Fangirl (9 page)

“So, like, do you want the good news or the bad news first?” she asked.

Josie rolled her window down, hoping some fresh air would settle her down. When the pizza-oven hot air blasted her, however, she thought better and quickly rolled it up. “How about let's start with the bad,” her dad said cheerily. “I like happy endings.” Her dad hiccuped that redneck chuckle he reserved for his own jokes—especially the gross ones he knew would incite a reaction out of his daughter.

“That is so gross.” Josie tried hard not to laugh. “Anyway . . . the bad news is that Ashley backstabbed me. But I don't wanna talk about it.”

“Gotcha. Okay. Well, I'm glad you aren't bleeding on my seat. And the good news?”

“I got to meet Peter Maxx.”

“Peter who?”

Josie laughed. The fact that her own father didn't know the name of her favorite singer reminded her how much they
had grown apart over the last couple years. “The singer,” she snapped. “You know, the pop star?”

Her father nodded and offered a cursory, “Oh, right,” though he obviously had no clue.

“So what did Ashley do?”

“I said I don't wanna talk about it. Let's just say she's a bitch.”

“Josie! You know I don't like it when you swear.”

“Sorry, Mr. F Bomb.”

“Seriously, Josie. Just 'cuz my truck is filthy doesn't mean your mouth has to be. Work with me.”

They now were five miles west of the city, flanked on either side by a cotton field and a potato patch that stretched as far as the eye could see. This was Josie's ritual every other Friday night, an event she sarcastically had come to call “Daddy Duty.”

As he drove them further outside of town and the strip malls gave way to farms, Josie noticed her dad kept looking in the rearview mirror every ten seconds. She turned back to see what the fuss was. She didn't see anything but a dark blue sedan tailing behind their truck.

“Not a cop, don't worry,” Josie said.

“What's that?” he said.

“Yeah, the one you keep staring back at. It's not a cop. It's a Hyundai. Cops never drive those cars. You taught me that.”

He gripped the wheel and stopped peering back in the mirror.

“So where's Connor?”

“His coach is dropping him off after baseball practice. So until then you get me all to yourself, lucky lady.”

“Greeeeeat.”

As part of the divorce settlement, Josie's mom got primary physical custody of the two kids but, per the agreement, they would spend every other weekend with their father during the school year; in the summer, they would spend half the time living with their dad. Her mom and dad sugarcoated the joint arrangement by telling them things like, “Now you will have two houses instead of just one!”

But, from the start, Josie wasn't sold on the new arrangement. Her mom's place was in the southwest side of town near the state college, and Josie could actually walk to stores or friends' houses. She could even walk to the movie theater whenever she had earned enough babysitting money to do so. Her dad, on the other hand, lived ten miles due west of the city limits, in a two-bedroom farmhouse wedged between a stinky onion field and spinach patch. Safe to say, Daddy Duty was not exactly a weekend in Malibu.

Connor had trouble understanding why their dad couldn't just come to their apartment for the weekend. “We aren't the ones getting divorced,” he reasoned with maturity beyond his years. “Why should we be the ones to suffer?” Josie agreed, of course, but her mom and dad had sat her down and asked her to play Big Sister and help Connor accept the new arrangement, to sell him on something that she didn't herself want to buy. So she told her brother the truth.

“Definitely seen better days with work.” Her dad broke the silence as Josie stared out the passenger window at the perfectly lined rows of crops angling off into the distance. “They cut my hours down. Economy's hurting everyone—just the way it is these days. But I've got some projects lined up. It's all good, hon. One door closes and another door . . .”

“Opens,” she finished.

He smiled. “I taught you well.”

As clumsy as her dad was in marriage (and car conversation), Josie never worried about him A, finding a girlfriend (at last check, he was currently dating three women, or, as he called it, “playing the field”) and B, making money. Through his various hockey connections made by being a local sports legend, and his boyish charm, he always seemed to be able to find a way to pay the bills. The problem? He also found way too many ways to spend it: cars, boats, gadgets, family trips to a condo at Pismo Beach.

The pickup truck rolled to a stop in the gravel driveway in front of a Spanish-style farmhouse, a cloud of dust puffing up from the giant wheels.

When her dad moved into the house it was white, but blowing dust from the rectangular expanse of fields surrounding it had given the stucco a brownish hue. Her lungs, allergic to whatever it was that blew around the clay-rich fields, weren't the only victims of the dust clouds. “I got you some new pillows. I know you didn't like the old ones. And I have a little surprise.”

Josie slung her backpack over her shoulder and followed him inside. The tiny living room and kitchen were tidy, but not clean. Obviously, her dad had tried to clean up quickly, probably by stuffing loose junk under the couch and into the closet. At least he was trying. Baby steps. Progress.

The old hardwood floorboards creaked as Josie walked into the bedroom. The room was bare but for two twin beds, one each for her and Connor, and an antique desk next to the window that looked out on a carrot field. This time of year, the lush green plants sprang from the dirt like organic pillows. By winter, after the harvest, the miles of farmland would turn to a sandy moonscape. A wooden swing hung from a thick branch of a lone oak tree by a thick but tattered rope. Josie stared at it and smiled. She had passed many long boring Saturday afternoons humming tunes as she swayed back and forth on it.

