Emancipated (4 page)

A couple of girls were practicing a combat sequence a little way down from the waiting area where the corridor opened into a break room with watercooler, candy machine, and beanbag chairs. Both girls were tanned, lithe, and dressed almost identically to Candace in cargo pants, sneakers, and snug-fitting sleeveless tops. For a few minutes, Candace watched.

“I should have made you practice a fight with me,” she muttered to Grace.

Grace raised an eyebrow. “I'm game if you are. Let it never be said I wasn't willing to look a fool for my girl.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” Katelyn scowled. She adjusted her flowing linen trousers so that the hems fell evenly, then crossed one leg daintily across the other, dangling an elegant black-and-white Jimmy Choo slingback. “Look how sweaty they're getting.”

“This Gina is some riotous badass,” Candace said fiercely. “She kills a guy with her own hands in the first episode. ‘Sweaty' is a good look for her.”

“Is this really the kind of part you want, darling? You're such a gorgeous girl. More of a graceful type. Dancers, singers; that's what you should play.”

“They get actual dancers and singers to do that, Mom. I'm an actor. I can play any part. It's on TV and it calls for a degree of pretending to be someone else. So yeah, this will do just fine.”

“But it's such a teeny role,” Katelyn said. “It's going to tie you up and keep you from auditioning for other things while you're under contract.”

Candace rolled her eyes at Grace, who merely raised an eyebrow in response. “Mom, that's bull.”

“Even if it doesn't,” Katelyn continued, now defensive, “I'm not going to support you taking more parts. Not while you're still in high school.”

“Seriously?! God, I wish Tina were here instead of you! She'd never say anything like that. She'd put me up for any TV part going.”

“Well, that's a difference—one of many—between that woman and me,” Katelyn said loftily. “She wants you to be famous so that she can come along for the ride. Whereas I'm your mother, I love you, and I want you to have some kind of balance in your life. If anyone knows what the life of an artist can be, what it can do to those who love you, it's me.”

Grace didn't say a word, but Candace could see the rigid control in her face as she tried, yet again, not to rise to Katelyn's daily criticism of Grace's mom.

Through tight lips Candace said, “Could you leave the martyred-wife-of-an-artist speech for some other day, Mom, please?” A note of desperation entered her voice. “I need your support. Do you have any idea how much Tina did to encourage me? It's not easy to lose that. Honestly, any kind of break into TV would be amazing. So I don't care if I have to play a boxer with a shaved head—anything that gets me screen time is good.”

From down the hallway a voice called, “Candace Deering?”

Grace stood up with Candace. She hugged her tight for two seconds. After a moment, Candace released her and turned, following the woman with the clipboard through clear plastic swinging doors. The churn of butterflies in her stomach began to calm. It was always like this just before she auditioned. The nerves left her, just seconds before the moment of truth, leaving her slightly sleepy and numb.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

VAN BUREN HIGH SCHOOL, MONDAY, DECEMBER 15

“You're looking for a
gay
roommate? Why don't you ask the weird new kid? From what I hear, he sleeps in his dad's car.”

The court permission for Paolo's emancipation had come through about a week ago and he'd already found a great place to live. One of his tennis students at the country club in Malibu had recommended him to a woman who was looking for young tenants to live with her daughter.

She wanted to set up a “family” type of atmosphere in the house. In the interview, Paolo had gone all out on the charm offensive. It seemed to have worked, because not only did she want Paolo to move in but she'd asked him to find another guy, too.

“Maybe you know a nice gay boy?” she'd suggested hopefully. “Someone who likes to keep a place all neat and clean.”

Paolo didn't dare admit that he didn't actually have any close gay friends. Anyway, how ridiculous.
He
was neat and clean. Gay men didn't have a monopoly on that. Just the same, he'd asked the only gay student he knew at school, who just laughed. But then the guy had mentioned John-Michael.

