Part 5 (2/2)

”I told you, some reporter is coming over. Marta had to go somewhere for the day, so she charged me with making sure you wake up.” Along with a laundry list of other tasks. I'd been here for fewer than sixteen hours, and it was already feeling like Marta was trying to shove most of her ”babysitting” duties on to me: 1. Wake up Joe at noon. Check.

2. Wake Joe up again at one. Check.

3. Remind Joe that he booked an interview, even though I explicitly told him I'll be gone for the day.

Check.

4. Either I or Joe's manager will be there in time for the interview to field questions. However, since Joe refuses to let me hire a decent staff for the house, remind him that he is therefore in charge of making sure things are tidy before the reporter arrives. Oh boy.

”I think you might want to clean up a bit.” I hitch my thumb at the row of framed platinum records, hanging at precarious angles above the couch. A pizza box had been made into a tepee on the end table, and there are so many half-empty gla.s.ses and bowls residing on various chairs and tables in the family room and bits of ground chips living in the white carpet, you'd think he'd thrown a party after we got back last night. Yet from what I could tell from my room in the east wing, it had just been Joe and his greatest hits on Guitar Hero in here.

”A reporter? Why does a reporter want to come here?” Joe sits up. His rings clack against the gla.s.s-top coffee table as he searches for his gla.s.ses.

”I don't know. Why doesn't a reporter want to come here?” According to Marta, Olympus Hills is where the rich and famous come to live when they get sick of LA. If a reporter is being allowed inside Joe ”the G.o.d of Rock” Vince's mansion, it is probably quite the scoop. ”All I know is that Marta said to make sure you're up before the reporter arrives.” I check my list. ”Also, to make sure you're wearing pants.” Thankfully, he is. Very tight leather ones, but pants they are. ”Marta said you want to make some sort of announcement to the press.”

I can only hope that announcement doesn't involve outing the secret of his long-lost backwater daughter to the world. Mom always said it was a miracle that the paparazzi had never found us in Ellis. It's almost like we were invisible to the rest of the world there.

”Oh right, that.” Joe finds his gla.s.ses: thick-framed, nerdy, hipster specs that clash with his leather pants, skull rings, and long, rocker hair.

Three things I know for sure about Joe so far. The longer portions of his hair are extensions, he never wears his gla.s.ses in public, and even though he tries to pull off an ubercool, leather-clad, Top Forty rocker persona for the press, when I listen real closely, I can hear that he has more of this geeky, Indie singer-songwriter vibe. It's always baffled me, the few times we've met.

He presses the thick frames onto his face and makes a strangled noise as he surveys the mess around him. He turns a wide, toothy grin on me. ”Fancy helping a poor bloke clean up for a bit?”

”Not on your life.”

”Come on, Daph, no love for your poor old dad?” He wiggles his eyebrows above the rims of his gla.s.ses, that cheeky smile on his face. ”Quality daddy-daughter time,” he croons.

”You are not my dad.” He isn't going to let me forget that I called him that back at Paradise Plants, is he? ”And cleaning up after your drunken binge doesn't make for quality lushy louseadaughter time.” My anger shows in my voice too much, but at the moment I don't care. Joe didn't say a word to me on the entire trip from Ellis to here, and he'd disappeared the second I arrived at my new house, and the only reason that he's even paying attention to me now is because he doesn't want to clean up his own mess. I have no idea why he wanted custody of me if he's just going to ignore me as much here as he did when I lived a thousand miles away.

Joe places his hand against his chest and gives me an expression that almost looks genuinely crestfallen. But from the smell of stale whiskey and pizza that wafts off him, he was probably just trying to stifle a burp.

”I'm leaving to go find someplace to rehea.r.s.e. My audition for the music program is today. That's the whole reason you wanted to bring me here, isn't it?” I pick up my guitar off the postmodern lounge chair, which clashes with the ancient-Greece-inspired architecture of Joe's mansion. I use my fingernail to press down the peeling edges of a sticker of the Parthenon on my guitar case. The whole thing is covered in stickers of places I plan to visit someday. The Colosseum, Taj Mahal, Eiffel Tower, the pyramids of Giza.

Joe's eyes look huge and bloodshot as he blinks at me from behind his thick lenses. He doesn't answer my question, just looks at his wrist again as if trying to read his missing watch. ”What day is it?” he asks. ”The twentieth?”

”It's the twenty-first.”

”Already?” Joe jumps up from the couch, and then catches himself against the armrest, like he's dizzy from standing up too fast. He's probably just trying not to puke.

