Katrina shook her head. “Deborah could have given us more notice. She just threw this cousin thing at us and then took off for Paris. Typical.” She took a plastic fork and speared a grape. “We had to come up with a story to explain your sudden presence. And it had to be fantastic and dramatic and yet completely plausible. With social media, everything is out there, so we couldn’t contradict anything publicly known about you. It can be tricky, but I think we pulled it off.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Greta said.
“It can be a whirlwind around here,” Vance said sympathetically. “I’ll tell you what we tell Cece: just follow our cues, and you’ll be fine.”
“First of all,” Katrina said, pulling a sheet of paper out of one of the files, “you’ll need to sign this nondisclosure agreement, which prohibits you from taking photos or disclosing information. Put your initials in the space provided after each paragraph, then sign on the second page.”
Greta had just started to read it when Vance added, “It’s the same as the copy in your binder in your room.”
Greta looked up. “Deborah mentioned a binder, but I never saw it.” She racked her brain, trying to think of how her room had been laid out. So much had happened since she’d arrived. Could she have missed something that important?
They exchanged a glance. “You didn’t see the binder? I put it right on the desk in your room,” Katrina said.
“I never saw it. But it might be that I just didn’t notice it. I got in kind of late, and I had to call my mom . . . ”
“Okay,” Katrina said abruptly. “Basically, it says not to share any information or images to the outside world, especially to social media. Besides being grounds for dismissal, you can be sued, and believe me, the Vanderhavens have a legal team like you wouldn’t believe. No one wins against them.”
“You’re kind of scaring me here, Katrina. Deborah said this contract was just a formality. Do you really think they would sue me?”
She gave a slight nod. “Deborah wouldn’t, but there’s no telling with Cece’s dad. He’s a ball-breaker. Harry Vanderhaven is all about winning, and if he thinks you’re not on his team, then you’re the enemy, and you’d better watch your back.”
“Really?” Greta said, alarmed.
Katrina nodded. “You didn’t hear it from me, but he can be downright mean. In business, he steamrolls over anyone who stands in his way, and he’s the same at home. Believe me, he runs a tight ship. I’ve seen him make a maid cry for missing a spot when dusting. And where his daughters are concerned? It’s all personal.”
Seeing Greta’s worried look, Vance joined in. “You have nothing to worry about, Greta. As long as you don’t make anything public, you’ll be fine.”
“Okay.” Greta exhaled slowly, then went over the paperwork again, scanning the terms. Nothing stood out as being objectionable. She was being paid as much in a month as she’d have made in a year working full-time at the department store. Not only that, but this internship would look good on her résumé. The contract was in effect for the summer, but the nondisclosure terms extended for all time, presumably to prevent her from writing a tell-all book years down the road. She would never do such a thing, but they didn’t know that, of course.
She initialed where specified, then dated and signed her name on the last line. “All set,” Greta said, pushing the document back across the table.
Katrina gave it a once-over, double-checking what she’d done, then stuck it into a folder. “Congratulations. You’re now officially an indentured servant working for Firstborn Daughter, Inc.”
“We’re a pretty exclusive group. Be prepared: this is the kind of job that sucks the life out of you, but at least we’re paid well,” Vance said, taking a sip of his coffee.
Greta set her spoon down. “Wait a minute. You guys are paid?”
Vance and Katrina exchanged a look again; Katrina’s eyes widened. “Oops,” she said. “Guess we weren’t supposed to let that one out.”
They leaned together and whispered to each other for a minute, glancing her way every now and then as if assessing her trustworthiness. Just when Greta was about to ask if they wanted a moment alone, they seemed to come to a decision. The next thing she knew, they were swearing her to secrecy and revealing all the details of their association with Firstborn Daughter, Inc.
