Emancipated (14 page)

Here it came. The speech Lucy had grown tired of hearing—the one that simultaneously praised her for being smart enough to have been born to Robert and Anne-Marie Jordan, whilst bemoaning the poor efforts she'd made in upholding their undoubtedly stellar genetic standards.

“I don't know if you're aware of this, Lucy, but our principal, Dr. Keener, got her master's at your mother's college.”

“I didn't know that.” But it figured. How else could her parents have finagled a highly sought-after place in a snooty prep school like Our Lady with less than two weeks' notice?

“Dr. Keener is a tremendous admirer of your mother's. It's no mean achievement for a woman to be president of a private college. Especially a woman of color.”

“Thanks, and yeah, I know.”

“Dr. Keener would dearly like to be able to feel the same way about you.”

Lucy wondered why Keener hadn't bothered to see her herself if that was really true.

“We'd like to see a marked improvement in your attitude toward your work. Please.”

A nod. “Guess I'll try.”

“It's easily within your ability to impress us. Mr. Steiner read me parts of your essay about Stravinsky's
Rite of Spring
. It was quite insightful, and very well written. I liked the section comparing it to
West Side Story
.”

Lucy swallowed. Her voice became very quiet. “Thank you.”

“There's another thing, Lucy.” Guzman turned over her hand. In her palm was a half-smoked, hand-rolled cigarette. “I gather you sometimes smoke, out in the water gardens.”

“That isn't mine.”

Guzman managed a thin smile. “The trustees require that we keep that part of the school immaculate, for conferences and other events.”

She dismissed Lucy then, with the firm suggestion that she head to the library. Since the library was housed directly opposite Guzman's office, albeit down a hallway, the request was difficult to ignore. Within a few minutes Lucy found herself in a part of the school she'd visited only once before, during orientation.

At the reception desk was a slim woman in her midforties, with long, dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked up from the book she was reading, replaced the glasses that had been hanging around her neck, and signaled to Lucy to come over.

“I haven't seen you before, missy. You wanna tell me what kind of books you like? Or are you looking for something specific for your homework?”

Lucy was a little flustered to be put on the spot. The librarian was eyeing her with a kindly yet knowing air.

“Can I just use the computer?”

The librarian rolled her eyes melodramatically. “God help us, not you, too. Tell me you want some help with references at least.”

Lucy began to smile. The librarian was having a bit of fun with her. “I just want to check the hits on my YouTube account.”

“Well, hey, give me your username and we'll look you up.”

When the Lucy Long channel came up, Lucy felt a rush of excitement. Ten thousand views of the original video posted by Paolo. And already over a thousand for the latest, a Rancid cover that she'd recorded during the party.

The librarian made a murmur of approval. “Looking good! Can't listen in here, obviously. I'll catch up with it later.”

Ten thousand views
.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

SATURDAY, MARCH 21

“How's life on Venice Beach?”

“It's not like anywhere I've ever lived is for sure,” Lucy answered.

“But you like it?”

Ariana could hear the smile in Lucy's voice. It was good to hear her so relaxed. When they'd spoken three weeks ago, she'd sounded impatient.

“I like it a lot,” Lucy admitted. “The ocean. The light—this close to the water, there's so much sky. The air in the morning, how it tastes of salt. I can walk up to Santa Monica and get funnel cakes. I didn't even know how much I like them.”

“Funnel cakes? Uh-uh. You'll get fat.”

“Ha,” said Lucy. “Good point. I should maybe run all the way back.”

“How about the other kids? Are they how you expected?”

“How do you mean?” Lucy asked. “They're pretty normal.”

“Are they like the people you worked with, back in the day?”

“Oh, not at all. Those guys were freaks. And me, too, now that I look back. TV is no place for a kid.”

“It's okay for someone your age, though?” Ariana asked.

“Borderline. You mix with a lot of crazy people. You need to be pretty grounded.”

Ariana smiled. “But you are grounded now, wouldn't you say?”

