Who's Your Daddy? (8 page)

“I will change it for you if you like,” he said. He speaks perfect English, but he has this yummy accent that makes even a mundane statement sound exotic.

“I’d be really grateful if you’d help me with it.”

“No problem.” He shrugged out of his ski parka and laid it on the roof of my Volvo. “Unpop the trunk, please.”

I bit my lip to hold back the smile, then UNpopped the trunk as he asked. I have to say, he looked GREAT with that T-shirt stretched across his chest. He wasn’t a musclebound guy. More tall and lanky, with long, lean
muscles. But he looked fantastic in jeans and a T-shirt. “You go to WPHS, right?” I asked, just so he’d know I recognized him.

He nodded. “I am Ismet.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Meryl.”

“Meryl”—he said my name in that REALLY cute accent, and it made my tummy swirl in the most delicious way—“yes. I think I have seen you in the halls. Are you in grade eleven?”

“Yes.”

“I am, too. Your father, he is a teacher, yes?”

“And the football coach,” I said, rolling my eyes. “And also the school disciplinarian.”

He pulled this fake scared face that was so adorable. “I am lucky to have never met him, then.”

I laughed at that, finally feeling safe, but his comment made me think. Wasn’t it just an example of how virtually ALL the guys who knew my dad felt? No wonder I’ve never had a date.

He pointed to my tire then and got down to business. “If you want to come out of the car, I will change it. I would lift the car with you inside, but it is not so safe.”

I must’ve looked uncertain, even though I felt fine, because he hiked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating his car. “My sister, Shefka, is here with me if that makes you feel better. I will bring her up with me.”

I didn’t want him to think I was some skittish, ethnocentric American who was afraid of foreigners, so I said, “Oh, it’s okay. I’m not afraid of you. I was just … sort of afraid in general, to have a flat on this dark road, this late at night. I’ve been sitting here for who knows how long, just trying to get up the courage to get out of the car.”

“Ah. I can understand. I was not too confident to approach your car, either,” he joked.

Is that not so sweet? Most guys act so annoyingly macho, and he was the antithesis of that. For him to admit that he wasn’t immune to the heebie-jeebies made me like him even more.

I got out of the car and met him around back, where he was rooting around in the trunk. He fished out a flashlight and handed it to me. I turned it on, said a silent prayer of thanksgiving that the batteries were fresh, and then held it over the trunk to help him see better.

“It is late,” he said, just making small talk while he
got out the jack and spare. “Did you go to the homecoming?”

HOW EMBARRASSING. I actually looked away from him when I shook my head no, but then he said, “I did not go either,” and I felt instantly better.

“What are you doing out so late?” I asked, though it was none of my business.

“My sister and I, we visit friends from where I used to live—”

“Bosnia?”

He smiled. “Yes. They live in Idaho Springs now.” He shrugged. “We were watching DVDs.”

I nodded, not really sure what to say next. I could ask him what DVDs they’d been watching, but I wouldn’t recognize any of the titles anyway, and the conversation would fizzle. I decided, instead, to focus on the tire. It looked more than flat, it looked shredded. “I can’t believe the tire did that.”

“It looks bad. You are a good driver to keep the car on the road after such a blowup.” He smiled again.

I smiled back, because he’d called it a
blowup
instead of a
blowout
, which was supercute. “Thank you. My dad would be happy to hear that.”

We both laughed, and then he got to work on the flat.

I know it was probably the typical, unfeminist girl thing to do—say yes to the GUY changing the tire for me—but hey. It was, as I’ve said, the middle of the night, pitch dark, and I’ve never changed a tire except for practicing with my dad. But that had been in a heated garage with fluorescent lights, and he talked me through every step.

Things got more comfortable between Ismet and me after that. I held the flashlight, and we chatted about school while he worked. Eventually his sister, Shefka, came up and hung out while Ismet finished. Shefka is a freshman, but she seems very smart and mature for her age. She was friendly.