I grab my tote bag and hitch my soft guitar case over my shoulder. ”Marta gave me a map. I'm going to find my way to that grove we pa.s.sed last night. I need a good place to rehea.r.s.e,” I say, and head for the grand foyer.

I'd allowed myself exactly three minutes to freak out about the audition last night-a trick I learned from CeCe, who had trained to be an actress before she ended up in Ellis-and then set to work. I'd used my new Mac to peruse my iTunes account until I'd made a list of possible songs to add to my audition piece. I'd spent most of the morning running through the lyrics, but now that Joe is up, I feel the need to get out of the house. I could hear the grove's soothing song through my open window most of the night, and since Marta claimed that n.o.body ever went there, it seemed like a place worth scouting out as a practice spot. I've always preferred rehearsing in nature. When I was little, my mom used to claim that the flowers in the greenhouse grew twice as big because I sang to them.

”You can rehea.r.s.e in my studio,” Joe calls after me.

”Your studio smells like Cheez Whiz.”

”Right. That it does.” Joe stumbles into the foyer behind me. ”I know, how about I buy you a new guitar? That's quality daddydaughter time, right?” He reaches behind him and pulls out his wallet- where he fit a wallet in those pants, I don't want to know- and opens the billfold. ”A few thousand ought to do it. . . . Huh. I seem to have misplaced all my cash. . . .”

”I think you donated it to the local liquor store.” I open the front door. I don't have time for his attempts at pretending to be a good parent.

”Wait. My AmEx is upstairs. . . . Wait here.”

”You've got an interview, and I need to rehea.r.s.e.” I pat my guitar. ”I like Gibby anyway.” Doesn't he remember how I got her?

”But I don't want you rehearsing outside. Not today. What if it gets dark before you get back? How will I know where you'll be?”

”It's one in the afternoon, remember? And you've never known where I was at any given point in time for the last seventeen years. Today shouldn't be any different.”

”Just wait,” he says. ”If you don't want a new guitar, let's get you a new amp. A nice Fender? I'll tell that reporter to come back tomorrow, and I'll make sure I get you to the school with enough time to run through your audition piece a few times in one of their practice rooms.” I pause. I could really use a new amp. . . .

I sigh, wondering how much I'll regret the decision I'm about to make. ”Okay, but only if we're quick. And I get to drive.”

There is one benefit to Joe's constant need for a designated driver-I am going to rack up the remaining hours behind the wheel I need to get my license in no time.

”Brilliant!” Joe waves his hand at me in a wait-here motion. ”I'll be right back with my card. I'll help you rehea.r.s.e when we get to the school.” He tries to bound up the stairs two at a time, but either his pants or his hangover slows him down. He whistles the melody from one of his songs as he disappears out of my sight.

I wait for a few minutes. The large clock in the foyer sounds like a countdown timer, the time I have left to rehea.r.s.e ticking away. I realize I can't hear his whistle anymore.

”Joe?” I call up the stairs. ”Did you get lost?”

This house is so big, I might not put it past him.

Joe doesn't answer. I wonder if I should wait here longer or go looking for him. My guitar grows heavy against my back. My shoulders ache. I suddenly feel like I'm ten years old again, waiting at the window-with a hefty telescope in my arms-for Joe to come pick me up so we can go stargazing.

I'd waited until almost midnight that night, until my mother had insisted I go to bed. I'm sorry, honey. I just don't think he's coming. . . .

Standing here in his cavernous foyer, I hate that one small promise of a shopping trip can make me feel like that waiting little girl all over again. Why am I putting myself in this position? Why am I letting Joe back in again just so I can be disappointed?

But shouldn't I be happy that he wants to spend time with me? Shouldn't I be forgiving? I mean, he brought me here, he's giving me everything I've ever wanted, he's giving me the opportunity to follow my dreams. Shouldn't I be grateful? If the man wants to spend the afternoon with me, shouldn't I let him?

But I already know how this is going to turn out. Whether it's here or at the store or later today at the auditions, he's going to forget or he's going to get distracted, or something, and I'm going to be left waiting once more like that disappointed little girl.

No, I'm not going to let that happen. I'm not here for daddydaughter-bonding time. I'm not here to reconnect with my long-lost father. Joe is a means to an end. A ticket out of Ellis and an opportunity for a top-flight education. I'm here for myself. To achieve my goals, and right now, that's getting into the music program at OHH. After that, it's making a name for myself in the music world-all on my own.

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