Emancipated (2 page)

“Never. Gonna. Happen. Tina's going to give in to Dad. Any day now he'll make me apply to UT. And that'll be the end of it.”

“You could always move back in with your mother.”

Candace frowned. “The Wicked Witch of Malibu? She can barely stand to stay in the country long enough to get through a week of visitation.”

“But she's loaded, right?”

“Strictly speaking, the cash belongs to the Dope Fiend.”

“Pretty disrespectful term to apply to your stepfather.”

“Don't even remind me,” Candace said. “It's too bad I don't want to break into the art world. At least then the Dope Fiend might be of some use.”

“If you could switch your official residency back to your mom's, we might have another option.”

“Grace, I'm serious. I don't want to live with them.”

“What if—technically—you didn't have to?”

“Okay,” Candace admitted, “you totally lost me. How can I live with my mom if I don't live with my mom?”

Grace pulled a slow, revelatory grin. “I have one word for you, my defeatist friend.
Emancipation
.”

“Huh?”

“If you're a California resident, you can petition the courts to be legally freed from parental control at fourteen. Keep all the money you earn, rent your own place. And your mom lives in California, which makes
you
a California resident.”

“So Tina wouldn't get my cash?” Candace said with a sudden, wicked grin. “Hey, cool. Or is this about getting your room back for yourself?”

Grace's smile widened. “Not so fast, sis. In Texas, you have to be sixteen. Which, of course, I am.”

“So this would be both of us?” Candace asked. “You and me, emancipated minors?”

Grace nodded. “Heck yeah.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

MALIBU LAWN TENNIS CLUB, WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 5

Things had gotten to the stage where Paolo wasn't even sure why he bothered. No one at the tennis club could beat him. He still coached a couple of people, rich girls who insisted on Paolo and only Paolo. But the money was, relatively speaking, a pittance. The last competition he'd entered had netted him more than he'd earned in all his time as a part-time coach.

Then he remembered the bottomless pit of tuition. Unless he could swing some major scholarship to Stanford or the Ivy League—which wasn't all that likely—an undergrad degree and law school was going to add up. So, even though he was exhausted from his training session, Paolo headed for the shower. He scrubbed away the sweat, washed his hair with a shampoo that smelled of green apples, and then dried off. From his locker he took a fresh set of tennis whites, neatly laundered and pressed by his mother. He dressed. He checked his watch. His student would be here any minute. He checked his hair. Slicked back wasn't the best look for him. With this girl, that was all good. He was running out of ways to turn her down.

Livia Judge was waiting for him on the court. She called out to him: “Hey, sweetie.” She drawled on the “hey.” She probably thought it sounded seductive. A couple of months ago, Paolo might have agreed. Since then, he'd slept with a couple of “slow-hey” types at the club. They hadn't been all that. There was more to seducing him properly. Paolo knew that much now. He didn't know what, but these pampered princesses didn't do whatever it was. He was looking to have his mind blown and his heart shredded. People told him that love was painful, yet all he'd found was an endless stream of pleasant but insipid smiles. Beautiful smiles, prizewinning orthodontic work. Empty, nonetheless.

But sex was sex. He grinned at himself in the mirror. The cute little boy he'd always seen grinned right back at him. To Paolo, he looked about twelve. He couldn't imagine what these twentysomething women saw in a boy like him. But hey, why fight it?

After the lesson, Livia invited him back to her place. For “cocktails.”

“I don't drink,” he reminded her politely. “I'm in training.”

“A cup of chamomile tea then.” She smiled a slow grin. Her face and chest were glowing a healthy pink, moist as if from stepping into a mist. He could smell the faint aroma of clean sweat. He tried to imagine her naked and reaching for him. But, nothing.

“I need to get going,” he said. “My mom's making a special dinner for me tonight.”

“Ooh, aren't you the special son.”

He nodded. “I guess I am.”

“Lucky Caroline. I'd love to have a son like you.”

