The Reece Malcolm List (4 page)

But most of all I hate that I’ve spent my whole stupid life dreaming about this and waiting for it to happen, and here it is and it isn’t at all what I’d hoped for. It’s
definitely
probably stupid to still think about Dad as much as I do, considering he spent so much of my life ignoring me, but somehow it feels stupider yet to want more from someone who’s done way less for me.

All books are filled with words, obviously, but Reece Malcolm’s aren’t just there on the page. It’s as if something living is captured, and reading her novels releases it: emotions and an understanding of how life works. Or maybe it’s more like this admission that you can’t understand how life works but instead, like, a devotion to trying to figure it out.

When I read and reread Reece Malcolm’s books I imagined the person who wrote them. She wouldn’t be like Tracie, who thought anything to do with the arts was a waste of time, and she wouldn’t be like Dad, who kept the world at arm’s length so what did it matter what he thought about life and passion if he’d never tell anyone anyway? But my mother must constantly overflow with creativity and passion and art, I thought. She would understand life and its endless weirdnesses and complications.

But it turns out that isn’t Reece Malcolm at all.

“Devan?”

I jump to my feet as Brad steps into the doorway. “Sorry, I—”

“Sorry for what?” He holds out a little plate with a piece of pie on it. Some kind of custard with a crispy crust. Probably a British thing. “I wanted to bring you dessert, if you’re up for it.”

“Thanks,” I say. “You didn’t have to but—”

“It’s no problem,” he says.

It’s weird how I just automatically know he means that.

“Well, I’ll leave you to your pie. Enjoy.” He leaves the room and closes the door behind him. Maybe the dinner and the dessert and the accent just easily sway me, but I trust Brad. So I assume he’s leaving to give me privacy. Still, it feels an awful lot like being shut into a room so no one will have to deal with me.

Which feels a lot like the past three months.

But I shrug it off and curl up in bed with the pie, Justine’s iPod, and my notebook. Even just last week the thought of being in Reece Malcolm’s house would have sounded like science fiction, so it’s funny how this feels so much like falling asleep any other day.

Chapter Three

Things I know about Reece Malcolm:

10. She interrupts a lot.

11.
Her boyfriend’s way nicer than she is.

I sleep okay in the big, soft bed in Reece Malcolm’s house, and end up awake early thanks to the time difference. I kill most of the morning with a long shower (the bathroom is stocked with some amazing stuff that smells citrusy and lathers up luxuriously like in a commercial) and then a handwritten letter to Justine detailing every reason L.A. is a terrible idea. I end up shredding it into pieces and tossing it, though, because it gives away way too much.

“Hey there.” My mother leans into the room, wearing a ragged tank top and plaid pajama pants. “You’re not a terrifying morning person, are you?”

“It’s later in Missouri,” I say. “So not really.”

“Let me get showered and dressed, and we’ll run errands, all right? You should head downstairs, though; we’ve instituted Pancake Saturdays until we get sick of them.”

I decide not to ask about errands, and instead walk to the stairs, where the scent of maple syrup hits me about halfway down. Brad is at the stove, flipping pancakes in the air like a fancy chef. “Um, she said I should come down to eat, so . . .”

“Absolutely.” He flips a pancake with a spatula once more before depositing it on top of a stack and handing me the plate. “I hope you like these; I did some experimenting with leftover berries.”

“They smell amazing.” I sit down at the table and reach for the butter and syrup. “Are you like a chef or something?”

He laughs, but not in a way that makes me feel stupid. “Not at all. I just like cooking, especially in this kitchen. In my apartment, I had about this much space.” He holds his arms out at his sides and then in front and back of him to indicate a space maybe a sixth of the room. “I’m not sure why people make such a deal of it. Most cooking is rather easy.”

“Maybe just to you,” I say, which makes him laugh. I think about adding that I didn’t think British people were supposed to cook very well but it doesn’t seem polite.

“Reece says the same. Oh, and I feel the need to warn you that I’ve seen the shopping list she’s made, and it’s quite lengthy. You should load up on breakfast; you’ll need the energy.”

I have no idea what to make of that, but I would have pancake-overloaded regardless, because these are the best I’ve ever had, and I tell him so as my mother walks into the room, wearing almost exactly the same clothes as the day before: T-shirt, jeans, Chuck Taylors.