Paolo wasn't sure. John-Michael Weller had only been in his school a week, in the same homeroom, and they'd barely exchanged a word. Paolo couldn't tell if it was the classic jock-nerd divide, although he prided himself on being able to play in either camp, if he felt so inclined.

Or maybe John-Michael just didn't like him. Paolo was perfectly aware that despite his alleged popularity, there were those who avoided, even despised him, because of his perfect teeth, skin, and hair. Add the tennis on top, and he was just about toxic—to a certain type.

John-Michael, Paolo suspected, was secretly cool. For the first few days he'd been silent, just this ghost at the back of the classroom, taking everything in, sizing everyone up. Not a word about himself, why he'd transferred to Van Buren High weeks before Christmas break. Then suddenly, in response to a teacher's question about the significance of rap as modern-day, urban poetry and its spread through all forms of popular music, John-Michael had recited the entirety of some obscure, rap-influenced lyrics from a British indie rock band.

The class had turned as one to watch, at first embarrassed, not knowing where to put their eyes, then finally, grudgingly, impressed. John-Michael had said his piece, then stopped and disappeared into the background just as swiftly as he'd emerged.

With that pale skin, angular features, jet-black straight hair, and the guyliner he wore, it wasn't surprising to hear girls slyly refer to him as “that vampire wannabe.” Except that Paolo noticed John-Michael never returned their curiosity, never even looked at the girls. He wasn't “out,” but Paolo was fairly certain John-Michael was gay.

And stupidly, that made Paolo nervous. You couldn't easily ask some guy to live with you and it not sound a bit strange. Hugely more complicated when there was a frisson—which there definitely was. Paolo sensed John-Michael's eyes on him. Not that he minded—Paolo was used to that kind of attention, too. But how to go about making the proposition without it sounding like, well . . . a proposition?

Paolo waited for John-Michael outside the lunchroom and followed him as he carried his tray to one of the empty benches near the peace garden. He watched John-Michael unwrap a grilled-cheese panini and
take a sip from his juice box before sitting down opposite him.

“Hey.” Paolo suppressed his usual winning smile.

John-Michael hey-ed back. He took a bite of the panini, which dripped melted cheese from its edges.

“That looks good.”

John-Michael nodded. “It is. You should get one.”

Paolo shrugged. “I'm on this diet, for my tennis. I'm supposed to avoid stuff like that.”

“Sounds like a hoot,” John-Michael said carefully. Clearly, he was interested to know what Paolo wanted.

“We've never really spoken before,” Paolo began awkwardly. John-Michael looked disconcerted. He seemed to be controlling the urge to say something. Probably a snarky response, Paolo decided.

Better get it over with. Paolo was acting like a doofus.

“So I'm, like, looking for a housemate. And I heard, well, I heard that you might be . . .”

“Homeless?” John-Michael said it like it wasn't a thing to be embarrassed about, as if it were a challenge.

Paolo blushed. “Yeah. To be honest, that's what I heard.”

“That's not a strictly accurate description of my current situation,” John-Michael said, “because this week I'm staying with a friend of a friend of a
friend
. . . .”

“But it will be?”

“Yeah.” For a second there was a catch in his voice, a hint of vulnerability. “This weekend. I gotta move out.”

“How d'you manage?”

John-Michael put down his half-finished panini. “You mean, like, money-wise? There's no problem there. I got cash. What I don't have is a place that will take me. Most people want a college-age student. Not a high school kid.”

“So how about it?”

“Your folks looking to take in a boarder?”

Paolo let himself grin, finally. “Not exactly.”

John-Michael looked confused. “You and me?”

“You and me and some girls . . . ideally. Although if it's a deal breaker we could always look for a third guy. But between you and me, I'd feel better with girls.”

“I get it. You don't need the competition. And I'm not exactly what you'd call competition, am I?”

Paolo stared into John-Michael's eyes. Okay. So he
knew
he knew.

“It's not that at all. It's just that this setup I'm looking at—we already have two girls locked in. You and me makes four, so far, out of six. Sharing three rooms. The girls want clean guys. Nice, housebroken types.”