Paolo bit his lip.
I bet you would
.

Livia patted his arm affectionately. “Until next week?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And maybe next time you'll keep the rest of the afternoon free?”

He swallowed. “Maybe,” he managed to say.

What was wrong with these women? Livia Judge was the daughter of a Hollywood studio executive. She mixed with movie and TV stars. Why didn't she leave him alone? He just wanted to do his job and move on. But no. Not a single lesson could go by without some comment about the power in his thighs, his washboard abs, or the glimpse she'd caught of his waist when he'd reached for a high ball.

He drove his Chevrolet Malibu home and parked on the road. Both his parents' cars were in the driveway beside his older sister's. He sniffed the air—the unmistakable aroma of charred fish. He strolled into the backyard to find his mother, father, and sister, Diana, sipping from glasses of white wine. When she saw him, his mother, Caroline, gave him a welcoming smile. She poured him a tall glass of freshly made iced tea. He noticed her glance sideways at his dad. Paolo's father looked away from his conversation with Diana and met his mother's eye. They were nervous, Paolo was sure of it.

“I hope you're hungry,” his mother said.

“Always.”

“Then I suggest we get to it!” His father laughed a hollow sort of laugh and clapped a hand to Paolo's back. “Are you okay, son?”

“I'm great.”

“Everything okay at the club?” continued his father.

“Everything's cool.”

His father stuck a fork in his own food, which was piled high. “Get some of that good salmon your mom made, go ahead. And take some of the coleslaw. I made it myself. Special recipe!”

“Yeah, I know, the secret ingredient is Tabasco sauce.”

It usually was.

Paolo relaxed into a chair and ate rapidly, watching his parents. He really was hungry, but something about his parents' behavior this evening was unnerving. He ran through all the possibilities that might be linked to him. There was no report card due from school. As far as he knew, his parents weren't undergoing any medical examinations. His sister was visiting from UCSF, where she was a biochemistry major, so it wasn't likely to be anything to do with her. He found himself stealing a peek at his mother's belly. She couldn't be pregnant again, could she? She was forty-seven years old; it wasn't possible. Was it?

But they were obviously waiting to tell him something. With every second that went by, the air grew
thicker with tension. Strained smiles met him when he caught their eye. Paolo put his plate down carefully on the grass. He stood up and joined the other three where they were clustered around the grill, slicing up a large, smoking hunk of salmon.

His mother spoke first. “So, Paolo, darling, we kind of have something to tell you.”

He nodded.

“Your father's been offered a great new job. It's an incredible opportunity.”

“Cool, what's the hitch?”

His mother's face fell. “What makes you say that?”

Paolo's dad shook his head. Reluctantly, he grinned. “Caroline, you didn't raise any fools here.” He turned to Paolo. “You're right, there's a hitch. The job's in Sonora. In Mexico.”

“Sonora?” Paolo said. “That copper mine you're always visiting?”

“Yup. They need me on-site full-time. It's just for two years.”

“But it's, like, in the middle of nowhere!”

His father nodded. “That it is.”

“Can't you just . . .” Paolo stopped. He didn't understand his dad's business even close enough to follow any argument. A few years back he'd have argued anyway. Now he knew there was little point. He gazed imploringly into his father's eyes. “Dad. Please. Can't you turn it down?”

“I can't. They're my main client. If they pull out that's like eighty thousand I gotta find from someone else. And they're gonna pay me twice that if I move there for a couple of years. Plus relocation costs.”

“But, school. And my tennis.”

Paolo's mother squeezed his arm, reassuring. “It'll be okay, Paolo. There's a way.”

In disgust, Paolo said, “Some Mexican international school and an occasional tennis coach? I don't think so.”

She shook her head. “No. You can stay here in California.”

“With Aunt Janet? Tell me you're kidding.”

His dad coughed. “I think we can all agree that Aunt Janet isn't the answer.”