Greta listened, rapt, almost in disbelief, as her whole perception of Cece’s life unraveled before her. Vance and Katrina had been hired by the Vanderhaven Corporation to be Cece’s best friends, a part they’d played magnificently, Vance said, for the last three years. Everything she had ever seen on social media—the impromptu pillow fights, the jet-setting across the country, the all-night clubbing—had been carefully planned and orchestrated. That time a drunk accosted Cece, and Vance punched him in the face? Rehearsed a dozen times before it actually happened. The song they wrote one night when the three of them stayed up to watch the rise of the thunder moon? Composed ahead of time by someone in the music business. The fashions Cece came up with after sketching some random doodles? They were created by top designers who didn’t get name credit but received percentages of sales in exchange for their work.
When they finished, Greta stared at them, stunned. “So none of it is real? You aren’t even friends with Cece?” Her voice was small, broken.
“No, no, no!” Vance said. “We totally love Cece. It would be hard not to.”
“Yeah, Cece’s great,” Katrina agreed. “The lifestyle is wearing, though, and it’s tough always having to be on.” She made finger quotes around the last word.
Vance added, “It’s hard not being my authentic self, and having everyone else, all my family and friends back home, think that this is who I am. I mean, I love Cece, but it’s not easy.”
“So when you go to the Firstborn Daughter office—”
Vance held up his hand. “There isn’t an office. I mean, there’s an address, and someone works there answering the phone and forwarding the mail, but everything else is done through Cece’s dad’s office. We do all the planning here. We’re responsible for scripting all the adventures you see on YouTube and on Cece’s social media accounts.”
“So how did you get the job?”
Simple, they explained. They were both actors and had been recent college graduates when they’d answered a call for an audition for a secret project.
“I got called back, like, four times,” Vance said.
“Me too. They gave me these crazy scripts. Every time it was something different,” Katrina said. “One time I was a jealous lover. Another time I had to act like a happy drunk.”
“I had that one too!” Vance said. “Did you get the one where you won the lottery?”
Katrina shook her head. “No. But I do remember that I had to improvise being locked out of my apartment after partying all night.”
“So when did you find out what the job was?” Greta asked, still processing the fact that Cece’s best friends had auditioned for the part.
“Not until after we signed the contract,” Vance said. “We knew it was a multiyear gig that paid a lot of money and we’d get living expenses comped. I had no problem signing the secrecy clauses. I figured I was going to be on Broadway with some big-name actors who wanted their privacy protected.”
Katrina reached over and squeezed his arm. “Remember waiting at the attorney’s office and finally hearing what we signed up for? The look on your face was unreal.”
“Yeah, I was pretty shaken up. If I had known, I never would have agreed to it. So much for my acting career,” he said ruefully. There was a thoughtful silence, Greta reeling from finding out the truth, Katrina and Vance exhausted from telling it. It was a lot to process. She sensed that on their part, it was a relief to be able to tell someone. If they couldn’t even tell their family and friends the truth, it must have been killing them.
“So now you know,” Katrina said. “I’m guessing we weren’t supposed to tell you. We’d assumed Deborah fille
d you in already.”
“No, I didn’t know any of this.”
“You have to keep this to yourself. No one can know. We could get sued; you could get sued. Promise me you won’t breathe a word.”
“I promise.”
Vance leaned over the table, his face serious. “And most importantly, you can’t tell Cece we’re paid actors. If she knew, she’d be crushed.”
Wow. This put a new twist on things. “Cece doesn’t know?” Greta asked.
“No,” Vance said firmly. “She has no idea, and that’s the way her parents want it. If Cece found out—”
A voice from behind Vance floated across the room. “If I found out what?” They looked up to see Cece dressed in a silk bathrobe, her hair still damp from the shower, a puzzled look on her face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dalton woke up at dawn to the sound of birds chirping. His backpack was jammed between his head and the back of the bench, and his cheek was pressed against the slats of the seat. He sat up and rubbed his face, sure that he looked every bit like a homeless person.