A mile down the road sat the Frito-Lay plant, from which wafted the scent of pretzels, corn chips, and potato chips at all times of the day. Her dad's house was almost always downwind from the plant. And while Josie had at first hated the greasy stench that soaked into her clothes by the end of the weekend, she had come to like it. At least it was something that reminded her of her dad when she went home for the week.

Josie unpacked the extra pair of shorts, sandals, a pair of Capris, underwear, and shirts she had stuffed in her backpack for the weekend. She pulled out her phone from the side pouch and saw she had four text messages since she left school.

Josie. Call me. Xo

I really wanna explain. Wud u just call/txt me?

Josie then checked her Twitter for Peter Maxx updates. She had hoped he would post a pic from his visit to Lawndale High. But nothing. She saw that a couple of friends had already uploaded stalker pics of Peter onto their Facebook pages, but nothing from Peter. Josie thought it was odd, as Peter normally gave daily fan updates to his social media sites.

Just then, a text message popped up from Christopher.

Hey amigo. Cheer up

She typed a quick thanks back to Christopher but still kept Ashley on ice.

“Tit for tat?” Josie's dad said as he stepped into her room.

“Huh?”

“Knowing you, you're probably plotting how you can get back at Ashley.”

Her father might have been out of touch when it came to knowing who her celebrity crush of the moment was, but she had to give him credit that he knew her personality inside and out.

“Let's just say, I'm considering all my options,” Josie said with a smile.

“Want my advice?”

“Do I have choice in the matter?”

“Um, no,” he responded. “Not really.”

“Okay then.”

“Take the high road, Josie.”

“That's very noble of you, Sir Brant.”

Josie went back to unpacking her clothes. She had forgotten to bring an extra tank top. She really needed to start leaving a set of clothes at her dad's house. She just never felt stable enough to commit to leaving anything. The unpacking, at least for the moment, gave her something to focus on other than her dad trying to lecture her.

“Trust me on this one,” he continued. “I know you're pissed at Ashley, and I'm sure that girl deserves a little payback. But I'm serious. It's like when I played hockey. Whenever another player did something like chop my legs out from under me, or spear me in the gut, or cheap-shot me, well, nine times out of ten, I would react stupidly. So instead of the
other
team getting the penalty, I was the idiot who'd end up in the box. I was a hot head. I should have just skated off and not reacted. You know, taken the high road. Maybe if I did that more often I would have made it to the NHL.”

“Life's not hockey, Dad.”

“I used to think that too, but the older I get, the more I realize that hockey, basically, is no different than life.”

Her dad stood by the bedroom door, his thumbs tucked into his jeans' front pockets. As he shifted his weight from one
foot to the other, a loose plank under his right foot creaked.

He jumped slightly and looked out the window to the field behind the house.

“Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Hear what?”

He poked his head out the window frame and scanned to the left and right. “Ah, I don't know. Sounded like someone was back there. Must be hearing things in my old age.”

“All righty, old man.” Josie shut her drawer firmly with a clunk. “Thanks for the advice. Now what's for dinner?”

“I thought we could fire up the barbecue. I even picked up some veggie burgers for you. And whole-wheat buns.”

“Daaaaaad,” she said suspiciously. “You're up to something!”

He scratched the back of his head nervously and flashed a smile.

“Okay, you got me. Come on out to the dining room. I wanna show you that surprise.”

He grabbed her hand and led her down the hallway leading to the dining room.

“Close your eyes,” he insisted.

He stepped behind her and gently guided her down the hallway. Josie tried to sneak a peek through a crack in her eyelid.

“No peeking, cheater!” He cupped his hands over her eyes and nudged her into the room.

“Now, go ahead,” he added. “Open 'em.”

Josie's eyes popped open.

“No, you didn't.”

“I did,” he said proudly. “Happy fifteenth!”

Josie darted across the room to a polished black upright piano set against the far wall. She sat down on the cushioned seat and began tinkling the keys.

“Are you sure you can afford this?” Josie asked.

“Like I said, Josie, I've got some projects lined up.”

She tapped the keys like a kid on Christmas morning, the burn of her BFF earlier in the day suddenly not feeling so painful. “My birthday isn't for another ten days!”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” he explained.

“Well, it worked. This piano is amazeballs!”

Peter's flight from
Bakersfield to Oakland International was two-hundred fifty miles—or a little less than an hour up the central valley and over to the foggy city by the bay.

But, for Peter, having to sit in the same private jet cabin as Sandy made it seem like ten hours. Normally they would be sitting side by side, laptops out, watching a movie or chatting or playing Words with Friends to pass the time. Now he was playing the avoid-eye-contact-at-all-costs game. It was Awkward. Make that AWKWARD.

He wasn't sure whether breaking up with her midtour was the right decision, or if it was the wrong decision at an especially wrong time. When the jet came to a stop in front of the private aviation building and the pilot opened the door, Peter grabbed his travel duffel bag and stepped out into the foggy late afternoon air. He waved to a few dozen fans, who screamed with glee on the other side of a chain-link security fence as he walked down the steps.