Ismet had removed the shredded tire and he was lifting the spare into place just as I glanced down at him. The muscles of his back flexed with his effort and my awareness of him just sort of prickled up my spine. The realization struck me like a lightning bolt:
HEY, THIS GUY’S REALLYDATEABLE CUTE, in an exotic, foreign sort of way
.

Exotic and foreign were good things!

Just like that, with one split second of fresh insight, I started looking at Ismet in a completely different light. I mean, it never crossed my mind to think of That Bosnian Guy as a dating prospect, and now I couldn’t think of him in any other way. He’d sort of fallen into my life at the precise moment when I needed help, just MOMENTS after I’d left the dumb supper, and—

Wait a minute. The dumb supper!

Shock riddled through me.

Ismet was the first guy I’d seen, and there was all this unexpected but interesting electricity between us. Could it be that Lila’s, Caressa’s, and my intent with the dumb supper was strong enough to have set things in motion, even without finishing the ceremony?

I blinked down at him, and my heart did this exhilarating pitter-pat. Why hadn’t I ever noticed how adorable he was before??? I recalled how compelled I’d felt to leave Caressa’s, even though my parents thought I’d be spending the night there. Why WAS that? Fate? The same fate, perhaps, that brought Ismet and Shefka down Meadow Brook Road
exactly
when I needed them?

Excitement zinged through me, obliterating all the
bad feelings I’d had earlier. I bit my bottom lip and hugged one arm around my torso to hold back the shivers.

This was it! Destiny had come knocking.

I couldn’t wait to get home to email Lila and Caressa!

caressa

After my girls were gone, the house didn’t look all festive and mysterious to me anymore, like it had when we still nursed hope that the dumb supper would give us some much-needed insight. It just looked like a mess, and it felt really empty with Mom and Dad gone for the night, too. I couldn’t face cleaning up the feast room yet. UGH! Seeing all the decorations, candles, and food would only bum me out even more than I already was.

Instead of doing what needed to be done, I headed up to my bathroom for a stress-relieving minispa treatment. They always help me think and get my head straight. I’d received shipments from both Sephora.com and blissworld.com this week, and I had yet to try out any of my new products. Fun, fun, fun!

I switched into my favorite flannel pajamas, then started out with “the refining facial” scrub from La Mer, which I’d wanted to order for SO long, but I’d had to save up for it. (Expensive!) It actually has diamond dust and spun-smoothe quartz mixed in fermented sea muds and other kewl scrubby stuff. It made my skin feel absolutely amazing—a magic trick considering I was on the verge of my usual monthly period-induced breakout. My friends accuse me of having perfect skin, but they’re so wrong. I get zits just like everyone else.

I dotted some Peter Thomas Roth AHA/BHA acneclearing gel on the worst areas, then decided, in light of recent events, that I needed a special treat. I sneaked into my mom’s bathroom and used a little bit of her Z. Bigatti Re-Storation cream, taking great care to put it back exactly where I’d found it. I was SO not allowed to use the stuff, because it cost something like five hundred bucks for eight measly ounces, but I needed the pick-me-up. Surely Mom would understand if she found out, not that she would.

It’s not like she couldn’t afford more.

I have to say, there are definitely cool benefits to having a rich dad. I would
never
flaunt money, but having
access to it and being able to buy nice stuff is better than scrounging pennies to buy Noxzema. I’d be a liar if I claimed otherwise.

A lot of my friends still ride the bus, and I drive a BMW. That’s not to say that my parents are totally indulgent. Believe me, I’m grateful for every luxury I have. I mean, I still shop at Target and stuff. But it is nice knowing I can shop at Saks or Barneys, too, if I want to.

Ah, but every coin has two sides. Having a famous dad puts me in a very awkward position. Not that guys my age show any interest in me, but if they ever DO, how will I know if they like ME or just think it’s cool to go out with a Grammy-winning musician’s daughter? Other than Lila and Meryl, I never know if people want to be friends with ME, or if they want a friend with so-called status (which is a bogus concept anyway).