When he’d dreamed up this project, he’d imagined homelessness to be a form of urban camping, but the first night had taught him it wasn’t anything like that at all. It was more like being locked out of your house and having to sleep on the lawn.
Bugs had buzzed around his ears and eyes as he’d tried to go to sleep, so he’d gotten out his jacket and covered his face with it. Not the ideal fix, because it made him feel like he was suffocating. The bench, which had started out not being too bad, became intolerable as the night wore on. People, he reflected, were not meant to sleep outdoors on wooden slats. Besides feeling cramped and sore, he’d also felt exposed and vulnerable, realizing that his backpack could be easily snatched. No wonder Matt had crawled into a crevice and hidden his cart behind a bush. When you own so little, he realized, your possessions become all the more precious. Partway through the night, he’d stuck his arm through the loop of the backpack and lain on top of it to make it theft-proof.
It wasn’t even fully light yet, and the park was beginning to wake up. Two female joggers came past, yoga-mom types. They eyed Dalton warily. He called out, “Good morning,” but they didn’t respond. If anything, they made a show of not responding. He knew then that he was no longer Dalton Bishop, a tall, not-too-bad-looking guy from a privileged family. In the space of less than a day, he’d morphed into Random Homeless Dude, a guy who slept on a park bench. In almost no time at all, his social standing had plummeted to zero.
With nothing better to do, he got up and stretched his legs, stuffed his jacket into the backpack, and tried to rub the slat marks off his cheek. Using a guy’s prerogative, he peed in the woods, then set off to find a fountain or bathroom where he could wash up. He found a fountain first, but it was already in use by an older couple. The man was rough looking, his age hard to guess, somewhere between fifty and a hundred and twenty. He was brushing his teeth, the foam frothing at his mouth. He leaned over and spit as Dalton walked past. The woman, his wife maybe, was scooping water to her face. Seeing him stare, she gave him a hard look in return.
“Good morning,” Dalton said.
“Hmmpf,” she replied, her nose in the air.
Twice that morning, he’d tried a friendly greeting, and twice he’d struck out. He kept walking until he found a men’s room, where he washed up and brushed his teeth. He skipped shaving, figuring those days were over for the time being. After combing his hair, he took a long look in the mirror. Not too bad, even if he did feel like hell. It was humid in the bathroom, and his clothes clung to him. What he wouldn’t give for a hot shower, with fresh clothing to follow. And he was hungry, really hungry. He still had money, so getting something to eat wouldn’t be a problem this morning, but what about a few days from now?
The idea of being dirty, hot, and hungry without a way out made Dalton a little panicky. He’d always prided himself on being self-sufficient, but it turned out he was more spoiled than he’d known.
It was consoling to think that if he came close to starving, he did have a backup plan. Will was on standby and would come into the city on a moment’s notice. Dalton could always call him if he could borrow a phone. And if not, his ReadyHelp device would connect him, since Will was listed as Dalton’s emergency contact. But he shouldn’t be thinking of quitting already. He’d been homeless for less than a day. He couldn’t give up so easily.
Dalton left the park and headed back to Times Square. Along the way, he stopped at a street vendor and got himself a hot pretzel, then found a place to sit. The pretzel was good—hot, salty, and stretchy, like they should be. Combined with the remainder of the water in his bottle, it made a halfway decent breakfast.
Times Square, day two. As early as it was, the tourists were in full force. Some of the storefronts were just opening, their owners lifting the metal grilles from inside, the sound of the doors rising like ball bearings rolling on a track. He glanced down the side street where he’d met Matt the night before but didn’t see him. He decided to venture out and explore the city.
When Dalton stumbled upon Bryant Park, he found a whole different crowd than he’d seen earlier. Times Square had been tourist central, with guests from all over the world snapping pictures of themselves with the giant lit-up displays behind them. The kind of people willing to fork over five bucks for a picture with a guy dressed up as SpongeBob.