“Housebroken. Right.” John-Michael nodded. “Because I'm gay?”

Paolo didn't know how to respond.

“You think all gay men are clean freaks with a penchant for interior decor?”

“Whatever, man, you seem . . .trustworthy.” Paolo sighed. “Okay . . . but could you pretend to be neat and clean? Just until the girls say yes?”

“What kind of setup are we talking about? Three bedrooms? An apartment? A house?”

“It's a sweet deal. Wait until I tell you the location—right on Venice Beach.”

John-Michael laughed. “You barely know me.”

“You and me,” Paolo said firmly. “Assuming your references check out, that is. These two sisters, it's their mom's second house, or something like that. If we get our deposits in by the end of the week, we can move in over the weekend.”

John-Michael swallowed some juice and nodded, giving Paolo a half smile of semicommitment that Paolo knew only too well. Every girl he'd ever hooked up with had worn the same expression—a look that screamed
hell yeah
while trying to appear smooth.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

SATURDAY, DECEMBER 20

“You remember that dream I told you about?”

Ariana Debret nodded. “I remember.” It had been almost two months since Ariana and Charlie had last spoken of the dream. She'd been wondering when the topic would raise its ugly head again.

“What if I told you that I'm pretty sure it wasn't always a dream?” Charlie said.

“Did you ever tell anyone else that idea?”

“Like who?”

“Like anyone,” Ariana said, frowning. “Another friend. Your parents. The police?”

The reply came in considered bursts of speech, with frequent pauses. “I
thought
it was a dream. For years. But it can't be. Can it? It's his face I see: Tyson Drew, the guy who was murdered. I try to see the person who pushed him in, who held him down—”

“And?” Ariana said expectantly.

“I can't. It's like a block.” The voice on the other end of the line sounded resigned. “Like my eyes won't open.”

“Because in real life you saw nothing,” Ariana stated.

“I guess. But what if it's because I'm afraid to look?”

“Honey, I'm going to have to call you back,” Ariana broke in. “My momma's on call-waiting. She goes nuts if I don't pick up.”

Ariana waited until she heard the line go dead before she switched to the other call. When she spoke to the older woman her own voice was noticeably lower, as though the warmth had been sucked right out of her. “I just got off the phone with our old pal, ‘Charlie.'”

The woman replied in her usual smooth, confident voice. “Excellent. All good?”

“The bad news? Still mightily preoccupied with Mr. Tyson Drew. Good news is we're still talking in terms of a dream.”

The line went silent for a long time. Then, “All right. What's next?”

“Well, you and me, we have ourselves a problem,” Ariana said. “I can't keep doing this.”

The reply was full of derision. “What—suddenly you've developed a conscience?”

“I did what we agreed, I made friends with her. But it's about to be over.”

The woman gave a hollow laugh. “I think
I'll
tell
you
when it's over.”

Ariana sighed. “The kid is leaving home. Moving—a long way from me.”

“So what? You can just keep calling her.”

“I don't think so. I always call with the usual excuse—checking in on each other, the way people who've shared therapy do. But we finished therapy awhile ago. It's getting harder to call so often. You don't have any kids of your own or you'd know—people under twenty don't talk on the phone. They text, or use some kind of instant message.”

There was a hostile silence. Tentatively, Ariana continued. “You need to find someone local. What am I gonna do—call her up out of the blue and demand to talk about all this historical nonsense?”

“I see. Can't you move, too? I helped you find one crummy job; I can get you another.”

“You know how I feel about LA. I hate the big city. And as for my ‘crummy job,' I happen to like it. I'm finally settling down, saving some money. Not that I don't appreciate the offer.” Ariana was hesitant. “This living arrangement thing—it may be an issue. I know what I'm talking about—I remember how I was last year when I moved out of my folks' house. I shared an apartment with my cousin and her friends. A lot of fun. Late nights, unsupervised teenagers. All kinds of shenanigans.”