Paolo's mouth was half open. “So what
is
? You gonna leave me here alone? I'd totally manage.”

His father shook his head. “Legally, we'd be responsible for your actions. Frankly, son, we're not comfortable with that unless we're in the same state at the very least. We know what teenagers can be like—we survived your sister. Plus, this way you legally get to keep all your earnings from coaching and tennis competitions. Although we'd prefer it if you still put them straight into a high-interest savings account. There's college to save for, after all.”

“What a crock,” Paolo said. “You're just dying to get your long-awaited freedom.”

“Well, son, I didn't like to say.” His father gave Paolo an affectionate grin.

Finally, Paolo's sister, Diana, spoke. From behind her glass of sauvignon blanc, she'd watched the whole conversation with a secretive grin, as if awaiting her moment.

“Don't worry, it's better than being left here alone, kiddo. Way better.”

Paolo turned to her. “What then?”

Diana's grin grew wicked. “You just won the jackpot, little brother. They're gonna
emancipate
your ass.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 5

“He didn't act scared. I remember that. He didn't scream. There was no noise.”

The voice on the other end of the phone was hesitant, scared. A teenager on the brink of some terrifying revelation. It wasn't easy to tease out the secret. But failure wasn't an option. Ariana Debret knew she'd have to draw it out slowly, like prizing an oyster from its shell, alive and intact.

She was right; eventually the words began to flow, and Ariana encouraged them along.

“Sounds like a pretty awful memory,” Ariana said sympathetically.

On the other end of the line the voice sounded thoughtful. “It's more like a dream.”

“My therapist says that recurring dreams can begin to feel like a memory,” Ariana admitted. There'd been a time when all they talked about was the therapy they shared. Ariana had grown to relish her friend's acerbic jokes at the expense of the therapists. The younger of the two, Ariana's friend had barely started high school when they'd met. Ariana reflected on how much her friend had grown up in the past two years.

“You still have a therapist?” Charlie sniffed. “Huh. I ditched mine after I left the group.”

For a moment Ariana said nothing. Why had she mentioned therapy? Stupid. The last thing she wanted was for this kid to hire some no-account child psychologist and start spilling the beans. She made her voice all soothing. Confidential. “Tell me how the dream goes.”

There was a long sigh on the other end of the line. “Well, okay,” began Charlie. “It's nighttime. I'm at the party, but everyone else must have gone home. I hear voices from around the pool. I'm looking through a window. That's when I see him. He's lit up from below. His face is glowing, watery highlights from underneath the pool. He's wearing a real nice suit. You know, expensive. When he falls he throws his arms up to protect his face. He doesn't look afraid. No yelling, no nothing; just the slap of his body hitting the water. Behind him there are dark shadows, palm trees. And there's someone back there, in the shadows. Then the person from the shadows is kneeling down. Yeah, I remember white knees. There's a hand on his head. Holding him down.

“I don't want to think about that hand.” The voice paused. “I'm not supposed to think about it.

“He doesn't struggle much, the guy in the water. I want to move but I can't. I'm on the stairs, looking through the open window on the first floor. All anyone has to do is look up and they'll see me. It would be smart to move away. I wish I could. But my feet are, like, planted.”

“I get that, too,” Ariana interrupted. “In dreams. Everybody does. That feeling of being rooted to the spot.”

The voice continued. “Then someone's calling me. A whisper, really, but it reaches me across the water: ‘Charlie . . . hey, Charlie.'

“I can't speak so I do this tiny wave. And real, but real slow, the feeling returns to my feet. I'm turning around, I'm all shaky . . .”

Ariana nodded. “You don't know what you've just seen.”

“I don't know what I've just seen. Then a hand is taking my hand, all gentle-like. Telling me:
You're sleepwalking, honey. Dreams grabbing you by the throat
. Those exact words. And:
Time to get back to bed, Charlie.”

“You're ‘Charlie'?” Ariana said. “Like the character you played in that TV show?”