“Weirdly, I feel a lot better since coming here. The house is a good place for me. Nice mix of people.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Uhhhh. That feels a bit gossipy.”

“It's not like I'm ever gonna meet them,” Ariana pushed. “Besides, I want to hear about these people who make you so happy.”

Lucy sounded hopeful. “You might meet them. It's only a few hours away.”

“You think I can afford to be going out to LA?”

“Get the bus. You could stay with us.”

Ariana gave a scornful laugh. “Sounds to me like your house is plenty crowded already. Aren't you three to a room?”

“Only in one room. We have a futon in the living room.”

“Who's your best friend in the house?”

“I get along with everyone.”

“Anyone you're into?”

“
Me?
You know I never like anybody.”

Like always, Lucy said this as though it were a joke. And yet . . . Ariana smiled to herself. “Oh, sure, I forgot.”

“Trust you to bring things down low.”

“Honey, I'm just trying to stir up that rumor mill. I missed hearing all about your shenanigans.”

“Maybe we'll just say that my folks might not be too happy.”

“You partying?”

“Once in a while. But I'm not using nearly as much as before.”

“It's all cool,” Ariana said a little dubiously.

“Sorta. There's . . .”

And finally, Ariana caught the hesitation she'd been waiting for.

“There's kind of something a little weird going on,” Lucy confessed. “Just with a couple of people.”

“Go on. . . .”

“This guy called Paolo. Cute guy, tennis player. Pretty sure I told you about him. He kinda flipped out, for, like, no reason. Got himself a radical haircut, the buzz-cut look. Started acting all nervous, working out a lot.”

“People reinvent themselves all the time.”

“I guess. What's odd is that it happened pretty much over a weekend, just after the party.”

“Ah, that explains it. He met a girl.”

Flatly, Lucy said, “Yeah . . . don't think that's it.”

“A guy then? Maybe he's coming out of the closet?”

Lucy gave a wry laugh. “Highly doubtful. Believe me, I have some inside knowledge.”

“Ah. Then maybe the change isn't in him,” Ariana suggested. “Maybe it's in you.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

Stifling a lazy-afternoon yawn, Ariana said, “Your boy there, shedding his Disney Channel. Maybe you like what you see. And it's taken you by surprise.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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KITCHEN, SUNDAY, MARCH 22

“The first step is to prepare your oven. Thirty degrees, if it goes that low. That's the optimum temperature for yeast.”

John-Michael watched Candace touch the control panel, discreetly checking that she set it correctly. “Done.”

“Now we wash our hands and get started.” He held up both his hands and grinned.

It had been a few weeks since the party. John-Michael had been fielding pleas to show his housemates how to bake ever since. Finally, John-Michael had caved. He began by weighing out flour and butter and pouring milk into a measuring cup. Meanwhile, Candace cleaned an area on the solid whitewashed pine kitchen table and sprinkled it with flour. John-Michael began to combine the ingredients in the food processor.

“Okay, now we switch to the dough hooks.”

“So, John-Michael, this is your thing?”

He smiled. “No question.”

“Who taught you, your mom?”

John-Michael stared into the food processor for a second. He reached into the bowl with a scraper and scooped up the sticky mixture. He dropped it onto the floured table.

Candace's question was natural enough. He'd heard it before. But it was never easy to answer.

“She started to. When I was seven or eight. But then she got sick.”

“At least you have happy memories of her. She could have been a total pain, like mine.”

There was an awkward silence. John-Michael took a large pinch of flour and threw it over the dough mixture. “Damn. We forgot to add the proofed yeast.”

“Oh. Is it ruined?”

He tore open a packet of quick-rising yeast and emptied it into a bowl, then added a spoonful of flour and some warm water. He covered the bowl with plastic wrap.

“It's not ruined. But maybe we shouldn't talk about our moms. It's kind of distracting.”

“Suits me.”

