at noon.
But Sarah’s already rallying her troops.
“Did you hear that?” she roars at her fellow picketers. “The president’s spokesperson just called us a bunch of radical leftist socialists! Just because we want fair wages and a health care package! What do you have to say to that?”
There is some confused muttering, mostly because it seems to be so early in the morning, and no one really knows what they’re doing yet. Or possibly because no one heard Sarah properly, on account of all the noise from the news teams packing up. Sarah, apparently realizing this, jumps off the wooden platform she was standing on and heaves a megaphone to her lips.
“People,” she cries, her voice crackling loudly enough that, over in the chess circle, the old men enjoying their first game of the morning hunch their shoulders and glare resentfully over at us. “What do we want?”