“Blackberries?” She leans over Brad’s shoulder to look at his plate. “You’re a genius. Where’s my order?”

“Coming right up,” he says, jumping to his feet. I wonder if he’s a little scared of her, too. How could he not be? “Devan, more while I’m making them?”

I’ve somehow cleaned my plate already. “Um, yeah, if you have extra.”

“Are you going to keep this up, or are you on good behavior since you just moved in?” my mother asks.

I feel like throwing up until I realize she’s referring to Brad and his chef mode and not me at all.

By now I’m pretty good at being invisible. That’s all I really was to Tracie, except for when she yelled at me. And even though I used to feel like the brightest part of Dad’s universe, everything kept shifting the older I got, like I betrayed him for not staying a little kid. And, anyway, being invisible was useful. You can’t be a weird new girl or a choir geek if you slip right under everyone’s radar. So if Reece Malcolm and Brad Harper want to speak to each other like I’m not even here, that’s just fine.

“We’ll see.” Brad sets a plate in front of my mother and kisses the top of her head before going back to the stove. Knowing they’re in, like, True Love is a weird thing to comprehend. I feel a weird surge of happiness for them, along with a lame zap of jealousy that I could have made it to sixteen without any boys even wanting to kiss me.

Also, ugh, really? Dad is dead and my long-lost mother would have totally preferred to stay long-lost, and I’m feeling sorry for myself
about boys
?

“What are you doing today?” my mother asks Brad. “You’ll have time to unpack those boxes in the living room, yeah? I’m sick of it looking like squatters live here.”

“I can’t unpack those until we get another shelf,” he says. “But if you’d like, I could take care of that.”

“
Fan
-tastic,” she says before turning to me. “We’ll get everything you need, all right? And we can grab dinner tonight so you can see more of L.A.”

“Um, sure. Seriously, though, I don’t need much.”

“You didn’t bring much,” she says very matter-of-factly, which is true, though I still feel like I messed up.

Brad sits down with his own plate of pancakes, as my mother and I are finishing. “Reece, before you leave, did you see I bought you another headset for your phone?”

“I did see, and I’ll deal with it later,” she says, jumping to her feet. “Thanks, though. I think we’ll be out all day. You can keep yourself occupied?”

“I’ll manage. Give me five minutes and I’ll fix your phone before you go.”

My mother rolls her eyes but sits back down as Brad dashes out of the room. “Have you been to L.A. before?”

I shake my head.

“So no requests on where we shop or eat?”

I shake my head again, as Brad walks back into the room with my mother’s phone and a bag from Best Buy. “I hope you don’t lose this one.”

“Well, so do I.” She gets up to pour coffee into a travel mug. “How bad will the Grove be on a Saturday?”

“Pretty bad,” Brad says, while configuring the phone with the tiny earpiece headset. “Can you wait until Monday? Considering your hatred of both shopping and other people . . . ”

“I really don’t want to wait. Devan’s audition is first thing Monday, and I’d like to have her more settled before then. My coffee will keep me sane.”

Brad laughs at that and hands her the phone. “Here you are, love. Devan, please steer her away from large crowds if you can.”

I laugh like I’m part of their inside-jokes, but I probably just look a little crazy.

My mother and I walk silently out to the garage to her car. She pulls out onto the winding road and then back to the busy street we were on yesterday.

“Coffee before we attempt this?” she asks.

“Don’t you already have coffee?”

“Oh, please.” She gestures to her travel mug. “I’ll be done with this by the time the stoplight changes to green. Some might say I have a bit of a problem.”

“Like caffeine addiction?”

“Brad says there should be a twelve-step program.” She pulls over and parks by the curb off the busy street. I can’t wrap my brain around how many shops and restaurants and cars and people there are everywhere. “He has a point.”

I walk with her down the block to a tiny, dimly lit coffee shop. Way more my mother’s style, I can tell, than some happy and bright coffee chain. And, to be fair, it smells amazing, and they make my mother’s coffee without her even having to order it (something with four shots of espresso and foam only, while I stick with something frosty and chocolaty).

“So this is my list so far.” My mother takes a folded-up piece of paper out of her purse and hands it over to me. “You’re only allowed two vetoes.”