He glanced at Candace sideways for a moment. He was itching to say something. Maybe it was wiser to stay quiet. But as he often did, John-Michael launched in anyway. “You know, ‘total pain' seems kind of
strong. Your mom is paying for you to live here. She checked in on us all the time at first.”

But Candace seemed resolute. “The money means nothing to Katelyn. She's got plenty. And she was checking in on the
house
. We're convenient tenants for her. If she really loved me, she'd have let Grace and me live with her and the Dope Fiend on Malibu Beach.”

John-Michael smiled gently. “Then I guess I'm glad she didn't. I like it here. And I like living with you guys.”

Candace seemed to relax. “Yeah, well. I like it, too. I never had a friend as gay as you. It's pretty cool.”

“As gay as me?”

“You're what Tina—Grace's mom—calls ‘literally gay.' Which means you're nice and clean and you can cook.”

“Ugh. I sound like a dweeb.” groaned John-Michael “But Grace's mom sounds . . . interesting.”

“I wouldn't be where I am without Tina. She moved in with my dad six years ago, married him five years ago. One big happy family ever since.” When she saw his cynical smile, Candace flicked him with a tea towel.

“It's the truth! My dad is, like, this very mellow guy. He always wanted a big family, but my mom was obsessed about losing her figure. Tina and her little ready-made almost-soccer team, she made him really happy. Until they started to argue—over me.”

“What happened?”

“Tina really got behind my career. A real stage mom. It kind of took over for a little while.”

“Must have kinda sucked for Grace, to have her mom take such an interest in the new girl.”

The idea didn't seem to have occurred to Candace, which John-Michael found surprising. Or maybe she just didn't want to face up to something that might have been a sore point of their childhood.

Candace merely shook her head. “Not really. You know Gracie. She's really cool.”

John-Michael handed Candace a large ceramic bowl and a small bottle of olive oil. “Could you please oil this bowl?” He picked up a snack bag and a candy bar. “Dried blueberries or Reese's Nutrageous? For inside the roll.”

“Both.”

He emptied both packages onto a small wooden board and began with a sharp knife to roughly chop the blueberries together with the peanut caramel bar. “How's the TV show going?”

“The director seems to be happy. I don't get to do too much but what I do is pretty awesome. My character, Gina, is on the run. She kills a bad guy in the first episode, it's so cool. So now she's sixteen, on the run, and she's totally kick-ass. Half my rehearsal time is spent doing combat training.”

“Real combat?”

“No, silly. Stage combat, of course.”

“You couldn't actually kick anyone's ass then?”

“I can't hit or kick very hard. That takes a lot of training. I know a few moves now that might get me out of trouble . . . so long as the opponent was a wuss.”

John-Michael removed the wrap on the small bowl and showed the contents to Candace.

She stared at it, her finger hovering just above the surface of the dough. “Huh! It's all puffed up.”

“Don't prod it—you'll let the air out. We've kick-started the yeast.” He spooned the mixture out and planted it in a hollow he'd made in the dough mixture. Then he folded over the rest of the dough and began to squeeze it through his fingers.

“Ewww,” Candace said. “Icky.”

There was a loud knock at the front door. John-Michael glanced at Candace.

“We expecting anyone?” he asked, a little nervous.

She frowned. “Not that I know of.” She disappeared around the corner to the front door and returned a minute later with an attractive brunette in her midthirties, dressed in a dark blue pantsuit.

At the sight of the visitor, John-Michael felt faintly sick. He dropped the completed dough mix into the oiled ceramic bowl and slowly scraped the dough from his fingers.

“Hi, are you John-Michael Weller? I'm Detective Ellen Winter, Carlsbad police department.” The woman's eyes twinkled slightly, gazing at his hands. “I won't offer to shake your hand, if that's okay.”

He didn't answer, but took a moment to cover the bowl with foil. Unsteadily, he slid it into the oven warmed to fifty degrees Farenheit and set the timer for forty minutes. He turned to the detective, his heart racing.