At Bryant Park, a large grassy area in the middle created a carpet for couples and young families, while café tables and chairs dotted the perimeter. On the grass, two boys tossed a football back and forth. On the far end stood a line of banquet tables, staffed by teenage girls who were leaning over the table, talking to younger children. From where Dalton stood, it looked like they were showing them how to do a craft project.
He found an empty table and sat down, glad it wasn’t too hot yet and that there was a slight breeze. People watching—boys playing football and the pedestrians going past—occupied his time. He had nowhere to be and nothing scheduled. It was nice. So many times in the last few hours, he had wanted to reach for his phone. He hadn’t realized what a compulsion it was until he didn’t have it anymore.
As nice as it was sitting in the park, and it was pleasant enough, it was also sort of monotonous. And lonely. If he’d been with someone, they’d have a lot to discuss, but there was no one else. He was starting to envy the tooth-brushing couple at the water fountain. At least they had each other. The absence of everyday comforts was turning out to be the least of his problems.
After an hour or so, he got up to let someone else have the table. Continuing down the block and around the corner, he found himself in front of the New York Public Library, the main one on Fifth Avenue, the one that was in the first Ghostbusters movie. He recognized the big row of steps going up to the entrance, which was flanked by massive columns. Down at street level, stone lions stood guard on either side of the base of the stairs.
The library was famous, and he’d been close to it countless times before but had never been inside. He grinned. Today he was trying new things. He bounded up the stairs, following a group of people flowing through the entrance. He stopped at the table just inside the door to let a security officer search his backpack. “Is there an admission fee?” he asked, knowing that if the answer was yes, he’d be heading back out the door.
The officer gave him an odd look. “This is the library. It’s free.”
“Cool.” After getting his bag inspected, he zipped the top shut and slung it over his shoulder.
The library turned out to be the perfect place to kill time. It was air-conditioned and gorgeous inside, with lots of benches for sitting. With its murals and awesome architecture, the library struck him as being the Sistine Chapel of Manhattan. He came across a visitor film that played every thirty minutes and sat through it twice, then went off in search of Charles Dickens’s writing desk, which was located in a locked room. He could see the desk through the glass door front, but
it was off-limits to the public. From there, he went to the children’s library and saw, in a glass case, Winnie-the-Pooh and four of his friends: Eeyore, Tigger, Kanga, and Piglet, the actual stuffed animals owned by Christopher Robin, the son of the author A. A. Milne, who had written the stories of Winnie-the-Pooh and the Hundred Acre Wood.
He found the display to be a bit of a letdown. The stuffed animals were small and not very colorful. Sort of antique-looking, like you’d find in an old person’s attic. Tigger in particular was disappointing, not looking at all bouncy. None of it was what he expected. Still, it was interesting.
When he got hungry, he went to the library’s café and blew eight dollars getting a sandwich and beverage. It was an impulse buy and cost more than he could spare. He suspected that later he’d regret spending so much money, but at the moment, it hit the spot.
For a good part of the day, he’d forgotten he was homeless. Instead, he felt like a tourist, taking in all this beautiful building had to offer. His family had been to New York dozens of times, and yet they’d never visited the library. He couldn’t imagine why. It was incredible.
The library closed at quarter to six. By then, the crowd had thinned down considerably, so when a staff member politely informed him he had to leave, Dalton headed out. It had been a pretty good day.
At the bottom of the stairs, it hit him that he had no place to go. He stood for a moment watching the cars and taxis heading down the street in front of him, all the people inside them, he speculated, heading for home.
Home. As much an emotional space as a physical building. In his real life, he had an apartment of his own and a family home, where despite his black-sheep status he was always welcome. He felt unmoored not having a place to go back to, and he wasn’t even officially homeless. It was an experiment, just that, and one he could end at any time, but he wasn’t a quitter and wouldn’t give up after one night. There was more for him to learn.
Good Man, Dalton Page 6