Okay, this is the thing: I know that I don’t want my mother spending much money on me, especially after finding out about school tuition. But? I really really really like shopping. Yes, there is more to life, like love and art and creativity and passion and a lot of big things I hope I’ll eventually experience, but there’s also the promise of being a newer, better you once you discover the perfect article of clothing or random accessory that suddenly perks up the way everyone sees you. I hope that isn’t superficial because I feel it deeper than it sounds.

It’s very rock and a hard place. Guilt and a shopping spree. Fear and the new Fall lines. If I were a character in a musical, there would totally be a song devoted to my current inner conflict.

“It, um, I guess it all looks okay to me,” I say. “If that’s fine with you.”

“Well.” She holds open the coffee shop door for me so we can walk back to her car. “You need it.”

In less than twenty-four hours I’ve really begun to hate the word
need
.

The Grove turns out to be a mall that’s all outside in the warm sunshine. I want to hate it for being so ridiculously L.A., especially since my mother clearly does, given her cursing about the crowded parking garage and the swarms of people. It’s nice, though.

I figure my mother won’t be thrilled about shopping, but she stays with me, carries all my possibilities to the dressing room, and even offers up opinions when I’m not sure (“too weird” and “a-fucking-dorable” are my favorites). She doesn’t flinch at all at prices even though I do, a lot. Obviously Reece Malcolm does okay, money-wise.

Not like that automatically makes it okay. It would be different if she wanted to instead of feeling like she has to. Yeah, I’m staring at my reflection in the fitting room mirror, looking better than usual in clothes I love that I haven’t had to seek out on the clearance rack. Yeah, my mother—of all people—is offering up opinions like we’re in on this together. But it’s like a pretend good day, since I have to block everything else out of my mind just to sort of enjoy it (okay, to totally enjoy it).

We carry the shopping bags to her car but walk back so we can eat lunch at the Farmer’s Market, which looks more like a regular food court to me, just outdoors. We both get Mexican and manage to find an open table in the crowd.

“Thank you, seriously, so much for everything,” I say, munching on some chips
sans
salsa. Spicy things worry me. “You totally didn’t have to do so much.”

She shrugs as she takes a huge bite of an enchilada. “You needed things.”

Of course I’m baiting her to get the response I want.
I’m happy to do this for you
or
You deserve all of this
or even
I have a lot to make up for
. I want to be mad at her for not saying any of that, but obviously I know she
isn’t
happy to be doing this and that I
don’t
deserve so much and maybe she has a lot to make up for but mothers who only show up when they’re legally required to won’t see it that way.

“Do you need to do anything to prepare for your audition on Monday?” she asks.

“I guess it’d be nice to do some vocal warm-ups,” I say. “But you don’t have a piano, so I’ll be fine.”

“Hmmm.” She digs her phone out of her bag. “I do have friends with pianos, though. Let me see what I can do.”

“You don’t have to—”

She’s already calling. “Hey, it’s me. Are you free tomorrow? No, I wondered if Devan could use your music room. Auditions Monday for school. Right. I’m aware.
Fan
-tastic, we’ll see you then.”

She clicks her phone off and tosses it back into her bag. “You’re set.”

“It’s really okay?”

“I hate to put any pressure on you, but competition seems pretty cutthroat at New City. You should have every possible advantage.”

I shrug, trying to look modest. “I usually do pretty well in auditions. It’s, like, my one skill.”

“And,
like
, a good one to have,” she says. “Whereas I make terrible first impressions, and am therefore lucky to have a career where they don’t matter.”

It’s the first thing she’s said even
sort of
about her books. I guess I could take it as an opening, but I’m not quite ready to mention the dedication. My dedication. We’re only twenty-four hours in, after all.

“So I feel like we should go out tonight,” she says. “You should see more of L.A., and despite my love of Brad’s cooking, all the domesticity is starting to get to me.”

“Um, okay, if you want.”

“It’s a
lot
of togetherness,” she says, and I’m worried for a moment she means me. “He’s there when I go to sleep and he’s there when I wake up, and we eat almost every dinner together, and—” She kind of cuts herself off and chugs a bunch of soda. “God, sorry. I doubt you want to hear the minutiae of my relationship.”