Please. If they only knew, I live exactly the same life they do. My face breaks out, my parents bug me, I experience angst over whether these jeans make my butt look fat, or those sleeves give me wobbly STA (substitute teacher arms).

I’m NORMAL. Parents are PARENTS. Being a teenager is being a teenager—period.

I love my dad, but to me he’s JUST Dad. Sure, I love listening to his music and Fm proud of him for all he’s accomplished in his life, but no more proud than Lila is of her dad (well …) or Meryl of hers. I just wish more people would understand that, but then again, I don’t need a huge circle of friends. I’m good with Lila and Meryl.

Slightly cheered by the way my face looked and felt, I decided to treat my hair, too. I applied some Moltobene Clay Esthe pack and then sucked it up and went downstairs to tackle the cleanup while the treatment worked its wonders on my locks.

It was weird, though. Just entering the feast room, which was really just our breakfast room all decked out, made me walk more softly and try to be mondo church-like quiet. I glanced around at ALL the food we didn’t get to eat, then took a fork to the Sara Lee cheesecake. It, of all things, I did not want to waste. I sat there eating, wondering WHY things had to go wrong before any of us got the chance for our wishes to come true, and then it hit me. Why couldn’t I just go ahead and bless the ceremony, light the candles, and burn our prayer/wish cards like we’d planned? It couldn’t hurt, I figured. Either it
worked or it didn’t, but it wouldn’t even have the chance to work if I didn’t torch those cards. I just didn’t feel right about throwing them in the trash.

I started out by leaving the room, then reentering it backward, like Meryl had told us to do. I walked over to the spirit chair, laid my hands on the back, and said a quick, silent prayer about Lila’s mom. When I was done, I lit the white votive candle and placed it in front of her place setting.

From there, I moved from place to place, lighting the black votive candles and setting the little glass cups that held them just at the top of each of our plates. I sat down in my spot and took one bite of each food item. (Okay, I took a few extra bites of cheesecake, I admit it.) By then, the black votive candles were nice and melty, and I got down to business. I burned Lila’s card first, because she really NEEDED something to go right in her life. I added a little prayer that her dad didn’t hammer her too hard for sneaking out. Then I burned Meryl’s, and last I burned mine. I felt exhilarated when they were all gone! I don’t know if it made a difference, but it definitely gave me some closure on the whole screwed-up event.

I finally felt ready to clean up and move on.

Once I’d set the room back to order, I rinsed off my hair pack, dried my now luxuriously soft ’do, then carried my journal down to the living room. Whenever things are crazy for me, I spill my guts about whatever’s going wrong in my journal. I get a new journal every Christmas, and each one has been like a best friend. I can be kind of shy, and writing down my thoughts never fails to make me feel better.

So, I’m sitting there in the red leather chair-and-a-half by the fireplace when all of a sudden, a CD falls off the shelf ACROSS THE ROOM and lands on the Aubusson rug. I half jumped out of my skin. I wasn’t anywhere NEAR that shelf, I swear, and none of the CD cases had been hanging off even slightly.

Seriously wiggy. I mean, I’m sitting there writing in my journal about
how much I wanted our wishes to come true even though the supper failed
, and all of a sudden that particular CD comes shooting out of the shelves! Well, I guess it didn’t actually SHOOT out if we’re going to get technical, it just kind a fell. But still. There is no explanation for it. Our housekeeper just cleaned in there today, and she’s sort of obsessive-compulsive about
orderliness. She spends at least an hour making sure all the jewel cases line up. (I know, weird. But at least I don’t have to do it.)

There wasn’t an earthquake or a semi driving into the side of the house or anything, so why did the CD fall???

I was überwigged, feeling all Stephen Kingish about the house and stuff, but I scrambled out of the chair anyway and sort of approached the CD cautiously like it was a poltergeist or a bomb or a crazy person or something. My parents travel quite a bit, and I’m WAY okay with being home alone, but right then I was SO wishing I wasn’t by myself. YUGGGS, I just managed to totally psych myself out about the whole thing. The hair on the back of my neck actually stood up on end!